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)

Work Is Like School

Trust me. It takes a lot less condoms than this to make a baby.

JDubs dropped a heavy simile on me the other day. She said, “A life of work is like going to school.”  She explained that when you’re first starting off, it’s like kindergarten and you learn and grow.  As time moves on, you advance and you mature and you grow hair in places that you didn’t know you could. She said that one day, each person becomes the Dean of Students in the college of his specific field.

I’m trying to apply her example to my life.  I am currently employed behind the scenes of an abortion mill.  I work in a warehouse where, among other things, I ensure that death centers are well stocked with coat hangers, lubricant and trash bags.  Additionally, there is such a huge collection of condoms that I can take a swim through like Scrooge McDuck used to in his coin vault (Either that or I’ll try them all on).  It’s not as fun as you’d think as I do this ad nauseum and I am very unsatisfied (murdering fetuses is great and all, but…it’s kind of boring).

When I reflect back on JDubs statement, I get a sense that “Work is like school” does not apply to the folks that aren’t in the right school.  I feel that I’m not even enrolled.  I’m like a twelve-year-old in preschool masturbating not-so-covertly in my greenish overalls while everyone else is awkwardly moving away.  In this strange land, I look like one of those ADHD kids that can’t be trusted to roam freely. I’m tied to a tree with a leash and harness that closely resemble a monkeys tail (kind of like this…Philip from SNL).   Not only am I not a growin’ and a learnin’, I’m actually getting dumber and less anxious to go to class. What’s worse is that I tied myself to the tree and only I have the ability to escape.  But I won’t.  My spirit has been diminished.  You might as well ask a Senior to buy me a carton of smokes and leave me to die; unfulfilled, miserable, and retarded.

I have learned from this example that I alone hold the key.  I can register in any school that I want.  I am well qualified to start at the bottom anywhere.  Even idiots get to succeed at work (just look at my boss Mrs. Stransard).   So I know what I am going to do.  I am going to break free.  I’m ambitious and I know more about what I want to do than ever before.  Look out School of Tap Dance For the Blind, Deaf, & Dumb; Here I Come!  I’d better bring some of those condoms;)

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.

Consistently Inconsistent

If you want to live life right, you gotta let the bullsh*t fly!

Recently it was brought to my attention that the periodic reporting I’ve been doing on my life is  highly inconsistent from what is actually happening in my life.  I’m talking about fact checking, folks.  It’s happening.  And I’ve been called out.  In a big way.  I’m not going to lie to you; I’m a liar.  Big time.  I one time took an ice cream sandwich from a little kid because it looked delicious and he looked like a fart smeller.  Did I mention I’m also a jerk?   But, I don’t want to talk about that really.  What I want to address is a life philosophy that I hold high above the rest.  It’s based on consistency.  You know, consistency?  The art of speaking and doing and acting similarly in every occasion of your life because Jesus or God or Elvis told you so?  Guess what?  That sh*t is totally bunk.  Bunked up beyond belief, sucker.

You can have a strict set of guidelines and abide by the rules set in place.  You can play your game of life on a black and white polarized line of yes and no, right or wrong.  You can also poke you own eyeballs out with a big wet wiener.  If that’s what looks good to you, you are absolutely fooling yourself, dude.  Sure, there’s instances in life of complete clarity where in which the outcome of some action is absolutely determinable as good or bad, right or wrong, yes or no, wet or dry.  For example, do you want to go to the movies tomorrow with me?  Obviously yes (HP6 guy or ma lady).  Can I borrow a pair of your panties for a science project..P.S. I need to smell them?  Clearly huh?  You’ll never make fast friends that way.  What you’ve neglected to observe in the past is that the world is not always as easy as black and white.

The world is grey and bleak and red and bleu cheese dressings and ambiguous and confusing.  All at the same time and sometimes, all the time.  Wrap your little mind around that!  If you’re playing the Game of Life and your little car filled with all of your peg headed children fall out before you finish college and become a veterinarian, there is no clear answer for you.  There is no rule for that (actually there is, it’s on the inside of the box lid about halfway down on the right, but pay no mind to that).  You should pick yourself up and dust off your peg kids and finish the game, broken and bent.  Things are not going to be the same for you any more.

Given the circumstances life hands you, you’d better figure it out and quick.  No ones waiting for you.  If you want to make it as a decent human being, you have to put all of that Bible thumping, Good vs. Evil, hogwash to bed.  Think about this…Terrorist tucks her son into bed.  Hmmm?  Why is she a terrorist?  Easy.  Love.  So she kills and maims and rapes.  Her son is safe…for now: Look out! It’s gonna blow!  KABLOOEY!  But that’s her life.  That should be your life, too.  Pure instinct and devotion.  Inconsistent at best.

Let your emotions get the best of you and set your self free.  Don’t be a wiener.  Be a man.  Be an emotional person.  Not a dirty Christian.  The people that run an inconsistent operation are liberated from facts and their incessant checkability.  It’s that easy.  I can lie and steal.  I can love and help.  Let the bullsh*t fly.  I’m accountable for me and you’re accountable for you.  Now, let’s blow this place and go to the movies.

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.

Mixed Couples

Most couples bearly even talk after awhile

I took a class in college.  Just one.  It was a sociology class entitled Society through Sexuality or something like that.  Tons of hot chicks and their stupid, idiot, jock boyfriends.  It was a cool class because there was a statistic that was taught.  Just one.  It said 95% of people will marry at least once in their life times.  Now, I’m a firm believer in the idiom that 92% of all statistics are made up on the spot, but WoW!  Getting 95% of everyone to do one thing?  That’s a boat load.  Someone should be making a ton of money.  What if 95% of your friends showed up to your party on Friday?  That would be like half a dozen or so of your friends that had wished they were somewhere else!  Similarly, what a relief for most of those loser dorks out there that didn’t think they’d ever get laid.  You can almost guarantee sexy relations when you’re married!  Well, actually marriage does not entail sex.  Just ask any one of the 95% that got suckered in.  (BTW, no one has sex…no one.  It’s too risky.  Don’t be daft.)

The funny thing is that somewhere between nearly half to more than half of those marriages will end tragically in magnificently wonderful divorce.  The tie that bonds often breaks and splinters and sends stabbing pains into your back.  However, as good as it may sound, divorce has a serious down side.  Forget what it does to your emotions, credit and therapy bills.  The real frightening aspect is that some of those divorcees will marry again with an even lower success rate than the first time.  I call it the trash principle.  If one person doesn’t like something, then no one will.  Just look at that stinking heap of unwanted trash at the junk dump.  People just passed stuff right on down the line thinking someone else could benefit and the stuff just piled up.  If you’ve ever seen a sitcom, then you’ll know what I’m talking about.    Sitcoms have always sucked but somehow they all wind up on DVDs which no one wants and they go directly to the dump.  If you’re like me, and there is no doubt in my mind that you are, then you’re probably asking yourself: “If the trash principle is true and no person would ever find love with someone that was tossed away by a first husband/wife and 2nd marriages happen, who in their right mind is taking the wild chance to pair up with those losers in a second marriage?”  The answer may surprise you because of it’s deceptive plurality: single parents.  That’s right, single parents.  There is another unwanted breed out there that is just as used and spit out as “the divorced” and it’s not a bunch of little bastard kids.  It’s the little bastards’ mothers and fathers.

If you really stop to think about them, single mothers would terrorize your dreams.  To me, a single parent is a person that got to the abortion clinic a day late (not surprising, they’re irresponsible freaks).  A single parent will claim that s/he was “in love”.  Their brain power appears limited as they live selfishly without consequence.  Don’t get me wrong, living without consequence can be a fine quality in a person, if s/he knows how to use a condom.  The only redeeming quality of single parents is that once they hit rock bottom (an absolute certainty), they often figure out they cannot survive without help from other people (often their parents).  A humbling experience, I’m sure.  The usual outcome of this fall from grace, of course, is that they will cling to whatever life form shows interest.  Sorry USA Network, characters need not apply.  Qualities that appeal to normal people are lost on single parents.  You drink and have a history of violence on your ex-wife but appear to have a stable income and can tolerate other people’s kids, you’re hired!

So, desperate and eager to live another day in loving arms, singles parents and divorcees say their “I dos”.  Who could make a better pair?  No one, apparently.  And no one will.  Like I said, the success rate of these marriages is so low that its basement floods when it rains.  The unfortunate twist to this love story is that this behavior stands to become more common.  As more people live this way, it stands to reason that they will more frequently miss their appointments at the abortion clinic.  As the children pile up and the loveless marriages contribute two halves a time, the giant trash heap will continue to grow.  It will grow until one day, when I decide to come down off of my high horse, I kick stomp it back into the receptacle where it belongs.

Kids – Don’t Trust ‘Em

They'll lie right to your face because it makes them giggle.

If there’s anything that I’ve learned in my whole entire life it’s that kids are elfin dumb liars and you can’t trust them.  I think it was either Mad Magazine or a parody of Mad Magazine on an episode of the Simpsons that advertised “Don’t trust anyone under 30.”   Don’t.  Kids don’t know anything hardly at all.  Take kids for example.  Do they know tax law? No.  Do they know how to spell?  Hell no.  Do they know what it’s like to be inside of a woman or a man?  They’re lying.  You may be asking, “Well, numb nuts, do you know that cool stuff?”   Not exactly at all really, no.  But that’s just the point.  Don’t trust me either.  I’m just a kid, too.  Sure, my ID says I’m old enough to go out right now in my mom’s car and buy liquor, and beer, and ammo for my guns, and pot, and cigarettes, and spray paint, and vote, and agree to the terms and conditions of a porn site on the net, but I’m not to be trusted with those errands.  The only reason I want to do those things is because I’m an idiot.  You’d better believe it’s my mission to drive around every day with a hard boner wasted on marijuana pot, alcohol shooters, and cigarette smokes so that I can unload a clip of bullets at some graffiti art that I just tagged at my polling place.  Even I can see all that sounds stupid, but I’m just young enough to do it all again.

Kids live to ruin their lives.  I don’t know of a single person over the age of 96 that does any of that sh*t.  They look in my direction near where they hear my voice with their cloudy, painful, cataract-stricken, soulless eyes and say, “Hey you dumb idiot kid!  Do me a favor and point that gun over this way.  Pull the trigger, Sonny.  Put me out of my misery. F*ckin’ do it you p*ssy punk kid…right after I cast my ballot!”  Oh don’t tempt me grandma.  I’d effin do it, too.  Old people scare the funk out of me and they smell rotten.  Have you ever seen one?  They’re…old.  No one should ever live that long.  It’s cruel.  If only they’d been better at being a kid, maybe they’d have already expired a more natural way like by means of a derailed motorcycle stunt or a mishap in a men’s bath house.  That would’ve been so sweet!  Kids just don’t have the life experience or knowledge to tell you the truth or to be trusted.  If they did, they’d probably be dead.