Undeniably Sexy Musings From The Dumpster

Dear NHL, consider this my resume and cover letter

2011-05-25T21:34:00.002-04:00

The horror of the live-the-rest-of-your-life-in-financial-ruins potential of my US return to treat yet-undiagnosed intestinal ailments sans health insurance was blunted by the illusion of invincibility my Detroit Red Wings had managed to display during post-All Star play. The potential for a Cup run wasn't mere illusion. Then they crumbled, got their asses stomped, and I was relegated to watching imposters fight for the Cup. Whatever. I've got plans to make sure fans, from the fairweather to those spittle-spattering, fist-battering the glass even through 12-win seasons, never lose interest in the chase.

It's no secret the NHL's striking and rule changes have distanced purist fans over the years, but certain measures, if enacted, would restore that previous prestige. Take, for instance, ritual sacrifice. It is hereby proposed that any time a team loses a Stanley Cup on home ice (or just plain loses), the losing captain -- after the cup has been presented and paraded rinkround by the victors -- would have to skate to center ice, in front of thousands of anxious fans and bloodthirsty opponents ominously tapping the ice with their sticks, kneel and surrender a skate, which the opposing captain would use -- either by hand or foot -- to cut his losing counterpart's throat. The river of blood pulsing from the jagged wound would be collected in the silver cup atop the trophy, the exsanguinated body dumped atop the loser's center-ice logo, the glorious champions literally savoring the taste of victory -- passing and emptying the cup, sip by iron-heavy sip, in front of the home town fans.

A measure that would kinda increase accountability for the captain position (while restoring that old-school hockey toughness), don't you think? NHL Marketing here I come!

Travel Blogging my escapes from kidnappers

2008-09-03T01:21:00.002-04:00

Got a travel type blog: Skedaddle Prattle

That's right, I'm checking out of the States. Follow my progress as I fornicate my way through Central America (or at least pretend to do so):

http://skedaddleprattle.blogspot.com

Relishing Raleigh

2008-09-01T01:10:00.004-04:00

On August 22nd, minutes after stepping foot in Davidson for the first time in two months, Russell called and invited me to Raleigh the following Thursday. Because maturation had recently sucked the fun from trying to fit my toes into my mouth, I realized sitting in Davidson might be less exciting than expected. I promised a Thursday appearance, wanting to see these friends before my September 11th departure.

Raleigh's always fun. Boozing and talking shit, playing a little Foosball, grilling out, that's how days and long nights are spent. No stress and less rest. Bruce and Russell insisted I watch the new HBO miniseries Generation Kill, On Demand to the rescue. The show, the true story of a marine battalion advancing through Iraq as reported by a Rolling Stone journalist, carried heavy expectations given the creators' pedigree -- The Wire (from which a few actors are recycled) -- and it is excellent as anticipated, at once hilarious, poignant, and disturbing. The best moment, though, was when a rather high fellow joined us for an episode. After sitting through ninety seconds of contextless scene segments recapping previous episodes, he exclaimed, "Wait, what? That was the whole episode? I don't understand what's going on in that show." I couldn't find breath for a half-celebratory, half-deriding "HA! Nooooo way!" for a blissful minute.

Not to say I didn't have moments of my own. Something inspired me to record a voice memo, time and situation unknown, that simply says, "Imagine neighborhood kids pulling dad around on a sled," followed by hysterical laughter, mine alone. With Bruce and Russell I also invented a device designed to tame the wild boner, the Bruce-named Cock Sheath, a sleeve that guides unexpected boners in a less conspicuous direction.

Raleigh provided last tastes at a few of my favorite eateries. Coneys and chili cheese fries at Cloos' Coney Island, a superlative coney diner owned by Southfield, MI native Dan Cloos', where coneys best any I've ever had in Michigan. Lilly's Pizza is my other Raleigh must-eat, where mountains of artichoke hearts, red roasted potatoes, and baby corns engulf unconventionally topped pies of sublime honey-wheat crust, and we hit it for dinner and pitchers too. Lilly's was also the memorable for a conversation in which we very casually consented to drop acid, none of our four having touched the drug before, the rush of endorphins from too much pizza and beer overwhelming our ability to reason. The conversation itself wasn't particularly momentous, but the immediate aftermath, a sober flash where I comprehended what had just transpired, was jarring. I laughed nervously while contemplating whether the combination of Lilly's and pitchers of PBR could lull the unsuspecting into genocide or similarly sinister brands of subservience. I'm sure the Domino's delivery man we found in my trunk the next morning would have some opinion, but we can't seem to find the part of him that talks.

[And, no, we made no attempt to acquire acid.]

City Camping

2008-07-19T21:53:00.002-04:00

My Ann Arbor lease expires August 15th at 3pm, meaning I have less than a month's housing remaining in the fairy tale summer vacation I've been enjoying since late June. What if I wanted to extend this dreamlike existence, these days consumed by sleeping, sporting, watching two or three movies, struggling to decide which restaurant I want to eat at, then picking a bar for the night?

It hit me late last night, walking through the nearby nature preserve where I do all my running; Nichols Arboretum, "The Arb," a labyrinthine swath of foliage and rocky, rooty paths in the middle of Ann Arbor, bounded by the Huron river and city constructions: with all the wide open, grassy spaces and a river at my disposal, why not set up a tent and live on the cheap? I could do the whole super-hippy bit in a public space: an unkempt mane of hair and bug-infested beard; the pungent odor assaulting anyone invading my hundred-foot privacy zone; showers in the river, a frightening obstacle for unsuspecting kayakers to avoid. What's wrong with the "hardcore outdoorsman" who still lusts for the advantages and conveniences of city life -- Into The Wild (of Ann Arbor)?

Rubbing the lamp

2008-07-19T15:45:00.004-04:00

For those noble endeavorers who'd use the miracle of granted wishes for worldly betterment, no greater tragedy could befall mankind than to have a just-baked stoner stumble upon the world's solitary, single-use genie-in-a-bottle. As luck would have it, the bottle would likely be buried in the back of a donut display case, practically touching the day's last Bavarian cream-filled, chocolate-glazed delight.

The stoner, wholly concerned with the flecks of chocolate frosting smeared upon the bottle's face, would, in all likelihood, accidentally unleash the genie while trying to rub all the chocolate onto his finger. The whoosh and appearance of a levitating nonhuman would momentarily startle the pothead, but the scene would quickly be attributed to the hallucinogenic properties of some killer strand of weed. Prompted for three wishes, internal debates wouldn't entertain environmental concerns, world hunger, or genocide, but types and quantities of munchies ("A two-hundred pound satchel of Candy Corn or two-hundred Snickers bars?"), the merits of various otherwise unattainable self-improvements ("Seventy-two inch vertical -- for dunking, of course -- or an adamantium endoskeleton with retractable claws?"), and hedonistic materialism ("Fifty-thousand square foot mansion or a full-sized, fully edible gingerbread castle? Tank treads or 26" Sprewell-rimmed tires to replace my legs?"). Goth kids will almost certainly wish for fangs and lines of fishnet-based clothing to be introduced at all major retailers.

Me? My recurring delusion involves bringing all cereal, cracker, and snack promotional characters to life, then tracking and eating them for the rest of my life.

Pillaging the Midwest

2008-07-18T16:52:00.002-04:00

Really, I have nothing to write, no inspiration if you will, but the embarrassment of my previous bloggasm sitting atop my Facebook notes feed, a one-click portal to the diminishment of my self-esteem, deems some minimal stringing-words-together effort necessary. I've been long plotting to unseat said shitty prior entry from atop the Facebook notes feed throne, but I have an adversarial relationship with authority, especially when that authority is me. I punched myself in the head while running a few days ago, about two inches behind my temple, connecting with more ferocity than usual -- usual being occasional explosions in which I pound my stomach with alternating fists as my runner's arms pump, determined to beat out demon cramps. This recent cranial assault, however, left me momentarily stunned and still, days later, leaves me a timid shampooer. Yeah, that's right: fuck authority.

My purest contempt, however, is reserved for rapists, pedophiles, grease-sweating obeasts, and, especially, teenagers at movies who not only laugh and talk at inappropriate times and volumes, but also find such great humor in their solitary laughter that their snickers crescendo into manic, movie-blotting cackling. Always, at this point, my skull begins to bend and bulge as bold black words ricochet inside, impacting bone with meteoric force: KILL STAB, and if I haven't had any movie snacks, if the theater doesn't offer Sour Patch Kids Watermelon candies, DEVOUR. At that moment, usually, pitch black plumes from my irises, a pooling ink-spill of hatred slowly smothering the whites of my eyes. I imagine, if only I were skilled with knives, a blink-quick pivot in my seat and an imperceptible flick of my wrist could restore order to my sanctuary, leaving nothing more than a little extra work for the post-movie cleanup crew.

They say each person can make a difference. Overpopulation is a serious concern. What are you doing? Why isn't the US exporting it's masses of fatties (say, any non-professional athlete 300lbs plus) overseas, to third world nations ravaged by starvation? Third-world promotions should laud "The other other white meat," posters and commercials depicting fearful fatties waddling from hordes of smiling, starving refugees, knives and forks in hand. Can you imagine how delicious a greasy American elephant would look to a herd of starving Africans used to rice and dirt pies for sustenance? Corpses could be flensed, fatty oils used for lighting lamps, flavoring pinto beans and collards, viable green solutions. Skeletal sets are the poor child's Legos; in more tribal areas, weapons.

Back home, because all of the world will be well-fed long before the US can donate its stable of slobs, anyone who crosses the 275lb plateau should be required to report to bike camps, tens of millions of square feet of warehouses and barracks scattered about the nation, millions of stationary bikes hooked up to the power grids, reducing our reliance on oil and polluting, non-renewable resources.

As for renewing resources, I'm trying to do my part. My brother's report from a blackout I endured weeks ago informs I met a girl, wooed her for hours, then walked her home from the bars; at her doorstep she slurred, "I can't get pregnant tonight," at which point I entered her number into my phone and named her some combination of letters and symbols. Seeing as how her entire existence is a meaningless phone entry and a physical reconstruction via my imagination, I'm guessing it was Heidi Klum, and she probably said her name in German, which lost meaning in my choppy ear-brain beer canal.

When immaturity and business collide

2008-05-21T11:47:00.003-04:00

This, apparently, is a business "value proposition" I authored sometime in the last year, a work project gone awry.

Fat butts and cheddar sticks: I have herpes, and I’d like to share. Sometimes I think about the exquisite combination of celery and ranch, and how it feels when I pour it down my pants, attracting ants, whose bites inspire rants, per chance, do you have any lotion, to help soothe the commotion, whistling in loco-motion, like I’m tipsy on the potent potion, I’m aghast at the notion! sXe

Value Proposition: Give me all your $$$ and I won’t set off the bomb.

Sincerely,

PAY**** logistic(al nightmare) inc.

Barometer of perversion: search queries that found me.

2008-04-06T22:54:00.001-04:00

Third world successess

2008-04-06T04:10:00.003-04:00

War-torn third world nations have death halfway right. Sure, mass graves are bad. But burial without boxes is a progressive step. Obviously I can't support this with research, because I don't do research, but I imagine an astonishing number of resources are wasted on the manufacture and shipment of coffins and accessories for the institution of death. That's my green effort for the day...

Babies, storks, and abortion forks.

2008-04-06T03:22:00.005-04:00

Because I want to make an impact on a cause I support and have my name reverberate through history, enshrouded in controversy, I will lend my limited ingenuity to the pro-choice path, inventing an invaluable abortion aid, which, despite bearing no resemblance to any sort of dinner utensil, nor sharing any confusable usage, I shall name the Abortion Fork. To enrage the Bible Belt and people with consciences, my late-night television infomercials will feature nothing but babies propped around my soon-to-be-ubiquitous abortion apparatus, with me doing voiceovers. For effect, the babies will probably all be kidnapped. I will also bedizen them in stereotypical goth or death metal regalia, to further appall, and for personal entertainment.

Also, to suggest the truly sinister, the babies promoting my Abortion Fork, situated around said baby snuffer, will all be sitting within empty aluminum pie tins. The more I think about this infomercial, the less and less I think I'll even feature my product. If only I had the means to quit my job and do nothing but write and perform infomercials for imaginary products, I might find some semblance of happiness.

Sadly -- mostly for others and their families -- the only happiness I get derives from positioning large obstacles and, especially, large, wooden ramps on the interstate in the middle of the night. I like to sit on the road's shoulder and experience the surprise each driver must feel when he suddenly finds himself launching from a 6-foot tall ramp, on a heavily trafficked interstate beneath the heavy black of midnight, at 75mph, how sincere that, "Oh. SHIT." must be. Because authentic surprise is such a difficult treat to replicate, I know that, somewhere, deep down, each lucky driver appreciates my prank.

When I'm particularly sour, I like to place a ramp a number of yards in front of an overpass. The symphony of contorting steel and combusting substances ranks high on the list of simple, unexpected pleasures. And, especially given the current economical climate, a cheap pleasure too!

Landmines, too, could be a blast, especially dotting sports fields scheduled to host major athletic competitions, but those pranks are a little harder to disguise with today's around the clock lawn pampering.

Lyrical analysis: "from da back"

2008-01-29T23:56:00.000-05:00

Three 6er DJ Paul describes a young woman exiting the club:

"Barely able to stand up,
Barely able to fall down."

DJ Paul suggests the young woman is levitating.

Definitely a good enough reason for me. That's the kinda shit worth writing a song about.

Revenge of the Meatball

2008-01-23T14:44:00.000-05:00

My boy Craig, who recently sported a meatball in his underarm -- an outwardly swelling marinara-dripping mound of beefy-looking infection, an anthill of filth rising above the epidermis -- might be dying. Medical logic leaves little doubt that the meatball, upset that Craig reacted to its presence with shame instead of pride, receded from view and crept toward Craig's neck-region, and is now causing all Craig's health problems.

My sickly colleague had several recent doctor appointments, one requiring a series of ultrasounds to check his thyroids. Scanning one thyroid lobe went quickly and smoothly, but the analysis of the other took considerably longer, hopefully indicative of nothing worse than goiter -- a word that sounds more disgusting than cancer, but funnier and less serious too.

Entirely unaware of the versatility of ultrasounds, the confused and downtrodden Craig wondered aloud, "I hope I don't have a baby in my neck." The nurse consoled him with a Dum-dum pop wrapped in question marks; the excitement of uncovering the mystery flavor brought a temporary smile to Craig's face.

At the end of the procedure, Craig asked the ultrasound administrator if she could offer any insight into the results. She replied, "No, we have to let the doctor give any diagnosis." After a pause, she continued, "But I can tell you this: you don't have a damn baby in your neck." She mentioned nothing about meatballs, however.

Later, when Craig shuffled back into the office, he expressed a new concern based upon additional test results indicating blood imbalances: diabetes. I immediately joined my left thumb and index fingers into a circle, and began simulating sex by vigorously inserting and pulling out my firmly pointed right index finger. Craig, composing himself after a bout of hyena-like laughter, insisted, "I don't think that's how you get it." My wiener into vagina finger gesturing slowed. "Diabetes isn't an STD," he continued, crushing my intuition that incest had spread this particular misfortune through his family, finally to him.

Icing my teeter

2008-01-21T16:22:00.000-05:00

Have you ever contemplated barreling through the sliding doors of your local Harris Teeter -- well, not so much "barreling through" as timing your aggressive walk so you don't disintegrate your nose against the unforgiving glass -- on an old fashioned cookie heist? I hadn't either, but now I'm seriously considering the consequences of bagging up an entire display of the sugar cookie tranquilizers grocery stores provide shopping parents to stuff their squealers' mouths. If a confrontation with patrons' faces scrunched in disbelief and disgust is the worst I'd suffer, then I'll even pay for the gallon-capacity Ziploc bags.

Now, what kind of reprobate steals free cookies intended for children? The kind of villain who is inspired by buffet-raiding geriatrics: grandma's who can't eat more than three M&Ms emptying three baskets of complimentary rolls, all the while insisting they want that purse -- which could be mistaken for a suitcase -- perched in their lap. The kind of scum who treats babies as booty: moving from city to city, advertising his services as a qualified midwife, snipping umbilical cords then sprinting away, swiping newborns from supine, strength-sapped mothers for black market trade, "rare leather" merchandise, and taxidermy.

Moreover, the kind of bastard who has a container of heavenly Betty Crocker Rainbow Chip frosting aging in his fridge. Frosting is one of those essential elements I'll never be caught without, and the candy-chip studded Rainbow flavor is my decadent favorite. For breakfast, shredded wheat with a generous dollop of icing. For lunch, graham crackers sandwiches oozing icing out the sides, needle-thin strings of white goo squeezing through the tiny pores that dot each cracker's face. For snack, a tablespoon, raw. For dinner, warm rolls saturated with melted, multicolored bliss. For dessert, a perfectly subtle scone smothered with pure sugar paste. On vacation, I substitute frosting for sunblock, then do handstands on the beach so I can play mouth-catch with the melting mess when it slides down and drips off my body. Sometimes I'll even use Rainbow Chip for shaving cream, licking the razor clean after each stroke.

But there's nothing like a plain sugar cookie to emphasize the sublime tastes of the rainbow, and nothing scarier than a full-grown demon wielding the arrested, Betty Crocker-crazed taste buds of a kindergartner.

Keep on truckin'

2008-01-10T08:53:00.000-05:00

My coworkers and I have recently begun compiling the most absurd workplace quotes to fly from our motor-mouths. Our days pass chatting up customers, bitching at carriers, and making memories for all. In the fast-paced world of transportation, we find ourselves speaking first, questioning ourselves later.

Yesterday, one of my team members informed me via email, “I have this awesome like red throbbing fucking golf ball size bump under my arm, not really sure what it is, thinking it’s a spider bite but I have no clue. If I die you guys can feel free pillage my cubicle.” Having friends in the medical field, I felt if appropriate to diagnose his soon to be oozing ailment.

“Craig,” I began, “based on your bodily proportions and affinity for Italian cuisine, I surmise a meatball has become lodged in your armpit. Maybe it’s even sprouting.”

“Well, that’s the perfect growing condition for a meatball,” he blurted.

“Yes, thank you, Craig. I was until now unacquainted with proper meatball growing conditions.”

I gauged his reaction and reached toward his shoulder. “It’s OK,” I said in my best consolatory voice, careful not to lick my lips too obviously as I tried to peer into his short sleeve, past the pit-stains of marinara.

Unfortunately, the real doctor’s diagnosis defused my dreams.

Another moment a colleague preserved for posterity: “C’mon, I’m a classy guy. I only piss on someone if they really deserve it.” Guessing the speaker shouldn’t be too difficult.

Last week I was being grilled by a carrier executive about a recurrent wet trailer problem. To clarify, the carrier is hauling dry, wooden freight; thus, the empty trailers (to load) must be dry to avoid damaging and warping the shipped product. Inexplicably and perplexingly for the carrier and shipper, one particular carrier’s trailers keep turning up soaking wet, and these aren’t trailers that are scheduled to have been cleaned, or that have been hauling wet freight.

As my amusement built through the conversation discussing such, listening to the carrier scurry about, testing the feasibility of various excuses, I interjected a scenario of my own: “And maybe there’s a bandit on the loose, targeting only [insert carrier name]’s trailers with late-night water soakings.” The quote itself isn’t astounding, but I heard a collective gasp then laughter behind me.

Working for a logistics/freight brokerage, my company tenders physical load sheets to carriers to confirm and document the agreement, and to provide hardcopy information – times, addresses, and such. Working one specific account, my pre-promotion days were spent “building” loads in the company computer system; each and every repetition, ten to fifteen times daily, I entered the commodity “cabinets.” The promotion providing a pinch of leeway to joke with the carriers supporting the company’s financial existence, I decided to risk a lecture.

Every once in a while you add a new carrier to the mix, to replace an old carrier or to compensate for increases in volume leaving a facility. In one such instance, soon after adding a national carrier, I tendered over a load of “melted chocolate.” The subordinate who received the load was understandably aghast – “They’re going to load 40,000 pounds of candy-goo onto our pristine trailer?” – and summarily referred the mess to her boss. He called me immediately, and, lucking out, we were both breathless with laughter within a minute. The ongoing joke with that company and dispatcher has been chocolate related: chocolate covered cabinets; chocolate covered people; chocolate covered pets. But every carrier now and again deserves a dose of the peculiar. One truck was full of hairnets and lunchladies; another, beetles and cottage cheese; spoiled milk; rotten fruit; the black plague; omelets; dead rats and porridge; military secrets; corpses; severed limbs. The possibilities and combinations are endless (and have grown increasingly gruesome). Commodity fabrication is proof that the smallest pleasures possess the power to transform and enliven even the brutally mundane.

The Scientific Process

2008-01-05T10:53:00.000-05:00

Not that we're living monastic lives, but most guys intercourse-quotients are underwhelming. Luckily, we're redeemed by hypothesis and theory of the truly unsexed: the little lab-coated, bespectacled behemoths of math and science. Proposed by minds far greater than ours, by channeling energy most men use for gawking and trying to put their penis in places it doesn't belong, lab-dwelling hermits have unwittingly pacified the guys who made them seek refuge from society's glare in the first place: every drooling playground jock and bully, all grown up.

Even if the earthbound only make love to shampoo bottles and Krispy Kremes, in (hypothetical) infinite alternate parallel dimensions other scenarios unfold. In one alternate reality you're an oversexed celebrity; in another a wizard with a penchant for compulsion; elsewhere, a coroner. Hell, you could just be a desperate Joe with the cash for corner cooch. Whatever. Cosmic balance dictates somewhere you could be less of a loser than you are here. Rejoice. It's far fetched, but so are those fantasies involving the bartendress.

Elaborate, perfect fantasies that they are, growing grander by the glass, they never play out in practice like they do in mind. For the few who muster courage to accost beauties across the bar, they usually find their heart-melting words deteriorate into a mangled mash-up of stutters and, when they begin to panic, exclamations from the id. "Hey, I, um --." Confidence fading. Quickly. Take to muttering and looking in an opposite direction, praying someone calls your name to remove you from this embodiment of awkwardness. Muttering under the breath, "Goddamnit. Fuck." Turning back to the object of your fantasies and mumbling something that brings a dumbfounded, cocked-head stare. You start to shake when you realize you might've just spilled the beans of intention, instead of disguising those plans behind a wall of cool and tact and paid-for beverages. "A beer for a tittyfuck?"

Looks like another night living through other dimensions.

"Just enjoy every day he doesn't have stroke."

2008-01-04T16:47:00.000-05:00

After suffering a hardly debilitating depression for most of the past few weeks -- which is just to say I was tired and angry for an inordinate amount of time, forced to constantly consciously restrain myself from punching the most unforgiving of telephone poles and stud-backed walls -- the stockpile of treats I've amassed and stuffed into every nook and cranny of my freezer and cupboards has sweetened my outlook. Hording five tubs of ice cream and half a fruitcake, bags of cookies, mammoth chunks of ice cream cake and popcorn cake, a dimebag-sized stash of peanut brittle, dulce de leche straight from Brazil, bags of caramel- and extra-decadent, diabetes-inducing chocolate-covered caramel corn, plus enough leftover Halloween candy to fill an entire kindergarten class' mouths with cavities, I'm as close as I ever imagined possible to sugar satiation. For all that foodie euphoria, the real highlight is the days-in-the-making pineapple-coconut cake my aunt prepared for my birthday. I shared three measly slices of the pristine, 3-layer monster with my family then feasted nightly for nearly two weeks, licking every stray coconut flake and smear of icing from my plate each night. (Yes, I'm a greedy beast when it comes to food, quick to snatch your leftovers and quicker to hide mine when you're coming around.) This king of cakes was flavorfully flawless, impeccably presented, and it joins my grandma's strawberry pie and mom's enchiladas on my short list of all-time greatest eats.

To avoid growing a belly with the dimpled consistency of cottage cheese, I've upped the weekly running mileage to 35-40. That's to counter the regular holiday gorging, plus my dessert habit -- an excess dawdling in the range of 1000-1500 extra calories and another artery clogged daily. I eat my way toward a heart attack that will surprise everyone who's witnessed the Physical Patrick but is unacquainted with the Scourge-of-Leftovers hidden behind my sub 34-inch waist. I mock my family history of high blood pressure.

New Year's brought special dining delight coupled with a family reunion and great news in the sporting world. Seeing northern dwelling aunts, uncles, and cousins for the first time in years was a treat, and my grillmaster uncle deserves a restaurant or Food Network show. We arrived in Michigan to a feast of ribs and chicken hunks that might have been hacked from a T-Rex. Mixing in beer and cocktails, plus Planet Earth in HD, I was ready to quit my job and start living out of the bag I'd packed. New Year's Eve proved better, an improvement as impossible as being stranded on an island with Heidi Klum, and then having Jessica Alba land during a skydive gone awry. [What an option to have: two beautiful women, one for fantasy, one for dinner.] After trays-worth of Zagat-worthy hors d'oeuvres dwindled to crumbs, the first main course sparked a feeding frenzy: a bucket o' shrimp the size of horseshoes and scallops the size of my fist, grilled and seasoned and swimming in a delicious marinade. We picked our bloated, euphoric bodies from the oily kitchen floor for the grilled sequel: racks of lamb dripping with bloody perfection, and Alaskan crab legs from crabs that must have escaped some radioactive experiment gone haywire. You couldn't pay me enough to hunt these crabs, whose arms are as long and meatier than mine, and whose claws could decapitate in a single clench. Conspiracy theory suggests these crabby assassins might be part of some brilliant, secret Alaskan force: genetically engineered covert killers, dinner delicacies upon death. I woke up the next day to a foot of fresh snow, the Red Wings compiling the NHL's best-ever first half of a season, and the Michigan offense finally fulfilling its potential in Lloyd Carr's last hurrah, a shootout victory in balmy Orlando over heavily favored Florida.

When I wasn't pretending to be a human fridge, cold and testing my belly's capacity, I was hanging out with my ailing grandparents and/or fantasizing. There's something about nursing homes that makes every young, wrinkle-rubbing, grandma-bathing caretaker automatically desirable. One of my grandparents' caretakers, a gorgeous 20-something named Lindsey, was on the receiving end of some provocative eye-play on my part, which is to say I stared at her and flicked my tongue like an electrocuted lizard. She smiled or grimaced, it was hard to tell because my unflinching gaze had deteriorated into a blurry mess, with the saliva flying off the end of my flitting tongue spattering across my cornea. But when she shook hands as my family exited, she grasped mine alone with two. Either she was conveying her instant, animal attraction, or she was comforting me, as any good caretaker would, for my apparently diminished mental aptitude.

I leave you with words my beloved, batty, hypochondriac granny used to put my father's health in perspective and make me lose my balance laughing: "Just enjoy every day that he doesn't have a stroke."

Geekburger: global domination, slowly.

2007-05-26T18:47:00.001-04:00

An interesting Alexa Web Ranking tidbit pertaining to the rad music webzine I write for:

Not worth an ounce

2007-05-12T09:59:00.000-04:00

The best recent news story you've probably not heard concerns a Dearborn, MI policeman allowed to resign from the force after being caught stealing and consuming marijuana seized during street busts. A controversy has arisen because the Dearborn police department has declined to press criminal charges against its former employee¹ -- likely because the accused, Edward Sanchez, is plenty adept at ruining his own reputation.

On April 21, 2006, Mr. Sanchez and his wife baked a batch of potent pot brownies, using approximately 1/4 ounce of marijuana. Then they sat down to do what all good Michiganders do during the month of April, watch playoff hockey. A few minutes passed. And then they got high. Really high. So high that Mr. Sanchez committed the cardinal sin of moron druggies -- calling 911 to request emergency assistance for a drug that is factually non-lethal. And here transpires one of the most hilarious and dumbfounding distress calls ever made publicly available:

1) Allow me to introduce myself.

Now, to review. Note the dispatcher's incredulous tone after Mr. Sanchez announces he's having an overdose on weed, the skeptical elongation of someone accustomed to prank calls, "Ooooohh-kaaaaay." She tactfully follows with, "How old are you?" expecting an answer like 12 or 14. To her certain surprise, she gets "29, uhh, 28," but not followed by, "And certifiably retarded," or "Haha, and I just dropped 12 hits of acid. Mom?"

2) Don't police have to take drug education?

One of the greatest lines ever uttered, in or out of context, the fearfully idiotic, voice-quivering sincerity of, "We made brownies, and I think we're dead, I really do." (Classic line #1.)

I'm imagining a nightmarish world of giant baked goods lumbering around with violent intentions and harsh, booming voices, something like Candyland gone to hell.

3) So, yeah, dumbass, that's like a few good blunts worth.

How stoned are you?
a) Someone lying on the floor? Check.
b) "Time is going by really, really, really, really slow." CHECK! (Classic line #2.)
c) Calling for rescue? CHECKMATE!

It's worth mentioning Mr. Sanchez's wife, Stacy, is likely addicted to pills, as he later reveals she consumes approximately 5 Vicodin daily. Shallow breathing, anyone?

4) WHAT!#I&???? The point.

"What's the score in the Red Wings game?" (The classic line!)

(Stunned Silence.)

Unbelievable. When I first heard this story, there was no mention of the the pot cop asking for the Red Wings score. Imagine how much better that made it for me. This guy's a fellow Wings fan, how can I skewer him?

There it is. Mr. Sanchez got so high he could no longer interpret the score of the Wings-Oilers playoff game on his TV. Needless to say, he was too high to remember any telephone number longer than 3 digits. So he called and convinced the emergency dispatcher he was legitimately endangered so she'd be obligated to keep him on the phone and answer his questions. Even Red Wings fans so high they can't read or understand simple numbers will manage to get score updates. That's dedication. GO WINGS!

Making momma proud

2007-05-11T23:55:00.000-04:00

Search queries that lead you here:

The D in Detroit

2007-05-11T22:20:00.000-04:00

A predictably cutesy reference to Detroit's indomitable defense during the third period of tonight's Wings-Ducks NHL Western Conference Finals game 1 match up has me celebrating victory by listening to the same titled song by The Anniversary. And I'm reminded why The Anniversary are a band nobody listens to without prodding. For exactly the same reason nobody voluntarily chooses plain yogurt and a candle as a substitute for birthday cake, and Halloween pranksters eschew cheap scares -- "When they walk by, you're gonna jump out from here and yell, 'BOO'" -- for razor blades and ritual sacrifice. Wait, am I mushing yogurt in my hands, or is somebody playing The goddamn Anniversary again?

But how about some wall punching, stab-yourself-in-the-chest-and-smash-your-head-through-the-TV-just-'cause metal? Primed by Pantera's "Fucking Hostile," I'm ready to write. There's venom flowing from these agitated fingers. A couple of cosmetic alterations (aka editing) later, cue the earthquaking breakdown 3 minutes into "This Love." Talk about perfect timing.

From the satanic shenanigans and murderous mayhem pandemic in the Norwegian black metal scene, to the onstage shooting death of legendary shredder Dimebag Darrell, metal has forever been steeped in violence transcending imagery. But anybody who's not dead or imprisoned for murder isn't a metal fan.

Follow this simple logic. Pits at hardcore shows are intense, to be sure, full of meatheads and bandanna-bearing straight-edgers bashing each other silly with whirling bootkicks to the face and windmill punches pounding paths through flesh and bone. But when somebody gets knocked down, 9 times out of 10 they're immediately surrounded and helped to their feet, demolishing any tough-cred the mass of dancers has accrued. And bands promote citizenship, reminding fans to "respect each other" and "look out for everyone in the pit."

But metal is all about about destruction, death, torture, and pain. Hellraiser would tremble if he lived inside your typical metal song. Extreme metal bands -- the only true metal, because how badass can you be settling for half-assed? -- are known for news worthy the evil seal of approval: making jewelry from a bandmate's suicide-shattered skull fragments and dinner from his brain, and photographing the corpse for posterity (Mayhem); murder (umm...Mayhem and Burzum); not settling for encouraging church burnings, but actively engaging (Burzum again). How about the tortured, unintelligible fonts and gore-spattered cover art common across the industry? Lest we ignore lyrics and song titles? Hide (or eat) the children and scan the catalogs of bands like Aborted, XXX Maniak, and Cryptopsy.

Now, doesn't it seem sensible that metal fans at shows would equip themselves with hammers and knives and chainsaws and lawnmowers and other instruments of that ilk, anything for stabbing and bludgeoning and maiming and severing, and then have at it? The pit would be a churning mass of mortality -- not a moshpit, mind you, but a sloshpit of blood, organs, and limbs. Have you listened to Aborted or Cryptopsy? And you weren't compelled to shove your face against the stove top and your fist in the garbage disposal? Now, imagine the live show -- a hardcore pit on PCP and poison -- with instruments of death, and a crowd of the living dead -- willing, able, and lusting for honorable decapitation.

All that reading for such a simple moral. I love metal, but I'm not a real metal fan. Only pussies survive the show.

[Not quite sure how celebrating the Wings step closer to the cup morphed into this...]

Still the same P

2007-03-07T21:10:00.000-05:00

Current Music: The Game - Doctor's Advocate; Smoke Or Fire - This Sinking Ship; Comeback Kid - Broadcasting

The unthinkable, twice in one night; a clean shave, and a bit'uh bloggin'. My life: I'm still working, a punk rock kid in a button-down disguise, but lookin' fly with nice ties. But, with the gettin'-to-the-point-of-scraggly hair and the omnipresent 4-day stubble, I'm still quietly fighting the establishment, or so I tell myself.

Living in Charlotte -- in unofficial student housing -- has its perks. The daily commute to Huntersville, with each leg a fight to stay awake, I could do without; yet at the apartment I'm back in College sans homework. And, because my bedroom window overlooks the apartment complex pool, the improving weather ensures I'll be afforded lazy weekend wakeups to bountiful bikinied boner-doners. Imagine me fishin' out the window, trying to hook something on my birthworm.

So fuck Folgers, 'cause that warm weather treat'll be the only good thing about waking up. OK, that and each euphoric bite from the monstous bowl of cereal, Pop-Tarts toasted or frozen, and a banana, maybe frozen too. And, if you're paranoid like me, the reassurance nobody smashed your face in while you slept.

Otherwise, waking up and the next 2-hours are as bad as it gets. That's my no-talking-or-you'll-catch-the-murderous-stare-of-a-man-plotting-your-demise-time. And Folgers wants to talk about, "The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup." Maybe, yeah, if we're talking a boiling cup to scald and scar the motherfucker who interrupted my sleep. Otherwise, can Folgers be serious? Here are some analogous assertions (best sung to the same cheery Folgers jingle):

a) The best part of getting hit by a car is the free ride through the air
b) The best part of getting shot in the stomach is a forced diet forever
c) Or, for those young coochie-crawlers who don't protect their birthworm, The best part of teenage pregnancy is the lifelong bragging rights!.

Sure, this diatribe has been simmering since that first day I slept in, many years ago. You'll never catch me in a coffee shop. Maybe if I was a coffee sipper, I'd be able to focus and write in linear fashion. Boring. Leave me unpredictable and snoring. Yep, I recorded a 1-minute rap -- it's what you'd expect.

Fun with Queries, Part 3 -- Reflections of Me

2006-12-16T13:11:00.000-05:00

If search queries that lead web-browsers into my blog are a representation of my blog's content, and if the content I author and/or post represents me, then the obvious conclusion is that I'm weird, if not a pervert. But its a relief (to me, though a horror to the rest of the world) that many web-surfers make my perversities tame in contrast. Enjoy these wonderful recent additions to the annals of strange and depraved e-exploration:

kashi cereal makes you feel drugged
Succulent Sypholis

I guess somebody missed the memo: succulence and disease are, ummm, absolutely mutually exclusive.

You Can't Really Help But Laugh

2006-12-16T12:03:00.000-05:00

Click the link to see Pitchfork's Top-25 Worst Album Covers of 2006. It's good for some quippy commentary and ridiculous cover art.

John Latting Could Eat My Baby

2006-11-23T23:02:00.000-05:00

READ IT: A fascinating story from the NY Times about the rarest of people: the alternately pleasured and tortured few for whom trigger-words "flood their mouths" with distinct and varied tastes.

Reflections (from my licked-clean plate)

Grandma's on Thanksgiving (just elevated in food-addicted significance over her other unfailingly perfect/Godly culinary celebrations) was, and always is, my Heaven. Grandma's strawberry pie was, per usual, the absolute goddamn best food -- that's right, not just dessert, food -- in existence. But given my eating reform, instituted after last year's (8.5 lb) Thanksgiving gorging left me pained and plugged for, quite literally, days, I had to restrain myself from eating more than one heaping helping á la mode. Settling for seven pounds gained seemed the right call tonight, as I look back a year with mixed memories upon the night that taught me portion control.

On a related note, I'll have to get over to Cut's house soon to dig into the dessert his mom has renamed, for my obsession, Patrick's Pleasure Dome. Strange, right? But you don't have a dessert named after you. And outside the family? You'll say it's not fair, and you're right. Hovering around 160 lbs., I'm a legendary eater.

Teenage Pregnancy

I owe J-Lat a shoutout, 'cause I appreciate that he'll risk his reputation by publicly announcing he reads what I write -- and he likes it! Plus, he's just my boy. And, thinking about last Thanksgiving when I forced over 8 lbs. into my belly, I realized that I ate the equivalent of an average baby. If I can eat a baby, John could eat my baby. Thus, you'll see the logic in this post's title.

Essential Cinema

Everyone old enough to manipulate their fingers into metal horns should already have seen Christopher Guest's classic Rock-mockumentary, This Is Spinal Tap, but somehow it's still slept-on. Better than his other acclaimed comedies, Waiting for Guffman, A Mighty Wind, and Best in Show, Spinal Tap has long had a spot reserved on my All-Time Top 10.

Your Late November, All of December Assignment: Rent, buy, download or steal This Is Spinal Tap this month.

Watch it, and you too shall be privy to common and hilarious references to the film, and that nonsense about turning things "up to 11" will make sense.

Ian: "They're not going to release the album because they have decided that the cover is sexist."
Nigel: "Well, so what, What's wrong with being sexy? I mean, there's nothing wrong with..."
Ian: "Sex-ist!"
David: "Sex-ist!"

so mistakes aren't repeated

2006-10-25T11:46:00.000-04:00

Don't waste your time or money watching Troy, the nearly unwatchable homage to Brad Pitt's oiled body. I expected that it might be bad, and it proved significantly worse -- thankfully, I rented it from the public library, free of charge. Troy's super-sappy, cheesy, and worse, boring. There's plenty of fighting, but the characters are cardboard and the dialogue is mundane. The only cool part, and the only lasting image, is when a hurled spear impales a guy's face, leaving a gaping cavity as it explodes out the back of his skull. I angrily fast forwarded through much of the second half of the movie, refusing to turn it off because I'd already wasted an hour-and-a-half on the never ending epic of bland. If I turned it off, then I was a quitter, and god-forsaken Troy would've bested me.

lurkin' about, away from home

2006-10-23T14:21:00.000-04:00

I haven't stopped writing, nor have I forgotten about The Dumpster, but writing news and record reviews for Geekburger.com is consuming all my writing energies right now -- and that's my choice, because I'm enjoying it. I'll be back here at some point, though I'm entirely unable to predict how far off or soon that might be.

Any moments I've not been otherwise busy, which are actually more than not, have been dedicated to television shows (Dexter, The Wire, and Weeds) and my two-week, 4-movies-out-at-a-time Netflix free trial (which I've dedicated to a few movies, but mostly The Wire's first two seasons).

Simply put, I'm either listening to music and writing reviews, working my 17 hours-a-week at a wine bar, running so I'm not 100% sedentary, or sitting in front of the television for at least 6 hours-a-day. That's it. That's my life, minus the sleeping, eating, and shitting.

Seriously, I kinda love being barely employed.

mmm, devilish. call me aroused.

2006-10-02T00:32:00.000-04:00

I just finished watching the Showtime debut of the new series Dexter.

A mini review: The premium broadcasting spectrum has been leveled. Dexter confirms that groundbreaking, mesmerizing television is Showtime's new standard, and proves the network deserves HBO-esque acclaim (and expectations) for its original programming. The provocative series, a delightfully black-humored crime drama about a forensic scientist closet serial killer, will disgust, disturb, and offend many. And that's a shame because conservative morals, sensitivity on steroids, will likely afford ratings that'll kill this series like underappreciated gems Huff and Arrested Development. If only Dexter could address his real life detractors, the kinda-funny-but-kinda-pathetic close-minded critics who go beyond criticizing content to directly condemning fans (scroll down to the bottom of the MetaCritic reviews). And, really, ultimately, just not gettin' it.

It's not only the rappers

2006-09-28T01:32:00.001-04:00

What I knew about Texas:

It's a state where drippin' candy paint is standard lingo. The state where a fat white dude with an "ice tray" in his mouth blew a relatively contained phenomenon into the '05/06 Grill Rush. The state with the city with more rappers per sq/mi than anywhere else in the world. The fanatical state that honors football heroes -- in this case Texas Longhorns -- with official "State Mammal" status. The state, infamous for tough justice and liberally bestowed capital punishment, that failed to reward the biggest, baddest, dumbest criminal of all -- goddamnit!

It's time to amend the record of Texas culture, to fit codeine drank in beside candy paint.

Houston's booming rap scene (with more than a lil' help from Tennekey's Three 6 Mafia) has helped popularize the late DJ Screw's favorite pastime: sippin' sizzurp. If you've listened to the radio in the last year, you'd know drankin' lean's as normal a part of Texas life as passin' the pigskin. If someone's from Texas, they're probably addicted, simple as that. And just like immigrants that send support back home, rich and famous Texans likewise lend their good fortune to supporting those in need.

If you've ever tried the shit -- and melted off into Euphoric (check the fine print, that's an actual motherfuckin' side effect) worthlessness -- you'll understand why tasting Texans can't go back -- perhaps explaining why some powerful Texans seem like they've no idea what the fuck's goin' on, like, ever (and I'm not just talkin' about Bush. But mean, c'mon, sleepin' on Reggie?). Here's to Texas for being a national role model, for not discriminating against drippin', whether candy paint or drool.

Street Fighter/UFC vs. Racing

2006-09-25T21:39:00.000-04:00

This story is almost enough to convince me to watch racing:

"A wild fight broke out during a stock-car race in which a driver took a running leap and jumped with both feet through the plastic windshield of another car."

Woohoo! Check out the video below, and wait for the great anchor reactions at the end of the clip.

fun with queries

2006-09-22T00:35:00.000-04:00

A coupl'a recent searches that found my page caught my eye:

camp counselor behavioral problems
Depending on interpretation, considering my employment history, this is a perfect hit. But probably not what the searcher wanted to find.

what does chillin like the scarecrow lookin for some brain mean?
The parents of some Wizard Of Oz lovin' young'n, chaperones who overlooked Weezy's billing on the Chris Brown-Neyo kiddie-lovefest, have a bit'a 'splainin' to do. The elementary clue: Does anyone of double-digit age attempt conversation with Google?

Promoting literacy (through Steve Smith and good TV)

2006-09-21T01:21:00.000-04:00

Since I've got next to nothing I have to do these days -- besides deflating my parents' hopes and devaluing a Davidson education, which I can't help but doing -- I've engaged myself in all that is fulfilling unproductive. Whether futilely trying to solve the riddle of my never-shrinking page-long list of movies to see, dealing with my new addiction to premium TV, rationalizing the Panthers' torturous start, learning to cook desserts to forever pleasure my inner-fat-kid, or reading e-zines like there's no tomorrow after 2012, I'm loving the life of the submitting-three-to-four-resumes-online-per-day- pretending-to-be-unconcerned-scaring-the-shit-out-of-ma-and-pa- future-fast-food-employee-if-he's-lucky-first-class-loser. Well, loving all except the Panthers' affront to expectations, but at least Michigan rediscovered how to win the big (road) game, kicking in Notre Dame's door and stomping their teeth in, the Henne-Manningham connection harkening vintage Maize and Blue.

Anyway, if you were patient enough to digest that obnoxiously hyphenated babbleblob -- time in which a heaping helping of any Kashi cereal/laxative would see results (if you've got sooo much time, read the previous post for an explanation) -- and you still don't mind me abusing my power as a truly insignificant blogger, or mixing metaphors, then like a long-severed artery I'll stop gushing and arrive at my main point, just a bit too late.

Here's some reading worth checking out (but you'll have to read a paragraph just to get to the link):

I'll never doubt Steve Smith because he's honest. He's real. Sure, he's got a temper and he'll occasionally make decisions on par with OSU attendees (I'm lookin' your way Maurice Clarett and Chris "Whoops, I confused cornerback with quarterback, while returning a motherfuckin' punt" Gamble), but I trust his word. So, by golly, if Steve's reputation is to be sullied, say by kicking an opponent's head or face-obliterating fisticuffs with a teammate, it's gonna be on his own terms, not based on rumor. He deserves every Panthers fan's respect, and not for his otherworldly football contributions alone: (Learn To) Trust in Steve.

Vacations, soccer tournaments, and the AAA symbol for free movie channels helped me fall in love with HBO's The Sopranos years ago, and ever since I've pre-ordered every season's DVD release. Six Feet Under was another show I devoured on disc, but now I can save my money. My dad's decision to pick up a premium cable package was the best he's made in 23 years, 6 months. From mid-May, since graduation, I've built my life around HBO's and Showtime's original programming, even marking the calendar. Movies, I catch when I can. But my show schedule's damn near sacrosanct. HBO (The Sopranos, Big Love, Entourage, The Wire) and Showtime (Huff r.i.p., Brotherhood, Weeds) put network TV to shame. The quality is consistently superb, and the shows are better. Of the shows in season, the nearing-finale Brotherhood is great, but the recently premiering Weeds and The Wire are on another level altogether. Right now, the best shows on TV, pants down -- oops, no, daddy didn't order Cinemax. Popmatters explains why you should be watching The Wire.

Dubious Marketing Strategies

2006-09-19T00:53:00.000-04:00

I love to eat. To eat too much really. I've been known to skip social occasions instead of missing meals. My stomach is either stretched to basketball size, just flattened a bit beneath my skin by the closet fat kid my body knows I am, or my brain ignores when it reaches capacity. Pastries and pies, ice creams and cakes, candies and cobblers, Honey Buns® and Nutty Buddies®, empty calories fill my dreams and fridge. I'm a certified carb receptacle; call it the fAtkins diet. Throw in some red meats and we're talkin' heaven.

So I'm like every food addict with a half-cup's concern about his long-term health. I exercise regularly. I eat forests worth of rainbow-colored salads, mountains of certified organic cereal (topped with Lucky Charms®), and hearty breads by the bag. And I pray my Olympic marathoner's metabolism never slows down. Then I can justify a 1/3-quart of ice cream and/or a 12-pack. Each and every night. I'm not trying to lose weight, I'm just not trying to gain what everyone jealous lettuce-wrap-snakin', portion-sizing motherfucker hopes I will.

Breakfast is my favorite time of the day besides dessert, and gettin' my nut. I go to bed early some nights just so I can get to breakfast quicker. Cereal is my crack; I eat 3-4 boxes a week. I pour piles of hearty, healthy but lightly sweetened whole grains so high the frosty tips shouldn't be a surprise. (Seriously, because as much as pretty bland excites me, a little iced out shredded wheat satisfies that sweet tooth; and about once a year, Tony the Tiger visits the cupboard).

Healthy cereals are an underappreciated market. They may not taste as fantastic as Fruit Loops® or Pops®, but they still satisfy, and not only on the proud-of-what-I'm-eating level. People say Kashi© brand, 100% whole grain products, for instance, taste like cardboard, but the fiber-rich flakes and clusters have never bothered me. In fact, I quite like them, though dining on paper products has been a personal fetish since kindergarten. A tooth-trigger serotonin-shooter kills my discriminatory tastes.

But to enjoy healthy cereals, regular eaters need a readjustment of expectations. Sure, the product textures, tastes, and colors differ from those hawked by talking animals and chocolate loving vampires, and are a little less enticing, but that doesn't necessarily mean worse. Still, most shoppers won't give healthy fare a chance. And in some cases, sub-poor marketing is to blame.

The health market's relatively simple, straightforward cereal lines -- whole wheat flakes, some granolas, and not a whole lot more -- need not adopt wackily likeable talking creatures and LSD-esque explosions of multicolor to sell cereals. But some products have already shot themselves in the mouth. Take, for example, the Kashi Good Friends® cereal line:

A High Fiber Trio of Flakes, Twigs and Granola

For all the good things fiber does for you, it deserves to be loved. So we baked up toasty, whole grain flakes, crispy bran twigs and sweet granola. You get a different crunch in every spoonful, plus nearly 50% of your daily fiber needs per bowl to make falling in love with fiber easy.

AND

A Crunchy Quartet of Flakes, Blossoms, Granola and Raisins

Fiber and taste buds, be friends. Good Friends Cinna-Raisin Crunch® is a delicious high fiber cereal you’ll enjoy waking up to. It’s a quartet of favorites all in one bowl – plump raisins, crunchy fiber blossoms, light and crispy flakes, and a tasty granola, all with a hint of real cinnamon. With 8 grams of fiber per serving, you’ll meet almost one-third of your daily needs.

Not only bland to the point I'm considering slit wrists to add color to my life, I'm baffled. Why would anyone want to buy these cereals? Let's start with the name, Good Friends®. It gives absolutely no indication of what the cereal consists of or might taste like. Customers have to pick up the box and read the description that says in too many words "laxative" to get an idea. Why make a cereal so mysterious when 99% of boxes spell out exactly what they are? Make it simple: Shredded Wheat; Frosted Flakes. For forgetting Americans are lazy fatasses, product identification gets a 0.

Does "Good Friends®" acknowledge the improved, regular relationship eaters will have with their toilet from their very first bowl? Or is the Kashi company appealing to raunchy dudes whose idea of a good fun time is getting together to take dumps? Dear Kashi, that's why Taco Bell was invented. My best guess: the company supposes eating this cereal will bring Kashi-fiends into daily stall-side contact with each other, where they can bond between gusty farts and plump plops.

And the odd box displays? Does the company intend to imply that by eating this cereal, multiracial friendships will be easier than ever to achieve? I don't know how to test that theory, but I guess one thing all cultures have in common is pooping. Anyway, are smiling faces -- too-happy-for-cereal faces, really -- behind a bowl of cereal really supposed to entice me to buy? What their faces say to me: "Hehe, I just pooted!" Or, "I can't believe we're getting paid for this shit. My picture's gonna be posted in groceries forever, because nobody's ever gonna buy this crappy cereal.” The black woman on the Cinna-Raisin Crunch® box seems the only sensible shit-celebrity, her awkward, seemingly faltering smile hinting she may have realized just a moment too late, “My fame’s gonna be synonymous with defecation."

Then again, c'mon, "crispy bran twigs" and "crunchy fiber blossoms?" It takes everything I have not to dance every time I read those words. Eating Good Friends® is a game in itself, filled with delightful surprises: "You get a different crunch in every spoonful." Oh, pleasant bites of excitement. Now I know why the people on the boxes are smiling!

Pumping more iron than blood

2006-09-15T13:24:00.000-04:00

This'll be one of those authentic wandering blog entries, a perfect waste of time.

I have a few album reviews posted on Geekburger.com, where, as I mentioned recently, I'm now a news and reviews staff writer. So far I've reviewed the new Strike Anywhere, Dead FM, and National Razor's Naked Before God and Country. The reviews aren't great, but I'm relatively new to the reviewing thing, so expect them to improve quickly. Or, if you have no faith in my writing, or just me, expect less.

...

Why rational behavior goes the way of the Dodo on Facebook has always befuddled me. The Facebook can be a valuable entity for connecting people, and a source of minor amusement too, but what of the crack-like addiction that compels apparently well-adjusted individuals to reveal desperate social starvation? Click.

Do a glimpsed face and a singular hello justify 'friend' status? Why have 100 people I don't acknowledge in passing unless I'm drunk or being raped in an alley befriended me? Maybe my definition of friends is stricter than most, but immediate name recognition is crucial to me. Every time I accept a new not-really-a-friend request, I'm tempted to mark the "How do you know each other" detail with "We hooked up," something my real friends, male and female alike, appreciate and usually embellish with extra nasty details, and exactly what should make anyone else feel awkward, if not violated. That's my new policy, and I urge you to adopt it as well.

Think about it: A) You might scare, hopefully scare away, a leech, confirming he or she sucks. Then whenever you encounter that person in the future, a little creativity will breed heaps of hilarity. B) You might discover a person, even with their possibly-random-clicking, insatiable-friend-accumulating Facebook addiction, has a sense of humor and is worth getting to know. C) Getting lucky, you might impress a really forward, really easy girl with a misinterpreted come-on.

Crappy 50th

2006-09-07T00:29:00.000-04:00

Actually, on this inanely historical 50th blog post, I'll start with good news. Fulfilling a longtime goal, I've recently signed on as a contributing writer/reviewer at Geekburger.com, an established zine catering especially to music of the punk, hardcore, and metal varieties. Hopefully I won't fuck up too badly, as inexperienced as I am writing serious reviews, but repetition should help me improve rather quickly, I think. I should have a review or two posted shortly, with many more to follow.

The bad news, I'm still hatching get rich quick schemes instead of dealing with reality. Really, I guess I'm comfortable with that. Delusional living provides endless entertainment, with fantasies of gigantic refrigerators, Swiss Family Robinson-esque treehouse-living improved by plumbing and electricity, stables full of exotic women with perfect blond and brunette manes, and having mad cash so cops overlook unfortunate blood stains. That's why drugs are so popular, because the imagination is always far greater if you're not Bill Gates.

When the local pool closes, I'll be out another job, but I'm also starting as a part-time bartender tomorrow, at an upscale joint called the Wine Room. With rich people tips I'll upgrade my whip, and with rich people patrons maybe I'll slip inside the life of a bountiful, botoxed sugar mama. I can be her drink-fixing eye-candy pool-boy tireless sex machine. Wish me fuck luck.

Lastly, fuuuuuuuuck, I really wanna remix Cadillac Don and J-Money's "Peanut Butter & Jelly." The beat is so nice and laid back, it screams "ride me." And with "Chicken Noodle Soup" blowin' up the radio, what better time for a gangsta track 'bout PB&J sandwiches?

"Inside peanut buttuh, outside jelly,
without bread ain't a sandwich 'swhat my mama tell me.
Whole wheat bread with the crust lopped off,
don't like it toasted so my loaf stay soft."

radish broken down = rad ish; as in 'dats that rad ish'

2006-08-29T23:08:00.000-04:00

Parts of this post are recycled from my inactive Livejournal, but bits are fresh. And this shit's long.

Speaking in lists:

Movies worth $traight ca$h on any budget

Little Miss Sunshine - The best and funniest -- to simplify, the most all around enjoyable -- movie I've had the pleasure to view in the last few years. A superbly written, consistently engaging black comedy that promises even abs of steel a workout. My dear ol' mama declared, "It brought me to tears," and I need to see it again to fill in the dialogue I missed every time our theater of 10 erupted.
Slither - I'm a reputed softy for gory horror-comedies, but this is one of the funniest movies I've seen in the past few years.
Snakes On A Plane - Samuel L. Jackson; unapologetic B-movie thriller; C'mon, Snakes on a motherfuckin' Plane. Take it from Curtis, who sacrificed a full two hours time with HIV-ridden Thai prostitutes to see it: "'retarded' is a good word for it, but its also nasty gory style like dead alive."
The World's Fastest Indian - It's a true story, and, No, it doesn't feature European settlers with Pox blankets.
Green Street Hooligans - Elijah Wood channels hobbitry amid British football hooliganism. Hmmm...maybe that's just what I wanted to see.

Music that needs to be heard:

Ignite
Drive-By Truckers
Set Your Goals
Zolof the Rock and Roll Destroyer
Against Me!
TV On The Radio [click image to stream]

Reasons to get TiVo and premium stations, and/or invest in DVD sets:

Weeds
The Sopranos
The Wire
Brotherhood
Arrested Development (R.I.P.)
Entourage
Huff
Big Love

All I want before Christmas:

A full-time job, regular paychecks, a city and a bed far from the Southern comforts I've enjoyed for the last 20 years.
An automobile with power locks and windows, that gets good gas mileage, and has a cd player and iPod input. In a perfect world, it won't look like shit, either, and it might even have manual transmission.
A Michigan Big Ten championship.
A hip-hop deal, lottery success, a girlfriend for longer than 2 weeks, or a boner, all of which will be firsts.
More readers at this site (and more comments, too). As flattering as it is that my friends frequent the Dumpster, I'd like more daily hits to assuage my ego, and prove the (minimal) interest I've generated isn't a total fluke.

Readers, try this: Email The Dumpster's URL to 5 people, and tell each recipient to email it on if they like what they read; or, take advantage of the 'Email Post' option below each entry if you think it might interest and/or titillate another. Those seem like easy grassroots ways to gauge my appeal. (Just don't mention my name).

Exercises in Pretension - The A-Z chronicles:

The Barry Incident (see the With the world as his toilet series for an explanation).

"A big creamy dump!?"
"Enough! Fucker."
"Go home. Immediately."
"Just keep listening. Mayonnaise?"
"NO."
"Oh. Peroxide?"
"Quiet."
"Really, sorry. The underlying value--"
"Wafting excrement?"
"Yes! Zephyred."

ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ
A boy crouched deliriously, eyeing, fingering, grinding his incisors, just knowing little, more not optional; periwinkled questions ruminated steadily, transparent, ubiquitous, very well X-Y zetetics.

Yes, Z demanded dictionary consultation. How does something that seemed so promising in conception prove to be so annoying and pretentious when finally realized? That's the question my parents must be asking.

More or less inexplicable/Less related than 8th cousins:

If my name was Dog/Dawg, I'd make a habit of telling female companions to "fetch my boner," every time wildly gesturing toward my crotch and making obnoxious faces.
I'm convinced seals have a strange evolutionary history, emerging the inconceivable interbred products of cats, dogs, pancakes/dumplings, and slugs.
If you didn't know any better, wouldn't you assume that Larry Bird and Adam Morrison are personalized-jersey-clad fans a 12-pack deep and determined to impress their friends by making the 10 o'clock news or an episode of COPS? It's no secret Sam Cassell is endowed with otherworldly powers, but what gives with the white-trash wonders? How 'bout inspiration, though? Forget five or ten cent deposits, years of practice tossing crumpled cans can pay off in a big way. Poppas don't forget, encouraging razors can bring bad form.
Unless the batteries in your clicker suddenly failed, you've probably never seen TNA (Tits 'N Ass?) wrestling. Lucky you. Fresh from beating up trailer park teenagers in backyard bouts, no doubt, one hefty wrestler has assumed the moniker "Big Bad Booty Daddy" for probably no more than $50 cash and a contract rendering him unable to sue for emotional or psychological damage. The announcers also referred to him as, what sounded like, "Big Papa Lumps." Sadly, after brief online research, I discovered his nickname was "Big Poppa Pump," which is actually less explicable. I have no idea, either.
Ex-Duke stalwart Sheldon Williams, a dominant force at both ends of the court, a favorite player of mine, and a terribly entertaining -- or entertainingly terrible -- interviewer, was pretty well-spoken for the disabilities he obviously had, I think. But, with physical, especially facial features more boogeymanish than anything I could invent, he'll be the horrific creature whose existence I'll use to deter my children's misbehavior, threatening that he'll materialize and inflict gross punishment at the slightest misdeed.
And I've suddenly got a great Halloween mask idea.

Notes from my final semester in College:
As a result of my near-constant classroom state of distraction, daydreaming or "zoning out," I've always enjoyed reviewing my notes for tests. Not because the notes are helpful - which they certainly aren't, rarely reflecting class content or discussions - but because they're filled with doodles of giant-headed, tiny bodied human-esque creatures, foods and families of caped Super-Feces endowed human characteristics, and gibberish and drivel in sentence form. Enjoy these examples, copied verbatim from my Multicultural Education notebook:

"BEST QUOTE EVER: If I thought all European women were stank, uhh...well, I guess that's not very scholarly...have poor hygiene..."
"Would you prefer a...Death Sandwich OR Sandwich Death (akin to 'loafing')?"
[Editor's Explanation: "Loafing" being a kindly but nonetheless deadly assault using packaged loaves of soft breads].
"FALSE HOPE in my pudding..."
"rectal-ramming - the practice of forcing dumbbells and radishes into an unsuspecting victim's anal orifice."

I can hear my parents crying. In retrospect, I probably should have gone to community college.

Bored? What I do for fun:

Watching constantly censored movies on network TV needn't be annoying for the missing content, the disrupted dialogue. In fact, the dialogue is precisely what can make such viewings a real hoot. I had this epiphany while watching a cheesy knockoff gangsta movie on BET late one Saturday night. Since something in the range of 98% of the dialogue was *bleeped* (actually blanked) out, I assumed the characters were severely mentally handicapped. Why? Because regularly eliminating words tends to make speech entirely abnormal and nonrhythmic, not to mention nonsensical. When I realized the characters weren't actually supposed to be retarded, I laughed, cried, then realized I could make millions (or at least offend as many) if I were to produce a gripping, harrowing, (inherently) insane depiction of "retarded thug life." The moral: watch excessively profane movies on network TV and imagine the characters actually talk the way censoring makes them sound - limited by a strange speech impediment, some super-stutter, if not full-on mentally fucked.
Practice lying and deception.
Sometimes when I'm drunk I flex in the mirror. That just makes me drink more. I also enjoy poops that break the regular schedule; what an unexpected treat.
Make late-night visits to fast food restaurants, sampling and comparing newly introduced or embellished desserts.

This is what happens when I think/When Imaginations Attack:

Watching a movie one night, my groin cried out for attention. (No, not that kind of movie, not on this night). I was overcome by the primitive male urge to comfort - fondle, scratch, and reposition - my entire "privates package." I reached downward and grabbed a hefty handful before I realized that a group of school-aged children were frolicking on the television screen. It's not that such a realization affected me, I knew and understood my intentions, but it generated concern that if someone were to walk into the room they might misinterpret my actions.

Immediately afterward my spastic mind embarked on a laughter-rewarding mission to brainstorm the most inappropriate times to dig into one's pants and "rub them nuts." Besides anything involving children, funerals or anything involving death seemed pretty obvious, especially while walking past the casket during a wake. Court and church seemed bad too. How about watching holiday home videos with the family?

One night I went to a Saves the Day show at Tremont, in Charlotte. The highlight of the night came waiting for the band to set up, hypothesizing with friends about line-up changes we hoped Saves The Day might have undergone since we'd last seen them: Jonathan Davis, or, if we were really lucky, DMX, replacing Chris Conley; and, if Jonathan Davis, then Fieldy just tagging along, too; Fred Durst joining as a DJ/backup vocalist as well. Since my friends, Will and Bruce, thought they'd heard ferocious (human) barking and incessant repetitions of the half-growled-half-shouted lyric, "I got blood on my dick 'cause I fucked a corpse," emanating from backstage, we were optimistic about seeing the DMX-fronted Saves The Day.

Sadly, Chris Conley took the stage. But whatever. We'd still used those 20 minutes of uncertainty to ruminate about lyrics DMX might have discarded on his way to selecting such a creative, tasteful, and intelligent portrayal of necrophilia. Likely scribble-outs-or-erasures: "I got poo on my nutz 'cause I fucked a horse;" "I've got gas on my penis 'cause I fucked a Porsche;" "I had sex in some sewage now I've got some warts;" "I got a burned up dick 'cause I fucked a torch;" "I got scrapes on my dick 'cause I fucked your porch."

Conspiracy Theory: Triple 6's quest to rule the world

2006-08-29T13:18:00.000-04:00

First off, I love the Three 6 Mafia. It goes against my better sense, any sense of citizenship and morality I can muster, but when I detach myself into their cruel world of pleasure it soothes. I saw them in concert a few weeks ago and it was the best of the few hip-hop shows I’ve seen. They kept the crowd crunk and exuded the energy of the rowdiest punkers I’ve ever seen. Three 6 knew how to play the crowd, and their distinct brand of inebriated insanity is something of a curiosity to all. I didn’t know such brain damage was possible without PCP, though I wouldn’t put that past them, either.

In simple terms, I’m convinced every member of the Three 6 Mafia is crazy. Straight fuckin’ loony. Have you ever listened to their lyrics? Sure, you laugh, but doesn’t their total disregard for structured society scare you a bit? Hip-hop is a genre that allows artists limitless latitude to create platinum personas, but Three 6 Mafia convince where others are obvious absurd imposters. Over the course of 15 years, thousands of songs spanning countless mixtapes and official releases, Triple 6 haven’t strayed from the lyrical path of pure anarchic chaos. The Three 6 Mafia routine, if their songs are an accurate indication, is wake up, snort an 8ball and smoke a blunt, kill somebody while smoking and snorting – to sanitize on the sentence level I’ve edited this out, but mentally insert “while drinking and smoking” after every forthcoming activity – count millions in cash, sip some syrup, start a riot, an afternoon orgy, drive-by at dusk, shoot somebody in the club, make a song about it all, release an album chronicling the best 12-14 days that year. Three 6 have enough songs about such specific topics as instigating club violence and riots, killing people in drive-bys, counting stacks of cash, smokin’ weed, ridin’ rims, and sippin’ sizzurp to put out a greatest hits disc for each.

Maniacs.

Still not convinced? How many musicians have the temerity, are irresponsible enough, to write more than one song about starting riots and bringing violence into packed-house clubs – especially after having a song (“Tear Da Club Up ‘97”) banned because it actually compelled clubbers to riot? It’s the anti-punk rock sentiment: instead of encouraging brotherhood and citizenship in the moshpit, Triple 6 wants you to say “fuck that shit” and stomp a mothufucka out.

Are Three 6 Mafia the Manson’s of music? Maybe. Their music is a paralyzing hypnotic transmitted from the dark side ("Where's Da Bud;" "Where Da Killaz Hang;" "Rainbow Colors;" etc.). And they certainly want the world to crumble, churning out riot anthems and worse despite many fans’ obvious inability to distinguish between entertaining song lyrics and dictates of God. Imagine what might happen if Three 6 used their power to fight world hunger or influence elections. Conversely, how far off is World War 3-6?

Really though, what excuse do fans have for unquestioningly obeying the cracked out commands of musicians? As much as I love Three 6 Mafia, as much as their music can get my adrenaline pumping and stimulate hedonistic cravings, I can't imagine feeling uncontrollably compelled to act on the words of Crunchy Black, Project Pat, Juicy J, or Lord Infamous. Hell, I'm as likely to go on a murderous rampage because the whistling from my juicebox when I squeeze it tells me to, or as instructed by Snap, Crackle, and Pop.

Watching Three 6 Mafia live was unforgettable, but no matter the number of Evil Eye Kiwi Strawberry 10%ABV beverages I chugged, I never felt an iota of urgency to act on their lyrical directives. Thoughts of prison and permanent retardation were deterrent enough for me, but I might be in the minority. For all the arguably unintentional life lessons hidden within Three 6 Mafia’s underappreciated profundity, they are lost on most.

Southern Pride

2006-08-28T21:35:00.000-04:00

Southern Pride is the mysteriously powerful force that unites all anytime inhabitants of the Southern United States, even those that, often regretfully, move away. What inspires such die-hard devotion to a region characterized by Confederate Flag wielding heritage-memorializing not-at-all-racists, Waffle Houses, the too frequent, mind-blowing insistence that "the south will rise again!” and addiction to driving fast in circles, tempting crashes cheered by beer-battered fans in sleeveless shirts sans deodorant and bras?

For some people it's probably pecan pie; the foundation of my Southern Pride is firmly entrenched in that thick swamp of syrupy sweetness. For others fried chicken, collard greens, okra, grits, country ham and biscuits are reason enough to proclaim the South supreme; indeed, those delicacies all hold a special place in my deep-fried heart (and stomach). Even the staunchest Southern opposition, mostly damn Yankees, can't deny their love for the summertime stickiness of the ever-wonderful climate, the lazy drawl, 'y'all's, and overalls, at least not for too long. And if someone manages to resist all that Southern temptation there still exists Southern Hospitality, every Southerner's instinctive performance of goodwill under any and all circumstances, what Southerners champion as the characteristic, above all others, that sets the South apart. On second thought, Southern slave owners considered themselves champions of Southern hospitality, as do gunracked, rebel flag waving drivers crossing the Carolina’s, looking for the lingering hideout Civil War engagements. That retardation of human spirit notwithstanding, badmouthing the South can get you strung from my magnolia.

If nothing discussed above could ally a heart with the South, achy breaky or not, what possibly can? The universal uniting force, of course: Music. In this case, Southern Rap – defamed as it might be by half-wit 50 Cent, whose bullets and bitches rhymes quite transcend the simplicity he bemoans from the mouth of the South. Personally, I think that motherfucker must’ve caught one in the brain, too; the medics just missed it.

Anyway, it’s fitting that the countrified capital of hip-hop, Memphis, Tennessee, hypnotized mindz at this year’s Grammy’s, the Three 6 Mafia becoming the anti-Disney underdog success story of the century, cementing regional pride in the process. From an extensive discography dictated by a simple thematic recipe – “pounds of drugs, gallons of Tuss; slathers of sex sessions, incessant and unsanitary, described in slang; once-a-song-minimum exultations to riot; a sprinkle of bullets, split wigs, murderous threats and prison shoutouts” – the characteristically subtle track "From Da Back" already had me convinced to grill out.

Though it never occurred to me in pre-“From Da Back” days, are women the ultimate source of Southern pride? Three 6 Mafia word wizard DJ Paul, during his brief verse in "From Da Back," seems convinced so; reducing the essence of Southern womanhood to a mouthful in one magical moment of degradation, one can't help but quiver at Paul's reverent homage to the Southern Belle: "Now niggaz want a real dick-sucker come down South/ make you say, 'damn girl, you still eat with that mouth?!'." Upon hearing Paul's Godlike/Shakespearean command of language, my allegiance to the South became suddenly firm. My first response: Southern girls, keep making us proud. Your lips dictate the reputation of an entire people.

Taught to delve deeper by a college education, though, upon calming I wondered: Do Southern girls, with their supposed devotion to dick gobbling, have a response to Paul’s posed question, much less the chance, the time or even the need, to patronize a Waffle House compliments their pimp? Spittin’ sharp rhymes over the seminal “Tongue Ring,” Gangsta Boo’s response cuts to the bone: “I don't need you, please believe a nigga/ Only when I'm in the mood for a quick/ A quick ride on the dick/ Throw a razor in my mouth/ Straight slicin’ your shit.” Rest assured, Boo’s got plenty a’time to eat, and girl’s eatin’ well. Unless he’s always wanted to pee a river, I pity the motherfucker who waves a hotdog when she’s hungry for some hash browns, smothered and covered; she who savors blood as syrup; a woman with a duty, making meat end.

And I'm scared soft.

Our vacuum-mouthed sisters are a source of pride to be sure, but I’ll flatter ‘em and say it’s their cookin’ - let's call it "the meal deal." Am I a changed man? Or just protecting myself, conniving to get slobbed “like corn on the cob”?

Bad Music is Fun

2006-08-20T13:19:00.000-04:00

[Written for the course 'Writing Nonfiction Prose' during spring semester 2005; amended summer 2006 on a boring evening.]

Crime: Possession, With Cruel Intent To Distribute

During the early evening of April 21st 2001, while thumbing through the boxes of twenty-five cent compact discs at Charlotte’s Manifest Discs and Tapes, I found several things I’d never imagined even existed: one, living proof there are (infinitesimal) requirements, including some tiny semblance of talent, necessary to succeed as a “boy band”-type performer and teen heartthrob, and two, a level of respect for ‘90s recording embarrassments The News Kids on the Block. Both of these unexpected and frightening transitions were inspired by an album whose title presumably references the performer’s excuse for producing such unequivocally amusing garbage, Rick Wes’ Possession.

Let me briefly recount my progression of possession. First, while quickly flipping through thousands of cheap used discs and records, I was suddenly possessed to stop and laugh at the very sight of the disc’s cover. Next, given the album’s ridiculously cheap price, I was possessed to buy it; well, that and the fact I was perusing those cheap-ass albums with the sole intention of buying the most laughable excuses for music I could uncover. Shortly thereafter I placed Possession in my friend’s car cd player, eagerly anticipating riotous laughter. Immediately after the disc began playing, I felt possessed to lunge toward the steering wheel, desperate to direct our car into oncoming traffic – luckily, I was in the backseat and restrained by a fully functional seatbelt. Now, after several years of reflection, I want to reevaluate Rick Wes’ landmark failure in purely objective terms.

Actually, Rick Wes doesn’t even exist. I made the not-so-startling discovery after brief Internet research. The artist formerly known as Rick is actually Craig Gendreau of Massachusetts, though changing one’s name for the sake of stardom isn’t surprising or uncommon - Craig Gendreau simply doesn’t have the ring of a Justin Timberlake or Marky Mark. And, seriously, when Maurice Starr, the one-man hit machine behind half the teen idols of the late ‘80s and early ‘90s – including the legendary New Kids On the Block – promises you instant fame and riches with a simple name change, would you question his guidance?

The answer is ‘no’, at least not immediately. However, after Rick Wes was informed the “creative geniuses” at Maurice Starr Productions, apparently Starr’s preschool-aged children, thought it clever to entitle Wes’ 1990 debut North, South, East, Wes, some serious misgivings should have flooded his mind - misgivings the dismal album sales should have confirmed. While Craig can’t be blamed for assuming a new identity, he certainly can, and must, for having the audacity to release a second album – especially one whose liner notes read, “Maurice – from the bottom of my heart you are truly a genius, this time we’ll go to the top, then the world will truly appreciate your talents as I do!” It makes one wonder what “talents” of Maurice’s Mr. Wes can possibly be appreciating.

In the annals of music, Possession stands alone as a landmark in unintentional hilarity. If one were forced to rate the album’s level of sidesplitting awfulness using accepted mathematical terms, they would fail miserably; somehow this album’s previously unimagined degree of humorous heinousness exceeds infinity. Indeed, that specific quality should appeal to a national public whose love for laughs often pollutes good judgment, a phenomenon most noticeable in the 2000 and 2004 presidential elections – and also exemplified by my conscious choice to pass up 2 Jolly Ranchers to purchase Possession.

Possession’s album cover is definitely eye-catching – unfortunately for Rick Wes, in a strikingly creepy way. Rick’s signature adorns the upper left corner, prompting one to ponder how long Craig spent mastering another’s signature; the word “Possession” cascades down the cover’s right side. The cover photograph features Wes posing in a gray shirt and black jacket, both of which have a peculiar sheen as if sprinkled with preteen girl’s favorite sparkles; both garments also feature zipper closure, unzipped of course, partially exposing Rick’s impressively pathetic upper-body physique. His head is tilted forward, allowing a few gelled sprigs of hair to spill forth, almost obscuring his passionate brown eyes and accentuating his exceptionally sultry facial expression. His right hand is curled down toward his waist with his hand positioned suggestively over his belt buckle, as if ready to unclasp given the slightest provocation. Basically, the cover photo ends up looking like a trading card for a glorified sex offender – and the rest of the liner pictures are slightly less offensive only because they lack the threat of exposure; they’d all function perfectly as small images on the backs of a line of Pedophile trading cards, complementing collectors’ excitement for information and stats like Favorite Playground and Schoolyard Success Percentage (SSP).

The album’s music does nothing to dispel the horrific thoughts the cover image conjures. The first track, the title track, begins with a cheap synthesized drum roll that leads into a simple repeated drumbeat; the amateurish drumming is interwoven with grossly inappropriate, and again synthesized, wind-chimes and strings – among numerous other cheesy squeals and squeaks produced either by some kid’s Playschool® keyboard or the multiple-sound-effect-producing, flashing-light, toy laser guns popular in the early ‘90s. One glaringly misplaced sound effect becomes the funniest part of the listening experience as it, or slight variations, appear in at least half the album’s songs; the sound is a cross between a keyboard imitation of a cat meowing and the peculiar noise – something I imagine resembles an intense alien sucking – produced, in the original Mario Bros.© Nintendo® game, when a character is transported through the green pipes.

An even more grotesque sound is Rick Wes’ voice. Sometimes, especially when Rick is talking instead of singing, his voice fits the stereotype of a heavily drugged playground pedophile - unnaturally deep, sleazy, and sedate like a prescription painkiller addict. Really, Rick’s singing voice isn’t much different than his speaking voice besides being a little higher in pitch; he has no distinguishing vocal characteristics beyond his Michael Jackson-esque ability to strike pure fear in the hearts of parents with a single utterance. Thankfully, I’m not a parent, but Wes’ voice still has disturbing effects upon my psyche. When he sings I see one horrific image: Rick in the recording studio, massaging his chest with honey – Polaroids of children dangling from monkey bars and sliding down playground poles plastered about the booth – while he alternates between singing into, and panting hotness all over, the microphone.

Luckily for Rick, there’s one factor that can occasionally rescue an inadequate singer - lyrical content. And, given Rick’s apparent criminal inattentiveness to all other aspects of his album, it would be logical to assume writing intelligent, meaningful lyrics must have been his ultimate, time-consuming, concern. Upon listening to Possession, it becomes clear Rick sings from the heart while exploring the painful intricacies of lust and relationships; however, the preponderance of heartfelt lyrics eventually raises a question as to whether his heart might be inhumanly enormous, whereby its elevated pumping volume may have flooded his brain with blood, rendering it functionless.

In every romantic balled Rick attempts, which would be Possession’s every song, he croons the word ‘love’ and frequently revisits ‘baby’, ‘girl’, and ‘forever’. So there goes any hope for variation in content, one staple of true lyrical mastery, but maybe he at least explores the emotional depths it’s obvious he’s encountered on the never-ending quest for a socially acceptable happy ending? No. With an album full of songs like “Just One Smile,” which features thought provoking lyrics like, “Just one kiss/One kiss from your lips/It’s so powerful/It could sink a battleship,” and later the profound, “Twiddly Diddly De/Twiddly Diddly Di/Gonna love you girl/Until the day I die/Twiddly Diddly De/Twiddly Diddly Dum/You’re my baby/You’re my only one/Smile for me,” it’s a virtual certainty the limits of Rick’s love will remain bound by schoolyard gates forevermore.

True to form, Rick is utterly convincing playing the violent sex offender, proffering threats stemming from his strange definition of “love”: “I feel you belong to only me/That’s the way I feel/And that’s the only way I’ll ever feel…That’s the way it is baby/And that’s the only way it can be”; this possessive theme is continued in several other songs, and his ongoing abuse of the word “baby” becomes a bit unsettling. Rick cements his status as a sex-deprived predator while expounding timeless pickup lines in “It’s You”: “First time I saw you/It was love at the start/Now that I found you/I’m ready for you/You’re ready for me/Let’s love.”

The entire album follows a simple recipe: cheesy drumbeats are the mass of the song, the (stale) cake-like foundation, if you will. Awkward samples of various instruments are then layered over the simple synthesized beats, a slightly more sophisticated but still tasteless effect to hide the sorely lacking product underneath. Finally, either as a failed attempt to wow the listener or an example of someone drooling over the availability of hundreds of really cool gimmicky synth-sounds, the songs are inexplicably sprinkled with terribly misplaced keyboard effects. Rick Wes, then, ignoring his irredeemable character and probable crimes against humanity, becomes a mere pawn in Maurice Starr’s demented musical experiment – nothing more than a voice and familiar face to take the fall for Mr. Starr’s crime against music. Possession epitomizes the ill effects of excessively exuberant, unprofessional production (no matter what Maurice Starr might claim). No number of millions of albums sold by Maurice Starr’s other artists, The New Kids On The Block and New Edition included, can attest otherwise.

The most amazing fact about the album and this review is that I’m sure I missed countless examples of laughable futility – probably because I was already laughing so hard. So, I sincerely apologize, but the album is entirely unbearable to listen to from beginning to end, despite its ability to induce endless laughter; though I’d aimed for a full listen, I could only endure seven of the ten songs. That’s not to say, however, one shouldn’t give this album a spin – listening to each track for only thirty seconds guarantees an unforgettably hilarious, and equally cringe-worthy, experience. As an added bonus, experiencing Possession is to witness the near-impossible further degradation of an already disrespected genre of music.

At this point, it would be easy to accuse me of being an irresponsible, one-sided reviewer, but don’t be too quick to judge; it turns out Possession isn’t totally without merit. I didn’t listen to the entire album but I feel compelled, maybe possessed, to bestow a grain of credit upon Maurice Starr and Rick Wes’ for drawing attention to important social issues. Starr has always been something of a social crusader, and perhaps with Wes he discerned an unfailing vessel for his valuable commentary. When Starr initially formed The New Kids On The Block in the mid ‘80s, he envisioned a group who, with popular appeal, would positively influence the nation’s youth; Starr wanted to promote anti-drug and safe sex messages – and maybe earn a few bucks, if only to allow him to stay in the music and further his social advocacy. With Rick Wes, Starr abandoned anti-drug messages, possibly discouraged by rising rates of teen substance abuse, but made Wes his champion crusader in the promotion of safe sex. Wes’ diabolically perverted expressions of affection and overt criminality embody the qualities that ensure one has absolutely no (unforced) sex, ever – which, in some interpretations, qualifies as abstinence, today the only government-advocated position on safe sex.

As hard as it is for me to say, after listening to Rick Wes, I’ll admit The New Kids On The Block, and especially the now-accomplished actor Mark Wahlberg, deserve an absolutely minimal measure of respect for being able to succeed under the grossly deficient tutelage of Maurice Starr. That’s a remarkable accomplishment, and testament to the existence of qualities necessary to succeed as a kiddie music icon – qualities it’s quite apparent Rick Wes never possessed. Craig Gendreau intelligently dropped his Rick Wes persona after Possession, his second failed attempt to please the harsh preteen critics across the nation, increasing his anonymity by an iota. Some time later – if I’ve tracked down the same Craig Gendreau – he packed his bags, headed south, and found employment as a music teacher at Medlock Bridge Elementary in Georgia, where, if my character judgments are correct, he finally realized his illicit dreams of an endless recess.

Musical Musings: The Universal I

2006-08-16T21:21:00.000-04:00

The Egalitarian Elitist: The Musical Revolution

This is a call to arms, all attached hands, and ears. Oh, the ears. It’s time to employ guerrilla tactics against the major media monoliths (and poor personal judgment), whether that means sauntering down sidewalks shouldering blaring boomboxes or accosting quizzical citizens with smiles (or convincingly intimidating glares) and palms extended, offering headphone-equipped portable-music-players[1]. Listen.

Only after a person escapes the omnipresent waves of popular sound can they engage in unplanned philosophical musing, forming answers to quintessential conundrums: for instance, why must I (the universal music lover) always play DJ in the car or in the proximity of any music-playing-mechanism? Honestly, it’s largely an ego issue, but just as much an instinct derived from an intrinsic sense of humanism. I'm performing musical highlighting, trying to make sure you hear (even if you can't comprehend) exactly what makes the best music so good. My mission is to, at least, provide you the opportunity to enjoy the hard earned rewards of that unalienable but mistakenly omitted fourth truth “we hold…to be self evident,” to have the chance to hear the best music, (in the words of Jefferson[2]) to “get krunk!” and “rock out!”

It’s a pointless debate; personal music preferences define an individual’s realization of perfection. In a sense, personal tastes are the 0 of musical affinity, delicately balanced and perfectly aligned; another person’s tastes can merely approach that level, the futile quest to solve for Y=0 in the equation Y=1/X. Any fully- (even semi-) developed human knows the same.
But unless you’ve experienced an essential metamorphosis of taste – and I have, several times, actually, especially after my middle school debacle of a diet, limp bizket and korn – an epiphany that enables listeners to admit entire eras of their ears’ enjoyment have been clogged and or contaminated by immaturity or trendiness or underexposure, then you’re guaranteed to carry zero clout in always animated arguments about supremacy of the senses.

You’ll be tuned out faster than Scott Stapp in any self-respecting Strung Out or Suicide Machines fan’s car, probably by the iPod they’ll immediately brandish for self-preservation, desperation necessitating a few seconds of perilous driving so the musically sensible driver’s hands might return to the steering wheel they belong upon – instead of involved in either of two acts of strangulation, an act of ear destruction, or a less extreme act of ear-covering, any and all similarly dangerous in consideration of general driving safety.

Sure, being unlike me is a circumstance known to prompt exclamations of relief from birthing parents, and regular instances of general celebration in several cultures, but it’s the rare cognizant being that doesn’t share my unadulterated delight at discovering some new sound to stimulate ossicles and titillate tympanic membranes. Except for strangely secretive lemonade stands that appear alongside heavily wooded trails during long runs on the hottest of days, there’s nothing more refreshing than new – and it doesn’t have to be chronologically new, just new to you – music to explore and obsess over, listening on repeat, memorizing lyrics, lying in bed or getting hyphy, humming a tune sipping tea in the shade of sycamores or thrashing toothless and bloodied before trembling amplifiers.

The last nail in the argument is that old anti -suicidal and -homocidal adage: “A kickass new band each day keeps the shotgun from spattering brains away (in a symphony of red and grey).” In a truly fair world, denying an insistent tune-wielder the chance to shuffle your perceptions would precipitate divinity driven deafness.

[1] Who the hell are we kidding? Offering your iPod. Admittedly, I have a strong Apple bias, but what better way is there to keep days, even weeks, worth of music in your pocket?

[2] This is a possible citation error. The original document, an unfortunately not-copied-or-otherwise-preserved letter from Jefferson to a political acquaintance, was ruined by a urinating frat-boy after the letter was displayed and paraded at a lively keg party. Verification of the quotes was rendered impossible; thus, I must rely on memory.

The Egalitarian Elitist: Musical Musings

2006-08-15T10:24:00.000-04:00

[Since I've been too busy recently to post, and because that isn't going to change for a week, I'll be throwing up some pieces I wrote for classes in College. They aren't my favorite things I've written, but they'll show you how I write with more in the way of formal constraints.

This is already posted, in .doc form, on the zine Jake, Will, and I talked about forever then developed with absolutely minimal effort. Check my links if you're interested.]

Hypothetical Hyperbole

Imagine an extraordinarily normal baby, drooling and vomiting, naturally and adorably limited by typical baby coordination and a lack of vocal control. Now, imagine the baby’s music-obsessed, ex-acid-dropping father, an unfortunate felon twice convicted of drug possession stemming from arrests on both ends of a long 1969 road-trip to New York. The now mature, responsible and drug-free father raises his child on a fulfilling diet of classic music, from Hendrix to Joplin to Coltrane to Mozart to James Brown to the Ramones.

The baby’s reliable reactions to the music, listless eyes and globs of drool meandering chinward, don’t surprise the father. Yet soon the baby reveals itself to be anything-but-normal in the most paradoxical way – exhibiting an uncanny ability, unprompted and untrained, to repeatedly retune the stereo to the most generic musical broadcasts available, a favorite being Casey Kasem’s American Top 40.

The father, initially trapped somewhere between proud and offended, becomes increasingly concerned. One day in a shopping mall the father notices his carriaged child appearing to celebrate, with wiggling stump-arms and a pronounced gurgle, the same blaring popular-noise harassing his respectable sensibilities, torturing his discerning ears. In an unfortunately timed flashback to his youth, in an even less fortunate public location, the father imagines that correcting his infant’s musical taste is as simple as “fixing” its brain - so he mashes and squishes its still fusing, still malleable skull in a corrective procedure unendorsed by medical professionals.

Nature Versus Nurture

The balance of influence has tilted toward nature in the age-old debate, and concern nurtures a whole new set of questions. The most intriguing, perhaps: what perplexing imperfections embedded within human nature allow otherwise functional beings to pervert perfect musical upbringings, emerging paradoxically as damaged goods from all the right circumstances? Does sanity allow half-baked delight in a Limp Bizket? Concern with a Nickelback, or even 50 Cent, in the midst of The Arcade Fire? The decision to remain mired in a Puddle of Mudd when Nirvana is attainable?

The perverts of perception are a new, young generation of listeners whose easy satisfaction and spectacular laziness provide mainstream media the excuse to pollute the airwaves, showering the masses with vile discharge. These deviants aren’t society’s favorite (musically concerned) scapegoats, the brash, mohawked-pierced-and-tattooed “punks” or swaggering, pants-sagging, diamond-studded-earring-having “thugs”, but, rather, boring individuals who don’t inspire labels, robot-like listeners with no distinctive qualities.

So what if big money provides big production provides big sound, mainstream music is incapable of producing any lasting reverberations. For this precise reason, radio friendly is a term now uttered only in disgust (outside the spinning-rimmed-rides and diamond-plated-dens of musicians whose only artistic aspirations concern the bronzing of their own countenances). Listening to quality music is often invigorating because, like a good game of hide-and-go-seek, it’s a challenging but ultimately satisfying process to unearth what one’s looking for; popular music, in contrast, promises challenges and thrills equivalent to a game of hide-and-go-seek with a boulder.

Popular music has been McDonaldized, reduced to an unsatisfying, rehashed, over-processed jumble of addictive and appealing elements stolen from a history of originality; the unimaginative industry is equipped to churn out nuggets of instant gratification, rarely more. Accordingly, today’s mainstream artists won’t be represented in the annals of legendary music, as are respected genre innovators from rock to jazz to hip-hop to Motown and everything in between. What parent will tell their kids they saw Godsmack, Disturbed, or Nelly in concert? Who is going to remember Britney Spea—Wait, who?

Exactly.

A tragic circumstance, persons never lucky enough to have concerned parents or friends to redirect their misguided conceptions of musical mastery are doomed to think KissFM’s broadcasts represent the most innovative, intriguing, and stimulating music man is capable of creating. Worse, as an illogical mechanism to defend their limited views, they’ll offer excuses for not exploring music outside the media mainstream. A favorite of the deluded, self-assured jackass: “The best music eventually makes its way to the radio.” And there is no counter, no verbal equivalent of a stiff smack, no naming Chingy or Ja Rule because that person is liable to be a fan. “See. I told you so.” And so our faith in humanity declines¹.

Systemic Diagnostics

So, finally, what is the sinister force lurking behind normal human faces that corrupts sound musical judgment? Considering that the under-25 demographic is the one most responsible for determining popular radio rotations, the obvious answer is that youthful indiscretion must be a critical contributor.

Bu…but – Bite your damn tongue. Kids’ personal tastes are definitely not as valid as those of competent adults. Pop quiz: what kinds of people are most likely to have recently enjoyed coprophagic poo-play or booger-buffets? That’s right, kids and madmen – and as a general rule people who’ve willingly played with or ingested any excretion or bodily filth within the last 10 years aren’t trusted with their own wellbeing.

Excluding an exceptional few, even kids who haven’t dined on dookie apparently have some age-specific attraction to shit. Amazon.com’s user album reviews offer a simultaneously hilarious and disheartening view of adolescent incompetence². One raving Limp Bizket fan, MeTaL GaNgSTa, makes such mind-boggling claims that most trees and some cupcakes become visibly agitated: “what really makes this album great is Fred Durst. He is the best singer in metal music in my opinion. he has awesum rhymes and is very cool. if you don't like this album, you dont like metal music, end of story.” Immediately afterward the young suicide-needing-to-happen proclaimed Freddie Mercury and Johnny Cash the “greatest-rappers-of-all-time” and Huffy bicycles “the best cars on the NASCAR circuit.”

More disturbingly confounding than anything else, there’s substantial evidence that masses of Hot Topic frequenting kids actually move beyond the radio to music just as generic and poorly conceived, if not more so³: “Insane Clown Posse is the greatest thing to happen in music. ICP is like metal but ‘twiztid’ around so that its metalrap. they are the best of the dark carnival. ICP is the craziest and most outrageously funny band to ever walk the planet. So to u juggalos and juggalettes get this wicked shit n stay down wiv the clowns⁴.” Not even the mental retardation required to make sense out of what is being said can excuse such grammatically deficient depravity.

Another reviewer accomplishes a difficult feat, convincing music aficionados in only 37 words to never support whatever band he is endorsing: “I like this kind of band and I like a band like the Insane Clown Posse. That is kind of surprising huh? I would really suggest that anyone with a ear for GOOD music would enjoy this.” And music respecting individuals really suggest this reviewer apologize to the unlucky band for ruining their careers – and then, maybe, pull a Van Gogh, the reviewer’s delicious screams rewarding the unintentional promise of “a ear for GOOD music.”

The Tyrant Exposes Himself

No scourge can be universally condemned. Terminal illnesses occasionally infect deserving parties; accidents can decapitate annoying personalities; and popular radio sometimes spurs a musical quest that explores the overshadowed and underappreciated ⁵. But don’t read this as unwavering praise of everything obscure, anything non-mainstream. Plenty, nay, most, bands left publicly unpraised and unplayed deserve that fate, to be ignored and overlooked if not ridiculed. While some bands revel in “anti-popularity” stances on (sometimes respectable) principal, legions more unwittingly adopt that position because they’re brute musical butchers, the Parkinson’s ravaged surgeons of singing, songwriting, and instrumentation.

and…shhh…it’s a status-destroying secret more fiercely guarded than adult-drug-dabblin’, fetish-toe-tasting, hobby-hit-and-run-or-baby-bashing: even musical elitists never totally wean themselves from the radio. And those who scream the loudest “it sears the ears” are hiding the most. For those with (relative to radio) extensive and refined musical tastes, guilty pleasures – and everybody has them – are musical masochism at its finest. However, it’s a problem serious enough to warrant aggressive advising when someone fully subsists on that which should be enjoyed in tiny portions alone. It’s those still living on straight aural McDumplets, defying better advice to flaunt their offensiveness, who are the inconsiderately thonged morbidly-obese of the music world.

Help Wanted

The majority of human civilization won’t willingly lick Ebola infected blood, floss with razor wire, sniff anthrax, or stare at the sun, but, un-gun-prompted and with options beyond, masses pick popular music. A response from irked intelligence, indications are the 11th Commandment is to respect a sincere appreciation for Top-40 radio as one does a cheery, legally mandated door-to-door welcome to the neighborhood⁶. Indeed, the only acceptable excuses for not cultivating respectable musical tastes within 20 years of birth are being deaf or dead⁷.

The moral? Every experienced music lover has a responsibility to expose their lazy, misguided, or sheltered friends to the musical wizardry behind the curtain, music less about deceptive cheap tricks and stale regurgitation and more about honesty, invention, and substance. Whether it’s introducing friends to independent artists, labels, or web-zines, taking them to a cheap show at a small club, or burning or buying them a mixtape, jumpstarting an interest in the obscure is the first step in making music matter – for everyone. And if the needy soberly refuse these helpful advances, drug them⁸, inundating their senses with iTunes visualizations and unfamiliar sounds⁹. The consequences of failure, “Now I am a 37 year old Juggalette and I'll be that way 'til I'm dead in the ground. My son was buried with an ICP shirt on and a Hatchetman round his neck. And I plan on going the same way,” trivialize most wars and natural disasters.

¹ The future of the world may rest upon the answers to these questions:
Are gaud, glitz, and faux charisma really so captivating they can consistently mesmerize into gleeful submission? By extension, since nu metal, bubblegum-pop, and watered down hip-hop (flimsy as flip-flops) incomprehensibly represent the popular face of musical excellence, might cardboard (or rusted nails), if chargrilled or iced and sprinkled, someday be accepted as the face of culinary excellence? Finally, in relation to offensively disheartening (aka mainstream) musical tastes and the desire to restore faith in humanity, what constitutes a justifiable homicide?

² Unfortunately, the odds that these reviews are all the product of random-keypad-pounding-sessions are pretty damn infinitesimal.

³ Popular Solutions Series #1: Dealing With Radio Rebels:
If any friends are listening to “edgy” radio friendly music (or that similarly silly and repugnant, like ICP) in order to rebel against their parents, inform them that the most shocking content they’ve discovered is mere Teletubbies compared to their many non-popular options. If a friend really wants to freak the hell out of their parents urge them to stop that embarrassing chanting to Godsmack’s “Voodoo” and investigate black metal, a genre with an unsettlingly evil (and nonchalant) history of satanic worship, church burning, and brutal murder; not only will that provide the meekest rebel the firepower to strike fear in adult hearts, it will also expose some truly vicious but exceptional, oft-overlooked music in the process.

Post-reading Quiz:
Q: Which underlined word in the last paragraph defies anything disturbing or troubling?
A: Trick Question! Both do!

⁴ Select claims and quotes compiled from reviews obviously authored by preteens or bagels. Apparently there’s no difference in either’s ability to evaluate music critically.

⁵ Whether through genuine interest or simple disgust it is debatable, or depends on each case, but it doesn’t really matter. While the radio doesn’t unfailingly neglect talented, deserving musicians, raging fads that mishandle and plagiarize once adeptly handled originality do plague the soundscape.

⁶ Further indications are that actions motivated by this forgotten but overriding Commandment excuse a strict adherence to the first 10.

⁷ The obvious exception, the only case that approves feigned appreciation of decidedly bad music, is an attempt to impress trashy strippers.

⁸ Repeat this step until the desired effect is achieved.

⁹ Especially, given their induced altered state, the atmospheric noodling of eccentric rock bands, the enchanting ambience of experimental noisemakers, and the mesmerizing flows and beats of hip-hop’s greatest.

Tired of Travel Writing: Everything else...

2006-08-07T00:27:00.000-04:00

I was going to have to deal with a few days sans girl gazing. Boo hoo. News Flash Dipfuck: Family Reunion. (I'll forego the tired West Virginia jokes).

Hey, the food's gonna suck too.

Fuck. Now that does piss me off, 'cause expectations were otherwise. C'mon, We're paying $25 per day, per person, to eat fly buzzed cafeteria fare? God, even I don't deserve the double whammy. Couldn't you at least loosen the molars, er, morals, of these always beaming Baptist boppers?

Ah, ya bastuhd.

Well, at least the cousins ah wicked pissah. And they took "Y'all" and, the nonregional catchphrase of the week, "That's what's up," back north. But not before proving Southern culture is already-ah-creepin' up the country, my cousin droppin' a "Right huurrrr" to answer, "So, where are we meeting?" After my knee grabbin' fit I managed to ask, in between the residual giggles of recovery, "Please. Pleeeaaase, can you repeat that, just one more time?"

The question of the week, perhaps my life: How did my family, a (predominantly, not totally) liberal and areligious family if there ever was one, end up at a Southern Baptist compound? Southern Baptists bash cars for Bad Religion decals, not to mention any person who opposes their mindless stances on, oh, say abortion, homosexuality, women's rights, religion, whatever. I really feel like New Mexico must offer at least one other place to meet our minimal reunion requirements: Enough space to house the family, and limited access to TVs.

But fuck it. I kinda like this place. I'm a man, and this place makes me feel badass. Seriously, all I have to do to break rules is go outside and take off my shirt and/or shoes. I'm breakin' rules out of habit. Plus, we're sneakin' drinks nightly, half the family, adults and kids alike, risking eviction from the premises with the contents of our Styrofoam cups.

But while we were breaking Glorieta's rules, some bad Baptist was breaking laws out of habit, trying to molest one of my 13-year-old cousins after we'd accidentally abandoned him in the arcade. At first, the perv came off like any pool hall junkie, just desperate for someone to play with, and just happening to choose a 13-year-old male as his (unwitting and unwilling) partner-in-crime. So my cousin played a game with him. Sometime afterward the rest of us disappeared. According to my cousin, his next exchange with the man went something like this: "Hey, little buddy, wanna race? Just one time. It'll be fun. Come over here and grab some quarters outta my pocket." My cousin held out his palm and waited. After the race, the mystery molester high-fived my cousin. "Oh yeah! Come on. Just one more time." Repeat X 10 before my cousin got creeped out, up and left. As he was running toward the door, the pedophile might have yelled, "Come back, I gotta whole rolla quarters for ya." Later, in the locked safety of our room, what started as a joke about stereotypes ended with the factual revelation the mystery molester wore his hair slicked straight back.

In daytime, there wasn't much to do besides read, play canasta, soccer, or volleyball, or hike. Hiking we scheduled for a hot, sunny afternoon. After lunch, my cousin's Sam, Saul, and Nick C., my brother, and I set off on a difficult hike, a five-mile excursion that would take us past 10,000 feet, a good 3,000 feet above our starting elevation. The first mile was exceedingly steep, and short attempts to play Ironman and jog left everyone winded, and shirtless, too. Eventually the trail leveled off, so jogging was more realistic. Over the course of our fast-paced first 90 minutes, we covered a lot of rocky ground. So there we were, trekking along, when some monstrous, black clouds swept over the mountaintop. We thought the shade was a welcome respite. Even the first fat drops of rain were welcome, a bit cold, sure, but refreshing the same. And the first sand-sized hails were more something to marvel than madden. I mean, look at how quickly that storm snuck up, it can't last long.

But, as the minutes passed and we trudged on, continuing past refreshed to damp to cold and drenched, our confidence faltered. The hail grew to Tic-Tac size, finally to gumballs, pelting us mercilessly; and the barrage was thick, too, on the sparsely wooded mountainside, inescapable. Heavy pings and quick stings rained down upon our unprotected heads, ears, and shoulders, our exclamations and laughter belying more serious considerations. Though they were so fogged as to severely hinder my actual sight, I wore my sunglasses.

The trodden path beneath our feet had, within 15 minutes, disappeared under the path wide, 6-inch deep river rushing past, down the mountain, smarter than us. The water was cold and looked like a slushie, entire portions covered with floating ice particles so numerous and dense they looked like sheets. All around us, glinting gumballs crashed off tree trunks and ricocheted off the ground. I realized I was shivering uncontrollably, my nipples like torpedoes trying to escape my chest. My hands were numb, my feet, too, yet we were still tiptoeing up the path, our pace reduced to a crawl out of concern for broken ankles and such, far from ideal mountaintop injuries especially in inclement weather. "Guys, I weigh like 165," I blubbered between chattering teeth, "I'm too fuckin' skinny for this shit." Thoughts of New/Pneu-Mexican-Monia became as intense as the shivers racking my body, "If I break a leg or something, just call the bears or kill me on the spot. Even if I could, I wouldn't want to live through this shit." I said, "I'm gone," and my cousin Nick took off behind me.

Staying off the submerged path, running beside it on sturdy, visible ground, weaving around fallen trees and impassable obstacles, we didn't rest for over a mile. The rain and hail slowed, but even the workout didn't warm me. Only the hot shower to come sustained me, as it used to during the coldest, rainiest soccer games. Nick and I were the first back to 7,000 feet, rushing into the lodge toward our respective bathrooms, and the others trickled in a little later. The only casualties of the day: the cell phones people had packed.

And I'm glad I made it, because we had a lot of volleyball left to play. Again, being taller than everyone made me a sort of superstar by default. Since I could elevate higher than any relative, blocking and spiking became my duties, leaving the hard work, like setting and hustling for sniper shots, for my cousins. Admittedly, I did make a few remarkable plays with my feet, directing impossible to reach balls back over the net or high enough for a teammate to spike, turning sure points into our serves. One foot-play was so remarkable it earned props from Chester, my hilarious, all-around cool-dude Uncle some distance removed, an intense competitor, and one of the most talented and relentless shit-talkers I've ever encountered, whether on the field or at the dinner table. Playing volleyball Chester was on the other team, and coming to shake my hand was the only time over fifteen plus games he crossed the net for any reason other than to berate, insult, or tackle a player from my team. That itself is certainly more noteworthy than the actual play I made.

Another noteworthy volleyball incident made me feel like a complete jackass. Over many games, I became decent at driving clench-fisted spikes into the dirt. Even if the fist punch isn't considered technically sound, it sufficed for my untrained practices. Anyway, at some point a teammate set a ball for me, perfectly, so it hovered at the optimal height for me to spike with full force. My fist windmilled to the top of the ball, crushing it downward with a solid thump. Not having aimed my shot, I watched in horror as it rocketed toward my cousin Giuliana's face, the girl I claim as my unofficially adopted sister, the last person on earth I'd ever want to injure. The shot, unanimously acclaimed as the best and hardest hit all week, hit her square in the nose, knocking her off her feet so her body was parallel to the ground before she landed in the sand. The first sound came from one of her brothers, my teammate, "That's a point." I was already rushing under the net. "Oh goddamnit. Giuliana, are you alright?" I gushed, "SHIT! I'm so sorry!" Luckily, Giuliana is as badass and tough as she is cool and fun, and she quickly stood up, brushed the sand off, checked her magically unscathed glasses, and assured me she was OK with a few words and a laugh. I apologized profusely for the rest of the night and Giuliana, happy to joke about the assault and still hang out with me, was as playful as ever, a major relief.

And one particular night of drinking shouldn't go unnoted, the majority of the youths, some of age, more underage, gathering in our room around midnight with several decks of cards, several cases, and several fifths. Starting at midnight, the rowdiness reached its peak around 4:00 or 5:00 AM, as was reported the next day by the relative who slept in the room above ours. That night is indescribable, but over three hundred photographs were snapped to help tell (and remember) the story, including some hilarious posed indiscretions with the bible. Those of us still awake at 6:00 AM swerved over to the dining hall, loitering outside for the thirty minutes until it opened, the first to patronize the dining hall that morning, and the only time we made breakfast all week save the last morning when we had to get up early to check-out.

Loud, obnoxious, alcoholic, fun, fratty, and hilarious are a few of the adjectives I'd use to describe some or all of those within my contingent of all-around amazing cousins.

I can’t wait to see you in three.

Trying Out Travel Writing: New Mexico Day 2

2006-08-02T16:46:00.000-04:00

After breakfast the next morning the Braxton Fam departed Albuquerque with Santa Fe as the destination. We were to spend a few hours walking around, killing time before our 4 p.m. check-in at the Glorieta Baptist prison.

On the way toward and into Santa Fe, I was reacquainted with the New Mexican countryside: sparsely vegetated plains stretching for miles with mammoth mountains jutting the horizon; curveless five-mile stretches of interstate, intermittently engulfed by hills and jagged cliffs exploding from nowhere to dwarf the highway. Everything was just as I’d imagined it would be in a desert land: 75 MPH speed limits, an abundance of dusty pickup trucks and dull-colored twenty-year-old campers with any number of chains hanging from them, adobe architecture, grizzled, mustached men with obligatory cowboy hats covering gray locks, tattooed women with hair either shaved or fashioned into dreadlocks, everyone in faded jeans regardless of gender, cacti and endless stretches of rock-protruded soil.

Santa Fe itself seemed anti-New Mexican, flashy and upscale, with lots of expensive shops and markets hawking artsy wares I’d have no interest in even if I were a millionaire (but the thousand-dollar-plus globes fashioned from multicolored glass were eye-catching). Santa Fe’s redeeming quality was the abundance of Mexican restaurants promising authenticity for proximity. After a mile-long search revealed the majority of AAA rated eateries were open only for dinner, a local who'd transformed her body into modern art with myriad tattoos and piercings pointed us toward a restaurant she assured was excellent, if I’m not mistaken taking advantage of the metal rod running through her nose to indicate direction.

Observing no other patrons when we arrived, we entered the noiseless building warily, only to be ushered back out by an accented voice, "No. No open 'till dinner." After a few minutes debate about whose Spanish was least deficient, Sam gathered the courage to seek a recommendation, to which the Mexican staff unanimously approved Tomasita's, gesturing back the way we'd walked, "No far. Block."

Tomasita’s was bustling, and the dining proved worthy of the 15-minute wait for our already famished family. Not only was our waitress a midget – pause, the dictionary informs that ‘person of restricted growth’ is the preferred term – Tomasita’s served truly authentic Mexican food, not the typical Tex-Mex fare that I love but can find back home. The sopapilla, especially smothered in honey and honey butter, was perfect, warm and fluffy and not too greasy. The selection of beers and tequila was encouraging given our travails the night prior, and the Sangria was sweet from fruits with an alcoholic bite. Among other dishes we sampled, I loved my open-faced enchiladas with tender, tasty grilled shrimp; my brother raved about the chiles rellenos; the tacos, served with freshly diced vegetables, a homemade shell, and succulent, presumably marinated, ground beef were – Yes, I’ll admit it – superior to Taco Bell’s in every single ingredient; and New Mexico’s famed green and red chiles lived up to their reputations for flavor and spice as everyone layered one or the other over their food. At the end of the meal I had the same diarrheic urge that Taco Bell inspires, but I was so supremely satisfied I wouldn’t have bemoaned an accident.

My cousins, my brother, and I split off from the adults to find a liquor store, agreeing we’d meet back up at the family reunion. After more than an hour searching, we happened past one as we drove out of town, the first we’d seen. With a limited selection of liquors and expensive prices, but knowing it would be hard to sneak cases of beer into the religious compound and not wanting to embarrass the entire family by being expelled, we settled on one half-gallon and two double-shot airplane bottles (so my brother could drink should we visit another bar) of Smirnoff, and one half-gallon of Jim Beam white label.

At ease for the first time since we’d entered New Mexico, we drove the twenty minutes to Glorieta. We followed directions to the welcome sign and beckoning white gates; passing through, we veered right. As our view opened up we were confronted with masses of teens running around, screaming, playing games and relay races modified with Southern Baptist bents, we were certain. I caught myself before I uttered the whole phrase, sounding instead what might have been mistaken for the uncertain introduction of a first timer's prayer. I doubted my hands were the only ones quivering as I thought about purchases we’d already stowed in our bags in the trunk.

The Baptist resort is enormous. The main road that loops around Glorieta is likely a mile in length, spotted with dorms, dining halls, a restaurant, a Christian store, and activity buildings, among others I never explored or noted, and there were more offshoot roads from the main drive than I cared to notice. According to the brochure, Glorieta is equipped to deal with 20,000 visitors and that didn't seem an exaggeration. There were literally thousands of summer campers milling around, all having arrived in one of the parked busses, cars, or vans with soap scribbled windows illustrating gigantic crosses and reading, “Honk if you love Jesus” and “J.C. is the man.” Immediately I thought, Have they not heard of Dwayne Wade? How I made it through the week without defiling something with a 666 or inverted cross I’ll never know.

We parked in the lot of what seemed Glorieta’s central post. Possibly distinguishable as heathens to the lurking Baptists as vampires are to Blade, we exited our rental car, seeking cover in the reception center. There we were greeted by some version of an aunt, this reunion’s organizer, and picked up meal tickets, electronic room keys, a sheet of room assignments, and a Glorieta map that rivaled in detail and landmarks an expensive Atlas. “OK, just show me where I have to sleep and where I have to eat. Here, use this highlighter.”

Our room was nice enough with two double beds and a bathroom, comparable to any decent hotel. The wooden shelf built to hold a television held a leafy green plant instead, which we’d come to expect at family reunions. We had several plastic garbage cans, two Coke machines in the lobby, and ice machines at either end of the hall. Checking the room list, on one side of our room was an equipment closet, on the other side two high school age cousins. Waking up our neighbors late into the night wouldn’t be a concern this year.

With higher Glorieta powers demanding dinner be served from the ungodly hours of 4:30-6:30pm, my brother’s breakfast time on his recent night-shift work schedule, we hurried to grab a bite and see family already arrived. It’s always a bit intimidating walking into a room of 30-40 relatives, most of whom you haven’t seen in three years, and having to exchange smiles and brief introductions, pretending to have any clue who they are beyond physical recognition, and the newly married in or engaged don’t help. It’s all too brief, too much of an overload to process and store anything, especially when half the family has names that sound like prescription drugs, which might be a side-effect of having a flat-out fucking brilliant family; as my cousin Sam noted, “This family throws around Harvard waaaaaaay too casually.”

It’s not to say the pretend-you-know-who-I-am introductions are entirely aggravating. There were moments I’d anticipated for the last three years, meeting again with my favorite cousins and relatives; my Newburyport, MA relatives, first and foremost, as the kickass family I strive to keep touch with outside of reunions, including my unofficially adopted little sister, Giuliana, who exudes pure cool and fun, who can’t help but make me smile, and who it's no secret I adore unconditionally; and this particular reunion would yield a surplus of other cousins aged a few years into awesome.

The one comforting observation our carload made in our entrance, Glorieta had plenty of sprawling athletic facilities to entertain our sporting family. After the first of many straight-from-the-freezer cafeteria meals - served in camp style buffet lines like we should have expected, but shouldn't have had to deal with at an expensive family reunion - the younger crowd, participating adults included, headed toward the baseball diamond for a game of kickball. For my soccer playing foot-eye coordination and the ability to crush a rolling rubber kickball, plus being the athletic family giant, I ended up kicking cleanup – and any other time a homerun was necessary – for my team. Everyone seemed impressed that I could wallop a ball, and I wasn’t one to tell them they’d glimpsed my single talent besides producing believable fart noises with 12 different parts of my body.

Afterward, after showering and such, the younger generations gathered in the lounge area, crowding every available table in groups of four to six with two decks of cards, recreating the image of the week from every reunion in recent memory, reestablishing rivalries and reworking strategies in the greatest and most complicated of card games, canasta, a Pardee family addiction. The older generations, most of who were housed in a lodge on the other side of the Glorieta grounds, were unquestionably engaged in the same.

One of the few who hadn’t yet learned canasta, my Halo-addicted cousin, Adam, tried to plug his Xbox into the community TV, which, predictably, had humorous consequences. The dorm’s resident Baptist enforcer, a wrinkled old lady whose Jesus hadn’t endowed good looks, detected the violation with an uncanny sense. She flew from behind closed doors lecturing, “Didn’t you see the sign?” as she reached her entire arm into the enclosed shelf that kept the cable box under the TV. Pulling out a tiny, folded piece of paper that said something about, No external devices may be connected to the TV lest Jesus himself find his reentrance to the world through input or output channels blocked, her eyes Tsked Tsked. If I’d forgotten where I was, by my cousin’s half-cocked head and contorted face, and mostly the way he answered “No,” I’d have assumed he was being interrogated by someone a notebook page of hits into an acid trip.

Still, worried Jesus might smite me if he did indeed materialize from the darkness behind the cable box, I soon retired to my room with my brother and cousins. We proceeded to play cards and imbibe with abandon, my brother and I, days later the reunion's undefeated duo, completing the first of several miraculous-comeback games of Canasta, the four of us making up for the night prior by draining the handle of Beam and cracking the Smirnoff. Waking up the next day in time for an 11:30 lunch, our room was already looking like a typical college dorm. After voices had jolted Sam from sleep earlier in the morning, prompting him to jump from bed, shooing, and hang a ‘Do Not Disturb’ hanger from the door handle, it didn’t matter. With carts in the hall and a storage closet next door, restocking no longer risked eviction.

But lunch still sucked and all the girls were underage and Baptist. To be continued...

Trying Out Travel Writing: New Mexico Day 1

2006-08-01T19:09:00.000-04:00

Every three years, my mom’s side of the family gathers in a different location for a family reunion. These gatherings, which have been held everywhere from Colorado to Charleston, SC to New York to Monterey, CA and beyond, typically draw over fifty people, and this year was no exception. This summer of 2006 we were back in New Mexico, where we’d been once before, long ago, right around the time my childhood memories begin.

As strange a sentiment as this might seem to those with dysfunctional families, I’d been looking forward to the 2006 family reunion since the day we flew back to NC from San Francisco three summers ago. I’ve got a cache of relatives, but most importantly kid cousins, stashed around the country, and every three years we converge on some locale, combining forces for good times, conspiring for the sake of hilarity. With the variety of personalities but similarities in interests, we first, second, and further removed cousins get along, for three or four days at a time, like the absolute best of friends. It’s a simple formula for fun: Give us a soccer ball, some decks of cards, an iPod, and three meals a day and we’ll entertain ourselves.

My family left for the Charlotte airport late on July 18th. After we picked up my grandma, my father and I dropped her, along with my mom and brother, off at the American Airlines baggage check while we went to park the van. Unfortunately, the overcrowded Charlotte airport must have known how entertaining it can be to stress my dad, so every parking lot we passed was blocked by a big white wooden sign with big black block letters, “LOT CLOSED.” The tension in the car built and built as we turned round and round, circling blocks and parking lots in search of an empty space; already in a crunch for time, our chances of making our flight looked less promising than my prospects for finding (unrelated) ass at the Glorieta, NM Southern Baptist conference center where we were headed.

In our hasty misdirection my dad got turned around, hanging a wrong turn and heading out of the airport, on the fast track toward the highway with no turnaround for a mile or more. Frustrated, he unleashed a string of expletives, spewing “SHIT”s, “FUCK”s, “GODDAMN”s, and “MOTHERFUCKING SON OF A BITCH”s as we sped over the pavement, out of necessity ignoring the bright-yellow-signed warnings, “SPEED LIMIT PHOTO ENFORCED.” I sat in uncomfortable silence, trying to shrink as far back in the passenger’s seat as possible. After thirty or forty repetitive curses, my dad realized he was wearing thin on originality. Far from done, however, he paused to mentally scour his bank of phrases, returning to angry exclamation with a choice that made me catch my breath, “SHIT ON A STICK.” It took every bit of composure I could muster to keep from bursting out laughing, but I couldn’t contain the snicker and lingering smile that made me fear for my wellbeing. “Shit on a stick? Are you fuckin’ serious?” I thought, “Isn’t that some kind of joke phrase?” Later, when I ridiculed my calmed father about his choice of words, he cracked a smile and said, Yes, he’d too realized how ridiculous it sounded, but given his continued rehashing of the same old profanities after “Shit on a stick,” I think the immediate humor of the moment escaped him.

After reentering the airport limits and finding parking in the gravel remote lot with the sketchy one-time $10 parking fee, paid to the guy – a probable car thief, I thought – in a generic orange jacket, then waiting thirty minutes for a shuttle not even assigned to our lot to pick us up, we made our flight on time. We flew for a few uneventful hours, landing in Dallas for a two-hour layover and a plane switch. My cousins Sam and Saul, my brother, Kerry, and I ate, then decided to traverse the terminal to scope out girls, having already addressed the phenomenon of hot girls found in disproportionate numbers in airports, and well aware we were headed to a Southern Baptist haven for the next 4 days.

None of us fulfilled our eye-contact-straight-to-quick-fuck-in-a-closet fantasies, but I was relieved that the Dallas handicapped carts that regularly transport the elderly and disabled between destinations weren’t equipped with the same incessant fire-alarm-esque, ear-and-sanity-destroying shriek as their Charlotte counterparts. I’ve always wondered what horrible crimes the Charlotte cart drivers must have committed in lives past to be damned to a karmic fate lower than death by electrocution or slow bloodletting -- but I guess being subjected to a neverending fire-alarm makes sense if they're damned to hell. In Dallas, the drivers voice their own “Beep” or “Excuse me” – and only when necessary, what a concept! – instead of being subjected to endless aural torture. Future airport cart drivers of America, flock to Dallas, forsake Charlotte.

We flew again, then landed in Albuquerque, NM with mere hours, the remainder of the night, to relieve our sexual tensions. This was a team effort only if the girls had friends, or the girl was down with some tag-team type shit, otherwise it was every man for himself. What the fuck to do? “Let’s get drunk.” But New Mexico is basically dry, and not just for being desert.

We left our parents at the hotel to pick up a case or a few fifths, asking the front desk attendant for the nearest alcohol distributor. “It’s down a few blocks,” she indicated, pointing, “probably a half-mile or so.” We speed walked through the night, surrounded by cacti and dirt and the athletic facilities of the UNM Lobos, reassured, “In the middle of a fuckin’ desert, at least we’re stuck in a college town.”

The gas station we sought proved alcoholic beverage-less, and directed us on to others further down the road. They did the same. Tired of walking, we debated our next half-mile trek, apparently the legal minimum distance between establishments in the desert, in front of an Applebee’s. “Alright, let’s grab a drink in here. We can figure out what we want to do next.”

I was lucky to be sitting at the booth, provided the cover of the tabletop, when our waitress approached with drink menus. I hadn’t noticed when she’d sat us down, but she was fucking cute. Hot. Petite, with brown hair and an undeniably pretty face, she screamed a-lil’-bit-ah-freak behind the Applebee’s family-friendly costume. Her voice completed the arousal. “Pat, let me out,” urged my brother, “I gotta go pee.” “Ummmmm, not right now,” I replied tensely, feigning interest in the menu.

“I’ll have a big fuckin’ beer, whatever he’s having,” I offered too hurriedly, nodding toward my cousin, not at all interested in checking out the menu, “Sure, the Sam Adams seasonal sounds great.” “I’ll have a water,” added my underage brother, who seemed to have lost his urgent desire to stand.

Several tall beers and a round of Jager shots later, everyone save my brother was tipsy. Sobriety, however, was no obstacle to Kerry reaching a point beyond offensive, and even further beyond just-crack-a-smile funny. The same class act who once screamed (while he was blackout drunk) at a lone female from within a crowd of large males, “I’m gonna hit that pussy hard!” brought us to tears with his perfectly-timed expert female advice, “You gotta treat ‘em like dogs and break ‘em in slow.”

And somehow that got the conversation rolling. Oh, that’s right, we’re men, young and morally ambiguous. So, as it typical, thinking about ten huge ain’t-never-gonna-happen leaps from our current situation, someone noted, “We can’t take her back to the hotel. ‘Hey Ma, we picked up a waitress from Applebee’s. Ignore the noise. Sure, Ma, she’s clean. We’re taking turns.’”

“Alright, let’s ask her if she has any friends, see if they wanna party, if we can stay at her place.”

“You do it.”

“You pussies, I’m not scared, damnit.”

The seductress returned and we failed again, but we ordered another round. And this time I noticed something. As soon as the waitress disappeared behind my shoulder, I excitedly voiced my discovery in all its confidence and fantasy building implications, “Tongue ring!” The other six eyes grew wide, the three mouths wider, thinking about hers widest of all. “Dude,” my cousin whispered sharply, peering over my shoulder, “she’s at the table right behind us.” Never noted for being tactful or possessed of good timing, I didn’t dare peek, but I knew carelessness had cost me again.

“Sorry guys,” I apologized later when we trudged back into the dry heat of the starry night. Trying to restore the mood I offered, “They stop selling alcohol at midnight. Let’s hurry.” We headed for the lights far down the block, stopping only to pee behind stacks of bricks.

With gas stations on either side of the road and only a minute remaining before midnight, we split into pairs of two, sprinting toward automatic doors. Ten drink refrigerators were a heavenly sight, filled to the brim, with…“What the FUCK!? Nothing?” My brother and I emerged with our palms up, shoulders sagging. One hundred yards away, my cousins did the same. Albuquerque, at least this part where an Applebee’s constituted all nightlife, made Davidson and Gastonia, NC look like veritable party towns. It was going to be a long mile and a half home. The week (for drinks) looked bleak. Still, I fell asleep anxious to see my cousins.

How did you find me? pt. 2

2006-08-01T12:20:00.000-04:00

Straight from the site statistics for my old Geocities account, real search engine queries that led people to my page. Even though I documented most of these keyword searches years ago, this shit still fucks with my head. I mean, damn, I thought my queries were strange and/or borderline innappropriate. Still, in a special way, it all makes me proud:

booty thumper
upperclass sluts
tickles popovich
ublcomus
sounds of poopcom
sausage fuck
diaheria song
sweatshirts by pure playaz
skinny bitches with fat as hell asses naked in bed
assflap
funny naked stuff
anal sausage
halloween shaved or shave male pattern baldness
flam ham
poop on my dick pics
coochie calander
badass sluts
8 yo sluts
assflap
what the fuck are you thinking pics
penn state nude or naked
tyler eppes
twinkie the kid picture
pba naked girls
killer klowns from outer space- pie pics
race horse names
romance conversation
aol screen names sluts
fleebus
dirty aol im conversations
funny nude xxx
captain cupcake picture
old fashioned hamburgers band
white shorts soccer penis
fuck unc
matt ferrucci
flying toasters
sypholis
pics of hands infested with warts
the worlds biggest turd
funny naked pics
project pat-get the k out my face
download lets get ready to rumble to kick the devil out of your life
picture of twinkie the kid
poop sounds
suck my sausage
jakes poo
bouncing souls stevens institute
harcorejunkie
houseguest sinbad mp3
race horse names
spring break black butt pics

ANAL SAUSAGE: This was the most frequently recurring search query. And that's gross.

8 YO SLUTS: Is this some sort of kiddie porn code for 8-year-old sluts? What the fuck is an 8-year-old slut? Where were they when I was in elementary school?

WHITE SHORTS SOCCER PENIS: So, someone's looking for pictures of see-through soccer shorts. Clever.

RACE HORSE NAMES: For your information, FuckButt was the only racehorse name I ever proposed.

SPRING BREAK BLACK BUTT PICS: Hands (pants?) down, my favorite keyword search ever.

How did you find me?

2006-07-31T21:17:00.000-04:00

There is no end to the amusement in periodically checking search engine queries used to find my page(s). My old Geocities page still returns the most far-fetched queries, and I'll provide examples for evidence soon, but even the searches used to find this blog shake -- and not just from full-bodied laughter -- my faith in human decency.

For your information, the Technorati searches that are (at least to me) inexplicably denoted by meaningless numbers actually read:

Ernie Camp
masturbation
Pussy Fucking

Try to guess which one's my favorite.

With the world as his toilet... pt. 5

2006-07-18T15:30:00.001-04:00

And thus, without further, uh, doo doo?, The Consequences of Getting Shitty (and Pissy).

In early July 2005, my close friends gathered again in Davidson for a wedding, the conjoining couple, super-rad folks, an older sister and her fiancé. The wedding itself was beautiful and eventful, complete with a raging thunderstorm and a nervous-laughter-drawing, church-shaking boom just prior to the commitments. Still, as should be expected, the main concerns of the college-aged crowd pertained to the bar:

"Will it be open, or cash?"

"Will they serve liquor?"

"Will there be of age girls, boyfriended or not? Fuck it, if there’s liquor, married or not."

"Will Bart have potty-trained before this event, something it's obvious he's forgotten to do in the twenty-one years prior, or will he still have less excretory control that most pets and some wild animals?"

Immediately after the wedding ceremony concluded, we drinkers hurried from the church, walking briskly toward the reception spot. Once arrived, we filled plates with exquisite samplers and tasty finger foods, soon scarfing juicy hunks of medium-rare meats and artfully prepared asparagus, pleasing our undistinguished palates with glasses of wine that implied sophistication beyond our grasp.

In our suits and ties, me flashing my brand new sports coat, we appeared decent human beings. Even as my face flushed red from the amassing graveyard of bottles and wineglasses, I was happy to maintain coherent conversations with various old acquaintances and adults that might not have approved the debauching I concealed.

The night stretched through hours of dancing, toasts, rowdier dancing, drunken devouring of delectable desserts, toasts that actually broke glasses, then, all but the unable to drive having departed, dancing and drinking reminiscent of a college frat party. When last call finally came near midnight, Bart, myself, and our friends crowded around the table where the wine pourer was emptying the few remaining bottles into the few remaining clean glasses. Well past buzzed, we began to chug glasses of promised hangovers, building momentum as we speedily reduced the final reserve.

“Guys, come sign the guest register,” distracted Curtis, probably intentionally, to keep us semi-conscious in the presence of his mom.

We weaved around invisible obstacles to his position thirty feet across the floor. As each of us signed the guestbook, the entries became more and more ridiculous; mine, entered in the middle of our procession, was a gigantic check mark, perhaps with a smiley face subordinate.

The glasses of chugged wine hit as we staggered toward Will’s car, set on continuing the after party at Davidson’s only late-night bar, the overpriced and too uppity Brickhouse Tavern. Arriving safely, Bart, amidst jeers, declined to accompany everyone else inside, deciding instead to recline in the passenger seat of Will’s Saturn sedan. As bar tabs mounted, he was summarily forgotten.

Then recalled.

“Pat, in case you’ve repressed or blacked-out the last four months,” began Will – “Seriously,” someone else chimed in with a laugh – “Bart,” Will continued, “has single-handedly coated both your living establishments with human waste.” I took a long swig from my frothy pint, my upper lip up to my nose stained with foam before my tongue whisked it away.

“Dude, you should shit on him,” Jake said in a steady voice, “or at least burst in and piss on his first born child immediately after delivery.”

“Fuck it,” muttered Will with a crazed drunken glint in his eye, “suturing his waste-spewing orifices closed seems fair to me.”

I sat silently. “Bump ‘n Grind” blared, too loud as always, over the Brickhouse stereo. In a moment of contemplation, Will or Jake or Colin, or, perhaps, all of them, recalled R. Kelly’s heinously inexcusable videotaped behavior. “Pat, seriously, we’ve got a revenge for you,” I looked from face to face, “Pull an R. Kelly.” Noticing my concerned reaction Will, ever aware, added, “Without the sex, dumbass.”

I closed my eyes and slammed the rest of my beer; as the empty pint clanged against the bar, I rose resolutely. A pack of three or four people followed me out of the Brickhouse, Will with his car keys in hand. Through the process of opening the Saturn's driver’s side door, then unlocking the passenger’s side door and unrolling its window, Bart neither stirred nor offered a single out-of-rhythm breath to indicate any disturbance. “Out cold, motherfucker,” called Will with conquest in his voice.

I stepped toward the open car window, fumbling with my belt. I lowered my pants and cocked my piss-cannon, drunk to the point I had no anxiety urinating under the gaze of multiple people, in the middle of a public parking lot with strangers around, and unleashed a stream of warm, clear urine that splashed upon Bart’s slowly rising and falling chest.

“In the heart, bitch,” I laughed in spite, still urinating. Uninterrupted for a good five seconds, I cut off the stream and ran like the pussy I am as soon as Bart awoke, rubbing his chest and mumbling stop in intoxicated confusion. Hiding behind an adjacent car, I watched Bart open the door and pull himself up, surrounded by people laughing and pointing, and begin to scream my name, positive without any indication I was the culprit. After a few seconds, overcome by his obscene drunkenness, Bart tired and took off his soiled clothing, tossed it into the back of the car, and resumed his position in the passenger’s seat. All at once, I understood R. Kelly's once seemingly questionable motives; peeing on Bart was among the most satisfying activities I'd ever experienced.

The night ended hours later, Bart being deposited in a bed at Will’s house by several able-armed carriers. I settled into my own bed with pride.

The next morning, well rested and sobered, I felt a bit more conflicted than the night prior. “That’s one of my best friends,” I thought, “EVER. And I just pissed all over him.” Still, I chucked at what had transpired, and ultimately, living a life guided by the principle “laughter is justification enough,” confident and happy I didn’t have the makings of a serial killer, I knew I’d have no regrets.

I dialed six digits into the phone before hanging up; the next time, eight. After several attempts, I managed all ten. Growing more pensive with each ring, I started from my trance at his emotionless hello.

“Bart, I’m sorry, man.”

“Huh? What are you talking about? Dude, I’m so fucking hungover.”

“C’mon, dude, last night. I was just drunk, you know, and everyone was egging me on. Fuck it, I mean, it was pretty funny,” I stumbled, but recovered, “but you’re my best friend and all. I didn’t mean anything by pissing on you, it was just revenge for, fuck, shitting and pissing all over my stuff, OK?”

Silence.

Laughter, growing. “Right, Pat. Sure.”

“Dude. I’m dead serious. I peed on your chest in the Brickhouse parking lot.”

Silence again, then, “WHAT??? Are…you,” his voice cracked and softened, “serious?”

“I didn’t think you were that bad off,” I replied, somewhat relieved he didn’t remember.

“OK, man,” he finally continued, “we’re even then. I can’t fucking believe you. Seriously.” Before the phone clicked I heard him mumble, "Maybe that explains why I can't find my jacket."

Our relationship was strained for the next five to ten minutes; then, we called and made up, inseparable as always. Which brings us to the present. We’re drinking partners again, spinning and vomiting stories by the bottle, Bart, a proud 22-year-old in the summer of 2006, recently passing the 1-year-without-defiling-another’s-property-with-human-waste milestone.

Congrats, Fatass, but honestly, I, and the laugh-loving potty-trained masses worldwide, hope you relapse.

College Condensed

2006-07-18T15:28:00.000-04:00

Moving from high school, college presented an entirely new dynamic. The classes were harder, the tests, too, and the teachers weren't at all willing to put up with cut-ups and silly comments. During my first year at Davidson, my GPA continued plummeting from the heights it had reached in 9th and 10th grade, and I withdrew during class because I couldn't joke around and didn’t know any social or academic alternatives.

In high school, when I'd tape the long hair of the girl sitting in front of me to my desk, pinning her head when she eventually tried to move forward, the class would laugh, as they would when I'd shove pieces of fruit and vegetables up my nose or poke people with 8-foot-long poles I'd constructed connecting Capri-Sun straws. In college, though, where it seems all anybody wants to do is learn, people looked at the interruptions I cherished like immature nuisances – maybe that’s just a "smart" private college phenomenon, I’m not sure.

Certainly, no college professor I know would allow students to stop class, tape a sleeping student to his desk with rolls of tape, then parade him up and down the halls during the class change, a handful of taping conspirators carrying the desk the now wide awake student still sat in, trapped. That's not to knock all professors, because I had some brilliant instructors with great senses of humor, it's was just a different type of learning environment. I wouldn't dare mimic my time wasting high school theatre class antics, like when Curtis and I designed a mini-play that involved us sitting on stage, listening to music, and doing actual homework for other classes, Mrs. Mott angrily marching the rest of the class out of the auditorium after a few minutes. Most sadly of all, in College it no longer felt comfortable to walk around with massive fake boogers, made by rubbing the sticky side of tape or stickers until the stickiness balls up, dangling from my nose, playing dumb to everyone kind enough to point out the embarrassing booger boulders. The atmosphere was too uptight.

So, at Davidson, needing to create an identity for myself amidst a sea of polo shirts and popped collars, I painted my fingernails black, complementing my wardrobe of predominantly black t-shirts. Now I was recognizable, and frightening to the most conservative and traditional, "Is he, like, you know, a Satanist? Ewwwww." Playing up the black fingernail shtick, I relied on lies to build a reputation. Negative publicity really is good publicity, and I always get a kick out of distorting people's perceptions of myself, testing the limits of gullibility.

To kick things off, one of my first weekends at Davidson was spent walking around, telling everyone I saw that a fellow freshman had been hit by a car and killed. The story went that he was playing in the sewer, got bored and decided to leave, climbed a nearby ladder and pushed open the heavy metal cover, then began hoisting himself up. Tragically, though, having unwittingly chosen a sewer exit positioned in the middle of a highway, the bumper of a fast traveling car caught him square in the face so that his "head popped off like a Lego." To my astonishment, if I got through the entire story without laughing, more often than not it was believed. Fuck, people, nobody but the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles play in the sewer.

My black fingernails evidence I was crazy, evil, and unstable, my next major lie was my best ever, spreading across the campus for months. Eventually, my friends would report hearing it repeated by people that didn't actually know me, but knew of PBA and his terrible exploits. I became a legend without doing a thing.

It started at lunch one day, sitting with some other freshman I didn't know too well, explaining to them how, as a native Davidsonian, I'd decided to attend Davidson College. The question was asked, "How many other kids do that?" and I named the few others I knew. "Yeah, I've known Brandon since elementary school. We were in the same Boy Scouts troop, and we used to hang out together." For no other reasons than being bored and a compulsive lair, I decided to use my imagination to spice the conversation.

"Actually, I used to spend a lot of time with him." Pause. "Until I killed his cat."

"WHAT? No way." My tablemates set down their drinks and silverware, exchanging glances. "What are you talking about?"

As I improvised the story, it grew ridiculous, more and more so with each subsequent retelling, rehashings mounting in frequency as the word spread. What made the story most convincing was Brandon's playing along, particularly on that first day in the cafeteria, when he happened to walk by my table, pausing to confirm the details of my lie without flinching, convincing the unconvinced.

Fully blown, the story said in 4th grade I'd been a much more disturbed child, the kind that needed regular psychiatric counseling and an array of meds. One time, while at Brandon's house, while he and his parents were in another room, I'd preheated the oven to nearly 500 degrees. After coaxing the family cat within my reach, I'd picked it up, yanked open the oven door, tossed in the cat, and slammed shut the door. Then, sitting cross-legged on the linoleum kitchen floor, peering through the oven door's glass window, I'd watched the cat claw and crash around in desperation before finally combusting. When Brandon and his parents came to investigate the commotion and the unusual stench I’d apologized without emotion, afterward being banned forever from their residence and ushered into therapy. I liked to conclude the story by saying, "But I'm much better now," then watch my audience all glance at my black fingernails.

It is just too fucking easy to manipulate people. I can't help myself.

Sometime during sophomore year I stopped painting my nails. But by then I was considered a certified crazy. Whether blacking-out and slapping random people, talking generally funny shit or gibberish the whole time, or getting mad about losing a game of Beirut, telling one of my opponents, "I like you," then the other, "but fuck you," and whipping a full beer can at his head, narrowly missing and denting the wall just behind him, I was sometimes out of control.

Such a lack of control was documented on my infamous Celsius 149 DVD, the final submission and my first video creation for an independent film class; the title, supposedly the temperature at which flesh burns. Years worth of drinking exploits caught on tape, from high school beach trips to blacked-out nights in College, won over the surprisingly large student audience, 100+ I think, but not even their laughing could convince the professor judges to award Mr. McKinney and I the top prize. But fuck 'em, we won the popularity contest, with people still asking me for copies of the DVD two years later.

Often, I chose to push boundaries for the sake of the joke, forsaking political correctness in favor of stunned reactions, riotous laughter or awkward silence, either as rewarding as the other. My favorite in-class moment at Davidson, for instance, occurred during my first semester when I gave a PowerPoint presentation about the Patriot Act to my political science class. Since my topic required mentions of terrorists and terrorism, I inserted an easily identifiable photograph of my good but still new Pakistani pal and fellow classmate Usman -- without his consent, if I remember correctly -- under the heading TERRORISM. Usman loved it as I thought he would, thus cementing our friendship, but the rest of the class was mortified, just as I'd hoped.

It was rather shortly into Freshman year I realized I couldn't be a dick in class, with few exceptions, but outside it was quite easy, even acceptable. After that, College life became exponentially more enjoyable. Bored on several occasions, my friends and I shot off fire extinguishers, coughing and laughing through the white clouds. Usman and I sprayed realistic piles of poo in public places with my appropriately labeled bottle of "Instant Smelly Shit," the best episode occurring when we covered the soda can-width rim of a recycling container to look like someone had aimed their waste into the hole -- and failed. Waking the next day, our efforts were rewarded, "Dude, did you hear someone shit in the basement of Richardson last night?" No, but please, tell me all about it.

I disregarded College regulations and rules. I tossed lit fireworks at people on a regular basis. One day I tossed an M-60 out the window, intending it to land near some kids I knew standing outside. The only problem was there was a tree in my way, and threading the branches didn't work out exactly as I'd planned. It worked out better. The firework deflected of one branch, then another, finally falling directly onto the large, curly hair cushioned head of the plump boy below. The M-60 bounced off, exploding somewhere between his chin and knees. He jumped and yelled, and I took off for my room before he looked up at the window. Shutting the door, panting and laughing with my roommate, Will, I took my place at my computer and opened a random textbook for effect. Minutes later, after listening to the loud knocks and interrogating voices making their way down the hall, door-to-door, my two classmates arrived. "Come in," I answered.

The door swung open, banging against the doorstop and rebounding quickly. Both boys walked in, the one I hadn't hit approaching aggressively, the actual victim hanging back in uncertainty. Without stopping, the angry friend landed a hard blow to my shoulder, then stood back, making way for the timidly approaching pranked punk, who landed a much meeker blow but seemed rather proud of himself. I didn't react in the way they seemed to expect I might, instead turning my body around, still seated, to look at and laugh with Will. Finding a breath in between laughs, I finally responded, "Well, alright dudes, that's cool," then continued laughing. They left without a word, leaving the door open behind them. Will and I concurred, their hilarious, if mildly painful, reaction to my mischief definitely justified my actions.

Later freshman year, during a major ice storm that had destroyed a local power station and downed power lines across the region, Will and I, armed with bottle rockets and roman candles, climbed the steps in our dorm, assuming a vantage point at the 4th story window. As people baby-stepped by outside, carefully traversing the treacherously iced terrain, we lit our fireworks and took aim through the open window. It was a beautiful setup. Our unsuspecting targets wouldn't be able to move fast enough to escape our firing, and if they tried, they'd bust their asses.

When the sky started raining multi-colored balls of fire, the students walking by freaked out and tried to hurry away. We laughed at their futility, then waited for another passerby. After a few rounds, someone ascended the staircase, emerging into the hall through the doors just beside us. "You the guys shooting the fireworks?" I turned, smoking fireworks and a lighter in hand, and suppressed a sarcastic remark, "Yeah, it's awesome. You wanna get somebody?"

"No, I'm RLO."

Ohhh, FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK

"I'm going to have to take those," he stated, arms extended, "and your names, too."

I gave my name, he wrote it down, and I was summoned to a Code of Responsibility violation meeting the next week. At the meeting, sitting alone on one long side of rectangular table, across from several Deans of Students and RLO toolbags, those pussyass sellout bitches of peers who patrol the campus and rat on their friends in the name of "order" and "safety" and "no fun," everyone but me taking themselves waaaaaay to seriously with their intense stares and refusal to smile, I wanted to remind them I'd shot off a few fireworks, not raped a drunk co-ed or clubbed a goose to death. They kept insisting what I'd done was highly illegal, and had I not read the Red Book that outlines a few reasonable rules and a whole bunch of bullshit ones, because not reading it was a violation in itself. After acting high-and-mighty for a while, the dipshits leading the proceedings noting it was time for their free TV lessons from Judge Judy, I was excused and ordered to give a hall presentation on fireworks safety. A week later, gathering all my hallmates, I informed, "Don't do fireworks, blah blah blah, or just don't get caught." My cool ass hall counselors signed a sheet saying I'd performed my required service, and I was free.

But a little scare from the administration couldn't derail fun and a blatant disregard for policy. Another night, maybe freshman year, Usman and I posed as RLO. Imitating the stiff dress and mannerisms of the weekend underage-drinking and you're-being-too-loud-for-me-to-study-so-I'm-gonna-get-you-in-trouble patrol -- while we ourselves were underage and drunk -- we strolled up and down dorm hallways and around campus with clipboards, accosting anyone we saw, underage or not. "Sir," or, "Mam," we'd start, "have you been drinking?" They usually replied in the negative, but we'd continue harassing them, demanding information like name, birthdate, telephone and Social Security number, bringing some of the girls to tears and petrifying some of the boys with threats of expulsion and huge fines we knew we couldn't level -- nor would we ever want to, as Usman, I, and every other drinker on campus loathed RLO and everything it stands for, basically ruining fun and parties. Eventually, we encountered real RLO personnel, who were none too pleased at our spot on impersonations. They confiscated our clipboards and warned of harsh punishments should we ever repeat our stunt. We laughed, then went on a drinking binge.

Junior year, Will, still my roommate, and I stole furniture from our hallmates:

Hey guys. I hope you're doing well. Upon unlocking Patrick's door for him, I noticed that the girls' pod table was in your suite. The girls have been looking for their table for some time now. Please be advised that the pod furniture is not to leave the pod. You need to return the table to the pod ASAP. It's not fair to the residents. Thanks for your cooperation!

Erika

One Friday night, so drunk I could barely stand, I smashed a frat window with a champagne bottle after becoming enraged the house members wouldn't let my underage friends drink, but also because the toughguy frat-stars had to talk shit, too. "Fuck a fight when I can break shit," that's my motto.

By junior year, however, lying, at which I was once so adept, had taken a backseat to troublemaking, and even more sex, except when lying helped get sex or kept a partner happy so sex might continue. After one long night of drinking, I called the girl I'd been hooking up with for some time. In my condition it was amazing I could remember, and even more impressive dial, her number. "I'mcomingover," I spit into the receiver, burping a little, "sowecan,hahaoohhh,hangout ahhhhh." When I barreled into her room, she helped me into bed. The next thing I knew, I was waking up to sunlight. Groggy, not recovered from the night before, I noticed I was taking up 9/10ths of the bed, pushing the girl into corner of her bed, wedging her between my gangly, sprawling limbs and the wall. She noticed I was awake. "God, can you move over. You totally pushed me into the corner last night and took all the room." Her anger was evident. "And did I hear you spitting last night? It sounded like you spit a huge loogie." No way, I promised, explaining to her I'd never do such a thing, being too nice and too clean a boy, raised by a proper Southern women who didn't stand for spitting unless it was on a baseball diamond and only then as long as she didn't see it. I soon walked back to my room, seeking my own bed, away from the prudish girl I didn't know why I kept coming back to except that I was too shy to pursue anyone else and afraid of losing a reliable hookup. Back in my dorm, I recounted the story to my roommate, both of us laughing so hard the short story took five minutes to finish, both of us fully aware I frequently spit huge, inappropriate globs without considering location when I'm hammered, wondering where I'd launched the wad last night and how long it would be before my hookup found it.

Inspired by my minor dishonesty, happily returning to my creative lying ways, I soon invented a story intended to dissuade the worst-voiced-ever one-night stand – who had came crawling back the next night to be softly, kindly rejected – from ever entertaining Pat-sexing notions again. Starting from scratch with Colin one evening, wanting to make sure I didn’t get drunk around that girl again, I had to explain to her why I wasn’t drinking at a particular party we'd both attended. Knowing it would hurt her feelings if I said, “Because you’re here, and I sure as fuck never want to go home with you again,” I told her, in all seriousness, “I’ve given up drinking, uh, wow, it's hard to talk about, since, well, the incident.”

“The incident? Oh, my! What happened?” she quickly asked, concern lost behind the piercing whine of her voice. I wanted to say stop talking, but, again, being such a sensitive guy, I figured the better solution would be to just keep talking, never letting her interject commentary.

“Well, I got really, really drunk one night recently. I’ve had episodes before, you know. But nothing like this. This was scary. I just lost control. I took off all my clothes and ran into the woods, stark naked. It was night, and I got down on all fours like any wild animal. I started exploring, creeping around like a predator, careful and calculating in each step. Finally, I spotted some small creature, about the size of a raccoon or cat. Fuck. I don’t know what it was. Anyway, something in my mind told me I had to track it, so I did. The animal was distracted by some other task so I eased my way toward it. I took fucking minutes to move inches, like a professional killer of a wood’s creature. Finally, when I was close enough, I lashed out and snagged the little critter before it could react. I raised it to my mouth and bit it.” I swallowed, glad the mesmerized bitch didn’t try to say anything. “Over and over. Fucking hard, too. I killed it. Can you believe it? I tore it to shreds with my bare teeth. Then I went back home and went to sleep. So you can probably understand why I’m not drinking now, right?”

She didn’t answer the question, choosing instead to confound me. “Wow, Pat,” she laughed, “Well, if there’s anyone I would expect to do that, it would be you.”

What the motherfuck?

There you are, I’ve acted and lied my way into the reputation of an asshole maniac, even though I’m not.

Really.

My ears are sad, my fists just wanna pump, and, damnit, why can't I jump (at least 40 inches)?

2006-07-17T10:53:00.000-04:00

In the spirit of more typical bloggin', in a throwback to my LiveJournal and Geocities pages, I'm going to post some links, pictures, and videos and ramble for a while.

Also, my 3-4 regular readers, I'll be at a family reunion in New Mexico from the 19th-24th. The extended fam's staying at a big Baptist conference center near Santa Fe -- no, we're not Baptists, it's just a perfect gathering place for 50+ people -- so don't expect any updates for a few days. My time's going to be spent far from computers, mostly playing cards and scheming with my cousins to sneak alcohol past God's, and the fulltime staff's, watchful eyes. I'll post something before I leave, then return triumphantly with the conclusion of the Barry rectum and bladder saga.

Now, the fun...

Ridiculous type balla shit

First off, human athleticism is goddamn gettin' outta hand, and I love it. Maybe you've already seen this, but some freak of nature on the And1 MixTape Tour recently threw down a 720º degree dunk. For the not-so-mathematically-inclined, that means pulling off two complete 360º rotations while gliding through the air, and still having the time to casually catch the rim and slam the ball through.

Musical Musings

One of the best tours ever will be kicking off September 1st, but headliners Strike Anywhere are neglecting to visit their North Kakalak home, Carrboro's Cat's Cradle. By avoiding NC, RVA's finest are also depriving Carolinians rabid for live hardcore-punk greatness of seeing Ignite (whose latest release, "Our Darkest Days," is essential), Modern Life is War, and A Global Threat. I want to cry, but instead I'm going to spearhead a movement to hit the road and catch the tour. So, who's with me? Whenever and wherever it works for you, it makes no difference to me. It's not like I've got shit to do or anything. Check out the dates and let me know.

Some X-type shit

Last week at Curtis' house, Jake, Cut, Katie, and I sat around, bored. Can you believe that, bored in Davidson? Wow. Anyway, after never leaving the couch but verifying the smoke detectors didn't work, we threw in an old VHS of the first X-Men cartoon episode, "Night of the Sentinels." Right away we got into a conversation about the lamest X-Men character(s). Storm was a frontrunner for the others, but I disagreed. Without Storm, we'd never have been able to drool over Halle Barry in all her contact-covered white-eyed sexiness.

My vote was for Jubilee [left]. Female superheroes like Psylocke [right], my first ever comic book crush, were beautiful and badass. But Jubilee? She's tiny, worthless, and 15-years-old, always getting in trouble and requiring rescue. And her superpower? She shoots fireworks -- wait, that actually sounds a little intimidating, so let's say what they really are -- celebratory sparklers from her fingertips. You know, sparklers, the fireworks that are safety approved for 5-year-olds? The only fireworks legal in more strictly regulated states like NC. If you're not careful, sparklers can burn you a little, at least singeing hair and clothing.

Jubilee's the kid that makes every situation worse, inflicting just enough pain, really annoyance, to piss off the superbad enemies with real powers. For Jubilee's own good, I recommend she retire ASAP, lest she ever find herself around a real bad dude without her X-buddies:

"Hey, look, some retarded kid thinks she's a superhero, how cute. And even I, ultra-evil and all, have sympathy for the mentally handicapped. Come here, little cutie."

"OOOUUUUUCCCCCHHHH. Wait? Did that little bitch really just shoot me with some fireworks. You know, I was just gonna give her a lollipop, but now I'm gonna fuckin' kill 'er."

I'm pretty sure I've figured out how and why Jubilee was created. In a (monocultural) writers' meeting:

"OK, we're getting some pressure to diversify the X-Men."

"What, Storm wasn't enough?"

"Apparently not."

"Whatever, let's do a Chinese-American character. Female, too"

"How about she can transform into a dragon? Or a great big wall? Or a fortune coo--"

"Shut the fuck up, intern. I've already got it. She'll shoot fireworks, duh."

Oh, stereotyping, the ignorant American way.

One last quick note: is there a rule against comic book characters changing clothes? Because I swear they don't. They've got their one set of standard non-fighting attire and their costume, which are sometimes one in the same, but I can't recall ever seeing any variation beyond that.

With the world as his toilet... pt. 4

2006-07-15T22:46:00.001-04:00

The evening of June 11, 2005 began with a LiveJournal entry still very wary of Bart's excretory control:

Thinking about getting drunk tonight, as of now enjoying family margarita hour. Bart is on the way, so I'm putting plastic down over all our floors and furniture.

It would end with justification.

The arrival: A few drinks into the evening, while relaxing on my front porch gripping a glass streaked with condensation, cool sips mitigating the thick summer dusk, Bart arrived, easing his Outlander against the curb.

I approached the car at an easy pace, my left hand hovering about my waist, holding my drink; Bart walked around the front of the car onto the sidewalk. We clasped right hands, pulled in and bumped chests to arms, "Hey, man. What's up?"

Bart carried his bag of bare essentials into the house, his car crammed, as always for the transplanted man now deprived a home town, with the rest of his life. We settled in the kitchen for a beer, discussing the night's agenda, basically making the typical collegiate decision about how sloshed we planned to get: "So, one case or two?"

"It's always better to play it safe," we decided, departing for Food Lion's weekly specials, seeking cases of 24 for around 10 bucks, the elixir of nightlife canned and cheap. After purchasing beverages, we filled the cooler Bart kept in his car, smushed between piles of dirty shirts, sweaty shorts, ripped socks, and well-worn cleats, then drove toward the cluster of college homes where leftover students congregated in the summer, converging nightly around particle board and ping-pong tables for passionate games of Beirut (often referred to as Beer Pong, whether correctly or not).

We turned down the dead end street, parking off the side of the gravel road. I stepped out and stretched my arms, yawning, cocked my t-shirt matching black hat just to the side, then picked up the cooler. Bart followed just behind as we strolled down a driveway to the back of a dilapidated house, nodding our heads to the music emanating from a stereo somewhere. Opening into the backyard, groups of solo cup wielding kids spotted the yard, more crowding around two long tables with 10-cup pyramids at their ends. Two people were stationed at each end of the tables, one side holding ping-pong balls, the other side prepared to swat bounced attempts.

I set the cooler on the ground, retrieved two cans, and popped the tabs, handing one refreshment to Bart and keeping one myself. I took a swig, reinvigorating my dulling buzz.

"Next," I bellowed without a hello.

Within minutes we were on a table, two cocky, athletic assholes running game after game against overmatched opponents, the quality of summer competition inferior to the friends and roommates I regularly trained against. Insulting our opponents in every way possible, dancing around, taking trick shots, and making obscene gestures with our crotches, we dominated, all the while drinking from sidecups to counter the lack of opponent made cups. The details of the night merged through the games, becoming indistinguishable, Bart and I positive only we still had beer in the cooler and wanted to sleep in beds that night. My house was 2 miles away, and we'd both already faded to black.

All of a sudden I was stumbling into my bedroom, ignoring my toothbrush and hygiene in drunken habit, uncertain how I'd materialized in my family's place of residence. Amplifying my confusion, I noted I wasn’t wearing ruby heels, but I heard a cackle down the hall. Holding the doorframe with both hands, I poked my head out. Bart, glowing in the face like a radish, was lying on his back just at the top of the stairs, spastically waving his hands in the air, laughing uncontrollably.

“Dudemyparents…asleeping,” I bumbled.

Bart’s eyes searched the hall, finally finding me. His eyes shrunk to slits as a huge, toothless grin engulfed his face. “Ahhhhhgghhhhhhh,” was all he offered, before rolling over and crawling into the playroom that was his pen every visit. He closed the door partly then paused, still on all fours, peeking at me once more, barking softly, and then pushed closed the door.

I leaned back inside my room, closed the door, and killed the lights, then navigated my way into bed, where sleep came almost instantly. The last things I saw were numbers magically searing the black: 2:30.

I startled at a thud, heard fumbling, then my bedroom door opening. Drunk, I batted my eyes, the hovering numbers burned red: 4:00. I moaned, closing my eyes again. “Kerry just got home,” I rationalized, in no condition to be concerned at the uncharacteristic intrusion, simply assuming my brother needed something from my room. I heard shuffling nearing my bed so I turned away, sinking the other side of my face into the pillow.

Lacking any conception of time, I turned back over and my clock informed two minutes had passed. I blinked, “Shit,” then kept my eyes open, “He never left.” Over the whir of my two fans I thought I discerned a faint trickling, but the night’s activities discredited my senses. My slowly adjusting eyes didn’t lie, though.

Faint moonbeams slipped through the space between my dark curtains, barely illuminating a human figure shorter and pudgier than my brother’s. I tensed, cutting off my breath, and balled my fists.

“What the --? He’s wearing pale white clothing over his entire --,” I opened a fist and cupped my crotch, “God, NO! A naked vampire sexual assaulter.” I wanted to scream, but I didn’t, afraid to cause a commotion that might clue the devilish creature to the whereabouts of my family and friend. The pudgy baggage hanging from the creature’s belly squashed any hope I had of foiling the attack I knew was coming, “He’s well fed, obviously an expert at sexing sleepers and sucking their blood.”

I edged toward the corner of my bed, bracing myself against the wall. The naked white body still hadn’t moved, standing silently just beside the head of my bed, probably contemplating the best way to subdue and rape me, smirking at me with perfect nocturnal vision.

All of a sudden the body turned, perhaps too fast, as it fell to the left. The arm the creature extended to break its fall found my blanketed shin, the hand proceeding to grope my leg in jerky motions. My eyes, rapidly adjusting to the dark, saw the creature swaying on unsteady knees. "Great, a drunk, naked vampire," I lamented, already resigned to the molestation getting underway.

With a surge of power, the arm pushed off my leg, propelling the attached body across my room with several thunderous steps and a final crash. Then the room was silent again. Uncertain what to do, but thinking turning a light on might deter, and hopefully destroy, my nightstalker, I reached up to my bedside table and pushed the button on the base of my lamp.

As the light flickered on, surprise and disgust collided to create the most tortured expression my face has known. On my floor, splayed out in a pose only appropriate for sexy, skinny supermodels, lay Bart, obviously more drunk than I, smiling at me with a blank gaze, the permanent smile of mild retardation gracing his face. Looking like an amateur model for a backwoods, fat-fetish Playgirl, Bart's legs were extended but crossed, and one arm was bent, hand under chin, an elbow on the ground supporting his drowsy head; his other hand had already picked a clean shirt from the pile of folded clothes on my floor, the shirt now dangling precariously over his obscured penile region. "Burning that tomorrow," was my first thought, slowly becoming aware my light-activating finger felt wet.

Concerned enough with the out-of-place wetness to distract my attention from the lump of naked flesh lying on my floor, still dumbfounded, I noticed a thin layer of clear liquid covering my bedside table, droplets cascading over the edge, audible drips crashing onto the pile of books I'd stacked on the floor. Suddenly it made sense, I had heard a tinkling sound.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Bart?"

His smile grew and he laughed, utterly incapable of any other reaction or explanation.

"Get the fuck out of my room," I barked, still halfway under my sheets, "you worthless piece of shit."

He dropped my shirt and covered his genitals with his hand. After managing to stand, he waddled out of the room, his naked ass mocking me all the way.

"I'm going to piss all over you," I promised, prompting no response from the exiting, incoherent pisser. "And dude, why are you naked? Where in God's name are your clothes? Aren't you sleeping on the --," I cut short, realizing I'd need to build a bonfire the next day, "couch?"

The next fifteen minutes I spent cleaning urine from the top of my bedside table and soaking it up from the floor surrounding. Amazingly, Bart had urinated a foot to the right of my laptop and a few inches to the left of my alarm clock, somehow avoiding the electrical dick shock he certainly deserved, but also, thankfully, missing pissing on my face by just a foot.

As is customary of Bart's drunken bathroom debacles, he had no recollection of the misadventure, when sober unable to explain how he'd confused my bedroom for a bathroom, my bedside table for a toilet, or, most concerning of all, why he'd decided to shun clothing.

In the midst of all this, I felt it urgent to update my LiveJournal:

Jason just called me at 4:30am. [Months Later Editors Note: In the conversation ensuing, Jason offered a drunken mindfucker I remember to this day, "Do something surprising, do something special."] Normally I wouldn't have been awake to take his call. The past few minutes have been far from normal. I'm somewhere around hammered. Apparently Bart is much, much, MUCH worse. This is a story I will describe in a bit more detail soon, like tomorrow when sober, and I obviously wish I was joking, but Bart walked into my room around 4:15am, completely fucking naked, and pissed all over my bedside table before lying down naked on my floor and covering his genitals with my shirt from the floor. Bart dies soon. I've been cleaning up piss for the last 15 minutes.

Bart kindly pointed out the next morning, the morning of June 12, it was too bad I had only been joking on my LiveJournal about plastic-laying preparations for his visit. Indeed, I was relieved my parents didn’t report a urinating intruder had defiled their bedroom, but even more so not to find shit smeared on any walls.

However, having been violated by human waste one too many times in a time period much too short to forget either offense, revenge became my all-consuming obsession. Bart left my house again, sure to return to Davidson soon enough, but he wouldn't leave my mind.

The Third Person

2006-07-14T16:52:00.000-04:00

Just because I'm not a celebrity (yet) or professional athlete, there's no rule saying I can't refer to myself in the third person -- or, in my case, in any of my many third persons. Among the many names and abbreviations and acronyms by which I've been identified are:

Patrick
Pat
Patty
Pattywack
PBA
PBGay
pbahaysway
PBJ
PB & J
Pibba
Pooba
Poobs
Peebs
Pibbs
Pibbles
Pibblet
P-A-Teasy
Project Pat
Mr. Pibba

Now, this writer will sum up his life.

Patrick was born in Pennsylvania, has a sudden, violent temper that makes him punch his brother too much and break things, and finished 2nd in the race for class clown in a HS graduating class of 550+.

Pat moved to Davidson, North Carolina and has lived there for too long, breaking each arm badly in that time, though neither accident occurred within the Davidson town limits and the titanium plates and screws from the worst break don't even set off metal detectors, but the long scars rule.

Patty was a strange elementary schooler, spending all of his time dreaming about dessert, trying to lie his was into eating one more cream horn, reading voraciously, and playing basketball.

Pattywack's NBA aspirations were foiled when he was twice the last single person cut from basketball teams, even though years later he would discover he could throw down the rare dunk given nobody was guarding him and he felt exceptionally loose and energetic.

PBA, the acronym, became more recognizable than its human subject, Patrick.

PBGay likes girls to kiss and cuddle and sexify, boys to compete against in athletics (though girls are fun too), and all, including gendered insects and plantlife, as friends.

pbahaysway doesn't care for grammar, even though he fancies himself a writer, popular trends, unless they're cool, bandwagon fans, unless he's jumping on, too, or morality, even though he prides himself on being a good role model.

PB thinks he is lucky to be STD free, hopes the bevy of tests the health insurance agency administered confirm just that, and promises to be more cautious in the future.

PBJ scares some people, offends others, amuses a few, and makes them all horny, despite being too lazy to get regular haircuts or shave.

PB & J is not a sandwich, but he suffers and benefits from ADD and OCD.

Pibba, lover of music, especially live, enjoys punk rock, indie rock, classic rock, basically every variation of rock, metal, hardcore, hip-hop, blues, and goregrind, too, but not only for the kickass name.

Pooba is pretty tall and very skinny, even though he has in the past attempted to lift and put on weight, and daily consumes more calories than you probably do.

Poobs, also the name of an unrelated DJ/producer, honestly loves being a camp counselor, and has adopted nicknames his coolest groups of campers have given him.

Peebs, a compulsive liar, was once mistaken by several people as a Davidson College frat house DJ, thereafter deciding to assume that "other" identity to fuck with those mistaken individuals, constantly promising he'd burn the beggars copies of his much lauded mixes, laughing with his conspiring friends all the while, knowing exactly who the real DJ was.

Pibbs, though only bubbly on rare occasions, is a happy, regularly smiling and joking individual, not dark and gloomy like the black fingernail polish he wore for a year probably convinced a lot of people.

Pibbles, as innocent as he seems (and kindhearted as he is), was disappointed he couldn't forever stall turning 18, the age that makes almost everything fun punishable-by-felony, inextricable-from-your-permanent-record illegal.

Pibblet doesn't know how he got so fucked up, but thinks underage substance abuse was a strong contributing factor, and wasn't at all conflicted about being a 12th grade D.A.R.E. role model, simultaneously laughing at his own hypocrisy and glad to be a positive influence.

P-A-Teasy is a good if inconsistent (always, goddamnit!) runner, basketball and soccer player, a minor headcase that never realized his potential in athletics, and, come to think of it, academics, though he is finally getting over all that.

Project Pat loves ice cream, can speak "ghetto-ish" when in thuggish acting-and-speaking company, used to be involved in some highly illegal activities besides substance abuse and speeding and vandalism -- NARROWLY avoiding arrest on several occasions -- before better sense and the desire for a good future intervened, and has realized, after 20 years, he needs to get the fuck out of boring Davidson, considering Ann Arbor, MI, Chapel Thrill, NC, Charleston, SC, and anywhere, Vermont, Colorado, or California as potential destinations.

Mr. Pibba, choosing to ignore he's so undisciplined as to regularly string together paragraph-long sentences with commas, wishes writing would pay the way for the rest of his life, but realizes he'll probably have to give in and get a real job, learn how to do laundry, and drink without throwing or smashing things or offending people, though he hopes he continues the habit of spitting when drunk because it has produced at least one great hookup story.

A rare moment of honest, inoffensive reflection.

2006-07-12T22:17:00.000-04:00

A father figure to the littluns and a big brother to those a bit older, for five summers past campers have dictated my mood at the end of the day, and they inhabit most of my memories from the summers of soccer and lake camps. But, through all the great groups and memorable individuals, and all the wanna-kick-‘em-in-tha-face and drown ‘em bad one’s, too, I’ve never before canonized my campers.

Or, finished with camps for yet another summer, never knowing what I’ll be doing the next year, even more uncertain given my recent Davidson graduation, should I say Eulogized?

Working camps is a job I love, obviously. When you have great campers, being a counselor is a perfect job, transforming babysitting responsibilities into hours of casual conversation and uninhibited joking, destroying boundaries like age and gender to cement new, albeit usually brief, friendships. Kickass campers make it all genuine fun, the mutual affection obvious and appreciated.

Conversely, one wretched runt can bring the wrath of hell, constant nagging and incessant squawking stretching a week into an eternity, their pre-pubescent pitch a fire alarm that can’t be legally disarmed. And camp counselors need that motherfuckin’ paycheck, so appropriate, non-violent behavior is a must.

Luckily, defying a karma rating that must, by now, be boiling near the bottom of hell, I’ve been blessed week after week with exceptional (with soccer camps fresh in my mind) lil’- and not-so-lil'- ballas. Lame names, I know, but I'm a little wary of the word campers, for the inherent boundary, the formal separation it places between kids and counselors. And counselors like me are just gigantic, bearded kids, anyway.

How can anyone complain when work means hours of chillin' and jokin' with friends? From one of my young bucks asking out every college-aged lifeguard at the pool, a smooth 12-year-old fishing for older women, to dodging camper peltings and smearings with North Kakalakian red clay, every week has its moments. Lunching with crazy munchkins screaming, vying for adult attention, dodging occasional slaps to the face, accidentally injuring campers in moments of horse-playing indiscretion, and, ha, eyeing MILFs at drop-off and pick-up, puts the fun in the job.

The best camps are ridiculous shit shows fueled by cool-ass kids. From the constant expansion of my vocabulary, di-di for diarrhea is a must mention, iPod-aided parties in the camp store, and raids on Ben & Jerry’s, to relaxing with awesome music-and-Carolina-Hurricanes-and-everything-else-I-love-appreciating kids, even overcoming the Ohio State problem to kick it with a cool crony, it all makes me want to go to work – can you imagine? – a tribute to the job, but even more the kids.

Whether dealing with unrelenting heat, required training sessions and accumulating injuries, keeping company with the pre-camp-injured-but-came-anyway-to-hang-out injured reserve, ragging on my beat ass car, laughing in shock at innocent (and not-so-innocent) looking teens with the filthiest of mouths (and criminal records!), and, of course, navigating borderline inappropriate and way-over-the-line¹ (but hilarious) conversations – just being goofy, goddamn being cool – camp keeps me geekin’ [questionable usage?], for real, tho. Ta-ha, HAAAAAAAAAAAA.

Sometimes this shit makes me miss being a bit younger, which I think is half the reason I love it so. Being around the younger kids and teenagers keeps me real. It reminds me who I was, I hope still am, and that, somehow, I can actually be a good role model and influence, despite my many shortcomings. Fuck it, let’s be honest, my absolute moral depravity. Let’s just hope being a great camp counselor – not ego-trippin’, just quoting the kids – is enough to redeem me in the end.

¹ - So I'm hoping my computer savvy older girls -- the badass, so rad Chapel Thrillers + Texan + Durhamite -- sure to stumble across this page don't emerge scarred or scared, offended or afraid of my vile humor. Knowing their senses of humor and the wide variety of questionable topics they have no problem broaching, I'm confident they won't.

With the world as his toilet... pt. 3

2006-07-11T00:16:00.001-04:00

Though the exact circumstances were swallowed by an unprecedented blackout, the fact remains, it happened. And the wild speculation as to what actually transpired fuels the legend itself.

Late into that night of mid March madness, I was unconscious, drooling into my pillow, separated by a mere fifteen feet and one closed door from the black leather couch the stuporous Slagle was splayed across. Or, at least, should have been splayed across.

At approximately 5:00am, a woozy Usman stepped from the regular weekend spit and vomit coating, piss drenching of Tomlinson's elevator onto the dorm's 4th floor. He struggled down the hallway toward our suite, his outstretched hands repeatedly seeking the cement-blocked walls for support, feet shuffling with the confidence of a recent hip-replacee. Leaning with his full body weight, he forced open the heavy door to the suite's common room. Entering a scene that must have boggled his boozy mind, the horrid stench struck him first.

Bart, a classic hammered case, was defying the comforts of the couch, enticed instead by assurances of waking bodyaches, courtesy the thinly carpeted concrete floor. Usman, cringing for the unnatural odor, thought to step over Bart and check the toilet, wary that incompetent or inconsiderate partiers might have bathroomed sloppily. Mid step, though, he noticed the damnedest thing.

Bart had fallen asleep without removing his shoes or shirt, neither uncommon for a heavy drinker passing out, but his shorts and boxers both were resting around his ankles, exposing Bart's naked buttocks and genitalia. "Peculiar," Usman thought, then noticed the brown piles flanking the sleeping bare, "Oh. My. Fucking. GOD!"

Usman must have gagged or muttered some prayer to Allah, because Bart suddenly stirred; jumping to his feet, the elastic waistbands restricting his ankles made him stumble, and he swayed perilously above the brown mounds below. Steadying himself, he leaned down and yanked up his shorts and stained boxers, his head frantically surveying the room. His Blood Alcohol Content, and maybe his family name, convincing him innocence was as simple as denying the crime, he wagged a finger at a brown pile that resembled a pear and exclaimed, half trying to persuade himself, "That wasn't me." Turning around, pointing at the other pile of feces that had fenced his sleeping body, he repeated his exclamation in a wavering voice.

The large pudding plops, the color and consistency of Wendy’s Frostys, mocked from the floor. Several other piles Bart had been too tired to address were sprinkled around the room. A plump pile rested upon the armrest of the ottoman, over two feet off the ground, while another claimed the seat, and one enjoyed the cushioned footrest as well.

Usman, far too drunk to deal with Bart’s scatturd mess, shook his head and walked into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him without looking back. Bart, ignoring the chafing sensation just outside his anus, unable to comprehend that an immediate cleanup was in order, sheepishly waddled toward the couch, one of the few things in the room spared the touch of human waste that night, and laid down again, multiple piles of reeking shit within feet.

The next morning, around 10:00am, I awoke in bed, badly needing to urinate and hydrate. Still feeling the effects of the last night, still legitimately drunk, in fact, I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, head in hands, composing myself and mulling, too. Finally, deciding the lazy man's solution to simultaneously satisfying my separate needs was definitely unsanitary, I edged toward the bedroom door.

I opened the door to find Bart kneeling, barefoot, both hands covered by what appeared to be dirty socks, his right hand scrubbing the carpet furiously. He looked at me, grinning, and asked, pointing at an unmistakable substance on the ottoman arm a few feet away, “Do you know what that is?” I gulped, looking back and forth between Bart and the pile. Back and forth, faster and faster. “Poop,” he finished, answering his own question.

Never had I been so unsure how to react, and sober I might have acted differently. But I laughed. It started slowly, then built, forcing me to cradle my stomach and double over, bending at the knees, too, so I ended up in a crouch, a bit too close for comfort.

“Why…are you…wearing…socks…..on your hands?” I pieced together between breaths, standing erect again.

“I couldn’t find anything else to clean with,” he managed, “not even any chemical cleaners or disinfectants.”

“You’re just wiping up shit with dirty socks?” I cried.

“I wet them with water first,” he corrected.

“So, um, yeah, stains?”

He nodded.

Walking past him, toward the bathroom, I patted him on the head, the boundary between best friend and incontinent pet blurred.

In the bathroom, more surprises awaited. The left side of the toilet seat was covered, streaked, with brown material, as if someone had straddled that side of the seat alone, then moved their anus up and down while they defecated. On the floor, just below the left front end of the toilet seat, was a perfectly shaped log. Temporarily entertaining a more far-fetched seat streaking theory, I imagined the dirty log of poo had been influenced to walk the toilet seat plank by some powerful poo-conjurer. I imagined Bart in a drunken trance, chanting, his irises swirling black and white like a cartoon character, summoning feces pieces to perform dirty deeds. "I'm really fucking drunk," I realized, and decided to relieve myself in the shower. Good sense serving sanitation and saving me a trip to the fridge, I ran the water, then returned to bed for another quarter day of recovery.

Bart left that afternoon, a sockless suite killer; in his wake, an assortment of carpet stains and permanently defiled furniture, all alive with thriving bacteria. Wretchedness wafted down the dorm hallway through our propped open door. The scent spread, but the story of Bart's antics spread faster. "Did you hear about the dude who shit all over Pat's room?"

In the grand scheme of things, Bart had accomplished several spectacular feats. In depositing an impressive mass of poop in at least 6 different locations, including on and around a toilet, none of Bart's dumping, not a single dumplet, actually made it into a toilet. Nobody used the ottoman or footstool for over a month, even after I took the time to wipe them both down with Bleach towelettes, a few weeks after the incident, delaying until then out of pure disgust. Cleaning up a 21-year-old human's shit is a responsibility that should never fall upon others.

The beauty of it all, however, is there were no witnesses to Bart's crudity. Did he act out of pure spite, revenging years of abuse in the ultimate prank, laughing hysterically all the while, goddamn a reputation? Or, drunk as he certainly was, maybe even rationalizing, "They'll really appreciate this joke," did it just seem funny to shit everywhere? Was he simply too lazy to find the toilet? Or did he wake up, shitting himself, then panic and stumble about the place, loosing piles as he careened about? Did that tremendous mass of shit leave his body in one act of defecation, or was the final scene a composite of several separate shits?

Anyway, even as the victim of this anus crime, I say fuck a resolution. I don't want hypnotherapy to contradict the image of truth I've invented and adopted: Bart dancin' around, depositing doodoo delight.

More delightful: Bart, doomed forevermore to shitty introductions from me, especially when meeting pretty girls or potential employers, still hadn't learned his lesson.

The Phallical Vernacular

2006-07-07T16:26:00.000-04:00

A compilation of sex-related terms and phrases that may or may not, but probably should, enter popular usage.

Flopper or Floppy n. - A penis in its natural state of rest, soft and warm, sometimes curled or twisted, totally unresponsive.

Chewy n. - A slightly stimulated, as if intrigued, penis that, to the touch of lips, or, god forbid, teeth, is conducive to chewing, reflexive and responsive in maintaining its overall shape.

slang n. - An exceptionally hairy penis; a wookie.

Bubble Cum n. - The proper name for flavorful juices spit from a recently transformed chewy, a flaccid penis worked, gummed, licked, and slobbed so ferociously it hardened rapidly.

Bubble Cumming v. - The art of ejaculating a chewy just gnawed and nibbled from flaccidity to firmness; to bu(r)st with flavorful juices.

Semi n. - A penis in the state between chewy and erection, able to be waved up and down by muscular contraction, but neither fully hardened nor ready to ejaculate; using hands, the penile shape may still be manipulated, though upon release it immediately reassumes a stiff position, similar to a Burger King Chicken Finger; a source of great entertainment.

"Diamond in the muff" n. - The common cry of male celebrities and professional athletes, more often than not rappers and NBA players, when they lose expensive jewelry, mostly earrings, though in heavily furred forests pendants and entire chains have been rumored to disappear, while eating unshaven pussy; proper usages include, "Shit, son, not another muhfuckin' diamond in tha muff," or, "Ohhh, Hell no, man, another diamond in the muff."

Ground Meat n. - a. An uncommonly elongated penis that stretches toward, perhaps dangling close to, the ground; b. What John Wayne Bobbit is glad his penis didn't become.

"Letting off some cream" v. - Raining viril viscosity; releasing vehicles of vitality; relieving sexual tension.

"Puffy the Campfire Slayer" n. - A penis so swollen with excitement its imminent explosion could conceivably douse fires; a penis with Peter North-esque potential.

The or An "Anne Frank" n. - A penis hidden away, sometimes from cold, more often shrinking in fear from an unwanted hands-in-pants intruder; a penis actively avoiding capture by any of various offered orifices.

slang n. - A crude name for the hidden penis of a Jewish gender bender, as screamed upon discovery, "Oh my fucking GOD, it's got an Anne Frank."

Wooly Mammaries n. - Furry, if not outright hairy, boobs; a sure sign a man's picked up either a sex-changed prostitute or freakshow specimen.

Late Night Laughs

2006-07-07T12:30:00.000-04:00

Flipping channels late last night, I was excited to chance past a football movie I'd never seen. But, expecting too much, recalling recent memorable features like "Friday Night Lights" and "Remember the Titans," "Wildcats," the 1986 film featuring an embattled wife and mother played by actress Goldie Hawn, a white woman, leading an inner city high school football team composed of an assortment of minorities to previously unknown prosperity, proved to be as generic as it sounds; luckily, laughably so.

I only caught the last 15 minutes, but now I'm considering spending hard earned cash for the 90 I missed. The end scene, the championship battle between the evil, imposing, favored "other" team and the overmatched, underdog, female coached and over the course of the movie, improved human being "heroes," has got me cravin' more.

From the first play of the final game, the wonderfully stereotypical asshole other team lived down to its reputation. The movie made sure audiences knew the opposing team was supremely unsportsmanlike, going out of its way to show blatant cheap shots every single play. Every few seconds, literally, there was a shot of some hulking, helmeted villain kicking dirt in eyes of a tackled, fallen or injured player, poking unprotected eyeballs hard enough to pop them, kicking or stomping unsuspecting testicles, intentionally cheapshotting and dangerously chop blocking, or, my favorite of various other vile offenses, a sideline player tripping an end zone-bound wide receiver who'd broken away from defense. Unrepentant injurious intent was obvious in each and every affront to sportsmanship, cemented by regular cuts to the opposing coach laughing hysterically at his team's violent antics, urging his players on, obviously enjoying the pain and suffering of the other team. The referees, apparently too busy laughing, neglected to make any calls or even administer warnings.

Cheesy 80s music jingled and bounced along in the background, pacing the quickly cutting film, soundtracking a visual assault of sprawling players. Ahhh, the sprawling players, another high point of cinematic realism. A montage of meant-to-be brute physicality from the "bad" team, unconvincing for obviously weak tackles and faked falls, followed the compendium of dangerous illegality, keeping me laughing after the sequenced barrage of mean-spirited dirty doings dwindled.

Whether staging hits or implying devastation with an editing room added ambience of grunts and thumping pads, every shot included inexplicable flashes of heads landing upside down and players flipping through the air, somersaulting on the ground. The so quickly cutting as to be choppy editing made it appear players were either being killed immediately by semi-harsh tackles or just spontaneously flying through the air then collapsing, from the looks of it, dead. Imagining a rash of sudden deaths, especially a rare brand that oftentimes catapults victims through the air before killing them, and always accentuated by the requisite post-death shots of the almost-dying-laughing demon of an opposing head coach, was uproariously rewarding.

All the cutting between shots was, seriously, I've got to emphasize this, really fucking fast, and even more predictable. Diagram for Wildcats football scene editing – shot of players lined up, the one side moaning and wailing like demonically possessed creatures [note: to intimidate? check with the director, maybe the players' confusing sudden onset satanism was actually the one artistic indulgence of a self-described auteur, a vision requiring reevaluation], dub shriek of a whistle, insert image of eye-gouging, crotch crunching, limb ripping breaking stomping twisting, dirt in face kicking, or sideline interfering, and complete with a glimpse of the enemy coach unable to compose himself at all, guffawing, obviously enjoying the display of primitive violence decimating the coached-by-a-woman-so-automatically-pussies team across the field.

Finally, the improbable but timely field goal blocking contribution of the rarely played, morbidly obese and all-around gigantic team clown saved the day. The fat-fuck, well over 500 pounds, literally elevated at least 5 straight seconds and 20 feet, all the while enveloped in a mysteriously holy white light shining from above, to reach and swat the high-flying ball his team then recovered and returned for a last second, game-winning touchdown. Wow. Let me tell you, I was impressed. And goddamnit, surprised, too. To reiterate, Wow.

The movie, sporting an R rating, also featured lots of unnecessary profanity and ridiculous efforts to sound cool or tough or intimidating or witty, but it was pure Hollywood. Overall, I think the final football sequence from the 1986 movie Wildcats is one of the most enjoyable scenes, football or otherwise, ever recorded.

The end of Wildcats is the lamest filmic segment I've ever had the fortune to experience. I would have turned it off but I was laughing so hard the remote was jiggling in my grip, my fingers unable to pinpoint the power pusher. Looking back, considering my newly and forever altered perspective, I'm glad I was handicapped by the giggles.

With the world as his toilet... pt. 2

2006-07-02T12:30:00.001-04:00

He rumbled back into quiet Davidson, on vacation from his University, a dumptruck hellbent on soiling his family name, the fabled Fatty McSlagle, flushing away nothing but a reputation.

On that mid March night, 2005, a gathering of friends converged upon the common room of my Junior suite, lounging on our black leather couch, stretched across our green leather lounge chair and matching ottoman, sitting backs to the wall or standing in corners, playing cards, beers, and shot glasses in hand, smashed empties and stains, stale and fresh, decorating the carpet, crushed chips and crumpled bags scattered across the dorm floor. Rowdy voices bellowed and howled above the blaring, bass heavy music, spikes of profanity and genuine laughter constantly piercing the drone, heavy thumps and crashes, probably with accompanying sly glances checking if the accident had attracted any interest, which, from the intoxicated crowd, invariably it wouldn't, punctuating the steady roar.

The sounds of activity dwindled as the clock approached and passed 10:00 pm, the crowd filtering out of the room in small groups, venturing toward the court, frat row, where the promise of free Milwaukee's Best and, this night, a treat, André, the finest of inhibition eliminating elixirs, enticed. The campus of overworked students and their excited visitors flocked, desiring dance floor dry humps and tongue twists, and, if lucky, the covert and grossly common mid-crowd upskirt exploration. For the more boisterous, a fight could be found, though everyone, always, wanted to make it back to their room with an everything but (for some, actually) unconscious peer they might never again acknowledge but could always brag about to their friends, a slobbering duo panting to salivate and gyrate in inebriated disharmony. Even if the conquest meant being among the last fifteen creeps at the party, after the lights came on and the campus police began ushering out the yet unpartnered, a shady straggler looking to poach the sweaty girls with vomit stained blouses or the ones whose eyes regularly rolled back in their head as they struggled against strangers' bodies for support, squirts of semen, but, ultimately, alcohol, might mask the shame.

Bart, Colin, and I flashed IDs, then, wristbanded, descended toward the cellar of fruity champagnes. We jostled our way to the bar amidst a sea of spilling solo cups, performing perfunctory greetings in response to shouts and hands flashing in the periphery. Arriving at our destination, without a drink for the 10 minutes prior, thirsted and sobered, I demanded relief.

"Hey, sexy baby," I cooed across the counter to a familiar coed, "can I get three of the peach and three of the strawberry?" She moved toward the stack of red plastic cups, "Bottles, please."

I registered her reaction to the unconventional request. "Don't worry, I'll stay in the basement, so fuck the solo cups," I reassured in practiced form, smiling and winking for good measure, nodding toward the friends flanking me, "It's not all for me."

Our trio extended arms like robots, empty hands accepting bottles with the same functional need a car does gasoline. Our masculinity surging, noting we'd separated ourselves from the room's solo-cupped masses by double fisting bottles, obviously ignoring exactly what we were actually drinking, we fueled our blackouts in unison. Half a bottle later, I lowered the glass rim from my overflowing lips. Leveling my head without wiping the fluid rushing down my chin and neck, soaking my shirt, I screeched, spraying a fine mist, my eyes and head jumping and lurching in maniacal uncoordination. We, idiot friends, invincible, exchanged glances and reembarked, this time to empty our first bottles.

Eventually tiring of the subdued downstairs crowd, on the brink of alcohol poisoning, we crawled back upstairs, eyelids half shut, drooling, and not just for college-age pussy. As the stairs opened up into the party, we combed the crowd, each eyeing a honey we'd like to spread. Splitting up without saying goodbye, we staggered toward our targets, all destined to repeat the clumsy, classless accosting countless times to find fittingly drunk and willing conspirators.

Minutes later, while my hands made progress against and all over an exposed midsection, I recognized the unmistakable pitch of a riled Bart. Letting my fingertips linger, I turned my head quickly enough to see Colin, the responsible redhead, and my occasionally terrorist roommate, Usman, step between our enraged friend and a wildly gesturing, crooked-hatted, jersey-outfitted fratboy. Dropping one hand, my other hooked the bottom of the barebellied girl's tight, chest covering cloth excuse of a shirt, and I pulled her toward the developing fracas, more interested in a good show than intervention.

Edging my way into the encircling crowd, still dragging my catch, I heard Bart muster the most ridiculous overstatement of entitlement in history, "I'm a Slagle. Do you know what that means? That means I rule the world." The subject of his ire, probably realizing he was engaged with an opponent who had drunk himself retarded, backed away, a glint of uncertainty arresting his previously confident eyes. My smile became a laugh, giving way to shrieks that required I seek my friends shoulders to stay afoot, allowing my scantily clad catch to slip back into the sea of writhing bodies. "A vintage Bart night," I shouted, glowing, staring but not speaking at Bart. Colin and Usman shook their heads, everyone else in the party already disinterested in the near brawl. It was barely 11:30.

The next hour or two was uneventful, at least enshrouded in a blank haze, but Bart would make sure the rest of the night wasn't so boringly unmemorable. As the clock neared 2:00am and parties closed down, students streamed out of the houses, more than usual on this night for the attendance boosting and retaining power of free champagne and uncharacteristically good music. Standing on the front steps of the frat, scoping girls to approach, or, for Plan B, something to vandalize, I happened to follow Bart's gaze toward a pack of males, the majority significantly larger than myself, therefore dwarfing Bart.

Convinced Bart was entirely heterosexual, but concerned about the confusing effects fruit flavored champagnes might have upon one's sexuality, I nudged his shoulder, hoping for clarification. But, at my touch, like a cyborg initiated into action, he walked toward the loud, cigar smoking group.

"What's up?"

"Huh? What--?" A chorus of "Who the fuck is this?" and snickers followed.

Bart said something else, inaudible to me, but one of the group responded, casual and amused but still serious, "Get the fuck out of here, man."

It was just the trigger Bart's never-say-lose, never back down, temperament needed.

"WHAT?" Bart sputtered, Colin already headed to diffuse the situation, "This some kinda race thing? 'Cause I'm white?" As if on cue, the dark faces cocked sideways and stared. The man in front removed his flat brimmed hat, looked over one shoulder, then the other, people behind him responding with shrugs and headshakes.

I leaned back against the brick wall of the frat house, settling in for another round of entertainment, assuming a vantage point from which I could simultaneously evaluate females who could accessorize my bed that night. Considering the advice an unusually pretty female friend had proffered before her exit, "Don't hook up with any ugly girls," I shivered when I spotted a 300-pounder I was rumored to have made out with, on the dance floor, in blackout mode, just weeks earlier, a few people even claiming to have seen me walking her back to my dorm. The only thing preserving my sanity: knowing I didn't wake up any morning with a sore, tired penis that indicated some unremembered hand rubbing, sucking, or fucking the night before.

A general raucous revived my attention. Colin was now facing Bart, marching him back toward my post, Colin's back to the group of guys, Bart, backpedaling, still busy exchanging barbs. "Dude, they're leaving," Colin observed with a glance over his shoulder, the second time with exasperation, "Bart. DUDE. They're walking away. Shut. Up."

"Fine," was all Bart would say, his eyes following the distancing bunch. He must have relaxed, untensed, because Colin let his hands fall from Bart's shoulders. And Bart took off, Colin scrambling after him, both too drunk to be running, a conclusion I had reached for my stationary self. Bart screamed, large males turned around, menacingly, and Colin, in better shape than Bart that particular evening, tackled the fighting Fatty to the ground. Colin barked something toward the reapproaching men, some combination of apology, instruction to get as far away from Bart as possible, and declaration that this wasn't, to be sure, a race issue, unless they were referring to the race to finish as many bottles of champagne as possible, then maybe it was a race issue.

The group left again, this time finding refuge inside a dorm with carded entry, presumably safe from the cardless Bart. But the indefatigable Bart was not to be barred, again escaping Colin's grasp, forsaking friendly good sense, sprinting toward the slowly closing door, screaming at an innocent student, unaware of Bart's impending doom should he again molest the crimeless bandits, "HOLD THAT DOOR!" Colin put his hands on his hips and watched Bart disappear into the distance, for a drunkard, streaking, into the dorm past the startled Samaritan holding the door. Bart bounded up the staircase, exhaling heavy streams of breath that, might a spark have ignited, would have perfected the mindlessly raging fairy tale dragon.

Steadily gaining on the posse ascending at a saunter, Bart flashed by staircase windows on the first, second, then third floors, never appearing past the fourth. About a minute later, Colin observed Bart slinking back down the stairs. Finally reunited, Bart's face was red about the eye.

"I got punched in the eye."

"You," Colin paused, turned his head toward nothing, then returned to Bart, "are a fucking moron."

Bart pulled a beer from his pocket and popped the tab, foam rushing from the mouth of the can, frothing over his hand, collecting on the ground. The duo turned back toward my dorm and started walking, separating with a silent handshake at the parking lot, Colin heading toward his car, Bart continuing toward my room where he'd spend the night.

As it turned out, yet unsatisfied with the havoc he'd wreaked.

With the world as his toilet... pt. 1

2006-07-01T18:10:00.001-04:00

[This is a story I'll publish in serialized form, probably over the course of 2-3 weeks. It will appear in 5-6 installments, some longer, some shorter, probably to reach a grand total of nearly 5000 words, approximately 20 pages. I'd love, and appreciate, any feedback in posted comments, emails, or streetside conversations. Thanks, and I hope you enjoy.]

The Consequences of Getting Shitty: The Saga of Bart's Disdain for Bathrooms

It all started sometime during high school, soon after the time our then still rotund bellyjiggler had discovered the ridiculous-behavior excusing nature of hard liquor. Bart "Fatty" (Mc)Slagle, a Davidson legend, 10th grader, guzzling gag-inducing spirits in the humid North Carolina night behind the old bricked gymnasium of the Davidson IB school, making overt passes at his sister's drool-worthy friends in their shortest of shorts and impeccably maintained and exercised and, certainly, undersexed, bodies.

"Best friends," we sang in pubescent punkism, "means you get what you deserve." Pranks, revenge, and cruelty, soundtrack to high school and the sometimes painful, often hilarious, and always memorable forging of an unbreakable alliance.

Sludging a urinating Bart in the Target bathroom, and everywhere else in just barely less memorable episodes, with wads of soaked paper towels and scornful screams wasn't enough to sate my appetite for annoyance, even when we nearly came to blows over my unapologetic assholism. Nor was scoring a touchdown against his team in a friendly game of pickup football, beating him on the play, then planting the football in the dirt at my feet, crouching and steadying it with two fingers of my right hand, and launching a perfect, slowly tumbling, end over end celebratory kick, Smack, into the back of his head during another dejected loser's walk.

Nobody, save true best friends with dark senses of humor, deserves the punishments we, as a group of Davidson teenagers, chose to inflict upon each other, I think now to test the strength of our friendships, but we discovered friendships they weren't, rather, indeed, a brotherhood. And Bart, Chunky McSlagle, Fatty, Thunderballs, despite his audacity to start shedding pounds, though he'd never lose his many names, absorbed the brunt of our mischievous energies.

There were grandly schemed and plotted plans to hide and smash 6-month-old hard boiled eggs in his car's nooks and crannies, and similar plans to plant raw meats on the hottest of summer days. There were numerous instances of fart-bomb detonation within the confines of cramped rooms in his house, regular eggings of his always welcoming family's abode, a spectacular loogie that ascended two stories, arced itself into an open window, and spattered upon Bart's Super Bowl party hosting face, and the spraying of remarkably convincing fake shit all over his pillow. Regularly discussed was the kidnapping, or at least manhandling, of the Chunky one, then tying or taping his declothed (and steadily lessening) fleshiness to a tree, leaving him there for a few hours or until a sympathetic observer intervened, whichever came first.

But Bart always prevailed, somehow, pride intact. Insert here: a spring break finger-fuck of one North Meck's finest, the rest of us still mastering dual mouse-clicking and masturbation. Or successfully spinning several instances of reckless self-pleasure, after ignoring general masturbatory statutes of isolation and privacy, wanking himself while sharing beds and in friend's backrooms, and exhibiting a lust for meatbeating fodder decidedly questionable, namely a photo of a sister in naughty pose and bondage pictures of pregnant women, into schoolwide popularity, at least notoriety.

But sitting on the brick staircases overlooking the overgrown, rutted soccer field behind Davidson IB, watching Bart sweat confidence and spit pickup lines you'd never dream sober, some decided a liquid laxatived cocktail would put the unwaveringly self-assured, infuriatingly successful young Mr. Slagle in his place, somewhere closer to the humble void of self-esteem where we, attention desperate if not funny pranksters, groveled and he belonged.

Accompanied by ADDyo, I took the short jaunt to CVS on a quest for diarrhetics, the collective sneer unspoken, Let's see the alchemist transform shit. We found aisle ass-juice, passing back and forth packages, tabs, vials, and bottles, laughing over variations of stool looseners we hadn't imagined existed, knowing people believed using plush, elegantly packaged laxatives somehow instills dignity into full-forced fluxing. For our purposes, we settled on an 8oz. bottle of instant butt-bubbly that could have passed for an undersized Rolling Rock, excited the liquid contained within was actually quite watery.

Forever Kings of ideas, Jokers of implementation, however, the bottle hid, boxed, beneath a bed for years to come, we ever unable to concoct Bart a drink large or strong enough to confidently hide the entire 8oz. dosage of laxative. But, as we were destined to learn, Bart's introduction to alcohol itself promised limitless laughs, and, as it turned out, life alone would prove laxative enough to bury Bart beneath a heap of poo and a puddle of piss.

This world is Bart's toilet.

Angels and Demons

2006-06-30T16:37:00.000-04:00

It was a typical Friday night of binge drinking and posting up in the heart of sexual humidity, a Davidson College frat party, aka a school sanctioned fuck fest. Round after round of drinks revealed a virginal angel on the dance floor; her bouncing bosoms beckoned, and, coupled with her lack of a visible partner and clothing, inspired me to follow Eddie Murphy's advice and "follow my dick," ignoring, or hopefully forgetting, that Eddie Murphy had been arrested for soliciting sex from a transvestite.

When I awoke the next morning, the sunlight that crept between the nearly closed blinds revealed the body beside me wasn't that of the clean, innocent desirable I remembered investing a good 30 seconds into seducing the night before, and my disgusted penis laid as still as my body when she tried to rouse me for another, sober, go-round.

But my sleeping charade was destined to dissolve violently. The moment she opened her mouth to speak, I started freaking out, throwing my head from side to side, I think trying to launch it from my neck, my eyes playing ultra-paced pong in their sockets. Positive I wasn't tripping and actually sitting in a classroom, I couldn't figure out where the demon was hiding, scratching its claws incessantly against its portable chalkboard.

"That...voice......worst.......sound....," I stammered like an exhausted, gravely wounded movie hero teetering on the edge of consciousness, manifesting all his strength into a final effort, ".....EEEEVVEEEEER," I exploded, channeling Mel Gibson's tortured patriotism in Braveheart. By chance, my flailing elbow landed in a loose, wet cavity and the high-pitched whine ceased abruptly. In a few seconds, once I'd recovered from the unexpected aural assault, I decided to investigate where half my arm had lodged, uncertain if it was in her vagina, a logical hiding place for sexual torturing devil, or in her mouth.

To my surprise, I found one arm's shoulder and hand emerging from her face, the remainder of my arm swallowed by the horrid bitch's facial lips. Knowing I couldn't risk pulling my arm cork from her dual spout of grating sound and, now recognizing her through my hangover, banal stupidity, I revisited my days as an elementary schooler jealous of my brother's success as a Future Problem Solver. Devising a plan that would have made his teachers proud, I struggled to spread my still mouth-confined fore- and upper- arm, forcing apart my visible shoulder and hand in the motion opposite a bicep curl.

By her slowly widening grin I could tell she didn't mind the pain, and, as the slow, wet tearing of her cheeks sounded absolutely heavenly, I was confident she too could appreciate its contrast with her speaking voice. A dark halo stained the saturated sheets around her head, but, just as that miracle registered, a sudden burst of white blinded everything.

Spinning toward the doorway, I recognized a male's figure with hands on hips and head cocked to the side, the way I remembered my rehab counselor looking more than once. "FUCK! dude, not again," it lectured as it right hand searched again along the wall, "These flashbacks are getting out of hand and the fridge is already fucking full." I thought I heard a muffled "dumbass" after the door slammed shut.

Unshaken, I admired my angel then melted back into sleep, realizing I had quite a cleanup job awaiting me.

As usual, everything worked out. However, worried because I'd had unprotected sex with a partner less questionable only than a bucket of HIV infected blood, I months later took advantage of free school sponsored HIV testing, but I never actually got the results back because I would have had to drive 30 minutes to pick them up.

Cum Slangin'

2006-06-30T15:03:00.000-04:00

Just because I wore black painted fingernails for about a year my grandma felt it necessary to question my sexuality in no uncertain terms, "Patrick, are you gay?" After stifling my laughter, I responded in the negative, probably shocking the hell out of my parents, to whom I've still never brought a girl home for an introduction and a meal. Well, at least not for a meal for the entire family. I've even had a quite sexy female friend call me asexual, not exactly the kind of reaction I'd ever try to inspire in the over-18 vaginad variety.

The recipe for my strange brand of sexual exploits is an obsessive compulsive pickiness, seesawing degrees of intoxication, the inverse relationship between my level of intoxication and my ability to discriminate between the braggably fuckable and the only-fuckable-if-bagged, shyness, misanthropy, apathy, laziness, and just being kind of fucking weird.

My last relationship that lasted longer than a few hours was in seventh grade, and it lasted only a week. Looking back, I wonder if my experiences since have skewed my perception of dating, especially my expectations of time invested versus rewards in intimate male-female interactions. In that week of bored hell, where my female partner had the audacity to request I wither beside her, a tangible void of personality, on the bus the Alexander Middle School basketball teams shared, no fluids were ever exchanged, unless our sweaty hands ever brushed against each other. Or, perhaps, in trying to envision a way to terminate our so-called relationship, if I entertained vampiric fantasies. But ever since, with almost no time invested in my other-sexed encounters, the quantity of fluids exchanged has exploded.

Some permanent emotional scarring probably occurred when the soundtrack for my first fuck was Glassjaw's "Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Silence," but the fact that I didn't channel Daryl Palumbo's misanthropic rage into anything besides indifference about a return phone call I consider an endorsement of my character.

I'm no longer sure if I'm actually indifferent about relationships or if I've only numbed myself into thinking so, but it's indisputable that I've always loved life without serious commitments and responsibilities. As long as I can avoid non-900-number phone calls and ignore the word oral attached to anything but my penis, trust I'll be happy.

Whether rooted in thanatos or destrudo, I've developed a new theory about my irresponsible sexual habits. Random hookups are the coldhearted hedonist's way of maximizing pleasure and exposure to life ruining, hopefully ending, STDs. It's fucking yourself to death, and, if I don't go out during a mid-cum-spurting heart attack, exactly how I want to die.

Beyond Inspiration: Practicing Fear pt. 1

2006-06-20T13:39:00.000-04:00

I take pleasure in scaring the bejesus out of kids. There's literally nothing easier or more enjoyable, except maybe necrophilia. But what separates kiddie-punching and baby-berating from corpse-fucking, for me, is the opportunity to see primitive fear contort the face of innocence, something rigor mortis won't allow. For that, I consider random-child abuse an unequivocally rewarding experience.

My proudest moment came at a Charlotte, NC Media Play sometime during high school. My friends and I, during the 30-minute ride in the Expedition taxiing our debauchery, had infused our systems with conscience-distorting quantities of Aristocrat's finest. And when I stepped out of our ride, I felt ready to grab the world, or some unsuspecting kid, by the balls.

With my feet planted on the pavement, I exhaled, wincing and coughing as the acrid fumes rose directly into my nose and eyes. After the tearing stopped, destiny emerged from the receding blur, all 36 inches and 35 pounds of him, walking out of the store toward me. I swayed as I stared upward in wonder, "How did I get so lucky?" A lifetime of prayers requesting that children replace squirrels as daring traffic darters having gone unanswered, I'd years ago abandoned hope. "God sure works in mysterious ways," I blurted to my mystified, or drunkenly unaware, friends.

I staggered toward the tiny, parentless child -- he still inexperienced in bipedalism, myself only struggling with it -- wearing a devious grin to mask my alarming, inconsistently spaced steps. My face flashed rage, however, when my pocket patting didn't turn up any lollipops, aka foolproof baby bait. The living, pint-sized piñata paused behind the glass push door, its face registering some incomprehensible baby reaction to my momentary shift in demeanor, before it exerted all of its effort to budge the glass monolith blocking its path.

The glass door inched outward as my uncoordinated stroll turned to a rushed stumble, my nonchalant posturing exposed as a fraud by circumstances that required a degree of urgency -- luckily, little shits don't detect devious intent as well as adults. I had to get my fingers behind the outswinging door before the weight of separation repelled the tiny treat of a warrior. My unsteady eyes scanned the glass storefront, the pavement, the roof, and the back of my hand as I plodded forward; "Where the motherfuck are his parents?" I mumbled as I wedged my hand into the gap.

I yanked the door open with exhilaration, sweat and alcohol streaming from my pores. The child cringed at my primal scream, but didn't hit the floor until I completed the ultimate takedown -- a picture perfect Mortal Kombat leg sweep. I jerked my torso and gesticulated my arms and clenched fists toward the prone piñata in a favorite masculine attempt to intimidate. And the little bitch flinched.

Victory was mine, my supremacy reaffirmed. I turned in the doorway to face my friends and met their unblinking awe. My lips curled upward, "Little kids can't fuck with this," I announced while I celebrated by waving my hands in a semi-retarded motion above my shoulders.

I whipped back around to my tiny target like a man possessed by drugs and delusion. "HEY, little kid, FUCK YOU. I hate little kids," I sneered, at my loudest yell, with violent contempt. With a swift kick to the chin the littlin' became an unresponsive lump, so I picked him up in my new superhero pose, saving him forever from his irresponsible parents.

When I got back home I deposited the woozy babe in my closet, but, apparently, I was blackout by that point. It wasn't until I tracked the source of an unsavory scent a week or so later that I rediscovered my then spoiling piñata. I promised myself I'd be more responsible the next time.

But I never learn.

"Can you hear me now?"

2006-06-16T17:15:00.000-04:00

The day I realized cell phones spell doom for mankind wasn't the day I -- distracted by the fun of pounding random keypad combinations into my cellphone, attempting to generate humor using T9 Word capabilities -- plowed through a herd of school bus exiting youngsters, totally oblivious to the flashing red lights, shrill exultations of childish terror, and crunching bones, my fuel-injected fury disintegrating skeletons like Ramen noodles in an angry giant's hands. It wasn't even the next day, after I read the newspaper, noticed a description of a car exactly like mine linked to a deadly hit-and-run, and spent hours picking flesh-dangling kneecaps and pieces of pelvis from my bumper.

No, it was the day I was coaching a bunch of 14-year-old girl recreational soccer players -- which, considering the rec distinction, is to say they should have given up soccer at least 6 years earlier -- and the team's goalkeeper, while involved in an active shooting drill in which her only duty was to defend the net from a barrage of rarely well-struck balls, decided to take a call on her cellphone.

As she began her conversation, I stood rigid and livid, unsure how to react. "I swear to fuckin' god," I stewed, "if cell phones ruin sports they'll have invaded every sacred institution I know." I stared at her as she continued talking into her phone, feigning interest in the drill by waving her hand in the general direction of balls passing by. "I'm a lesson teacher," I thought, my shooting leg beginning to twitch, "and this bitch needs to get it in the worst way." For whatever reason, my conscience decided to chime in, suggesting it wasn't advisable that I punish, at least publicly, any person, especially a 14-year-old girl, in "the worst way." So I opted for a less extreme, but still satisfying, solution.

In the fourth minute of the goalie's cellphone exchange I decided to tee up a ball on a nice patch of grass. In the fifth minute I silently joined the drill, launching a rocket, undetected in distraction, into her heavily metaled mouth. I celebrated by raising some wicked metal horns and giving an enthusiastic headbang as the slouched goalie purged plasma and platelets chinward in a bloody waterfall. I sauntered toward the girl's limp form and leaned down beside her, inserting 2 fingers into the jagged gap that the impact of my shot, against her face and braces, had torn from her lower lip. Using that oozing handle, I jerked her head toward mine. "Can you hear me now?" I sneered, as her lip stretched dangerously toward the point of facial detachment.

I dropped her face back in the dirt; she coughed and gurgled, then resumed losing consciousness. The injured goalkeeper's teammates decided they should call the paramedics, but my shot had succeeded in shattering not only the goalie's jaw, but also her cellphone - thankfully, for my sanity and the girls' wellbeing, the only phone that had been brought to practice. I told the team that, anyway, it would be more fun to circle up and play telephone, and that I'd use my powers of ESP to transmit our distress signals to the local hospital. Later, when the goalie died, I admitted I was lying, that I wasn't actually specially enabled, except in the art of brutal fucking murder, and that shut them up. Which was good, really, because my attempt to bribe the girls into silence with the dying goaltender's scattered teeth, giving each surviving teammate an opportunity to reap the tooth fairy's rewards, wasn't working.

I told the girls it was time to get back to soccer. This was soccer practice, after all. Using our recently deceased resource to devise an original drill, I instructed the girls to take kicking practice on the goalie's body because their kicking sucked. Then I had them practice stepovers - forming a single file line, then jogging toward and stepping over the prone, fly covered corpse - while I lectured them on the dangers of using cellphones. Now that's good coaching, damnit.

Cut the fuck out my motherfuckin' butt, ho

2006-06-10T00:09:00.000-04:00

Since beginning (and completing) a month long internship at my old high school, I’ve been swept with a resurgence of teenage nostalgia. It seems that since graduating from North Meck in 2002, through my 4-years in college, my approach to life – my sense of humor – has remained remarkably intact. I’m still basically the same person I was as a scrawny, obnoxious high school Freshman, but with significantly improved – yet still highly deficient – prose.

Combing the immature unprofessionalism embodied by my first webpage, alternately entitled Butt Cuts and lots of Sluts and Big Titty Bitches with Fat Coochies (40 oz. Remix), I’ve realized that my friends and I generated some great ideas and lived some fascinating and unforgettable stories in those days. I just couldn’t provide our potentially splendid fodder the proper historicizing because I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. I could barely write a complete sentence back then, much less pick and choose appropriate adjectives and punctuation. Nonetheless, I still get a lot of good laughs reading the things I wrote back then, the unpredictable and shockingly candid products of utterly random senselessness, all bereft the concepts of appropriateness and subtlety.

Now, prompted by current events, it’s time that I endeavor to resuscitate the raunchy purges of teenage patois my past won’t let me forget.

Butt Cuts

An art form that deserves its own Wikipedia entry, if not public galleries of filth worldwide, “Butt Cutting” is the summit of self-mutilatory pursuits. Proposed during a somewhat questionable lunchtime conversation, butt cutting, in all its crying, bleeding, scabbing, oozing, vomit and disease bestowing glory, combines pain with pleasure in an act of unparalleled offensiveness.

Though in original conception Butt Cuts was merely a cafeteria club, it quickly evolved into a nationwide movement. So what does membership entail? Simply slicing – the more times the better, and the deeper the more rewarding – the backs of your legs and butt cheeks before you sit down on any toilet seat, so your body can celebrate maximum absorption-potential through its freshly (razor or fingernail) ripped (or butterknife butchered) flaps of flesh. Under optimum conditions – met in most rest areas, public restrooms, male dormitories, and gas stations – toilet seats will be covered with combinations of feces, urine, spit, blood, and boogers; diseased oozings of pus, pussy leakage, and crusted or viscous come; plus hair, snot, hacked-up phlegm, various acids, and other substances of maximum vileness.

After one sits down on the seat, they should rub their legs in a smooth motion, forward and backward and side-to-side, all over the seat (and floor, if the subject desires or is really hardcore). This gentle massaging allows more particles of death and disease to infiltrate the (if the cutting is appropriately severe) gaping wounds adorning that person’s backside. After the absorption process is complete, or the pain becomes unbearable, the butt-cutter should rise and quickly smother the slits carved into the backs of their legs and ass with handfuls of petroleum jelly, so that nothing of infectious import seeps, or is purged, from the concerned body.

A successful butt cutting, an experience one is allowed to brag about and show off scars from, requires that a person contract at least 3 serious diseases or frightening infections. These include, but are not limited to, HIV; rabies; syphilis; herpes; crabs; the flu; a cold; gangrene; warts; oozing ass; scabbage (not to be confused with the excellent dish of broiled scabs served at fine dining establishments like Prime and Quincy’s); and bursting blisters.

Now you’re probably wondering what current event could possibly have inspired me to bring back butt cutting. Well, news about soiling toilet seats, naturally. Some prankster in Salisbury, MD has applied glue to toilet seats in public restrooms at department stores and Denny's, succeeding in snaring two lucky victims. One, discovered stuck to a Wal-Mart toilet, according to the employee who found him, “Was banging on the wall when the employee came in."

Butt, if he'd been a scar-carrying butt cutter, I promise he'd have taken advantage of the opportunity for an extreme butt cutting experience. He'd have ripped himself from the seat, which, in turn, would have ripped all the glued flesh from his backside, then proceeded to dirty the seat with human fluids and wastes, finally permitting his gashed hindquarters the privilege of blissful violation upon the flesh and filth covered throne.

Another recent occurrence that inspired me to revisit butt cutting was a shipping mistake by Buy.com. Instead of getting the cd I’d ordered, The Clipse’ “Lord Willin’,” I was delivered, in what made for a hilarious package opening, “Libido's Best - Erotic Audio: Sex and Sensibility.” According to the back of the disc,

Libido's Best is a groundbreaking audio adaptation of the very best writing from Libido, the magazine the Chicago Tribune calls "a journal for highbrows who still have animal urges." These provocative and sexually-charged stories explore the depth and variety of sexual desire from both male and female perspective...

…In La Toillette, by Jackie Ariail, a woman on a business trip in Paris is seduced as she walks around the romantic city with a suave, European colleague. They have a steamy encounter in a public restroom. Read by Molly Kenefick.

I debated opening the cd but decided not to, opting to return it so I could get the album I’d actually ordered. But the description of that particular story held curious potential: partnered sex enhanced by dirty butt cutting.

Sludge

Not as cool as butt cutting, but still pretty damn fun, Sludging someone involves soaking a paper product in any liquid – the more offensive the better – then hurling the dripping wad at a defenseless target while unleashing a primal scream of “Sllluuuuuuuuuuuudddgggeee!” After startling and debasing your victim, proper etiquette is to berate them with shit-talk and/or sludge them again; or, if they’re bigger than you, run like a bitch or break their legs, though the second option tends to threaten revenges less amicable.

A very unscientific examination of the relationship between Taco Bell, criminal mice-chief, and mental retardation

2006-06-10T00:04:00.000-04:00

A Traverse City, MI imbecile, who demonstrated near complete criminal incompetence in attempting to extort Taco Bell after “finding” a mouse in his burrito, recently received a deserved 16 to 30 month prison sentence. The 20-year-old Ryan Goff, whose mental development apparently lags significantly behind his normal physical progress, failed to match even the creativity of the highly publicized Wendy’s chili severed-finger-fiasco – which, in itself, at least a conceivable hoax, was still foiled by minimal investigation combined with old fashioned common sense.

"When it comes to life I have been so blinded," Goff stated at his trial, something he must have assumed was also true for Taco Bell staff. Taco Bell, however, in a rare fit of sensibility for a multi-billion dollar company operating in hyper-litigious times, makes it standard practice to hire seeing employees.

In Ryan’s defense, he claims a drug problem, and the exorbitant pricing for Paul Wall fashioned grills, drove him put his inevitably doomed plot into action. But the only substance of abuse that could have kept him "high” enough to never, for days on end, reconsider his ill-conceived actions, never permitting that single moment of relative clarity necessary to abandon his “get rich quick,” scheme – not while he issued a complaint to the Department of Health and called a Taco Bell regional manager to demand, in absolutely silly terms, compensation “that would make my ears tingle," – is DNA, which, if subjected to (metaphorical) biological bashing, induces the condition called full-on, funny finger-motioning, eye-rolling retardation.

The judge, politically correct as always, leniently deemed Ryan “not too bright. "I didn't like to follow the book," Ryan stated in typically obvious fashion – which is especially funny because, as was later discovered, the criminal guidebook Ryan “didn’t like to follow” was actually a collection of first grader’s artwork, that, in his inability to read the title “Mrs. Smith’s First Grade Art Collection,” he’d misinterpreted as foolproof diagrams for schemes.

But Ryan isn’t a total failure as a criminal. He actually had a second plan – which he generated with his Hot Wheels collection, generic burrito ingredients, and a paper mache hut he’d constructed with pride (and the help of his special tutor). Plan R – labeled with another of the only 4 letters Ryan knew intimately and felt confident using – involved driving a car through Taco Bell’s wall, quickly smearing the contents of his food on its hood, then accusing the behind-the-counter taco-and-burrito manufacturing-engineer of stuffing the car, an obvious chocking hazard, inside Ryan’s tortilla.

High Times and Higher Humor

2006-06-08T23:11:00.000-04:00

It takes a special group of individuals, bred in the blissful boredom of a small Southern town, to so completely blur the lines between Godlike genius and pure retardation.

Well, this example doesn't really blur any lines -- that would be a little too generous. I recently pointed out, during a conversation, after I'd made several comments with an almost accidental tinge of contempt, "I really have an attitude right now." Everyone was quite amused that I'd called myself out like that. I guess you had to be present (or need to be, like the Clipse quip, "High like giraffe ass,") to appreciate that one.

This next thought should transcend the witness barrier. First, allow yourself to imagine a family that has deemed it necessary to travel throughout their home only on 4-wheelers. There is no walking, standing, or sitting allowed -- just riding 4 wheelers. The emissions of toxic exhaust and hallway traffic jams that embody the household contempt for maneuverability probably make such a culture seem unnecessarily hazardous and hectic.

But you have to ask yourself what you'd be willing to sacrifice for a life where you could express anger by peeling out. Instead of, "Hey, Mom, FUCK YOU!" you'd sneer at your mother before burning rubber through the doorway and down the hall - through a wall if you really wanted to make a statement. Heated arguments would be even funnier, with any number of 4-wheeling family members circling each other, maybe bumping each other, and regularly punctuating expressions of anger with tire-squeals. Goddamnit, I'd sacrifice my legs for that.

Chew my meat

2006-06-08T00:58:00.000-04:00

The company slogan on the backs of packages of Oh Boy Oberto© beef jerky reads, "We hope you have as much fun eating our jerky as we had making it." Wow. That's either powerfully inane or blatantly, brutally sarcastic. Can you really have a happy, fulfilling existence while manufacturing beef jerky, working a job I can only imagine is menial labor at its most depressing?

"Hi, I'm Hank. My job is to dehydrate and salt slabs of low-quality beef. My hobbies include counting to three and capturing ticks for my kids to play with. I couldn't be happier..."

That's where the Oh Boy Oberto company cuts off the employee monologue, but with the help of an industry insider I've captured the juicy meat of his statement:

"...that I'm dying from cancer, as agonizingly drawn-out and merciless as it is. I do own a gun but don't make enough money to afford bullets. If you don't fucking choke on this dry jerky, I hope mad cow disease rots your motherfucking brain, or a mad cow stomps your skull into little Skittle-y bits. There, I hope you're as fucking happy as I am."

Making beef jerky could only be fun if you were slipping occasional razor blades, glass shards, or infected needles into extra thick slabs of jerky. And, based on Frank’s comments and my common sense, I can only assume most tortured jerky technicians share my philosophy: hoping others suffer, just like you have -- but, to preserve the conscience, not actually acting on that hate and pain -- is the most relieving way to deal with personal problems. So chew sans trepidation.

But, back to my main point, contrary to what the Oberto Company would have you believe, the experience of eating jerky, albeit satisfying, is not a process I'd ever characterize as 'fun.' Maybe labor intensive, dry and tough, and ultimately rewarding – “I finally chewed that strange mass into an swallowable mush!” – but definitely not fun. "Gettin' my jerk on” or “Gettin' Jerkified," both accepted slang phrases for daunting, methodical jerky chewing, rank near clipping my toenails on the “I can’t goddamn fucking wait” fun meter.

Honestly, it’s a very rare morning I awake thinking, "I can't wait to see my friends, get hammered at that party, stick my dick into a variety of orifices, and – wait - HOLY MEATFUCKER, I get to eat BEEF JERKY today! Fuck all that other shit, just jam a fatass beef stick in my mouth and I’ll be cool." If you substitute beating my meat for eating jerked meat, however, and subtract the end bit about shoving said meat into my mouth, replacing it with ‘just let me thrust my Mr. Meatstick into a jelly-filled donut,’ then you’ve learned my daily approach to pleasure by pastry, whatever that says about me.

Quick Hits: Death

2006-06-07T11:31:00.000-04:00

My life revolves around what-if scenarios, as if I really needed to point that out. Try to enjoy a few scenarios I've contemplated.

The guillotine is, and always will be, the ultimate doombringer. Beheading is obviously the coolest way to die, assuming the head-relieving slice is painless and the severed head retains thinking ability for any significant period of time post-chop. It's just the cool factor inherent in existing as a decapitated head - being cognizant and humored that your old body is spouting blood from its stump of a neck. I'd love to see a botched beheading, where the dismembering chop was misplaced and the vocal chords remained attached, allowing the head to cuss and insult its butcher(s).

In other debilitating situations, unfortunate victims sometimes resort to Morse code to communicate their desperate pleas for help. Sorry, but I'd never take the time to decode anything in Morse code except S.O.S. -- an effective and deserved death sentence for the asshole inconsiderate enough to waste my time with anything else. Put in a situation where I had to rely upon extensive Morse code for survival, I know I'd choose death in an instant. Think about communicating in Morse code; it's actually less efficient than S-P-E-L-L-I-N-G. You'd be a morsel for the vultures before you ever completed a Morse-message. And I can't think of any punishment worse than an eternity of Morse coded conversation.

Flipped Shit in Snippets

2006-06-06T17:00:00.000-04:00

I love to record recently, randomly triggered wisps of recollection, both for the sake of posterity and the hazy circumstances in which these fleeting memories originated. The words I'm prepared to unleash are sacred like Steve Yzerman - but brilliant like a Bush. Every conversation chronicled hereafter comes from joint brainstorming sessions held in the grimy recesses of Davidson's pristine suburbia, a handful of native Davidson fuckheads at the helms of hysteria - perpetrators of perversion.

Today, let's talk politics (or, strain to make random conversations seem vaguely topical).

People always talk about pranks they've pulled like each one was so extreme, expertly concocted, and perfectly executed, tossing around self-congratulatory terms like 'ultimate,' 'super-bad,' and 'deliciously dankity,' but these people lack imagination. The ultimate prank, obviously, would be if every single comprehending creature in existence united to deceive one guy and pull a Truman Show on him - but with 24-hour total, uncensored access to his life. If there was an international Truman every nation could unite in laughter at the one asshole, probably named some language appropriate permutation of Humphrey, from the country nobody really liked. The moment broadcasting began would be an instant and permanent peace treaty - notion of warring would disintegrate into gleeful gabbing with former enemies about the dude everyone could shit on, hate as an entity discriminating against no one except the asshole sacrificed for universal entertainment.

A brief but related foray into fiction, placed in a mall's food court, that examines the social impact of the worldwide Truman prank:

He turned toward his companion, the black eye-shadowed and lipsticked, white face powdered - it was so thick, maybe painted - devotee gothica. "Hey, I saw that guy one time. Duuuuude had no idea he was being filmed. I was like, 'shit, that sucks' and laughed at him." The preteen paused. A snicker; then a snortish throat clearance rasped a rough and thinly amused "heh." "That Humphert dude totally sucks."

The eager to impress 14-year-old philosopher adjusted his newly bought black tshirt, pulling outward the material on either shoulder then petting his chest with admiration and a quiver of individual submission, making sure the band logo - something like a bloody, barb-wired banana split with a jaggedly severed arm thrusting outward and upward, the cartoon hand throwing ultra-rigidly-badass, ultra-exaggerated metal horns - was uncreased, the smoothed insignia of a lamely and entirely unconvincingly evil band the crest he wore with pride.

"Poser," he finally mustered in typically plump chortle-speak¹, diverting his gaze while his piggly lips flapped in the breath of an almost inaudible laugh.

But, yeah, world peace and stuff like that is political, right?

Next, we address ethically dubious tactics the United States government has employed to combat the influx of illegal immigrants. Specifically, the recent policy decision to legalize (and advocate the health and taste benefits of) murdering, grinding, and sprinkling Mexican immigrants on top of guacamole for authenticity and a kick of flavorful zest, a motion Republican congressmen have playfully referred to as "a tasteful solution." As a more liberal minded individual, I'm speechless - because my mouth is full.

How about the personal politics of in-home safety? Do you own a dog - one you expect to function as a reliable defense against criminality? To really test your dog's protective worth and sleuthing skill, plant landmines under random floor tiles and carpeted areas throughout your house. If the pooch detects these hidden devices of instant death, and has the good sense not to try to eat or stand on them, then your dog deserves his post and your praise. If the pooch fails, you're going to need a new dog, but that's better than waking up with me in your house, isn't it?

Neither shall we neglect the politically incorrect. I wonder, if a sufficiently fatass individual jumped on the upper respiratory side of a pregnant lady's bulging belly, could the properly placed force, instead of squashing the fetus, eject it like a red-frosted Pop-Tart from a vaginal toaster? Funny, too, what would a fatass-flattened fetus look like?

¹ Chortle-speak; n. - a specific mode of communication which combines the acts of speaking and chortling into a singularly uncool undertaking.

The history of punk rock: a comedy of epic distortions

2006-06-04T20:55:00.000-04:00

What came first, the floorpunch or the stagedive?

That very question has troubled scenesters for ages, but struggles to unearth the truth have ignored the obvious. Punk, and, it seems, hardcore, are psychological remnants of the earliest ancestors of modern humans -- from a time when burly she-beasts were happy their partners weren't into clubbing, but from that mournful period preceding stagediving at shows, too.

So, does it not follow that the floorpunch came first? Take any breakdown-laden hardcore show and consider the art -- er, expressive spazzing -- of hardcore dancing. Imagine the origins of those same “dances” were in caves filled with fire and the most primitive progenitors of mankind. In that lost culture of unsophisticated brutality, doesn’t hardcore dancing seem unusually appropriate?

“Picking up change” might have emerged from the earlier “picking up spattered Mammoth brains.” The windmill was likely a primitive method to fan fires or cool overheated cave-dudes fresh from a hard day of literal rocking out. Many more of the dances adopted from the ancients were likely defense mechanisms or violent gesticulations of a retarded cave dweller whose mania was misinterpreted as the compulsion of a higher power.

Genre history is another interesting topic. Still somewhat questionable indications, which will remain unmentioned here, are that every genre, from Hardcore to Punk to Christian to Hip-Hop to Adult Contemporary to Goregrind to R&B, originated with a band of that very name. The notion is that each respective band so fully defined the requisite attitude, sound, and style of a new musical movement that they spawned generations of imitators; thus, their band names became genre names in homage. Archeologists have uncovered evidence that the 500,000-year-old band Rock invented music and was a heavy influence upon the band Rock Can Roll (later shortened to Rock 'N Roll), a group that revolutionized, sanitized, and popularized Rock's original sound for mass consumption -- stoking modern debate about the first band to ever sell-out.

As with the first Cave Man to buck trends and fuck with fire, an occasion commemorated by inspired rockers from mountainous Colorado hundreds of thousands of years later, punk rock is ingrained in humanity. Evolution has eliminated vestigial appendages and organs, but – have faith – punk attitudes and ethos still course through man’s (woman’s, and the sexually ambiguous ultra-tight pantsed man’s) veins, belying detractors who argue against the utility of all things punk. The long history of punk rock affirms a singular truth: life is a punk song.

The hope for the future is that such a song – singing straight praise for punk ethos – will unite man in a scene of global proportions. As a young, modern philosopher once stated, under the influence of the fist pumping vibes of Stretch Arm Strong or Strike Anywhere:

This world would be a much better place if we could instill the youth (i.e. ourselves) – and really all people – with genuine punk rock ethos. Not punk in the interpretation of the ignorant masses, where punk means breaking shit and being violent and unnecessarily obscene, but, rather, punk in doing what is right and not giving a fuck about what other people think. It's being an individual and forming your own ideas – being critical of the structured world around you. I need to work on all this myself, but so do most people...As an extension of this idea, it would be so extremely cool if, in the future, when punk rock values really do (hopefully) pervade the collective consciousness of the world's people, random mosh pits just break out in the street.

You know, it's a typical workday in NYC; the streets are bustling as people rush to their respective jobs. But all of a sudden the most uptight looking dude – wearing a full suit, a briefcase in hand – tosses his baggage and screams at the top of his lungs, "1,2,3, GOOOOOO!!!!" On command, and without hesitation, a huge circle pit, composed solely of business people, breaks out. For the record, the future just might rock!

Whose good idea was it to give a young Chuck Norris a bunch of absurdly large guns and instant-murder combat training?

2006-06-04T12:14:00.000-04:00

Chuck Norris, Steven Seagal, and the like have obviously addictive personalities - addicted to kicking ass. I'm sure these epic men, virtual weapons of mass destruction, exhibited a predisposition for addiction at a young age, probably forsaking human contact for the cold plasticity of GI Joe's simulated violence. Imagine if Chuck and Steve's parents had decided it would have been healthier for them to go to school, where they could have channeled their fanatic energies into learning instead of simulating war crimes and executions. With the right focus, somebody with their addicted drive probably would have cured cancer and AIDS and solved aging 10 years ago. Instead, they've been bred into unusually silent ultra-killer types. I guess their existence does make me feel significantly safer, but I'll always wonder if they actually have the intellectual capacity to distinguish between enemies and innocents, or if everyone's a target in their eyes and they've just been lucky picking their victims so far.

The shortest story ever written about my brother and cheese and something he said and my response and how we laughed, sharing a rather cheesy moment

2006-05-31T02:02:00.000-04:00

Looking back on it, I can't decide if my brother merely slurred his words or if one of his words really was engulfed by pure physical space which sometimes functions as a literary monster that likes to remove or at least inaudible-ize words from sentences to make those sentences funny to any party witness to their utterance, mutterance, or any other method of conveyance save stutterance, because stuttering produces fun without manipulating sentence arrangement or completeness. When my brother's mouth contorted itself and his words drifted downward, traversing the void of neatly arranged plates and placemats and pieces of vegetables prepared for picking at and placing upon a tortilla to be toasted, I noted he was holding a bag of frozen shredded cheese and looking at me with his head half-cocked and a metallic grin, none of which were particularly remarkable or uncharacteristic circumstances.

The moment of impact shook me with giggles: "Do you wanna cheese out?"

Realizing my brother had likely just coined the newest, sweetest (and possibly healthiest) catchphrase, and regretting I hadn't any confetti or champagne in my pockets, I felt compelled to loose a hiccup of sincere and hearty laughter. Post-snicker, however, with composure regained, I embarked upon every great laugher's least favorite expedition: verification that one should be laughing. After verification of my brother's statement brought the disappointment that he had actually intended to communicate, "Do you want the cheese out?" we chose to instead revel, from that point forward – and backward, if possible – in our moment of miscommunication.

“Do you wanna cheese out?” remains a question rife with potential implications and interpretations, especially when the spoken words are actually coupled with a bag full of cheese. This seemingly simple but ultimately loaded question could be incorporated into stoner stammerings, political and professional jargon, or academic verbiage, amongst approximately one trillion other applications -- all guaranteed to induce some degree of humored reaction if used appropriately.

"The gun and the money? --- How 'bout the penis?"

2006-05-29T15:05:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, when I'm too tired or unoriginal to write anything new, I'm going to revise, revamp, and repost past updates that I particularly enjoyed. It'll be something like a greatest hits compilation -- only "hits" will represent words nobody ever enjoyed or wanted to revisit, except the author himself.

Anal tears

I've got a habit of talking to myself each and every morning when I awake, holding conversations between the fragments of personality that (who?) constitute my true self -- the internally-accurate Patrick-package. Of course, these conversations reflect a mind having just emerged from sleep (aka ultimate detachment), and a mind that, when at peak performance, is not at all concerned it's comprised of multiple personalities -- which is to say, if you still remember the point of this sentence, these conversations are so jumbled and incoherent as to be completely meaningless.

When I'm lucky, the conversations exist only inside my mind; but sometimes they manifest themselves into vocal vomit. And even when my mind's characters converse using real words, the words are arranged and employed without heed for the basic laws of oral communication. From outside my bedroom it probably sounds like borderline possession -- or that I've been sleeping with two totally toxic permanent markers rammed up my nostrils^...1.

It's rare that anything of memorable import emerges from my personal dialogues, even after I've had time to contemplate these patently dumb events. However, one morning, after I'd risen from bed and begun jabbering within myself, one of the many mes used the word 'asleep'. I don't actually remember the context of 'asleep' in that morning's amalgamation of mental sludge, but there is one thought I can't purge from my mind: somehow managing to smoothly transition from the word 'asleep' to 'ass-weep', a phrase that conjured nightmarish notions in my barely alert but, still fresh from a night of pleasant dreaming, hyper-imaginative mind.

Over the last half year or so, I've been constantly terrorized by the imaginary character I can't quite envision, the one who, I fear, spends his (my?) mornings promising to "make my ass weep." I've become supremely frightened of the implications of the declaration, the promise, "I'm gonna make your ass weep." I'm not even sure when the disconnected component phrase morphed into a full-fledged promise, but it haunts me. I think I'm especially concerned because the threat actually emanates from within myself. I want to tell that sadistic portion of myself that I'd be happy to settle for slit wrists, a nice noose, or the comforts of a car crash. Butt, however 'ass-weeping' comes about I never want to know; may no part of my body ever cry tears of blood.

Really, is there any other single threat that can make you squeeze your cheeks so tight, shake and quiver through the night, and realize you aren't alright? I'd be less scared of a cave escape blocked by enraged velociraptors or being encaged in (The Silence of the Lambs') Buffalo Bill's basement. Even debasement suffered at the bowel's of Barry, my good friend who actually believes the entire world is his toilet -- and treats it as such -- would be infinitely preferable to a punishment designed to make your anus cry a river.
¹...huffing away all night, the consequences of which will -- if you are interested to know -- transform a person from 100% normal functionality to -12% functionality, otherwise known as 100%-drooling-screaming-slapping(-oneself) mental retardation, in a mere 8 seconds.

Inspiring fear since 1983

2006-05-24T16:45:00.001-04:00

Lots of little kids are subject to the social misfortune of being labeled "weird" or "strange" or "an unhealthily convincing blend of David Koresh, Ted Kaczynski, Ernie Keebler, and Ronald McDonald." [Thankfully I wasn't stuck with Ronald McDonald's hair.] Some consider themselves lucky when they're able to escape those labels, suppressing deviance for the sake of acceptance. A few are institutionalized for exercising their grand imaginations. Others learn to thrive outside of normalcy, embracing their quirks (until institutionalization or death).

I spent my formative years drawing pictures of guns, dreaming about the arsenal I'd one day acquire, and writing stories where it wasn't uncommon for me to slay 1000+ enemies with my bazookas and uzis¹. For several years, my main sources of nutrition were paper and bookcovers [I think the Indian was hiding in the cupboard because I was eating my way into his universe], rubber bouncy balls, wooden pencils, and their erasers. I chewed holes in the neck of every shirt in my wardrobe, and a few of my brother's, one while he was wearing it, a manifestation of manic unrest. My mom affectionately calls me "OCD boy" -- a major step up from "little shit," so I'm not complaining -- and still has frequent occasion to update her catalogue of stories to entertain and embarrass, instances where I've immediately noticed a book out of (my) order or a picture frame that's been shifted slightly; my friends play a game where they take or rearrange my possessions to see how long it takes me to notice, and because they enjoy tormenting my ordered universe. I'm a compulsive liar sometimes, prone to exaggeration always, and, not coincidentally, an occasionally entertaining storyteller. And even I'm not convinced my apparent stability isn't just honed deception.

I thirst for revenge, backlogging even the most trivial of wrongs committed against me, wrongs of which the perpetuators might never have been aware. During IB testing during senior year of high school, Colin stole from me a couple of Jolly Ranchers and a Hershey Kiss. I made an immediate note to myself, one I still keep in my dresser drawer as a daily reminder, that reads verbatim:

"Kill Colin, or otherwise get revenge. don't forget, he stole hershey kill. (haha, I meant kiss) make him feel your pain (mike tyson)"

Yes, it was entirely accidental, but very revealing, that I replaced kiss with kill. On the other hand, it's likely I'm a total pussy. One time I accidentally inflicted a mortal injury upon a giant caterpillar, then started crying and apologizing when the caterpillar began, or so I thought, alternately screeching and whimpering in agony. This was before I'd ever experimented with any mind-altering substance.

On my (if you're counting) third hand, and I'm going to assume this is a rare request even on a universal scale, I've had two or three friends² make me promise, "I won't kill you when I go crazy." If they were joking they've concealed that fact well. Their wish certainly didn't bother me, and while I know I'm not capable of exploding on a murderous rampage, their doubts reassure me about the reputation I've barely worked to build. I'm awesome. Not cocky, confident to be sure, but definitely awesome.

In addition to daydreaming about sexy ladies and revenge and substances and the appealing liberation of unadulterated, unrestrained insanity, I'm also a well-liked babysitter and youth soccer coach, and so surprisingly responsible I've thrived working as a camp counselor for the past 5 summers. I have a multitude of great friends and family who keep me grounded, somewhere close to reality. A very little of the insanity I exhibit, I think, is me playing up to expectations; however, it might be irresponsible to disregard Howard Becker's labeling theory; and it might be plain stupid to assume my mental state isn't actually deteriorating. Whatever. It's all so much fun.

Everything I've written here definitely falls into the category of an "utter fucking ramble." Focus I lack, but you already knew that. I would apologize but I've decided to give up ever being sorry. It's much easier on the conscience. This also seems a good point to intrude with something so entirely unrelated to everything else here I can't preface it. At least not well.

A pinch of abstraction, a dash of pretension, and a whole bunch of metaphors:

I tend to think in detached bursts, a tendency my writing usually reflects; because of this, constructing a consistent and comprehensible draft (or paragraph) can be a grueling mental exercise. As I strive to snare fleeting thoughts from my spastic pendulum of concentration, my metaphor is inevitably invaded by thoughtless grenades whose explosions disrupt concentration, leaving me straining to commit to memory those brief bits of brilliance amidst the assault of distracting flashes. In my world of mixed metaphors, I’m in the Matrix but I can’t quite catch the ammunition whistling by.
My writing, always linear and sensible in conception, inevitably emerges a heaping casualty; a wicked, mocking maze of shattered, twisted structure, violent hemorrhages of distraction, and that final sigh of frustration. Guided by the hand of a clumsy coroner, no idea is ever fully autopsied; the end rarely unearths the truth that, when initially glimpsed, must have inspired action, though it produces ten accidentally provoked but gaping, rushing, floods to investigate.

Some overall case in point: A good friend just IMed me, "and you're scaring me with your writings..." Hey, at least it's feedback. You're actually free to criticize, critique, or compliment my writing without fear of reprisal; in fact, I encourage and appreciate it.

¹I long ago lost interest in guns and such. I now enjoy a more creative approach to wreaking havoc.
²Those two or three individuals may want to remind me of my vow, to ensure their demise isn't a tragedy of hilarious misfortune (i.e. forgetfulness).

While I'm wondering why in the hell you're still reading this, I'm impressed you made it through.

The meaningless lives of altered boys

2006-05-24T01:46:00.000-04:00

Again, straight from the annals of my senior week beach excursion, a riveting tale of obvious relevance.

When CVS store policy and a compliant clerk thwarted my attempt to purchase obscene quantities of alcohol with my Davidson Catcard, Will and I pondered, with uncharacteristic deliberation, what we might splurge on instead. We needed to determine if an abundance of anything else might be so appreciated by our party-loving housemates as the building bottles of blackout bliss we’d begrudgingly reshelved. We considered alliteration, but imagined intoxicated interactions relying on repetition and wit wouldn't work. Plus, it would just be fucking obnoxious, don't you think?

Being in CVS, and seeking quantities of any product so absurd our housemates might forget or ignore that what we'd provided the house was entirely immaterial, we realized greeting our housemates with grocery bags full of Value Size OTC pill bottles should be absolutely stupefying. Just imagine: "YOOOOOOOOOO, who needs some motherfuckin' ibuprofen!? Hell yeah! Have as much as you want!"

And that idea, as unbelievable as I'm sure this will seem, wasn't even the pinnacle of our imaginative quest to impress!

Next, we evidenced logical progression, proposing a raucous entrance into the beach house bearing bags brimming with ankle braces, two for each housemate, a better idea entirely. That would require buying sixteen ankle braces in all. We hoped our housemates might praise our safety-first thinking, our efforts to protect the endangered ankles of balance-challenged drunkards -- "Careful there, bud. Why don't you strap on some trusty ankle supports?" -- but then we realized we could give them a gift that cost nothing, but was worth so much more because it came from the heart.

We determined we'd go comb Will's Dad's property, and maybe a local wooded area, to collect bags and bags of leaves. Then we'd drive them to the beach, hopefully having room in the car for our other luggage, to sprint into and about our house sprinkling -- nay, dumping -- trees' offerings all over everything and everyone. We weren't sure why but this idea just seemed right.

Alas, none of our ideas ever came to fruition, but we did finally remember, after three separate trips to the counter, to buy the lighter that had brought us to CVS in the first place. Putting our lighter to use for the next several days, thousands of amazingly incoherent ideas were conceived and summarily forgotten, the undocumented casualties of sublime hilarity. I wouldn't want it any other way. Goodbye.

[Strange ending, huh? Oh, nope, not a suicide note.]

Creative Business Propositions: Progressive Prostitution*

2006-05-23T11:30:00.000-04:00

The original business model involves the mother of a good friend, but the company would be looking to expand quickly. The prostitute(s) would skate up and down Davidson's main downtown strip, the shopfront area, tantalizing the townspeople and visitors to our picturesque, Old South locale. The whores on wheels would provide a needed vibrancy, complimented especially by increased police activity and the attraction of a diversity of visitors previously unknown to the township -- it currently comprised solely of yuppies and established Southern traditionalist families. Equipped with older model roller skates, my sluts would be able to cover more ground and increase exposure to potential clients; furthermore, being regularly active, they'd stay fit and sexy.

My rollerhoes would wear tight, exceptionally short cutoffs, coupled with sports-bras or other attractive athletic apparel. Maybe, to foster a relaxed working relationship, they could wear Hawaiian shirts or arm swimmies¹ on Fridays.

Almost the embodiment of the rollerslut ideal² is Skate, a character from the classic Sega video game series Streets of Rage. But, Skate being a male rollerslut (with shorts much too long), and company expansion into male prostitution being still several years away, I had to doctor the picture slightly. Still, you should get the idea. The image does a fantastic job capturing the Sluts On Skates'© business ethic and element of social contribution. First, notice the rollerslut's dedication to the job, working despite the inclement weather; second, cementing the company's reputation for hard work, if you consult the wheeling prostitute's lifebar³ [at the top left of the image] you'll notice she's on the job despite having only 1/2 a normal, healthy life force; third, observe the diversity of clientele the skating whore has attracted, not to mention the sheer number of interested individuals per single slut, a circumstance certain to lead to a booming economic climate for all town businesses; lastly, notice the giant turkey resting in the background, the company's effort to combine generosity with enticement, encouraging the homeless to lead a slightly more fulfilling life by helping them save their money for what really counts.

Expanding into neighboring townships would be a goal, potentially developing into a franchising company over the years, where towns would pay at least $1000 cash money upfront, plus regular fees afterward, for the use of the company name and, by that point, standard company apparel (which just might include boxing gloves like Skate's).

And if I don't become a kingpin of sleaze, might I be fortunate enough to found a successful Slut Review magazine, enabling me to sleep with and rate scores of whores using my patented rising-erection-meter or a classic 5-boners scale, until falling victim to my unprotected promiscuity.

¹Arm swimmies - Those adorable floatation devices outfitting every toddler's tiny arms at the pool and the beach.

²The absolute rollerslut ideal is Rollergirl, Heather Graham's character from Boogie Nights.

³Yes, for those giddy Sluts On Skates, work really is play -- so much that each girl is shadowed by a hovering lifebar that symbolizes the game-like atmosphere of the work environment.

*Implementation of business plan pending the legalization of prostitution in the US. I urge you to write your Congressman and start making a real difference.

When Dick Vitale is older he'll birth his own (adult) diaper dandies (or, the definition of Punk)

2006-05-23T00:59:00.000-04:00

Everything surrounding the Davidson College senior week excursion to Folly Beach was memorable, with the trips to and from serving as the unforgettable and often hilarious bookends. Specifically, just before departing, Will and I attempted to buy $100 worth of beer from the Davidson CVS with the remainder of my semester's funds -- the money my parents had put on my school card. Sadly, CVS doesn't allow Catcard purchases of alcohol or tobacco products, so after we'd stacked cases of beer 3 feet in the air, we had to lug them all back to the shelves.

Better yet, one of my rather prim and proper former neighbors witnessed the entire exchange -- I'm sure her mind recalled and reinspected, with panicky concern anew, the memories of nights I'd babysat her young, perfectly-combed, and immaculately dressed children, seeking any telltale but previously overlooked suggestion of corrupt, or worse, corrupting, caretaking. What follows is a semi-fictional dramatic recounting of our CVS encounter:

As I strode past her, cradling cases of beer up to my chin, my eyes locked into her stone gaze, our heads both swiveling like a child's who's unwilling to release some astounding sight rushing past his car window. However, this was no magical movie moment, no boy-sees-girl-of-his-dreams-who's-licking-a-lollipop-with-lascivious-intent, somehow-maintaining-eye-contact-through-a-mob-of-milling-distractions, accompanied-by-a-perfect-soundtrack moment -- even though my recollection, curiously shifted into a third person perspective, does flow in perfect slow motion.
No, this was (sur)real life. And so, to take advantage of my rare opportunity, both for unnerving effect and personal delight, I flickered my tongue then licked my lips in a moment charged with vampiric eroticism. Yet unsatisfied, and wishing to inflict lasting psychological damage, I curled my lips into (what I imagined to be) a sexy snarl and winked, immediately afterward whipping my head frontward with a cocky toss of my hair -- a habitual reaction that probably looked ridiculous after having shaved my head the previous evening, my first haircut in 7 months, a change to which I was yet unaccustomed.

I'm sure this short piece of semi-fiction would be fun to continue, but it's late and I need to go to work tomorrow. Maybe I'll expand on it later, or maybe it's better to end it like this:

Suddenly, just after discerning a gurgling that indicated a certain immediacy, I felt a lurching in my bowels. I turned back toward my neighbor and the cashier, dropped my shorts, screamed a primal scream, and defecated on the floor. Then I shot everyone and cannibalized several of the victims, stuffing the various orifices of those deceased Davidsonians I didn't nibble on with Vienna Sausages fresh from aisle 14. The police let me go because they said I was "rad" and "punk rock." So, for those of you wondering, that's apparently what it means to be "punk."

If 'True Love Waits,' Lust Doesn't

2006-05-20T11:09:00.000-04:00

Beautiful women need to start having more sex -- with me, specifically. Whatever it takes, rampant coitus needs to be in vogue in the vicinity of my pants. Whether that requires females to abandon questionable devotions to religious and moral principles, to increase their alcoholic intake, or my adoption of corpses for partners, I'm relatively unconcerned. But I know beauty is quick to decay postmortem, so, if I resort to pursuing gravebound beauties, I'll have to be fast to find suitably luscious corpses.

Seriously, you should see beer bottles when I'm done with them; the entire time the bottle's in my hands my fingernails are in action, ferociously shredding, mangling any and all attached labels until all that remains is the smooth, translucent brown glass adorned by a few skid marks of rough and sticky white residue. Everyone is so damn quick to note such habits supposedly derive from titty-tooshie-twat-tension, aka "sexual frustration." But all that squabbling doesn't do me any good -- unless I can manage to ram my rod into that agape noisemaking orifice, thereby fulfilling my two immediate desires. Sadly, I wasn't endowed a rapist's mentality. I must find a socially acceptable way to let off some cream before the allure of beer and shampoo bottle openings becomes too strong.

And such an opportunity provided itself during a recent trip to a frightening and unknown mecca of subhuman love, Wal-Mart -- an ultra-low-priced retailer where expectations of customer attractiveness are even lower, so low that I'm considered a handsome prince. While filling my shopping cart with cereals I was accosted by a middle-aged women with a mere three or four visible disfigurements, a veritable supermodel in the scope of Wal-Mart's typical clientele. After she spoke several complete sentences I smiled and responded, feigning interest in her generic plucky charms. My words seemed to put her at ease, assuring her, despite our obvious differences, that we were similar species that communicated in similar tongues. But then, in a fit of unacceptable, and I'm sure calculated, bestiality, she tried to intertwine our tongues:

"So, do you have a girlfriend." Her yellow eyes, set too close together, bulged with devious anticipation.
I shifted my feet and stared at the tiled floor. "Uhhh -- yeah. Yes. Yes, I do," I mumbled.
"Well, I'd like you to meet my daughter. She just graduated from high school and we're new to the area. Maybe you could tell her about some colleges? She's very cute."
DAMN. I hadn't been convincing enough. "sure," I replied meekly, wary of mutant reprisals.
As she unleashed a grating sound somewhere between a cackle and howl, something bounded into my periphery with a rather violent lack of coordination. The creature called daughter hobbled toward me and extended a paw; afraid to offend the beast or it's somehow proud mother, I offered my hand, prompting a smile so gap-toothed I didn't doubt the daughter could perform fellatio with her teeth clinched. "If only she were a decayed corpse," I thought, "I'd actually be less disgusted -- and she might have a chance."

Having repressed the rest of our encounter, I can't explain with any certainty how I escaped the grasps of the lusting mutant duo. Maybe I resorted to using words longer than 6 letters in length to confound their meager faculties of comprehension. Maybe a false phone number granted my freedom. Whatever. The simple truth: if you can read these words, Wal-Mart is not the last place on earth you should look for love, it should be absolutely forbidden. If you're overcome with desperation, resort to the mushy warmth of a compost pile or rotten fruit.

SPAM

2006-05-20T00:22:00.000-04:00

If you stumble across a funny message while perusing your junk email will you please post the text, verbatim, in a comment to this post? Seriously. I'm on a crusade against SPAM filtering...more on that soon.

Sittin' on blades like Kristy Yamaguchi

2006-05-19T23:15:00.000-04:00

Oh, those clever Clipse. Finally, after years delay, Jive will be releasing Hell Hath No Fury this fall. If you weren't fortunate enough to hear their We Got It For Cheap series mixtapes, download the track "Zen." Hell, download the entire Vol. 2 release, widely heralded -- and deservedly so -- as one of 2005's top hip-hop releases.

On to less important things: I'm a recent college graduate. On May 14th, I accepted my BA, many of my friends earned a BS, but I couldn't help but wonder why math majors aren't rewarded with a BM. I guess those who long ago established the traditional degrees realized how awkward it might sound to brag, "I worked for hard years for a BM." Poop jokes might never leave my system, butt the Davidson College English department can be commended, as its products emerge from the bowels of academia, for imparting scatological sophistication.

Just before graduation masses of seniors migrated to Charleston for a week of absurdity. I saw some good fights, drank some good drinks, and inhaled good n' plenty. The highlight: the word 'loafing', already subject to alternative usages, was endowed an entirely new connotation. The kind Mary Jane helped my household understand that loafing can serve as a noun, verb, or adjective - perhaps even a number. The possibilities for usage are so endless I can't even provide examples, for that would simply be too limiting.

Driving back to Davidson from Charleston, I observed a man lugging what appeared to be two halves of a television from some establishment on the side of the road. After watching him hurl his apparently ninjad TV into a dumpster, I noticed the sign adorning the building: "If we can't fix it, it's not broken." Now I'm no repairman myself, but I can't imagine fusing TV slices is much more manageable than rebuilding a shattered bottle. Still, the claim that business is making is infuriating; to emerge from a repair shop with an undeniably broken product to be mocked -- "If we can't fix it, it's not broken" -- might inspire the rage required to storm back inside, beat the repairman's head in with any blunt tool, then serenade his spasming body with his own motto. Maybe breaking the repairman's neck would be more satisfying, so he'd be conscious to comprehend the irony. Or maybe you'd forego the revenge and offer a life-saving-suggestion for a better sign, "If we can't fix it, it's definitely broken."

I've got to go beat my loaf.

Q: WWJD? A: Suck my ass!

2006-04-28T11:50:00.000-04:00

I'm going to occasionally recycle my old AIM Away Messages and short clips of nonsense from my first webpage (geocities.com/pba19) for entry titles.

Let me preface this by saying Nirvana is my favorite band of all time, and what follows, though it totally undermines the integrity of the band and the music (and I'm sure the commenter knew this), is patently hilarious. A comment in reply to a punknews.org review of Nirvana's "Unplugged in New York" posits, "Nirvana was alright, would be better if they had breakdowns though."

"O Brother, Where Art Thou?" "In bed with our sister."

2006-04-27T17:53:00.000-04:00

Why did I need a blog when I already have a Livejournal and an old Geocities webpage? Just to hassle and confuse you.

Anyway, holy fucking shit, I was watching TV last night and was blown away by one commercial for the new "Above the Influence" anti-drug campaign. There's a girl in her bedroom talking about facing, and caving into, peer pressure and how it affected her life. What's shocking, however, is that some idiot is subjecting her to any sort of conversation instead of screaming for help or sprinting to the nearest telephone to call the medics. Check this girl out. There's something seriously wrong with her, like a giant Mario just took her by surprise after mistaking her for one of his mortal enemies, a goomba. [See Example Below]

Now I'm not a parent yet, so maybe my perspective will change someday, but I can't imagine I'd be concerned with my daughter's substance abuse if she looked like a block of cheese. Further, I'm guessing that the girl's appearance influenced her substance abuse; in fact, those dumbass parents are lucky their daughter hasn't offed herself yet.

My other concern is that the girl blames a little substance experimentation for her dramatic physical transformation. I've done a lot of research on drugs, used some myself, and seen plenty of other heavy users and addicts, but I've never - NEVER - seen or heard of anything like this; the right drugs can make you hallucinate similar distortions, but those mental alterations don't have real, physical manifestations. So maybe she hasn't recovered from the concussion Mario gave her. Maybe his ruthless squashing damaged her brain. Or maybe, just maybe, shes being misled by some idiot with an agenda.

Now, if there was ever a convincing argument against using drugs, it would be this girl. But, because I've never heard of a single halfway similar circumstance, never once in all my years of D.A.R.E. training or even in my college orientation classes, I'm wary. Why? Because this isn't the kind of deterrent side effect that gets saved in the anti-drug arsenal; if drug use precipitated instant body crumpling and compaction we'd have heard about it long ago. It's not like pot and alcohol suddenly became one trillion times more potent. Since the government's biased and dishonest sex-ed programs were busted for disseminating disinformation -- teaching that HIV is transmittable through tears and sweat and a 43 day old fetus is a "thinking person," among other blatant falsehoods -- intuition informs me that its drug prevention efforts might be similarly based on recently formulated bullshit.

My hypothesis: some cruel asshole heard about this girl's grotesque condition, found out she'd smoked a few joints and sipped a few beers at some point in her life, and decided that was strong enough evidence to link drug use and sudden-onset deformity. Now all her misleader has to do is keep her away from doctors or people with brains and a sense of decency and she'll accept what she's been told she's done to herself.

Another anti-drug resource provided another puzzler. I'm still using my mathematical and general analysis skills to process this one. My conclusion, unless I'm totally missing something, is that it's fucking idiotic. Or else intrusions by big brother have exceeded my worst fears. If you're a parent, decide how likely it is that your child has ever huffed anything - then multiply that number by 5. And, presto, that's the percentage chance your child has ever enjoyed toxic fumes. If you know you're raising a huffer and score a 500%, does that just mean your child has progressed to increasingly intense and dangerous substances? Maybe anthrax? His friend's farts? Or is this just another opportunity to instill fear and boost the war on drugs?

A little research on the author of the inhalant statistics revealed he regularly employs questionable scientific methods to develop his conclusions. Yes, he's a senior official in the Bush administration, and he was 300% positive there were WMDs in Iraq.

Hey man, flex your Triceratops

2006-04-27T13:16:00.000-04:00

Because I’m due to flounder in idle insignificance after my immanent graduation, some people will see this as a desperate ploy to find employment. But there’s no other way to say it: I’m a prophet. As such, my visionary gifts would be highly useful for the government or various intelligence agencies.

My graphic, unrestrained full-sensory foresight has always been a pleasurable companion. For years I’ve been envisioning consensual fondling and kissing between lascivious ladies – beautiful, freaky, and all appropriately aged (18+), of course. Recently, however, with terrorism in vogue, my mind flashed to the next frontier of bioterrorism.

The image seared itself into my brain. A dark, dank, 4-walled room that made the cruelest dungeon seem luxurious. The floors – of carpet, wood, or linoleum, it is uncertain – were covered in black, chunky sewage and plant growth atypical of an indoor living environment. A massive, fleshy deposit lay, prone, in the middle of the swampy ecosystem, partially submerged in the thick, opaque liquid. A naked, comically bloated stomach protruded from the filth, a mountain; the barely emerging plots of thigh to the south, islands; a face, far to the north, an abandoned weapons testing site. Festering sores adorned the every inch of visible flesh, some infections oozing, others staunched by the delicate crystalline flakes and globules of scabbing pus.

Scores of tubes from a setup of regularly beeping and whirring machinery fed intravenous streams into the unconscious heap on the floor. Suddenly I became aware of an unrelenting hum and noticed the peculiar black freckles moving across the exposed flesh of the ravaged Buddah.

The next level of bioterrorism will involve feeding diseased individuals to swarms of mosquitoes, raising mosquitoes in a favorable, contained environment where blood diseased with the few deadly viruses transferable between humans and mosquitoes is the only available food source. Once infected, the mosquitoes will be released into the open environment. What a passive and genius approach to slow, painful death. Would such an undertaking even be illegal? Here’s a chance to be proactive and enact legislation in anticipation. Don’t say we weren’t warned.

"Chillin' like the Scarecrow, lookin' for some brain"

2006-04-27T01:06:00.000-04:00

Driving through Tennessee last fall, colorful billboards advertising “FIREWORKS LIVE ON DVD!!!” constantly flashing in my periphery, I decided that Americans, somehow, were actually lazier than I’d thought. And, perhaps, even less intelligent; passing the billboard for a combination gas station-fireworks shop, my head tilting and face scrunching, unable to avert my eyes until I was staring through the Expedition’s rear window at a big, brown rectangle, my imagination sparked.

Lazy people loathe thinking. Nowhere is that more apparent than in the War on Terror, not even Tennessee – though both are enjoyed by anyone armed with a sense of humor, terrorists and targets alike.

I know I’m late writing about this, but in the last year handfuls of children under the age of 4 were detained at airports because their names matched those of known terrorists. Not delayed for a minute or two. Detained. Bunches of Minutes. Hours.

Airport security. Idiots.

Bombs don’t have names, and neither do they have genders.

It should be, well, alarming, that any non-institutionalized adult can't differentiate between harmless, dribbling babies and murderous, hate spewing, terrorists. Or so I thought. But, considering secret military intelligence, maybe terrorist technology can produce lifelike babybombs. In that case, airport security is certainly justified in gently prodding or lightly touching the baby-looking-item, or maybe listening to its belly region for a faint ticking, to determine its potential danger. But that’s only a 10 second delay – 15 seconds max. Another thought: assuming we’re not dealing with retarded terrorists – whose unpredictability would absolutely scare me shitless – I’m guessing that terrorists would not name their bomb-children after other terrorists; even cave-dwellers are aware America has devoted its every resource to stopping terroristm.

So, since we aren’t dealing with Plutonites, Uraniumites, or other dangerously radioactive, exploding toddlers, I’m unable to comprehend airport security thought processes. It’s a fact, not even those precocious 1-4 year olds who’ve begun to grasp complex adult concepts like sandwich construction have ever ascended to the head of any major criminal organization – hell, any organization save the Booger Bunch – even if they’re overqualified for an airport security position.

I think we’re overestimating the capabilities of children as terrorist masterminds. Straight up, I’m not scared of someone who’s not allowed to pour their own milk. And any kid, no matter how scary, can be disarmed with a lollipop. In the rare case a Blow Pop fails, it’s fairly simple to kick the shit out of anyone recently emerged from infancy. If that approach fails, every party involved deserves what’s coming to them.

I can only imagine the America of the future, where authorities make random, unjustified arrests in the name of prevention, imprisoning people for months without reason or the notification of their acquaintances, just cause becoming “just ‘cause.”

At least the Miami Police Department has pioneered some effective anti-terror tactics, staging random public shows of police force to unnerve and dissuade potential terrorists. The only solution more sensible would be shooting random people to reduce the terrorist presence.

Whiny Bitch

2006-04-22T19:29:00.000-04:00

As if there was any question, this post's title refers to the lead singer of The Used, a band, for reasons beyond the vexatious vocalist, that I don't like too much. In opposition to that insignificant introduction, however, my real reason for posting is uncharacteristically monumental - I must offer an observation that could shape existence as we know it, dividing all time into Pre- and Post- Pat's Post. Prepare to celebrate the profundities of blogging. I think the title and chorus of The Used's "A Box of Sharp Objects" should be changed to "A Box of Dark Chocolates."

Why?

2006-04-22T16:08:00.000-04:00

I've created a blog. How original. Now I can whine about my problems, hope people read my sob stories, become depressed, then hop in an oven or mangle some body part in a blender.