Get Back On That Horse

Two weeks have come and gone since my fall from grace.  I quit my job, I started working out, and I’m drinking again.  The cosmos have been set into motion and my universe has been chaotically shredded by the lawn-mower blades of fate.  The baby step I took to reclaim my life turned into a stumble that left the virtual pages of WordPress blank.  Aside from myself, the biggest losers in this mess have been all of those who look to these posts for motivation and an excuse to mock me.  I apologize to all four of you.  As for me, however, I made a mistake.  While I’ll never regret getting out of that soul-stealing, slave mill I called a job, I regret my preparation for the next step in my life.  My goals of becoming a comic/writer/chauvinist have fallen flat, but not for long.  I made another step.

I ventured out.  Money has been tight since I quit.  In an attempt to save on automobile gas, I journeyed by foot to the stable to see my sweet ponies, Success and Virtue.  Due to extremely long stretches of immobility indoors, my muscles and lungs had weakened and my tan had all but disappeared leaving my newly acquired bed sores exposed to the elements.  Regardless, I found motivation and made my way to the street.  I stepped out of my home only to feel my pasty skin bake from the torturous blazes of the autumn sun.  My heart rate surged creating a gentle sweat which, while cooling my skin from the sun’s intensity, stung my open bed sores.  The sunshine glistened off of my sweaty skin directly into my eyes.  As a result of the glare, temporary blindness caused me to see eye-worms; glowing dots in my retinas creating stabbing pain and tears.  The eye-worms took the form of Success and Virtue, the fore mentioned ponies I had started out to visit.  In all but five minutes in the real world, I had no choice but to second guess my actions.  I went back into my home.

Summoning the courage to leave my apartment after the solemn events I conjured, proved to be a difficult task.  The heavy burden of  taking on a new adventure was scary.  Attempting to find my own Success and Virtue caused blinding pain from hot flashes and sweat.  The real world’s sun is brutal.  Its warming light shines down allowing us to forge a path toward our goals.  However, the light can be intense and if a person is not prepared, his journey will be riddled with burn and eye-worms.  Ironically, the only way to prepare him is to set him on his journey in the sun’s blazes encouraging each small step forward.

My journey has just begun and there are many steps to be taken.  Although the latest action may have been a misstep, it wasn’t all bad.  My tan is back and my muscles and lungs are strong again.  The sores on my skin have healed (sans my genitalia…that’s right…Herpes).  Unfortunately, in the time it took me to build up my tolerance of the real world, my ponies died.  Oh well.  Success and Virtue don’t always take the form you first expected.  At least there will be enough meat to last through winter, thus saving money on grocery meats.  Now, I just have to go out there and retrieve it.  Ah, sh*t.

10 Reasons I’ve Ever Been Scared

I took a picture of my perineum using a mirror. This isn't it.

There are a lot of things out there that keep me indoors and away from windows.  My life revolves around avoiding things that scare me and wearing hair nets.  As much as I’ve tried to overcome some of my most basic fears, I always find ways to reinforce them.  The following is a compilation of the 10 worst times I’ve ever been scared:

10.  My poop turned blue for three days after eating TCBY’s Arthur the Aardvark’s Cotton Candy flavored frozen yogurt.

9.  After snapping some voyeuristic pictures behind a circus tent, I was mauled by a black bear.

8.  I was unable to take back a pair of denim jeans at the Gap.  Now I just keep things.

7.  I got a bee sting on my boner. (Thank you, Johnny & J-Pa)

6.  I cut my perineum (see left; “incision”) on a barbed-wire fence while tobogganing in France.  I had to wear a heavy flow maxi-pad for a week.  (And that’s the closest I’ve ever been to a woman.)

5.  I was held at knife point at a McDonald’s drive-thru for sarcastically ordering a “Crappy Meal”.

4.  I held a pee in so long playing the drinking game Edward Forty Hands that urine sprayed out of my nipples.

3.  My mother adopted me from my grandmother.

2.  Thinking I had found the last morsel of food in my house, I once ate a lot of cat food.

-And Finally-

1.  A maniacal and murderous clown named Adam who lives in a brightly colored  school bus parked in a mountain meadow is stalking me via MySpace.  (My real name is Liz)

Just Curious…

Yeah, kind of like this

I’m curious about retards but I’m scared to approach them.  I see Down Syndrome people or wheel-abouts (my expression for the mentally and physically doomed) and my heart aches.  I feel so bad that I can’t even talk to them.  I know if I did I would slip up and start asking them math related questions.  I weep inside when I see a bus of them pull up outside the mall’s food court.  What, if anything, are they thinking?  Do you think that their thought processes are like those of animals?  I heard this argument once that animals don’t have the ability to feel or communicate with others.  One justification for slaughtering cows or chickens to eat is that they can’t feel the pain because they’re somehow immune.  Are retards like that?  Are they immune to pain?  If they can’t feel anything or communicate effectively, do they want to live?  Should we eat them?  We’d have to kill them first.  According to my speculation, they won’t feel it.  Most wouldn’t be able to tell anyone about the injustice they were suffering at the feed lots because they couldn’t comprehend the situation.  They wouldn’t know any different.  I can see them getting upset trying to think about the way things could be or couldn’t be or just….UGH, poop!  They could just vent their frustrations with poop throwing/eating contests.  “Do you smell that, honey?  I think they just wrangled up some more ‘tards for slaughter.”  I wonder what they taste like.  If only I wasn’t so scared to ask them, they could probably tell me.

Dead Rabbits

Tookie is my cat and we live on the third story of a condominium building.  He is extraordinary in every way.  He is cute and fun like a small human.  He bites hard and sleeps well.  Even the way his huge craps stink is immaculate.  Unfortunately for him, he is an outdoor cat trapped inside a indoor cat’s house.  Sometimes, however, he is allowed out when I leave the house and the neighbors are gone.  And this is where one of his best features kicks in.  In order to get back into the condo after I let him outside, he doesn’t just wait at the front door making a scene for no one to hear like all the other idiot cats out there.  No, he’s better than that.  Using pure prowess and power, grace and skill, he scales the back side of our building with his cat-like claws and incredible strength.  He jumps on our back porch and comes in through a dog door I paid for with my mother’s retirement money.  This morning, I let Tookie outside a little earlier than usual so that he could exercise his handsome feline features.  Which he did.

Tookie sometimes reminds me just how close to nature we actually live.  We are a mere 20 yards from open space and, because of this Tookie and I have an agreement:  He may only take memories and leave only footprints.  Today he violated that agreement.  He caught, maimed, killed, carried up the building, sat down on my kitchen floor with, and devoured the head of a baby rabbit (otherwise known as a cutie or a babbit).  It’s pretty incredible what my cat is capable of.  It’s even more incredible how much he can just kill an innocent creature with no remorse only minutes after I fed him.  But I’m not even mad; I’m actually a little proud.  Look what he can do!  Commit murder?  The thing is I just don’t want to clean up his pukes.  Maybe if I leave it, my lover, JDubs, will clean it up with a trash sack and spare me the trouble.

Tookie eats rabbits like a man juggles; with balls

How I Learned How To Read

I learned how to read just like you.  Except not like you at all.  You prick; you think you’re better than me?  When I see the word “big”, I think of bestial anatomy.  When I hear the word “skipper”, I cringe.  Reading is a chore.  A sexy chore of disgusting images and male on male intercourse.

My story starts when I was a young lad.  My parents abandoned me and left me to die in a pie shop.  They knew I hated pie.  I made an immaculate escape.  It was daring and spectacular and that’s all I’m going to say about that here.  This story is about what happened next.  I was rummaging through a dumpster one night after my escape looking for a cat to eat.  All of a sudden I was rescued by a maiden.  She was tall and her Adam’s apple was poking through her skirt.  Her vibrant voice startled the cat and I got mad.  She asked me what I was doing.  When I told her that I was a lone ranger with no one to love, she grabbed my neck nape and kissed my lips.  The cat came back and we ate.

I knew that I could trust her because she was tall.  She took me to her house.  It was the whoryist house in the whole neighborhood.  There were all sorts of skank-ass hos and their Johns.  There were pizza boxes and pimps; recycled newspapers bins and crab shells; dogs and sweat pants.  The lady who found me told me she would raise me as her own and teach me how to read.  She then kissed me again and punched me in the gut with her fist.  The next day she taught me reading.

She said the only way to learn is to envision the words.  She taught me to think of an image each time I saw a letter so I could remember the sound.  She said that I could break down the words into letters and remember whole words by imagining the words that each letter represented to me.  Normally, this strategy might have worked, but I was in a whore house.  The only words for letters I could think of were the perverse images I witnessed.  Take the word “duck”: D is for the DEA, U is for uterus (I actually had one like as a pet rock), C is for big, gigantic, black c*ck (modifiers were another one of her lessons) and, K was for kiddie porn (I was also a movie star).  When I put it all together it looks like Ving Rhames dressed as a cop ripping the uterus out of an old hag watching me on VHS.  Far from an actual duck.

I am grateful I learned to read.  I despise that it was at the expense of my innocence.  Now where did I put that calico kitten?  I’m about to have me some dinner.  Let me know if you want me to spell out some other words for you.

What Work

A lot of people ask me what I do for a living.  It has been suggested that I should have an “elevator speech” prepared for just such occasions. Something that titillates and informs in the time that it takes to travel on an elevator.  So here it goes.  This is what I would tell you if you asked me what I do for a living:

“Hi, how’s it going?  (Pause for response, very important).  Good, me too.  Oh, what do I do?  I work in the health care field.  I am what’s know as a materials handling specialist.  (pause for courtesy chuckle).  I do some dicing and cutting, but for the most part I work the scrape and suck apparatus.  But don’t let the name fool you.  There’s no real scraping going on.   It’s more like a scramble using a plain ol’ garden-variety clothes hanger (sterile, of course) in a vigorous whisking motion.  There’s no real sucking either, come to think of it.  I just use the end of the hanger like a hook and extract that way.  It can be pretty messy work.  That’s why I wear latex gloves and a rubber smock.  I really hate staining my scrubs.  They say you must not have a soul to do this job, but that is so misguided.  Dozens of little souls are harvested every day.  I figure when I die, I can just rope them together and ride the “stairway to heaven” in a chariot behind those little angels.”

Were you titillated? If you guessed correctly, you may have said that I work as an omelet chef in a hospital brunch buffet (it’s a nice hospital).  If you guessed incorrectly, you’re sick.

The Last Time I Crapped My Pants

Yeah, I shard.  So what?  If you ask me, it smells like most everyone else does, too.  Have you ever been on a bus?  This isn’t about that.  This is a story.  And it begins now….The last time I really crapped my pants, I was about 5 years old.  It was just after lunch on a sunny summer afternoon.  I finished a bowl of grape nuts and an apple.  At that point, I had just recently become a graduate of Pull-Ups for Young Adults Diapers.  I was proud then.  It wasn’t much before that day that I had become mature enough to don a freshly minted pair of Mighty Mouse underoos.  They were equipped with a fancy flap that, given the right circumstances of jarring and bouncing, could expose my dinger to a slew of people.  I thought I was becoming a man, a feeling that I wouldn’t realize again until late into my twenties.

My neighborhood was filled with all sorts of kids around my age.  During the summer we would play baseball in the defunkity cul-de-sac in front of my house.  There were usually enough kids on the block to get a full field of fielders and a batter or two.  We never needed outfielders.  Not only were all the kids too weak and gay to power the ball into any kind of outer field, but where the outfield existed, stood a house.  Like I said, it was a defunkity sac.  We played a version of homerun derby that may have been cooked up in a South American guerilla camp.  There was a lot of running and yelling and kidnapping, but never any fun.  Actually, it was a lot of fun.  Later on in my youth, I would become an incredible slugger; able to rock a tennis ball with a rake handle across the sac and over the neighbor’s house on any day of the week.

At the bright eyed age of five, filled with fiber and milk, I stumbled out of my house to find a gathering of minors and their colleagues.  They had organized a game that we all knew well.  We got on to playing.  As the game started, I began to notice some of the early warning signs inside my body of a poop trying to make its escape out of my anus.  I had a terrible case of the bubble guts and mud butt.  Upset stomach paired with a sweaty ass.  It was coming on slow but steady.  I knew that I would soon need to make use of the latrine nearly 50 yards away.

So, like most people do, I weighed my options.  I either had to stop having fun and sit inside for 10 minutes while I made good on the toilet or I’d continue to have fun and not worry about the consequences.  Well the grumbling continued and I felt terrible until I was called up to bat.  It’s like you can kick a kid in the face and insult him until he cries but the minute you give him a piece of candy, everything is all right.  For the moment, everything seemed to be gravy.  I said to myself, “just one quick swing of the bat and a trot around the bases and I would be on my way.  After all, the bathroom was just beyond home plate.”

I got up to bat ready to crush the perfect pitch.  So, I sat on a pitch.  And another.  And another.  And as I waited for which pitch I wanted to rock into tomorrow, I began to realize that I was not going to make it that far.  The pitch came and I took a cut.  It was at that point my procrastination caught up with me.  Working in perfect unison, my gut and butt squeezed and pushed.  The bat went flying and I ran towards the house only to feel a bread size loaf fill my pants.  As I jogged, holding my ass, I felt what seemed to be a warm, freshly baked muffin trickle out of my shorts and down my leg onto the concrete.  I did it.  I crapped my pants.  And the driveway, too, apparently.

Cereal Mix Up

I am the self proclaimed king of face stuffing.  Above all foods, cereal is the one I prefer to stuff my face with.  I like all the kinds.  I just cram it down my crammity cram hole.  It’s a great way to start the day, end the day, take a break from the day, drown emotions I don’t want to feel every day, and enjoy the day.  I crave it.  Sometimes I crave it so much that I do weird things.  Is it ok to mix cereals?  Yeah, it is.  What if I get down to the end of one box and the bowl is only half full?  No one should fill up half ways…what a waste of milk and time.  I gotta top off before I slop off.  Besides, how else am I supposed to get 35% of my daily fiber intake while fulfilling my essential marshmallow quota?  Fiber One + Count Chocula is what.

I only postulate because I saw my lovely honey bear’s father, Dougras, mixing salad dressings one time.  Ranch and blue cheese would have been kosher with me (not literally, it was bacon ranch), but he doused balsamic vinegarette and a honey mustard sauce all over his salad.  It was a vinegary, creamy mess….ladies?  All I can think is that I looked that disgusting with my cereal blends.  I mean, it’s not really a Cold Stone Creamery mix in selection: “Yes, hi.  How’s it going? Can I get the baby batter ice cream with, hmmm?  I think I’ll try thousand island and skittles.  Uh, I hope it’s good?”  Ah yeah, no.  You look nuts.  Why don’t you try one of the pre-crafted options like the candy/candy mix up?  At least those are crafted from the same elements like sugar and heart disease.

But what makes cereal so different?  The combinations are endless and could potentially be just as revolting as mixing Kraft and Paul Newman’s Own salad dressings.  The difference, my friend, is that cereal, no matter what variety, starts with the same base ingredients; grains.  Dressing is made with all sorts of crap like mayonnaise or vinegar or alkaline metals or poison oak.  It doesn’t matter how much sugar you dump onto it, a grain is a grain and they all taste the same.  And there’s nothing wrong with homogeneity.  So next time you’re down to that last little bit of Lucky Charms and you don’t want to waste your sugary milk, go ahead.  Go ahead and top ‘er off with some of your grandmother’s Muesli.  Everything’s going to be just fine because it all looks the same in the end, especially with all of that extra fiber you’re getting.