The Real Micheal Myers

I watched Halloween last night for the 60th time.

 

My take away this year is that I need someone to recreate the behind the scenes of Michael Myers.

We need to see the footage of him giggling as he’s putting Bob’s glasses over his sheet-covered face and looking in the mirror to make sure it looks funny/scary enough.

 

And we need to see Michael’s slim-jim work on that locked Monte Carlo. We need to see him working quickly and looking over his shoulder for Annie. If Michael did anything quickly that didn’t involve killing, it’d be funny.

 

Remember how he hangs Bob’s dead-ass body in the closet so it’ll swing down when Laurie is forced to cry near the closet after she finds Lynda’s dead head in that dumb waiter shelf thing? (Michael really got lucky on that one) Yeah, we need to see Michael’s handiwork rigging that up. And you know it wouldn’t go as planned so we need to see him cursing under his breath and throwing the small roll of wire when he gets pissed off. 

 

I’d gladly pay $100 to see Michael cleaning up his sister’s headstone with a wire brush and some soap and water before setting that pristine stone in Lyndsay’s parent’s bed. And another $100 to see Michael struggling to lug it around while mumbling to himself “if any of this spooky shit is really worth fucking my back up again….”

 

And the carved Jack-O-Lantern next to the headstone. Yes, we need to see Michael carving it and placing it....just...so. "There. Perfect." He'd say.

 

You see that pic? Yeah, when his face fades in you hear him making that stifled laugh sound.

 

Finally, I think we’d all like to see Michael getting up off the ground in the yard at the end and fucking ssssssprinting away from the house before Loomis can see him. Full out sprint while dodging shit and slipping once in a while. And then, when he finally stops: bent over, panting and walking off the side ache. I think a quick spot of him stretching his hams for a few days after is in order as well.

If the community gives me $300-$500k I’m sure I can make this a reality and release it successfully. I’ll call it “Michael Myers: Silly Goose.”

 

Day 405. Still can’t find a vaxx to take so I’m living in constant fear of the flu. Jill too. I don’t show her my fear, but I sympathize with hers. We heard they were giving them at Sonic but when we got there, much like at Funiture Bonanza, they were either out or it was a hoax. So we got a recliner and tater tots to not show our hand (fear).

 

Last night I had a dream that I died because I was coughing after laughing about a CCP child-labor meme that highlighted their lack of environmental laws. Lesson learned. 

 

We’re going to register ourselves today on the FBI website, just in case. It’s better to ask for forgiveness than to roam free with this stoopid free thought thingy, even if it was just a dream. <—I’m still guilty. And I'm afraid I'm still scared.

 

If anyone has some extra vaxx juice we can borrow, we’ll be grateful for 45-60 days. Also, just to be clear, we are fine with heart or vascular issues. We just want to be safe. We are frightened. We are very, very frightened and have been for so long that I don’t even remember not living in constant fear of getting a fever.

 

 

 Well, Facebook has censored me to the point that if I post a picture of a kitten playing with a rainbow butterfly on a cute bridge near a waterfall only 2 people out of 700 can see it.  My fake account "David Abbott" can't see it, at all.  It's like I didn't even post it. I guess you can say I am in perpetual FB jail and that is that.  Much like a black hole says, "No matter."

So, I will post here to no one until someone shows up. Or not.  Either way, it's better.  And it probably will take some hot sauce off of my own rating on the Scoville Scale of the wOkE gOvErNmEnT Watchlist if I just don't post on FB.

Hi.

Coach Dickbrain

I had this coach/gym teacher in grade school that was a piece of shit. He only played his favorites (except in basketball, in basketball he played the good players), he loved having his ass kissed by parents and students alike, and he was the most unfair, sadistic, illogical moron that he could possibly be. Here are some examples:

1) Gym class and square dancing. He was an athletic coach, yet he loved to make us square dance instead of playing dodgeball, hockey, basketball, or the spread-the-parachute-out-and-bounce-some-balls-on-it thing. Every fucking week he would cart this fucking record player out and we would all be forced to "get our hick on". To add insult to kicking us in the head, he would match the boys up with the girls. Since I wasn't an ass kisser, and my dad wasn't an ass kisser, I would get to hold hands and elbows with the chick with snot on her lip or the chick that smelled like cat litter. But invariably his favorite little butt licking asskiss "Jon R" would dosey-do with the best looking chicks with his cold, sweaty hands. Jon R. was the most annoying individual I have ever met. He ended up changing high schools mid year because another dude (who was a half his size) wanted to kick his stupid ass. What a girl.

2) Baseball. I lead the entire summer league in hitting for 2 years and when I played on his team, he didn't play me. I batted clean-up and played a flawless third base and short stop, yet I sat on his bench while we lost games. Eventually I quit wasting my time eating M&M's on the bench with J. Kersh and started playing guitar and pondering my own mortality while stewing in my room alone about shit that would eventually emerge as glorious sarcasm, sharp demented wit, and a neat little disregard towards the establishment. That disregard for the establishment later bit me in the ass and took out a huge chunk of it that still smarts to this day.

3) Track. In 7th grade his try outs for the 100yd dash consisted of this: 6 dudes lined up, and when he says go, we run and the 2 fastest guys get the gig. On try out day we were running on the street, not at the track, and on the street there are cinders. He starts us and I slip hard down to one knee, pause for a second in a "Aw, shit, I will do better next time" manner, and then decide that I can catch everyone. I did. And guess what? I won. And then guess what? I didn't run it at the track meet, instead I was his long jumper while the 2 dudes running the 100yd dash got 4th and 6th. So, in 8th grade I didn't bother with his foolishness - I played guitar and started leaning on this cool crutch I discovered call masturbation.

4) The Shoes vs. The Chips Incident. Holy shit, this thing. This was it. This was the incident that inspired me (and a few others) to wrap his house in twine at 1am in the morning. This is the incident that allowed me to, without guilt, put black powder in a plastic container that was wrapped in duct tape and set it off on his sidewalk. This is the incident that made me feel good about drawing a 15 foot very realistic penis on his blacktop driveway in white chalk in the middle of the night. This incident was the end of me even being remotely courteous to this asshole. We all had these flimsy lockers, and in my locker I had expensive basketball shoes that I never wore except at basketball practice; I could have just worn socks at the games because I never played the games. While I was busy swinging my partner round and round, someone got into the locker room and stole things out of some of the lockers; some of those things were my expensive shoes. I went to him after straw-chewing class and he literally shrugged and said "That isn't my problem." Fine. I can live with that, and I did. But what happened the next week is partly what made me what I am today. Jimmy "the ass kisser" Googleface had his locker broken into, and the thief took out his sandwich bag of chips, ate them, and put the empty plastic sandwich bag back into his sack lunch. Pretty funny, huh? The fucking world stopped spinning for coach dickhead on this spring Friday. We were all called back into the gym and he demanded that the person come forth or the punishment would be even worse by Monday. No one came forth and we all went on our merry way. Monday comes and Jim Martin and I are sitting on the bleachers waiting with hearts full of hope for dodgeball or a game where we had to run really fast. Coach Dicksucker walked in with a red dodgeball under one arm and stared at us until we were quiet. Once we were quiet he just stared at everyone, and stared and stared. Until finally, I asked if we were playing dodgeball. He looked at me, and in a tone that could never be described in words, said, "We aren't doing anything until the person comes forth and admits eating Googlygut's potato chips." Jim Martin and I nearly snapped our necks to look at each other in disbelief and we immediately started laughing, which made Coach Assface even more mad. He made us all sit in silence for gym class for the remainder of the school year, but I did get to talk to him one day about it. I explained that he didn't care about my expensive shoes, but he cared about Jimmy Googleass 6 cents worth of chips, which meant that I was worth less than I could have ever imagined in his eyes. The evil bastard never even flinched; he just waved a hand and turned to stare at, what I assume to have been, a picture of Satan's member so he would know how to better serve his master better in the afterlife.



Anyway, he was a dick.

Calgon Suspected In Woman's Disappearance

Newburg. A Newburg woman that went missing Tuesday is thought to be yet another victim of Calgon. Jessica Smith was last seen Tuesday by her husband as she walked into the bathroom to "take a nice hot bath". After 4 hours, her husband, Doug Smith, went in to check on her and saw that she had vanished. "All that was left was some cold blue water and her robe." Doug Smith immediately noticed the empty box of Calgon in the wastebasket and called authorities.

Calgon is suspected in over 1000 missing persons, mostly women, every year since 1981.

The Jackyl Mat

Back in '94 or '95 Hayden, Blackhurst, and myself headed down to Panama City for spring break. We were eating lunch on a Saturday (somewhere in the midwest) and just said "Hey, let's go to Panama City." We called our bosses and told them we would not be in until Wednesday. The 1st night Jackyl was playing at a bar near our hotel. Jackyl was this cheesy band that had a mild run in the early 90's and now they were on their way out and playing bars. I would liken them to bands like Stained, Theory of a Deadman, Creed, Nickleback, etc, that are out there living it up currently. Jackyl didn't sound anything like these bands; they were just really lame, unoriginal, and glaringly obvious in everything that they did, just like these bands now. I could go on for days about these types of lame-o bands - but not now.

At the time the 3 of us had long hair and looked quite menacing, indeed. We had lots of facial hair, tattoos showing, and we wore obscure metal band t-shirts, and the like. We had been drinking all day, and that night we saw their bus. They had already played and now they were back on their bus. The fact that they had a bus was confusing and pissed us off. We decided that we should harass this little Jackyl band by pretending that we were fans and then when they came out we would make fun of them. They wouldn't come out because we obviously didn't look like their fans looked like. Here is a typical Jackyl fan:



Since we received a less than satisfactory response, we resorted to banging on the door of the bus and yelling that they were a bunch of half-sissys and they need to come out to receive a beating. They offered no response except for a skinny roadie telling us to go away through the safety of a bus window.

Well, we did go away, but not without taking something. In the sand between the venue and the bus was this long (30' x 6') heavy rubber mat. It was theirs, and we decided that we were just going to take it. There was nothing they could do about it unless they came out, so it was a win-win in our opinion. We started rolling it up and then we started laughing; it was ridiculous. This thing was way, way, heavy. By the time our drunk asses got it rolled up, we realized that 1) it was too big around to hold, and 2) it was too heavy to carry. So, we unrolled it in the sand, and we put two of us on each end and one in the middle and we dragged that miserable rubber mat through the sand toward our hotel. I remember Hayden yelling back at the bus that if they wanted it - to come and get it, as we were staggering away with their mat. That is when he named it the Jackyl mat. We were literally giggling and panting as we passed people on the beach. They didn't know what the hell it was and why three metal heads were dragging it. We rolled it out (partially) in out hotel room and that is where it stayed for the remainder of the trip.

When we got home, Blackhurst and I brought it to our band's rehearsal space and announced that it was The Jackyl Mat and it was here to stay. We cut it up in about 5 pieces and lined our space with it which made the floor much more comfy. I think the Jackyl mat is still around, at least portions of it. If I see it next week at practice, I will take a picture of it and post it. If you want to come out you can touch if it you want, we will let you.

Burning Hot Sun

After I graduated college I took a management job at this shit hole industrial facility. There wasn't a single job for my major around the area, and I needed some scratch. I was the 2nd shift manager, 1:30PM to 10:30PM. I won't go into all the shit that went on right now as I will save each incident for its own entry, so I will focus on the Burning Hot Sun.

My boss “Jim” was the plant manager and the 1st shift manager; he was an idiot. Nice guy, idiot, and selfish prick, all at the same time. Also, he sweated like Harry Reid will sweat in the next election. Since this company is as close to forced labor in communist China as a company can get without being in communist China, they could only hire people who could barely speak English, were illegal (I only suspected), or just plain dumb. This company paid these people $8.00 per hour to work their asses clean off. My boss "Jim" was in charge of hiring - and I was short 5 people of the 16 that my shift needed. Jim's shift was short 1 person of the 30 that he needed. Jim had his 30 waaaay before he would hire even 1 person for my shift. Jim's shift was primarily women that folded and hung clothes, my shift was primarily men that unloaded and loaded trucks. Jim found me "a great gal" that could fold on my shift and had her staged in the conference room for me to interview. He hired for his shift first, and then sent me the rejects. This event was after about 13 months (of the 18) of working there and I had f-ing had it with Jim: He was lazy, inept, forgetful, stupid, and lied like a MoFo.

Jim: I got a great gal for 2nd shift for you in the conference room.

Me: Does she speak English?

Jim: Ummm...pretty good, pretty good.

Me: Jim, if she doesn't speak English - I can't have her on shift, you know that.

Jim: Well, she...she's pretty good. I just talked to her. (Jim would have to post, screen, and interview for each new position - so it was to his benefit that I hired her. Hence, "...she's pretty good." Jim's way of selling.)

I go in and introduce myself, I forget her name, but she was from Congo.

Me: Tell me about a time where your last supervisor was unhappy with your performance.

Her: Yes. Yes.

Me: Oh-Kay. What did you like about your last position?

Her: Umm...yes.

Me: Do you speak English well enough that you can communicate with everyone here? (I was now officially off-script)

Her: Yes. Paid very well.

Me: Do you want a tour? (We had to, even if we were not going to hire them)

Her: Yes, I like to work. Yes, paid very well.


So I take her around explaining our processes knowing that she hasn't a clue of what I am saying. Then I see Jim, the GM and a Management Trainee standing near the hanging machine. The hanging machine was a 50 foot long machine with 6 stations on it that allowed 6 people to hang shirts and pants, hit a button, and send them on their way.

I take Congo lady up near the machine where Jim, the GM, and our Trainee can hear what I am saying.

Me: This machine. (My arms were opened as wide as they could be) This machine is the Burning Hot Sun!

Her: Yes, oh yes. (smiles)

Me: This machine is responsible for all life (My arms were now in the air over my head) – it heats the earth, allows photosynthesis, and provides us with daylight!

Her: Oh yes! Yes. Work very well. (more smiles)

Me: Darn tootin’ it works well! This machine is very hot! (at this point a couple of the ladies that were working on the hanging machine were holding back laughs.)

We walk in front of Jim, GM and the now laughing Trainee and I say to Jim, “Jim, you're right, she does speak English pretty good, pretty good.”

The GM tore his ass for pulling that and then he made him hire her for his shift. She ended up pregnant after a couple of months. They all ended up pregnant after a couple of months because now they had insurance. I don’t know what makes people so anxious to procreate, are they that bored? Eventually, I got my shift staffed, but only after Jim was brilliantly forced out of the company, fired from a sales job for Inability To Take Direction, fired again from a car dealership, and then drove a truck for Schwann’s Frozen Foods where his son-in-law worked. I took a real job a few months later…and rode off into the burning hot sun.

________________________________

Aw shit, I will throw this in too:

I interviewed a guy one time and he arrived, and this is no shit, in flip-flops, ripped jeans, a “Nascar” jacket that had every color imaginable on it (What is with Nascar and EVERY color?), and a Budweiser hat.

I sent him packing right there and explained that he would have to present himself in a more respectful way in order to be interviewed. He apologized and vowed to return the next day if I would give him the chance. Since I was desperate, I agreed. The next day he came in wearing a suit; a nice suit. He interviewed flawlessly and I proceeded to send him in for a drug screen and called in to get his background check started. Since he told me that he had no felonies, I figured he could start in about a week.

It turned out he had 2 felonies, and when he called to protest, he told me that they were 3 and 4 years old and that was the "old him". Doesn’t matter, felony equals no hire, period.

3 or 4 months later I recognized his name in the paper. It seems that on the Fourth of July he discharged an illegal (to him) firearm within the city limits at a friend. He didn’t try to shoot the friend, just shoot at him. The friend corroborated this. That is what $8 per hour will get you, or in this case, didn't.

Stop Treading On Me

By Doug Simmons


As a criminal here in central Illinois , I am finding it harder and harder to rape, steal and murder. The recent explosion of legal gun sales to law-abiding citizens coupled with the bad economy is bad enough, but now my profession is being targeted, literally, by this talk of conceal-carry legislation. I reside in Illinois for two reasons: no death penalty and no conceal-carry, but if conceal-carry is implemented, then I will find it nearly impossible to carry out random impulse crimes on the street. Also, it sure doesn’t help that violent crimes are getting so much media attention now, all that does is make people wary, which makes my job harder.



Home invasions, at least for me, are very risky business these days due to the high number of FOID cards issued since November. All those FOID card holders went out and bought guns and ammunition and they are keeping those loaded guns in their homes, so in order to successfully pull off a good old-fashioned Breaking and Entering these days, I either have to research the heck out of my mark, or go in blind and hope for the best. Not a very good business plan, if you ask me.



As far as assaults go, that is all I really have going for me. I can attack a lady in the parking garage, drug store parking lot, or even on the street. I can steal her purse, beat her, and even have my way with her. If conceal-carry becomes a reality in Illinois , then what will I do if that same woman could be armed? Get a job and stop my assaults? Well, no thank you.



I know what you are thinking, just move to Chicago when the legislation is in effect because they will impose a gun ban no matter what. Have you looked into the cost of living in Chicago ? I would have to pull off twice the amount of robberies just to maintain my standard of living. Also, I couldn’t afford to drive or park in that city, which means I would be selling drugs on foot instead of out of my car. No way, Chicago is too cold for that nonsense.



I sure hope Illinois scraps the talk of this unfair legislation against my profession. Folks, please don’t support conceal-carry, some of us just can’t afford it.

Sound Familiar?

This Was Really Scary...

When I was 18, we ran into this guy who agreed to buy us beer. Actually, we waited in Chubb’s parking lot looking for the right guy to ask to buy us beer. When he came out with our beer, he was looking over his shoulder at the liquor store that he just left and said “Follow us in your car, and I will give you the beer,” We thought that he was worried about getting in trouble for buying beer for minors. I said okay, and started my car. My friend, who shall remain nameless, said “Don’t let him lose us.” We drove to the outskirts of town and stopped behind the guy and his wife’s truck, in what turned out to be their driveway. He motioned us inside and we hopped out, a little wary. Inside he opened each of us one of our beers and put the rest in the fridge. The 4 of us drank beer and exchanged names, and then he told us about the partially burned up car out back. He said it was a 67 Chevelle that he “happened upon” and needed to get rid of it temporarily. He also told us that if we took it, he would pay us $500 each to hide it for a year. Now, at the time I was making $7.00 an hour, and at that time my friend had a place to hide such a car. So, we agreed to hide it for 12 months - after he showed us the title, pictures of himself and his wife with the car (not burned), and gave us a note claiming that the car was his, and that we were storing it for him. He would not tell us why he wanted rid of the car for a while, only stating that it was a personal matter. We came back the next day, met him out back and started up the car. Just the left side had burned, but the car smelled like it had burned for a straight year. When we got the car (it was fast, a 396 4 speed!) we gave the car a once over and covered it up with a tarp. So far, so good, right? Wrong. The next day, while I was looking in the glove compartment, two guys jumped out from the left side of the garage, they were wearing satin shirts and really tight black leather pants, doing a little side step jig to some real snappy music that came out of no where. 4 or 5 girls slid over the hood of the car (right on cue) and all of them started singing “They don’t know what is in the trunk, (clap, clap) they just think the car is junk (clap, clap) what they don’t know is going to get them in trooooouuuuble!” Then the lights went down and blue and yellow lights came up. There was a disco ball, too. Then they all danced in unison while a spotlight shown on one of the women while she sang an incredible bluesy jingle about greed and youth, despite the big band style that drove the song, God as my witness, somehow it just fit! Then my friend and the husband-wife team slid through the open garage door on their knees and belted out a neat little barbershop-style rockabilly treat that really got me tapping my toes. After that I joined in with the whole “…get them in troooooouuuuble!” thing, and we ended it all in a spectacular ensemble of stomp-style, knee-hitting, stomping, and clapping crescendo.

What you have just read is an example of why I can’t sit through a musical.

Piss Fight

You know how you talk about cool-to-do scenarios with friends or coworkers, but they would just never happen because the scenarios were kinda crazy? Like hiding in your grade school overnight, or blowing up a tank of gasoline?

Well, when I was in Mrs. Goldhammer's kindergarten class, my 3 or 4 friends always talked about having a pee fight. We acted it out in the bathroom every time we were in there. We would use the stalls as cover, jumping out from our hiding spot, pinched penis in hand. You had to pinch it because you had to be ready to fire. We talked about this forever (which was probably about 2 weeks) until one day right before nap time, we actually did it. I don't remember who started it, or even who was in it, but it happened. I remember laughing so hard that I had trouble breathing and that I had on dark blue corduroy pants. When we went back to class we were soaked with piss, and Mrs. Goldhammer didn't notice. If she did, she probably realized that we were going home in 2 hours, so why not just let the parents deal with the piss boys? We walked in and it was nap time, I had my little (red, I think) mat and lay on it giggling. It was only minutes before my butt was itching, and I remember the odor being very strong. The girl next to me either had a crush on me or she was slow. Either way, she lay on her side smiling at me the whole time and I told her to knock it off, I wasn't into chicks then and her smile was scaring me. I don't remember if my mom knew I was piss soaked when she picked me up (at noon, only half days then) and I don't remember if I was dry or if I told her. But I do remember that piss fight, and sometimes I smile or laugh when I think about it. I highly recommend doing something that you always talk about doing but never think you really will. I suppose I haven't outgrown the idea of hiding in the drop ceiling at my grade school with Ziegler and Kowal. We were going to run down the halls in our socks and slide for miles. But, I have outgrown the ability to be suspended for it while remaining free without jail time, court appearances and court costs for trespassing. Somewhere out there is about 4 other guys my age with basically the same story, and I don't know who the fuck they are, but I know they have told that piss fight story.

The Stickingstons

Episode 1: Cutting Your Losses!

When I Used To Bartend: Part 3. The Kountry Karaoke Klan

I worked at this bar, "Crusadors", from 1995-1999. On Sundays, and this really sucked for the bartenders, we had karaoke. Karaoke sucks for 5 reasons:

1) A very small amount of the population wants to hear some chick trying to sing a Fleetwood Mac song. Even if she is good, it’s still not going to sound like Stevie Nicks. No One Wants To Hear It, EXCEPT HER. Which reminds me…I need to write an entry on all the pretending our population has been doing lately (Guitar Hero, Fantasy Football, American Idol, etc.)

2) The accompanying/guiding music is bad midi (electronic) music or a shitty remake recorded by 13 year olds with ‘talent’. Basically, “Welcome To The Jungle” ends up sounding like Hanson recorded it.

3) The people who run the karaoke had the same intro every night. I mean the exact same intro.

The chick would get up and sing a D version of “Let’s Give ‘Em Something To Talk About” while swaying her 260 pound frame sexily about, and half way through she would stop singing and explain the rules of how their karaoke is run. Then right on money, she would finish her rules and dovetail right into that last chorus.

Her redneck husband would then have to offer up his even redneckier version of the original, “I’ve Got Friends In Low Places”. He didn’t start talking half way through the song, but he made up for it by talking in slow motion to anyone that had the extreme misfortune of making eye contact with him while being within his 15 foot flannel perimeter. Also, he was a close talker. *shivers*.

4) The people who ran the karaoke were country, pushed country songs, and drew a country crowd. Crusadors's was not country.

5) The people who followed this karaoke troop drank, but didn’t tip.

Now to the meat of it.

This guy with long frizzy hair, always pulled back into a pony tail, drank the shit out of Miller Lite cans. He drank so much that I think, by law, Miller had to send him thank you cards on Mondays. Crazy amounts of that shit. At the time, he could buy it for $1.25, which means every time he got a beer (we have established that it was many) he would get .75 cents back. Guess how much he left as a tip? Zero. To make matters worse, he sang a song every half-hour, and yes, they were the same country songs every week. *more shivers*

After a long winter of this thrifty, repetitive, redneck shit, someone found out, I don’t remember who, but someone found out where Frizzy worked. Hallelujah, it was a bar! And Hallelujah he was a bartender in "Villeville" and "Villeville" was only 15 minutes away!

At the time Villeville was pretty redneck. Not so much now, but back then, at their McDonalds drive through, a number 3 combo meal was Skoal chew and a Busch can.

Anyway, we find out that he works Wednesday night, Saturday night, and Sunday day. A good 6 of us* had Wednesdays off. We went in, faked surprise in seeing him and proceeded to order blender drinks, mixers with 7+ ingredients and Guinness on tap, all paying separately. We also called everyone we knew and tried to get them to come in, too. Before the end of the night, we had 15 people in there running Frizzy into a sweaty fury. We all left and yelled to him ‘see you next week, this is a fun bar!” while not leaving him a dime.

Obviously, this story would be perfect if poetic justice prevailed and he came in on that next karaoke Sunday and started tipping, but that is not what happened. Instead, we didn’t see Frizzy the next week. We saw Frizzy and his friends. This went back and forth for a month, and then it fizzled, or in this case, frizzled out.

What did everyone, including Frizzy, learn?

Never underestimate a redneck.
Always tip those who serve you.

What did you learn?

I (and believe me, there are more of us out there than you think) don’t want to hear your version of “Insert Song Here”. Reason number 17 that American Idol isn’t on at our house.

*One winter we went to a movie with loads of beer bottles in our pockets. We saw that movie where Al Pacino is the devil and owns a law firm, I can’t think of the name of it right now. Anyway, we sat in the back and one of us kicked over an empty and it rolled all the way to the front of the theater. I swear it took a full 2 minutes to finally stop. Oh yeah! The movie was The Devil’s Advocate. What was that idiot-sounding guy that was the main character?

Fat Cubs Eat Iron Tires

When I got down to Wrigley, my boss called to tell me that he wouldn't be there for another 45 minutes. Since he had my ticket I went to this Goose Island bar that had tasty beers. Not long after my first sip a strong poop urge hit me (despite my full poop earlier in my hotel that morning) so I high-tailed it to the bathroom - which was upstairs. I got in the stall, got my pants down and blabooberooblaaa! Horrible. The guy next to me started laughing, as well as I did. But then the smell got me and I started gagging. I pulled my shirt up around my nose, but that was no use: it was really bad. The night before, I drank nothing but Beck's and Fat Tire, and at the (Iron Maiden) show I consumed a bunch of cheap drafts, hot dogs, and pizza. Then we went to Steak ‘n Shake and I ate a triple steak burger, bowl (not a cup) of chilli, onion rings, fries, a large chocolate shake and a large coke. Ignoring the booze, hot dogs and pizza, Steak ‘n Shake alone added up to 3032 calories. So this poop is really, really bad. And then the guy next to me lets out a little cry and starts gagging too. Now I start laughing again because his little cry was hilarious. But then I start gagging because I am breathing so much "air" in. So he gets out really quick and then I get down to the serious business of getting this cheeseburger-chilli-onion ring-pizza-shake-hot dog-German beer-Fat Tire-poop out of me. I leave the stall, wash up and get out as fast as I can before someone else comes in. I walk around upstairs for a while and act like I am looking for someone just to air out whatever has permeated my clothes.

Now I am back at the bar enjoying my beer and this guys sits down a couple of seats down from me about 3 minutes after I sat back down, and he says to the bartender, "Someone must have shit all over one of the stalls, you can't even go in there to pee." Since I had asked the hotty bartender where the pisser was 10 minutes earlier, she looks directly at me and asks me if it was bad in there, and I say, "Yeah, it is not good." And the guys says, "Not good!? You can't even go in there; I peed next door like everyone else is doing!" Then a barback shows up and is complaining to the bartender that he has to go clean up the men's bathroom because someone shit all over. Of course, I didn't shit all over, it was just that bad. I finished the beer and left, the bartender wouldn't even look at me, let alone get me another beer. Anyway, that happened.

Guess What We Don't Want...

...BUT THEN THEY WENT AND TOTALLY REDEEMED THEMSELVES!


Seriously though...

I am compelled to write about this because last week I witnessed something amazing. My wife and I went to some friends of ours house to help her with their twin 2-year old girls since mommy is recovering from ankle surgery. We were there about 2 hours, and during this time I watched the twins at the “terrible two stage” not be terrible at all. Sure one of them fell into a cabinet and got a bump on her noggin, but that is not what struck us. The girls were unbelievably well behaved, they spoke and understood what we were saying, and they played on their own, peacefully. We stayed for feeding time and what do you think that they ate? Mac and cheese? Ravioli? Nuked chicken parts? No, they had salads with actual vegetables. Then they had organic chicken and some cheese wrapped in a soft tortilla. I am not advocating organic, and there certainly isn't anything wrong with organic, its just that with the added cost I would feel the need to buy rot gut bourbon instead of Maker's. Getting back on subject: The kids had raisins for dessert. Fucking raisins! No twinkies, no cookies, just the raisins. And here is the neat part: They get really excited at the mere prospect of raisins! Our friend explained that they have never eaten surgery treats, but the nice lady at the bank gave them some once. What did the girls do? They looked at the foil wrappers and eventually stomped on them because they didn’t know what they were and weren’t fun to play with. The girls aren’t given sugar for a good reason: at that age sugar is like crack, which probably plays a part in their wonderful behavior. Besides, they can eat all they sugar they want when they are 10. Next, mommy brushed their teeth, complete with the girl’s cooperation with them making different noises and subsequently different ‘mouth manipulation’ that allowed mommy to brush all the different teeth. When that was over, they asked if they could be excused. Of course we were amazed because all my wife and I have ever seen is a madhouse of fits, crying, constant attention and want, want, want with some play mixed in here and there. Mommy then told us that if one of the girls does not get their way – she explains to them that all that crying will do is force mommy and daddy to leave the room; the outcome remains the same, except that they are left alone. Awesome. It almost made us want to have kids, but we aren’t going to, instead we are going to keep on drinking and retire early. Sorry Mom. Anyway, it was a cool and refreshing experience.

Un-Fucking-Believable

The dialogue you are about to read is true, not verbatim, but as close as I can recall. The names have not been changed because I didn’t need to protect anyone.

When I arrived at the gym at 11am on Monday I was shocked to see that the place was overrun with kids. First instinct was to cut and run, but I was already through the gate by the time I noticed. Actually, it was a pretty benign experience…until. Until, what I will call a “Center Of The Universe Syndrome” sufferer came into the weight room with his little friend.

I had just finished my 4th set on a bench and was sitting there, basically breathing and focusing in on Slayer on my ipod, when I noticed this kid (maybe a freshman) walk in and mill around, glancing in my direction and gesturing towards me while talking/complaining to his friend. I got up to get a drink from the fountain and had to walk past him. He stopped me and asked:

Mr. Center Of The Universe: “Hey, how many sets do you have left?”

So far - so good, that is good gym etiquette.

ME: “Three, but if you guys want to work in with me I…”

Mr. COTU: “Three!? Really!?”

Me: “…have no problem with letting you guys do that. My last set is a strip set. Yeah, three.”

It is considered good gym etiquette to offer another an opportunity to work in. I did.

Mr. COTU: “Three!?”

Oh fuck, I can‘t hold back. I know how this kid is, time to go deep.

Me: “How many sets are you guys wanting to do?”

Mr. COTU: “I don’t know, 5 or so.”

Me: “Well, I too will want to get in that many. Isn’t that weird?”

Mr COTU: How long will it take you!?”

Me: “OH! Well, Mr. Center Of The Universe, and I know your parents’ made you this way, so it’s not your fault, but you are going to have to wait. I would suggest that next time you either get here before me, or make arrangements with management that Mr. COTU needs to use whatever he wants, whenever he wants to use it.”

Mr. COTU: “Look, I was just asking.”

Me: “I know, and I told you. What was the Really!? and Three!? thing about? You asked and I told you. Got it? Most people do 5 or 6 sets, so why did you act like it was outlandish that I had three sets left? I know you are ultra important. Mommy and daddy have always said so, right? I am sure they pulled up as close as they could to the building when they dropped you off lest you had to walk more than 20 feet to get in here, right? You can wait or use the other one over there.”

Mr. COTU: “There is another one? Oh cool! Come on Kyle.”

Fuck Me. God help us all…

What will be arriving next week to my house, you ask?

This:



Muauahahaha!

Burn Victim Slain In Robbery Attempt At Suicide Prevention Safe House

Peoria, Arizona. Police arrested Jonathan Dean Fribs Friday for the murder of Zane Walters. Police said that on November 19th, at approximately 1:15 am, Fribs broke into Peoria County Mental Health Center. After he encountered Walters, he panicked and shot Walters in the face and neck with a small caliber handgun. He was pronounced dead yesterday after suffering for three weeks in Proctor Hospital’s intensive care unit. Readers may remember Walters when he caught fire three years ago while freebasing inside the Red Devil Turpentine warehouse where he worked. He sustained third-degree burns over 97% of his body and lost a hand, a leg, and an eye. Walters stayed in a rehabilitation center until he was released in August of last year. In September, Walters attempted suicide by crutching his way in front of one of his former employer’s trucks, but broke his back and pelvis instead. After that rehabilitation he was then was handed over to the Peoria County Mental Health Center on a suicide watch where he was then shot and killed by Fribs in the botched burglary.

It IS on the rise...

Objects In Your Man Day May Be Closer Than They Appear

I know I am crossing a line here...

Sound familiar?

Area Grandmother Finally Asked About Her Granddaughter While Wearing Her “Ask Me About My Granddaughter” Sweatshirt

Peoria, Arizona. Margaret Bloom was blind-sided Sunday when a fellow patron at the Old Country Buffet asked her about her grandchildren while she was wearing her “Ask Me About My Granddaughter” sweatshirt. “I didn’t know what to say,” said Bloom, “I was dumbfounded. What was I supposed to say? She is 3 and Emma is just a doll, but who would really care besides my family or friends?”

Bloom stated that she had worn the sweatshirt the last 2 years while Christmas shopping with no incidents, but she will not wear the shirt in public again. The patron who did the asking, Todd Ball, 22, offered his side of the story, “I have seen those damn things all over, ask me about this and ask me about that, I am just fed up with those things! So, I asked her. I knew she would get all weirded out, that is why I asked her, you know? Where do those people get off? Do you see me wearing an Ask Me About My Broken-Home-Childhood or Ask Me About My Lack Of Money Managing Skills shirt? No. How about that Ask Me About Helping Me Figure Out What The Hell I Am Going To Do Now That My Girlfriend Is Pregnant Again shirt. Nope not that either. So screw you Bloom, screw you and your damn sweatshirt.”

Myspaebardoesnotwork.

LastnightIspilledbeeronmykeyboard&thespaebardaoesnotwork-havetogetnewaaaaaaaaakeyborda.

somelettersarestickingdownandaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamaking

itveryhardtotype.

I Hate Watching Sports

Waaaa! We Lost!

Game: a competitive activity involving skill, chance, or endurance on the part of two or more persons who play according to a set of rules, usually for their own amusement or for that of spectators.

The Smell Of Suckcess

Pope Upset By 2 Deaths In Stampede, But Not Upset About Priests Nailing Little Boys

You Know It Happens

Area Fox Outfoxes Area Man

Indianainapolis, Indiana. An area man was reportedly outfoxed by an area fox on the area man’s property Saturday. Lars “John” Holdingston was entertaining some friends on his lavish estate when a skinny, a very skinny, fox ambled out of the woods. At first everyone thought it was a caterpillar with a tail and only 4 legs, but upon closer inspection it became apparent that the skinny furry creature was a fox. Guests reported that Holdingston threw the fox cheese and summer sausage until his arm was tired and cramping. The fox then promptly buried the cheese and sausage until [her] arms were tired and cramping.

Holdingston and his guests realized that they had been had when the fox began making loud stifled laugh noises and glancing in the group’s direction. It seems that the fox, an area prankster, had posed as an underfed struggling victim of the economic downturn. The fox had simply taken a few days off of eating to gain Holdingston’s trust to “allow me to bury his sausage in my holes,” laughed the fox. This isn’t the first time Holdingston has been jollysnaggled, readers may remember when he purchased speakers that turned out to be total shit from two guys in a van.

Rap Stars and Oprah Inspire (part 1)