I am going to drop some brain diarrhea here. Bare with me. Or don't.
For those who do not know, I fancy myself as a story Teller. A story Teller who is in the process of teaching himself how to write. In my life, I have gathered a little collection of situations and happenings, both of-my-hand and as an idle witness. I really enjoy telling, embellishing on, and putting my own spin on these events. Crafting them into the way I interpret or interpreted them when they were experienced. I see words as my favorite medium to transfer ideas from my head to the functioning world. Better than paint, better than elephant dung, better than fired clay. I like to slap words together to represent concepts I find relevant, and wrap the mess into a story blanket to make it less preachy.
I do this to get the crap out of my head.
And if anyone else enjoys it, then that is just more Bailey’s in my coffee. Friggin’ sweet.
But telling stories is very different from writing, which requires a high level of technical skill. A story can be accidentally funny, or anecdotally interesting… but if written correctly, can be a brilliant piece with almost immeasurable depth and limitless interpretation (think: The Old Man and the Sea, or… The Stranger). A well-written story has a life of its own, far beyond the source event(s) or the intent of the writer. The trinkety story beneath the writing becomes as multi-faceted as it is in the mind of the Teller.
Yes, that sounds cheesy as fuck, but you must admit, it really is an interest goal for a simple story teller to set his mind to: words as art. Shit… that’s crazy talk!
Yup.
In an attempt to work toward my goal (actually writing something, instead of just outlining plots, only to get distracted, and then blogging about –yet- another drunken escapade out here on the interweb instead), I intend to try and put whatever creative juju I have into whole-assed writing. If I am to ever learn how to write, I imagine it will require every remaining mental resource at my disposal.
That is to say, that whatever I post here in the coming months will more than likely be pieces of things I am working on. Stories which I feel warrant being written. So, if you only come here to bathe in bad grammar and tales of drunken idiocy, feel free to delete me from your favorites, or remove my link from your page. Bygones.
That’s right. This blog might be turning into the same ol’ writer hack bullshit that you see out here in blogworld. If you are like me, then you hate the stink of it all.
“Hi! Welcome to Shanda’s Magical Writing Blog! OMG I luuuurve writing! LMFAOFODEEEFEI!!! When I get bigger, I am going to write like Sex and The City!”
I support anyone looking to express themselves. Everyone has an itch to scratch, a Black Beauty that they're searching for. But if I simply dwell in hackery (OMFG NO!), then I promise to shoot "the writing horse" before it pisses me off with its inceasant limping.
I already have a job and shit. No need to cram a square peg in a circle hole.
Again, I cannot stress this enough: I’m not claiming to be a writer. Yet. I’m a story Teller. A Teller who wishes to polish it up a bit, and do what every human being on this planet (worth their salt) should be doing: make an effort to transform his life experiences into something meaningful (even if he fails).
And I will be practicing. Here. And I will welcome any and all critique, unless you’re a dick, in which case I will ignore you like I ignore the whimpers of my battered liver.
Word. Words. Worded Words. sWords.
Friday, January 14, 2005
Monday, January 10, 2005
Maybe I will Never Learn.... Right.
It is strange how little things seem to change, even in the face of overwhelming evidence that a substantial and deeply needed adjustment demands to be made. Especially when it comes to keeping primal behavior in check… while floating the Great River Booze. I’m not talking about controlling one’s sexual urges, although that is a legitimate problem for most (I believe I am beyond that mumbo-jumbo at this juncture in my life), I am referring to good ole fashioned idiocy, ill-founded decisions, and knee-jerk directions which almost always leave everyone around you yelling awkward brilliance at you such as:
1) For the last time, put that down. Yes, it is seriously ON FIRE.
2) For the last time, take a step back. Yes, that is a river, and it is a long drop.
3) No, I do not want to arm wrestle you. Or that chick. Or the cab driver.
4) No, you cannot pee here.
5) No, you cannot smoke that here.
6) WHERE did you get these pills?
7) How did you end up with two different shoes on?
8) Whose pants ARE those?
9) Dude, I don’t know you. You spit when you talk, and that’s nasty.
10) GET UP. You’re going to be hit by a car.
Friday was an interesting dive into such idiocy. While I’m never proud of what I do when I’ve given up all ideas of reason, I can never really fault myself either. This is what I do from time to time, and the frequency of occurrence is (thankfully?) decreasing (slowly).
So here are some questions I am currently asking myself:
1) Which came first, the craziness or the liquor?
2) What standards am I using to decide that I “get crazy” anyhow?
3) What the hell difference would it make if I answered 1 and 2?
My left knee is all fucked up. And I blame Friday night. Rather, I blame the combination of me + Friday night + mixed booze + Red Bull + latent frustration with the point of it all. But really, losing some of the functionality of my weakest of legs is a small price to pay considering: the high value risked in exchange for a good time.
It started simple enough, at Deville, for happy hour. No waves there, just some standard Mandarin & Tonics to ease my way out of the week. Good conversation, good crowd, and Vance & Carol brought pizza. By eight o’clock, the initial group of a dozen had whittled down to two. Me and Alan. I don’t get to hang with Alan that much, as our schedules never really mesh with convenience, so this was a rare opportunity to hang out and catch up. Alan is one of those really rare individuals who knows what he wants, keeps that list reasonable, and he quietly achieves those goals, never seeking approval for his successes or achievements. He is his own motivation. So, he’s a guy to learn some real life lessons from. Maybe he has discovered some sort of shortcut to the discovery of Meaning, and all we needed to do was discuss it… But we decided to drink instead.
Don’t judge, hater.
An hour later, we’re on our way to Foundation to kick it with Mare, Jen, and Brandon. Three more Mandarin & tonics later, I’m arguing with Jen about the merits of “Rock Out With Your Cock Out” as a catch-phrase. I hate the damn thing because it makes no sense to me. Plus, it was on Britney Spears’ husband’s mesh-back trucker hat. I get the idea that someone just wanted to rhyme Rock with Cock, and that stupid-ass phrase was the answer they came up with: the new Flasher motto. Fuck that pointless saying, and fuck those hats too. I lump that Von Dutch nonsense in there as well (damn, they make a killing selling those shitty hats to dumb-fuck hipsters and L.A. socialites, destroying my sense of decency in the world).
We staggered out of Foundation and ended up at Red Fez. That’s where the Red Bull reared its ugly-ass liquid-cocaine head. I wanted one vodka-Red Bull, just to get the blood flowing. I had been drinking for five hours straight at that point, and wanted to last at least four more. Well, one turned into three. Which turned into me harassing the guest DJ with questions about the whereabouts of the resident DJ, pestering some stupid chicken-heads for a hit off their hookah (they rent hookahs there, Moroccan theme and all), and talking incessantly to anyone in earshot (including while at the urinals, which is strictly forbidden by the Guy Code). Alan jumped on the Red Bull train, and we and the ladies steam-rolled our way to Oslo for yet: more drinks and grooves.
A word to those who enjoy fighting at the club: you aren’t gangsta, and neither are your dumb-ass friends. This isn’t Good Fellas, and you aren’t Fitty Cent. The 90-pound ladies need to mind their business (don’t start any shit, because you CANNOT back it up, and your poor boyfriend will be stuck with medical bills, all because you are an idiot with a big mouth) and the men need to be gentlemen (don’t touch on anyone else’s lady or destroy everyone else’s good time by being a macho, gotta-prove-somethin’-to-my-daddy dick head because get this: no one gives a shit). That’s how the civilized world works. If you don’t like it, move to Haiti. I hope you choke on your own broken teeth. Asshole.
So while I was swaying to the beat on the dance floor at Oslo, minding my own, keeping myself out of trouble, a goddamn fight breaks out OVER my head. It reminded me of Houston in that the two fellows were Asian, skinny, and apparently more interested in pre-gunfire posturing rather than trading punches. My drunk ass was stuck between the two, hand on each chest, determined to keep them from hating each other. I have no idea why I cared, or why I ever care, but I did (do). I HATE fights at clubs. I go there for a good time, and it really pisses me off when knuckleheads don’t know how to act. Not that staggering around, burning people with carelessly gestured cigarettes, and sleeping in bathroom stalls is acceptable behavior… but I see that behavior as more of an annoyance than a true threat, and therefore less egregious a violation of club protocol.
Alan and Mare were completely against me standing in the middle of a fight on the dance floor, and I remember them repeatedly tugging at me, trying to pull me to the periphery. I did my best to stand my ground, as these two groups continued to talk shit to one another, over my head. Other strangers were getting involved. There was a growing contingency of whiteys, jumping in on one Asian dude’s side, which continues to confound me (they just yelled incoherently about “kicking some fucking ass”, over and over, and over and over and over… I was afraid I would get lumped into their camp).
Then, as sudden as it seemed to start, it dissipated. One of the two left, as did his crew, and we continued dancing as if nothing had happened. Details are a bit hazy, so I am not sure what broke the thing up. Did the gorilla-bouncers show up? The cops (I’ve seen a couple of “take-downs” in there before)? Or did everyone finally focus in on the ridiculous Caucasian guy, flailing about in the middle of dance floor exclaiming “guys, guys, seriously, this is Austin! We don’t fight here!” It certainly isn’t a boast, but I really do fantasize that they all looked at me and said to themselves “damn, look this piece of work right here. Shouldn’t he be beggin’ for change out front or something? Wait a minute, what am I angry about? Whatever, I’m outta this bitch. Peace.”
My right arm has some good bruises on it. Nice, deep purple ones with brownish-grey lining. I’m not sure if those were misguided punches thrown my direction, or my friends’ man-handling of me to get me off the dance floor… whatever.
Last Call hit, and we were booted out onto the street. There was no way in hell we were going home any time soon (I like to keep hanging around downtown after getting piss-drunk, because it is genius. Pure genius). (No, it isn’t) So Alan and I decide to hit up Katz’s for some grub. We get all the way there, only to decide that we did not want to wait in line for a table. Too much Red Bull running through the system makes a person anxious and irritable. A little booze makes you an idiot. The combination may prove lethal if applied to two guys waiting in a long-ass line for half-rate food.
So I peed on the building instead, and then we left.
We headed back toward the dirty section of 6th street for a Best-Wurst Bratwurst (lovely). Halfway there, the Red Bull and my tendency toward idiocy huddled together and came up with a brilliant plan to expend some of this unnecessary energy…
A foot race. Down the crowded streets of 6th, oozing with all the obnoxious fraternity monkeys and G-Unit rejects: all flammable with booze. Absolutely brilliant.
We set our feet on a pavement line, just before Colorado, called the mark, and took off running a full-on race. Like a couple of fifth-graders. I swear, I thought I was flying. My feet could barely keep up with body as my dress shoes slipped and skidded their way over puddles of urine, around trash cans, hurdling curbs and the sleeping homeless. Alan was WAY ahead of me until we hit Congress, where he slowed down for traffic. We did not have the green. And that is where brass-balled lunacy will help you make the call that will bring home the trophy. Into traffic I went, at full speed, dodging drunk drivers like a Frogger pro. I kept hauling ass until I hit Brazos, jumping over/through what felt like an almost endless gauntlet of drunken frat-boys’ attempts to trip, punch, and knock me down. Why they gotta hate on drunken sprinter? I mean, shit.
When I finally came to a stop on the corner where the Best-Wurst goods are peddled, I did so on my left leg. Not good. When I stopped, all the force of my momentum was transferred to my left knee, and it popped. Audibly. Fuckmenuts, my knee is now shot.
But I got a damn good Best-Wurst out of the deal. I even let them put all that nasty condiment shit on there. De-fucking-licious. The knee will mend anyhow.
But that isn’t the point. The three questions still loom, demanding as ever, as I hobble about at work today, dragging my left foot as if it were cleft.
Which came first: craziness or liquor? Well, I guess it is safe to say that I’ve always been a bit insane. Last Friday is hardly evidence of that, but it might be rated as indicative. The liquor simply greases the gears of the machine. Once I have no more need for the machine, I will abandon the fuel. That’s my best guess.
What standards am I using to decide that I “get crazy”? None. After writing this, I don’t believe I do “get crazy”. My reactions to things are perfectly sane, and relatively tame. Crazy is when you go to a 6pm happy hour at Bennigan’s, and twelve hours later you find yourself tossing salads to “work” your way out of a prison in central Mexico. All I do is moon people, start foot races, and pee in a sink every now and again (don’t hate, don’t knock it ‘till you tried it, and don’t wash your hands at the Denny’s near St. Johns and IH35 – trust me on this one).
So, answering 1 and 2 really has not helped me get anywhere. Damnit. So much for introspection.
Damn you Best-Wurst!
1) For the last time, put that down. Yes, it is seriously ON FIRE.
2) For the last time, take a step back. Yes, that is a river, and it is a long drop.
3) No, I do not want to arm wrestle you. Or that chick. Or the cab driver.
4) No, you cannot pee here.
5) No, you cannot smoke that here.
6) WHERE did you get these pills?
7) How did you end up with two different shoes on?
8) Whose pants ARE those?
9) Dude, I don’t know you. You spit when you talk, and that’s nasty.
10) GET UP. You’re going to be hit by a car.
Friday was an interesting dive into such idiocy. While I’m never proud of what I do when I’ve given up all ideas of reason, I can never really fault myself either. This is what I do from time to time, and the frequency of occurrence is (thankfully?) decreasing (slowly).
So here are some questions I am currently asking myself:
1) Which came first, the craziness or the liquor?
2) What standards am I using to decide that I “get crazy” anyhow?
3) What the hell difference would it make if I answered 1 and 2?
My left knee is all fucked up. And I blame Friday night. Rather, I blame the combination of me + Friday night + mixed booze + Red Bull + latent frustration with the point of it all. But really, losing some of the functionality of my weakest of legs is a small price to pay considering: the high value risked in exchange for a good time.
It started simple enough, at Deville, for happy hour. No waves there, just some standard Mandarin & Tonics to ease my way out of the week. Good conversation, good crowd, and Vance & Carol brought pizza. By eight o’clock, the initial group of a dozen had whittled down to two. Me and Alan. I don’t get to hang with Alan that much, as our schedules never really mesh with convenience, so this was a rare opportunity to hang out and catch up. Alan is one of those really rare individuals who knows what he wants, keeps that list reasonable, and he quietly achieves those goals, never seeking approval for his successes or achievements. He is his own motivation. So, he’s a guy to learn some real life lessons from. Maybe he has discovered some sort of shortcut to the discovery of Meaning, and all we needed to do was discuss it… But we decided to drink instead.
Don’t judge, hater.
An hour later, we’re on our way to Foundation to kick it with Mare, Jen, and Brandon. Three more Mandarin & tonics later, I’m arguing with Jen about the merits of “Rock Out With Your Cock Out” as a catch-phrase. I hate the damn thing because it makes no sense to me. Plus, it was on Britney Spears’ husband’s mesh-back trucker hat. I get the idea that someone just wanted to rhyme Rock with Cock, and that stupid-ass phrase was the answer they came up with: the new Flasher motto. Fuck that pointless saying, and fuck those hats too. I lump that Von Dutch nonsense in there as well (damn, they make a killing selling those shitty hats to dumb-fuck hipsters and L.A. socialites, destroying my sense of decency in the world).
We staggered out of Foundation and ended up at Red Fez. That’s where the Red Bull reared its ugly-ass liquid-cocaine head. I wanted one vodka-Red Bull, just to get the blood flowing. I had been drinking for five hours straight at that point, and wanted to last at least four more. Well, one turned into three. Which turned into me harassing the guest DJ with questions about the whereabouts of the resident DJ, pestering some stupid chicken-heads for a hit off their hookah (they rent hookahs there, Moroccan theme and all), and talking incessantly to anyone in earshot (including while at the urinals, which is strictly forbidden by the Guy Code). Alan jumped on the Red Bull train, and we and the ladies steam-rolled our way to Oslo for yet: more drinks and grooves.
A word to those who enjoy fighting at the club: you aren’t gangsta, and neither are your dumb-ass friends. This isn’t Good Fellas, and you aren’t Fitty Cent. The 90-pound ladies need to mind their business (don’t start any shit, because you CANNOT back it up, and your poor boyfriend will be stuck with medical bills, all because you are an idiot with a big mouth) and the men need to be gentlemen (don’t touch on anyone else’s lady or destroy everyone else’s good time by being a macho, gotta-prove-somethin’-to-my-daddy dick head because get this: no one gives a shit). That’s how the civilized world works. If you don’t like it, move to Haiti. I hope you choke on your own broken teeth. Asshole.
So while I was swaying to the beat on the dance floor at Oslo, minding my own, keeping myself out of trouble, a goddamn fight breaks out OVER my head. It reminded me of Houston in that the two fellows were Asian, skinny, and apparently more interested in pre-gunfire posturing rather than trading punches. My drunk ass was stuck between the two, hand on each chest, determined to keep them from hating each other. I have no idea why I cared, or why I ever care, but I did (do). I HATE fights at clubs. I go there for a good time, and it really pisses me off when knuckleheads don’t know how to act. Not that staggering around, burning people with carelessly gestured cigarettes, and sleeping in bathroom stalls is acceptable behavior… but I see that behavior as more of an annoyance than a true threat, and therefore less egregious a violation of club protocol.
Alan and Mare were completely against me standing in the middle of a fight on the dance floor, and I remember them repeatedly tugging at me, trying to pull me to the periphery. I did my best to stand my ground, as these two groups continued to talk shit to one another, over my head. Other strangers were getting involved. There was a growing contingency of whiteys, jumping in on one Asian dude’s side, which continues to confound me (they just yelled incoherently about “kicking some fucking ass”, over and over, and over and over and over… I was afraid I would get lumped into their camp).
Then, as sudden as it seemed to start, it dissipated. One of the two left, as did his crew, and we continued dancing as if nothing had happened. Details are a bit hazy, so I am not sure what broke the thing up. Did the gorilla-bouncers show up? The cops (I’ve seen a couple of “take-downs” in there before)? Or did everyone finally focus in on the ridiculous Caucasian guy, flailing about in the middle of dance floor exclaiming “guys, guys, seriously, this is Austin! We don’t fight here!” It certainly isn’t a boast, but I really do fantasize that they all looked at me and said to themselves “damn, look this piece of work right here. Shouldn’t he be beggin’ for change out front or something? Wait a minute, what am I angry about? Whatever, I’m outta this bitch. Peace.”
My right arm has some good bruises on it. Nice, deep purple ones with brownish-grey lining. I’m not sure if those were misguided punches thrown my direction, or my friends’ man-handling of me to get me off the dance floor… whatever.
Last Call hit, and we were booted out onto the street. There was no way in hell we were going home any time soon (I like to keep hanging around downtown after getting piss-drunk, because it is genius. Pure genius). (No, it isn’t) So Alan and I decide to hit up Katz’s for some grub. We get all the way there, only to decide that we did not want to wait in line for a table. Too much Red Bull running through the system makes a person anxious and irritable. A little booze makes you an idiot. The combination may prove lethal if applied to two guys waiting in a long-ass line for half-rate food.
So I peed on the building instead, and then we left.
We headed back toward the dirty section of 6th street for a Best-Wurst Bratwurst (lovely). Halfway there, the Red Bull and my tendency toward idiocy huddled together and came up with a brilliant plan to expend some of this unnecessary energy…
A foot race. Down the crowded streets of 6th, oozing with all the obnoxious fraternity monkeys and G-Unit rejects: all flammable with booze. Absolutely brilliant.
We set our feet on a pavement line, just before Colorado, called the mark, and took off running a full-on race. Like a couple of fifth-graders. I swear, I thought I was flying. My feet could barely keep up with body as my dress shoes slipped and skidded their way over puddles of urine, around trash cans, hurdling curbs and the sleeping homeless. Alan was WAY ahead of me until we hit Congress, where he slowed down for traffic. We did not have the green. And that is where brass-balled lunacy will help you make the call that will bring home the trophy. Into traffic I went, at full speed, dodging drunk drivers like a Frogger pro. I kept hauling ass until I hit Brazos, jumping over/through what felt like an almost endless gauntlet of drunken frat-boys’ attempts to trip, punch, and knock me down. Why they gotta hate on drunken sprinter? I mean, shit.
When I finally came to a stop on the corner where the Best-Wurst goods are peddled, I did so on my left leg. Not good. When I stopped, all the force of my momentum was transferred to my left knee, and it popped. Audibly. Fuckmenuts, my knee is now shot.
But I got a damn good Best-Wurst out of the deal. I even let them put all that nasty condiment shit on there. De-fucking-licious. The knee will mend anyhow.
But that isn’t the point. The three questions still loom, demanding as ever, as I hobble about at work today, dragging my left foot as if it were cleft.
Which came first: craziness or liquor? Well, I guess it is safe to say that I’ve always been a bit insane. Last Friday is hardly evidence of that, but it might be rated as indicative. The liquor simply greases the gears of the machine. Once I have no more need for the machine, I will abandon the fuel. That’s my best guess.
What standards am I using to decide that I “get crazy”? None. After writing this, I don’t believe I do “get crazy”. My reactions to things are perfectly sane, and relatively tame. Crazy is when you go to a 6pm happy hour at Bennigan’s, and twelve hours later you find yourself tossing salads to “work” your way out of a prison in central Mexico. All I do is moon people, start foot races, and pee in a sink every now and again (don’t hate, don’t knock it ‘till you tried it, and don’t wash your hands at the Denny’s near St. Johns and IH35 – trust me on this one).
So, answering 1 and 2 really has not helped me get anywhere. Damnit. So much for introspection.
Damn you Best-Wurst!
Friday, January 07, 2005
Visual -> Counter Visual = photos... not so good.
Jesus Christ. Can't a person take two photos, within a reasonable amount of time between, and look like the same goddamn human being? I understand that people go through physical changes. People grow moles. They get haircuts. They get balls cut off or develop multiple sclerosis. But I, personally, do not change a whole hell of a lot from year to year. I gain 10, or I lose 10. I remain the whitest of white boys, with a doublish-chin, and kinda spiky-ish kind of hair. My pants never fit right, and my shoes are typically dirty. That's the baseline standard.
Yet here are two photos, posted courtesy of my good friend, The Big O, which have to have been taken maybe... four months apart? Four months, MAXIMUM. So I'll leave it to you, especially anyone reading this who does not know me, to judge. This shit's ridiculous.
PHOTO NUMBER ONE:
In this photo, I am kicking it with Pat and Jason. I am the penguin on the right. It was a badass wedding, and Pat (the fellow on the left) was the Master of Ceremonies. He kicked ass, the couple kicked ass, and the whole damn thing was in Las Vegas (the Sinatra Suite at the Riviera), so it kicked more ass than anyone still alive could possibly comprehend. You do not understand how much it kicked ass. Get comfortable with the cold-hard fact of the thing.
Anyhow, back to my pointless narcissism. In Photo ONE, all things are not as they appear. I appear to be fairly tall in that photo. This is far from the truth. I am 3' 6". Yes, you read that correct. I am actually a Mayan descendent, from a family of curb-washers and hydrant hurdlers.
Second, I have a swagger about me. Almost as if I have some laid-back level of "coolness" to me. This, also would be a misnomer. I have no such cool-factor, and wouldn't know where to buy any.
Thricely, I am smoking a cigarette. This is preposterous. Totally beyond ridiculous. I always smoke more than one cigarette at a time.
Fourthly, I am without a drink. What the? No fucking way. At a wedding? Where I had to dress like a butler? I don't remember much about that wedding, but I do remember that I had a cup of Mandarin & tonic surgically attached to my left hand. I drank so much that Vegas got BORING to me. Now that is stinking drunk. And you cannot get that way by standing around looking a Dean Martin reject (sans booze). This, no joke, is proof that Photoshop was somehow applied to this "work of art" posted by Oscar. Congratulations Oscar, but your doctoring of the photo is proven quite cleanly by my empty left hand. This photo is a fake amongst fakes.
Now for your consideration...
PHOTO NUMBER TWO:
Wow. What a specimen we have here. You wouldn't believe it, but I am the guy in the photo (the other two are very wonderful ladies who I am most blessed to be allowed to know in this world), and I am approximately thirty feet from the camera, one foot in front of the beautiful woman on the left. Her proportions are normal. So, you see, my head is the size of her torso. "One size fits all" my ass. My noggin' is beyond the comprehension of any fashion designer who peddles their shite beyond the automatic doors of Wal-Mart. This photo actually caught me eating the shoulder of the fantastic woman on the right. See it? I've already chomped down, and was chewing her rotator cuff when Oscar captured the moment. I had three piping hot Gyros after that. And then Best Wurst to get my bowels right. And then three pints of beer to wash that mess down. Jesus, I love good beer. And rotator cuffs.
I cannot knock this photo too much, because it is a much better representation of who I am, in my natural environment. I was at Deville, probably on a Friday, drunk as fuck, and being taken care of by the wonderful woman on the left. I'm sure there are three cigarettes lit and burning between my fingers, two shots of bourbon on the table, and someone across from me exclaiming "I remember that, you really should have kept your pants on." They were probably referring to an event like this one (I am the idiot wearing the black pants).
But the point of this whole post was for me to point out how different, and misrepresentative a photograph can be. These two are months apart. A month is not long enough for such change. The lighting, the angles, the head-tilting, all the GQ bullshit makes a photograph an almost worthless measure of what a person actually looks like. Besides, neither of those photos shows just how difficult I can be. Maybe the one with my pants down gives a hint. Whatever. That's my best side anyway.
Damn you tuxedos!
Yet here are two photos, posted courtesy of my good friend, The Big O, which have to have been taken maybe... four months apart? Four months, MAXIMUM. So I'll leave it to you, especially anyone reading this who does not know me, to judge. This shit's ridiculous.
PHOTO NUMBER ONE:
In this photo, I am kicking it with Pat and Jason. I am the penguin on the right. It was a badass wedding, and Pat (the fellow on the left) was the Master of Ceremonies. He kicked ass, the couple kicked ass, and the whole damn thing was in Las Vegas (the Sinatra Suite at the Riviera), so it kicked more ass than anyone still alive could possibly comprehend. You do not understand how much it kicked ass. Get comfortable with the cold-hard fact of the thing.
Anyhow, back to my pointless narcissism. In Photo ONE, all things are not as they appear. I appear to be fairly tall in that photo. This is far from the truth. I am 3' 6". Yes, you read that correct. I am actually a Mayan descendent, from a family of curb-washers and hydrant hurdlers.
Second, I have a swagger about me. Almost as if I have some laid-back level of "coolness" to me. This, also would be a misnomer. I have no such cool-factor, and wouldn't know where to buy any.
Thricely, I am smoking a cigarette. This is preposterous. Totally beyond ridiculous. I always smoke more than one cigarette at a time.
Fourthly, I am without a drink. What the? No fucking way. At a wedding? Where I had to dress like a butler? I don't remember much about that wedding, but I do remember that I had a cup of Mandarin & tonic surgically attached to my left hand. I drank so much that Vegas got BORING to me. Now that is stinking drunk. And you cannot get that way by standing around looking a Dean Martin reject (sans booze). This, no joke, is proof that Photoshop was somehow applied to this "work of art" posted by Oscar. Congratulations Oscar, but your doctoring of the photo is proven quite cleanly by my empty left hand. This photo is a fake amongst fakes.
Now for your consideration...
PHOTO NUMBER TWO:
Wow. What a specimen we have here. You wouldn't believe it, but I am the guy in the photo (the other two are very wonderful ladies who I am most blessed to be allowed to know in this world), and I am approximately thirty feet from the camera, one foot in front of the beautiful woman on the left. Her proportions are normal. So, you see, my head is the size of her torso. "One size fits all" my ass. My noggin' is beyond the comprehension of any fashion designer who peddles their shite beyond the automatic doors of Wal-Mart. This photo actually caught me eating the shoulder of the fantastic woman on the right. See it? I've already chomped down, and was chewing her rotator cuff when Oscar captured the moment. I had three piping hot Gyros after that. And then Best Wurst to get my bowels right. And then three pints of beer to wash that mess down. Jesus, I love good beer. And rotator cuffs.
I cannot knock this photo too much, because it is a much better representation of who I am, in my natural environment. I was at Deville, probably on a Friday, drunk as fuck, and being taken care of by the wonderful woman on the left. I'm sure there are three cigarettes lit and burning between my fingers, two shots of bourbon on the table, and someone across from me exclaiming "I remember that, you really should have kept your pants on." They were probably referring to an event like this one (I am the idiot wearing the black pants).
But the point of this whole post was for me to point out how different, and misrepresentative a photograph can be. These two are months apart. A month is not long enough for such change. The lighting, the angles, the head-tilting, all the GQ bullshit makes a photograph an almost worthless measure of what a person actually looks like. Besides, neither of those photos shows just how difficult I can be. Maybe the one with my pants down gives a hint. Whatever. That's my best side anyway.
Damn you tuxedos!
Monday, January 03, 2005
Going, going... GONE! And what a bender it was.
So there went 2004. Poof!
That really should be more profound. “Poof!” just doesn’t do the year much justice. I should do a better job at shouting out to last year, for many things happened which require more… profound… ness.
My girlfriend moved in with me this year. This is more than a milestone for me, it is a conquest over my own fears of intimacy (whatever that means). Really, it is important for me because it signifies that I am not the seven year-old toy monger that I was a year before. I now have to share my living space, which is the most sacred of spaces to me. It is where I am who I am, all the time while there. No hiding, no ducking, no shirking. And now she is an audience to my own “theatre of the broken”. It is a beautiful thing, and it happened in 2004.
I lost the friendship of someone who I thought was a close friend. Everyone experiences the loss of a few friends of the opposite sex, whenever you enter into a relationship. You get serious with someone, and a select few people disappear from your life because they were only there for their own benefit. Usually, these are surface-friends to begin with, so the cut is not very deep. But I thought this person liked me for who I am, not who they expected me to be, for well over a decade. Apparently I miscalculated the value of our friendship, and it has been a frustrating loss. This disappointment occurred in 2004.
I started jogging last spring. I have enjoyed my time out on the trails, my dippings into runners’ high, and the general feeling of health associated with controlled physical excursion. I started getting my jog on, in 2004.
The IRS decided to kick the living crap out of me this past year. For those who know me, this should come as no surprise. Since my teenage years I have been involved in various business ventures and “high finance” activities without the benefit of mentor, accountant, or tax lawyer. I have always done my best to account for such activities within the confines of law and the tax code… but some items are just so damn gray. It is a wonder that I made it this far. The IRS brought a slight miscalculation on an old tax record of mine to my attention during 2004, and it has been a tenuous existence for me ever since.
I stopped DJing. I no longer have the equipment to do so. It is a brave new world for me, and I am looking forward to what I will do with my time. I shed my most prized hobby (again) in 2004.
I stopped drinking for 36 days, back around February. Prior to that experiment with sobriety, I would have denounced such plans to go dry as both self-destructive, and doomed to failure. I am proud to say that I discovered many things about myself during that time. I learned that my head is not necessarily more clear without booze. I learned that I still sleep like shit when sober. I learned that many times I drink in order to make the world more interesting to me. I learned that I don’t give two shits what opinions drunken people have, and that no one should put much weight in mine. I learned that beyond the dimly-lit horizons of my daily life and beyond my ambitions in business, humor, and entertainment: I am interested in enjoying my time on this planet above all other things. That this is a selfish notion, continues to elude me. Sometimes a stiff drink aides in my quest for entertainment, but it should never be my sole source. I gained this grain of sober intuition while living through 2004.
I continued to feel the importance of my friendships in 2004. Bonds were made, strengthened, and tested during the year. There were many rekindlings as well. I have always felt that my friends occupy the same space in my mind that many reserve strictly for blood-relatives. In fact, I would put good money on the notion that most of my friends place their family high above their friendships. Not that I am against such a practice, or that I require my friends to treat me in-kind. Everyone has their reasons for prioritizing their life-relationships, and I have no desire to discredit anyone else’s methodology. But 2004 bolstered my method, and my friends continue to pull whale-weight in my life. Cheers to reinforcement in 2005.
During the course and events of 2004, I realized that I MUST do what interests me, or I lose interest in life as a whole. Even if the risks do not make sense, or the payoff: nonexistent. Sometimes, you must burn in order to force yourself to rebuild. I go stale otherwise. This blog (another creation of 2004) sits alongside my essays, short stories, babbling prose, and the three long stories (novels? Whatever they’re called.) as evidence that I am continuing to search for whatever it is that floats my boat. When I stop looking… I better be carried by six.
I hope your 2004 was as beneficial and interesting to you as mine was for me. I hope 2005 is your best yet, and that you drink to be merry, and don’t marry while drinking. Or something like that. And pay your taxes right, for the love of all that is holy. Fuck…
Damn you mis-filed taxes!
That really should be more profound. “Poof!” just doesn’t do the year much justice. I should do a better job at shouting out to last year, for many things happened which require more… profound… ness.
My girlfriend moved in with me this year. This is more than a milestone for me, it is a conquest over my own fears of intimacy (whatever that means). Really, it is important for me because it signifies that I am not the seven year-old toy monger that I was a year before. I now have to share my living space, which is the most sacred of spaces to me. It is where I am who I am, all the time while there. No hiding, no ducking, no shirking. And now she is an audience to my own “theatre of the broken”. It is a beautiful thing, and it happened in 2004.
I lost the friendship of someone who I thought was a close friend. Everyone experiences the loss of a few friends of the opposite sex, whenever you enter into a relationship. You get serious with someone, and a select few people disappear from your life because they were only there for their own benefit. Usually, these are surface-friends to begin with, so the cut is not very deep. But I thought this person liked me for who I am, not who they expected me to be, for well over a decade. Apparently I miscalculated the value of our friendship, and it has been a frustrating loss. This disappointment occurred in 2004.
I started jogging last spring. I have enjoyed my time out on the trails, my dippings into runners’ high, and the general feeling of health associated with controlled physical excursion. I started getting my jog on, in 2004.
The IRS decided to kick the living crap out of me this past year. For those who know me, this should come as no surprise. Since my teenage years I have been involved in various business ventures and “high finance” activities without the benefit of mentor, accountant, or tax lawyer. I have always done my best to account for such activities within the confines of law and the tax code… but some items are just so damn gray. It is a wonder that I made it this far. The IRS brought a slight miscalculation on an old tax record of mine to my attention during 2004, and it has been a tenuous existence for me ever since.
I stopped DJing. I no longer have the equipment to do so. It is a brave new world for me, and I am looking forward to what I will do with my time. I shed my most prized hobby (again) in 2004.
I stopped drinking for 36 days, back around February. Prior to that experiment with sobriety, I would have denounced such plans to go dry as both self-destructive, and doomed to failure. I am proud to say that I discovered many things about myself during that time. I learned that my head is not necessarily more clear without booze. I learned that I still sleep like shit when sober. I learned that many times I drink in order to make the world more interesting to me. I learned that I don’t give two shits what opinions drunken people have, and that no one should put much weight in mine. I learned that beyond the dimly-lit horizons of my daily life and beyond my ambitions in business, humor, and entertainment: I am interested in enjoying my time on this planet above all other things. That this is a selfish notion, continues to elude me. Sometimes a stiff drink aides in my quest for entertainment, but it should never be my sole source. I gained this grain of sober intuition while living through 2004.
I continued to feel the importance of my friendships in 2004. Bonds were made, strengthened, and tested during the year. There were many rekindlings as well. I have always felt that my friends occupy the same space in my mind that many reserve strictly for blood-relatives. In fact, I would put good money on the notion that most of my friends place their family high above their friendships. Not that I am against such a practice, or that I require my friends to treat me in-kind. Everyone has their reasons for prioritizing their life-relationships, and I have no desire to discredit anyone else’s methodology. But 2004 bolstered my method, and my friends continue to pull whale-weight in my life. Cheers to reinforcement in 2005.
During the course and events of 2004, I realized that I MUST do what interests me, or I lose interest in life as a whole. Even if the risks do not make sense, or the payoff: nonexistent. Sometimes, you must burn in order to force yourself to rebuild. I go stale otherwise. This blog (another creation of 2004) sits alongside my essays, short stories, babbling prose, and the three long stories (novels? Whatever they’re called.) as evidence that I am continuing to search for whatever it is that floats my boat. When I stop looking… I better be carried by six.
I hope your 2004 was as beneficial and interesting to you as mine was for me. I hope 2005 is your best yet, and that you drink to be merry, and don’t marry while drinking. Or something like that. And pay your taxes right, for the love of all that is holy. Fuck…
Damn you mis-filed taxes!
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Htown, and just because...
Over the holidays, we all experience different levels of stress. Sometimes these stresses take over, and folks end up drowning themselves in egg nog and driving off a bridge somewhere. My stresses do not afford me such luxurious physical response. Oh no. I get jacked-up dreams instead. Awful dreams…
But before I get to that, a couple of things on the holidays in H-town:
1) I fucking LOVE seeing all my friends. Even if coordinating a meeting between us requires me to sell my goddamn soul to the devil. Every year it is the same nightmare of social organization. Regardless of the effort, it was fantastic to see everyone. J-J., Snail, Skot, The Collins, Hairy Fingers, Brutha Nick, Bai-Wei-Ke, CBSmooove, Dungster, Mr. Bill, Mike, Williard, Huard, Lambchops, Weezer, Boner, Baret and K-T, Tommy-Tom, Neil & his ladyfriend, Skater Bri, Rockets Tom, Big Binh and Shannanagins, Jenn and that girl who I told I would buy a gin & tonic but then didn’t because I was too busy toasting my repeated success at avoiding a well-earned explosive death, and the Atown contingency too: Rivas, Lex and Tam-Tam, Two Ts, Our Land and The Rambler, and of course: my precious Avasaurus.
2) Boner gives advice: the most common mistake in getting a DUI is violating the law in a more simple way. Such as… running a red light or speeding. So that’s the best way around that (besides pounding ginger ales and becoming a cross-caressing Baptist). Fuck me sideways.
3) Sugar Land is fucking far from Houston. Screw you daily-gypsies who make that rush-hour trek and claim it isn’t far. It is fucking far. Buy a map, check your watch, and measure your gas tank. I am right about this, it is god-awful far from anything. For the love of God.
4) White Christmas in Houston. That’s all. Just had to type it with a serious tone, as it has never been mentioned by me without thick sarcasm. Now it will be peppered with disbelief instead. Silliness is what that was. If there is a God, it does indeed have a sense of humor.
5) George Carlin for Christmas: sometimes, he isn’t that funny. He’s just angry. An old, sick, and bent-up angry man on stage with spotlights upon his cranky-assed oldness. I give him credit for turning a buck on it though. I would trade spittle-dotted rants for money any day. Big ups, and I wish him the best in rehab. This really has nothing to do with Houston, but I listened to one of his latest CDs on the way home (great gift mammasita!), and it has been bothering me ever since.
On to the dream that killed my 3pm wake-up time (as scheduled by booze) this past Saturday.
In the dream, Flava was getting married to some bisexual dude whose identity morphed every ten dream-minutes, so I couldn’t nail it down. I knew a couple of his names, and he was always rather portly. That part was strange, because Flava has never gravitated to the portly variety (myself exempt), but that’s the body-type my mind picked for the part. The bisexual aspect of his personality is also unexpected. Flava loves the gay men. She’s no half-stepper when it comes to sexual preference. No dabblers for her.
She invites me to the wedding. I can’t believe she would be inviting me to the wedding, I mean, we’re still living together (the dream is occurring in real time). All of our friends are flabbergasted when I tell them that I am absolutely against going to the wedding. “What, just because she’s marrying him?”, they would all ask. “Well, yes. And no,” I would reply, over-and-fucking-over, to their crinkled-brow faces, “well, I should have said something to her, I guess,” I would add, all half-stepping it. But I as thinking in my head, “man, I can’t believe she did this shit to me. Why him? Why now? What the hell did I do wrong here?”
I end up at the wedding, and it is raining and nasty outside (think: November Rain). I am trying to leave before the ceremony starts, but as I am trying to duck out a back door, the procession scoops me up and I am marching with the bride and groom down the aisle. I was absolutely beside myself, staggering to explain that I did not want to be there but could not bring myself to confront her about the whole mess. I mean, she planned to continue living with me? After marrying this guy? Wha………?
In the beginning, I was just confused. I could not figure out the timeline. It was Christmas, I just dropped her off at the airport to go see her fam… when the hell did this dude propose? Did I nap for a goddamn year? RumpleCraigskin? Oh, wait, that's Rip Van Winkle. No, I cannot spell that shit. Whatever, like I was saying: And worse yet, was there any “courting” at my crib? Did they dance the forbidden dance? In the shower I cleaned up earlier that week? Did I scrub up some of that sexually ambiguous orca-dude’s man-lava from the base tiles? Sweet Jesus, the disturbing revelations started a roll call, and they were ready to burn some shit DOWN. Son of a… I was still confused, but starting my rabid march to anger.
But I got cut off by sentimentality.
I should have told her everything first. I should have let her know.
“Let her know what?”
Well, whatever we needed to say. You know, all that which is making us feel so stupid for avoiding.
“But I haven’t gotten any of that sorted out yet. It would have been half-baked, and potentially dangerous. Bacon is fantastic, but raw pork can kill.”
What does breakfast have to do with any of this?
“Oh, shit, I smell egg and sausage.”
What? We’re in deep emotional trouble here. Our woman just left us for a hefty gay guy. That should take precedence over morning proteins.
“But we can just wake up, and she’s ours again. Trust me.”
But, but… it’s only 9 in the morning. We just went to sleep like, four hours ago.
“Bacon. Now get up and call your girl, but remember not to blame her for any of this ridiculousness.”
Fuck. Tired. Mmmmm… bacon… Let’s ditch this shitty wedding.
Damn you bad-Flava dreams!
But before I get to that, a couple of things on the holidays in H-town:
1) I fucking LOVE seeing all my friends. Even if coordinating a meeting between us requires me to sell my goddamn soul to the devil. Every year it is the same nightmare of social organization. Regardless of the effort, it was fantastic to see everyone. J-J., Snail, Skot, The Collins, Hairy Fingers, Brutha Nick, Bai-Wei-Ke, CBSmooove, Dungster, Mr. Bill, Mike, Williard, Huard, Lambchops, Weezer, Boner, Baret and K-T, Tommy-Tom, Neil & his ladyfriend, Skater Bri, Rockets Tom, Big Binh and Shannanagins, Jenn and that girl who I told I would buy a gin & tonic but then didn’t because I was too busy toasting my repeated success at avoiding a well-earned explosive death, and the Atown contingency too: Rivas, Lex and Tam-Tam, Two Ts, Our Land and The Rambler, and of course: my precious Avasaurus.
2) Boner gives advice: the most common mistake in getting a DUI is violating the law in a more simple way. Such as… running a red light or speeding. So that’s the best way around that (besides pounding ginger ales and becoming a cross-caressing Baptist). Fuck me sideways.
3) Sugar Land is fucking far from Houston. Screw you daily-gypsies who make that rush-hour trek and claim it isn’t far. It is fucking far. Buy a map, check your watch, and measure your gas tank. I am right about this, it is god-awful far from anything. For the love of God.
4) White Christmas in Houston. That’s all. Just had to type it with a serious tone, as it has never been mentioned by me without thick sarcasm. Now it will be peppered with disbelief instead. Silliness is what that was. If there is a God, it does indeed have a sense of humor.
5) George Carlin for Christmas: sometimes, he isn’t that funny. He’s just angry. An old, sick, and bent-up angry man on stage with spotlights upon his cranky-assed oldness. I give him credit for turning a buck on it though. I would trade spittle-dotted rants for money any day. Big ups, and I wish him the best in rehab. This really has nothing to do with Houston, but I listened to one of his latest CDs on the way home (great gift mammasita!), and it has been bothering me ever since.
On to the dream that killed my 3pm wake-up time (as scheduled by booze) this past Saturday.
In the dream, Flava was getting married to some bisexual dude whose identity morphed every ten dream-minutes, so I couldn’t nail it down. I knew a couple of his names, and he was always rather portly. That part was strange, because Flava has never gravitated to the portly variety (myself exempt), but that’s the body-type my mind picked for the part. The bisexual aspect of his personality is also unexpected. Flava loves the gay men. She’s no half-stepper when it comes to sexual preference. No dabblers for her.
She invites me to the wedding. I can’t believe she would be inviting me to the wedding, I mean, we’re still living together (the dream is occurring in real time). All of our friends are flabbergasted when I tell them that I am absolutely against going to the wedding. “What, just because she’s marrying him?”, they would all ask. “Well, yes. And no,” I would reply, over-and-fucking-over, to their crinkled-brow faces, “well, I should have said something to her, I guess,” I would add, all half-stepping it. But I as thinking in my head, “man, I can’t believe she did this shit to me. Why him? Why now? What the hell did I do wrong here?”
I end up at the wedding, and it is raining and nasty outside (think: November Rain). I am trying to leave before the ceremony starts, but as I am trying to duck out a back door, the procession scoops me up and I am marching with the bride and groom down the aisle. I was absolutely beside myself, staggering to explain that I did not want to be there but could not bring myself to confront her about the whole mess. I mean, she planned to continue living with me? After marrying this guy? Wha………?
In the beginning, I was just confused. I could not figure out the timeline. It was Christmas, I just dropped her off at the airport to go see her fam… when the hell did this dude propose? Did I nap for a goddamn year? RumpleCraigskin? Oh, wait, that's Rip Van Winkle. No, I cannot spell that shit. Whatever, like I was saying: And worse yet, was there any “courting” at my crib? Did they dance the forbidden dance? In the shower I cleaned up earlier that week? Did I scrub up some of that sexually ambiguous orca-dude’s man-lava from the base tiles? Sweet Jesus, the disturbing revelations started a roll call, and they were ready to burn some shit DOWN. Son of a… I was still confused, but starting my rabid march to anger.
But I got cut off by sentimentality.
I should have told her everything first. I should have let her know.
“Let her know what?”
Well, whatever we needed to say. You know, all that which is making us feel so stupid for avoiding.
“But I haven’t gotten any of that sorted out yet. It would have been half-baked, and potentially dangerous. Bacon is fantastic, but raw pork can kill.”
What does breakfast have to do with any of this?
“Oh, shit, I smell egg and sausage.”
What? We’re in deep emotional trouble here. Our woman just left us for a hefty gay guy. That should take precedence over morning proteins.
“But we can just wake up, and she’s ours again. Trust me.”
But, but… it’s only 9 in the morning. We just went to sleep like, four hours ago.
“Bacon. Now get up and call your girl, but remember not to blame her for any of this ridiculousness.”
Fuck. Tired. Mmmmm… bacon… Let’s ditch this shitty wedding.
Damn you bad-Flava dreams!
Thursday, December 23, 2004
Seasonal ramble and the thing. You know? Yes.
Instead of being boring with a bunch hoo-ha about blah-blah-blah and whatever, I will be barfing out some prose. This is a mind dump, and it will serve no one in any good capacity. It will be seasonal though, as I am in my last hour of do-nothing at work, before I make like Sonny Bono and "head out" of this piece.
Merry merry, jolly jolly, and happy happy... to you and yours. Hopefully I will see you this weekend, so that we can kick it and be Christmas coo'. Word.
Jingle Bells, tell me a goddamn joke.
You see that there's no Santa, right Billy?
I got you a gift, it floats, it is a turd.
I like Dave Chapelle, but I don't like your version.
Bring me more mead, in a lead mug please.
My Chauffer is definitely not the best movie I've ever seen.
Sand makes a really bad replacement for toothpaste.
Santa is bringing me a steaming bowl of allergies this Deathmas.
Dashing through the rain, with a one eyed hooker named Pete...
Is this thing on? Tap-tap. Hello?
All I want for Christmas is your two front teeth.
All I want for Christmas is some hash-marked briefs. Some hash-marked briefs...
I'm sorry, I'm poor this year, so I'm giving out STDs as gifts.
Unwrap your herpes before it dries up. Faster.
Most forget, but Trading Places is a Christmas movie.
Dan Aykroyd is the best Santa one could ask for.
I bet he inspired this piece of shit.
What were they thinking with that?
Santa * drunk + lame fat kid / midget + HOTT chick = Seasonal hillarity?
No shit? Pass the crack on down here then, 'cause I missed that math class.
I like the idea of a black santa. Call it white guilt. Sue me.
I think a new oven makes a great gift.
Preferrably: one that self-starts.
Pilot lights are for suicidals and pseudo chefs.
And gas purists, I guess. Ho ho ho.
I hope Santa didn't see this little dance with words
because it might come off as insensitive.
Or this silly slice of verbage pie
which might be viewed as bigoted, if not fucking brilliant.
And I hope he never ran across this little piece of ass-scattery
just because it's kinda fucked up, and proves that I'm slow.
Screw it. I'll just wear my stocking as a sock.
Or as a ball-warmer. Whatever's clever. The left ball.
Holiday tag line: "Holidays. Maybe. Next Year"
Holiday tag line again: "Buy. Better. Shit."
For those you love to love.
Seriously, if Santa reads any of this trash, I swear...
I'll make diamonds out of that shit, so help me god.
Jingle Bells, I'm still waiting for my goddamned joke. Hello?
No, I am not almost 30. What a ridiculous question. And no, that is not my truck parked on your lawn. Your back lawn... I see. Behind the crushed trampoline, right? Nope. I haven't a clue about such a sad situation. Now leave me alone, I need to figure out this bus schedule...
Happy holidays to you and yours! Be safe, warm, and love the ones you love!
Damn you egg nog!
Merry merry, jolly jolly, and happy happy... to you and yours. Hopefully I will see you this weekend, so that we can kick it and be Christmas coo'. Word.
Jingle Bells, tell me a goddamn joke.
You see that there's no Santa, right Billy?
I got you a gift, it floats, it is a turd.
I like Dave Chapelle, but I don't like your version.
Bring me more mead, in a lead mug please.
My Chauffer is definitely not the best movie I've ever seen.
Sand makes a really bad replacement for toothpaste.
Santa is bringing me a steaming bowl of allergies this Deathmas.
Dashing through the rain, with a one eyed hooker named Pete...
Is this thing on? Tap-tap. Hello?
All I want for Christmas is your two front teeth.
All I want for Christmas is some hash-marked briefs. Some hash-marked briefs...
I'm sorry, I'm poor this year, so I'm giving out STDs as gifts.
Unwrap your herpes before it dries up. Faster.
Most forget, but Trading Places is a Christmas movie.
Dan Aykroyd is the best Santa one could ask for.
I bet he inspired this piece of shit.
What were they thinking with that?
Santa * drunk + lame fat kid / midget + HOTT chick = Seasonal hillarity?
No shit? Pass the crack on down here then, 'cause I missed that math class.
I like the idea of a black santa. Call it white guilt. Sue me.
I think a new oven makes a great gift.
Preferrably: one that self-starts.
Pilot lights are for suicidals and pseudo chefs.
And gas purists, I guess. Ho ho ho.
I hope Santa didn't see this little dance with words
because it might come off as insensitive.
Or this silly slice of verbage pie
which might be viewed as bigoted, if not fucking brilliant.
And I hope he never ran across this little piece of ass-scattery
just because it's kinda fucked up, and proves that I'm slow.
Screw it. I'll just wear my stocking as a sock.
Or as a ball-warmer. Whatever's clever. The left ball.
Holiday tag line: "Holidays. Maybe. Next Year"
Holiday tag line again: "Buy. Better. Shit."
For those you love to love.
Seriously, if Santa reads any of this trash, I swear...
I'll make diamonds out of that shit, so help me god.
Jingle Bells, I'm still waiting for my goddamned joke. Hello?
No, I am not almost 30. What a ridiculous question. And no, that is not my truck parked on your lawn. Your back lawn... I see. Behind the crushed trampoline, right? Nope. I haven't a clue about such a sad situation. Now leave me alone, I need to figure out this bus schedule...
Happy holidays to you and yours! Be safe, warm, and love the ones you love!
Damn you egg nog!
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Me and my combos.
So I'm sitting here at work, dodging the company-wide Christmas charade-parade (complete with singing choir, watered-down koolaid, and sugar-coated dogfood cookies. Replete with muted madness, and slightly resembling a rest-home celebration for Deathmas). Bored, and wishing to be left alone... I started a list of word parings, which I have feelings for.
I love these, and I feel it should be obvious:
1. Dr. and Dre (so whatchu wanme ta do...do...do...)
2. Mandarin and Tonic (keep them coming)
3. Open and Bar (mercy me, please include #2)
4. Breakfast and Buffet (plate over plate of bacon)
5. Long and Weekend (side of extra hangover, thank you)
6. Hot and Shower (perq of the first world)
7. Coffee and Cigarettes (my closest of friends)
8. New and Car (fucking windshield is about to be OUT)
9. Curious and George (who don't love them monkies?)
10. Fuck and A (yep)
I resent these, and they need no explanation:
1. Magic and Wand (wizards are tard, and fairies are corky)
2. Cell and Mate (welcome to OZ, bitch)
3. Gin and Anything (Black the fuck out)
4. Crank and Yankers (Adam whateverhisnameis should shut the fuck up sometimes)
5. Sales and Man (the "value added" takes from my soul)
6. Overflowing and Toilet (shit, shit, shit)
7. Easter and Bunny (Pastels suck, and Cadbury Eggs are filled with goat cum)
8. Politically and Correct (Nobody gets it, so lay off me already)
9. Flat and Tires (I'm gonna die on this freeway shoulder)
10. Fuck and U (yep)
These cause me mind-numbing confusion, so I will elaborate a tad:
1. Family and Values: I estimate the values to equal 0.00. Why is this an issue?
2. Jesus and Saves: Saves what? Time, for simpletons who aren't capable of reason I suppose.
3. Pro and Life: Who really rallies behind Death?
4. Bill and O’Reilly: Is he a robot? Forged from two-dimensional views of steel and the loudest tanning cream available?
5. Contemporary and Furniture: If it is here now, is not Contemporary?
6. Girl and Talk: This is a given. I believe that the two invented each other.
7. Free and Markets: There is nothing “Free” about them.
8. Self and Discipline: You have got to be kidding me. Do those words mesh to you?
9. Social and Hierarchy: Seems to me that the only way to establish yourself at the top of one of those is to kill everyone below you. That’s a loser’s game if I’ve ever heard of one.
10. Tomb and Raider: Worst. Movie. Ever. Her ta-tas weren’t even real. Damnit.
I love these, and I feel it should be obvious:
1. Dr. and Dre (so whatchu wanme ta do...do...do...)
2. Mandarin and Tonic (keep them coming)
3. Open and Bar (mercy me, please include #2)
4. Breakfast and Buffet (plate over plate of bacon)
5. Long and Weekend (side of extra hangover, thank you)
6. Hot and Shower (perq of the first world)
7. Coffee and Cigarettes (my closest of friends)
8. New and Car (fucking windshield is about to be OUT)
9. Curious and George (who don't love them monkies?)
10. Fuck and A (yep)
I resent these, and they need no explanation:
1. Magic and Wand (wizards are tard, and fairies are corky)
2. Cell and Mate (welcome to OZ, bitch)
3. Gin and Anything (Black the fuck out)
4. Crank and Yankers (Adam whateverhisnameis should shut the fuck up sometimes)
5. Sales and Man (the "value added" takes from my soul)
6. Overflowing and Toilet (shit, shit, shit)
7. Easter and Bunny (Pastels suck, and Cadbury Eggs are filled with goat cum)
8. Politically and Correct (Nobody gets it, so lay off me already)
9. Flat and Tires (I'm gonna die on this freeway shoulder)
10. Fuck and U (yep)
These cause me mind-numbing confusion, so I will elaborate a tad:
1. Family and Values: I estimate the values to equal 0.00. Why is this an issue?
2. Jesus and Saves: Saves what? Time, for simpletons who aren't capable of reason I suppose.
3. Pro and Life: Who really rallies behind Death?
4. Bill and O’Reilly: Is he a robot? Forged from two-dimensional views of steel and the loudest tanning cream available?
5. Contemporary and Furniture: If it is here now, is not Contemporary?
6. Girl and Talk: This is a given. I believe that the two invented each other.
7. Free and Markets: There is nothing “Free” about them.
8. Self and Discipline: You have got to be kidding me. Do those words mesh to you?
9. Social and Hierarchy: Seems to me that the only way to establish yourself at the top of one of those is to kill everyone below you. That’s a loser’s game if I’ve ever heard of one.
10. Tomb and Raider: Worst. Movie. Ever. Her ta-tas weren’t even real. Damnit.
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