Look At This Damn Cat

This is how Tookie gets home on the third floor of a condo building.  What’s weird is he goes outside all the time but I’ve never seen him come in until today.

He does it all of the time, once with a dead rabbit in his mouth

Once he gets to my patio he comes inside through a dog door.  The cat weighs almost 20 pounds…This is amazing to me.

You Know Me

I’m one of those guys that likes to make lasting impression.  It’s the main reason for my lack of tact and complete disregard for prudence.  Talk of coat hanger abortions, dead hookers, and pants that smell like horseback rides are all part of making my image last.  As much as I love storytelling, I have to admit that the effort I spend lodging myself deep within you is multidimensional.  One of my favorite memory makers is pictures.  In this digital day and age, everyone wants to capture memories 377 KB at a time.  Pictures are just as easy to delete as they are to frame bedside.

But making a great picture takes time and coordination; all skills that I possess and everyone else lacks.  So, when the perfect moment needs to be captured who, you may ask, do people turn to for the best snapshots?  Well, me, of course.  But it’s more than that.  I am the two-for-one guy.  In an attempt to forever captivate the attention of any person, I will shoot a picture of that person and then one of me.   If that person feels the need to delete my photo, I will sneak into the background/foreground of a carefully orchestrated scene.  Here are a few times when I wasn’t deleted from other people’s cameras (thanks for the memories)…

Make a Smilebox postcard

Losing My Pills

"Oh great! Now the pills are all poopy, hun!"

I tend to error on the side of caution.  When I step out in the rain, I bring a wooden umbrella.  When I fart in the sheets I don’t wiggle around afterward.  So it troubles me to tell you and the rest of the world that I’m frickin crazy.  I’m not crazy like gang bang my virgin asshole and cum on my face with you and twenty-eight of your closest associates.  My friend did that once; that sh*t is nuts and now I she can’t ride a bicycle.  I’m not even homeless people crazy or cat-lady crazy.

No, my problem is that I am starting to losing my mind.  It started a few months ago.  Mentally, things just didn’t seem right.  I was having hallucinations and fondling my poops in the toilet.  I’ve never done that stuff that much.  Just to make sure that I was really going mental, I gave it a couple of months.  Similar to your Alzheimer stricken grandfather, I’d have good days and bad days (I got gang banged, remember?).  The test worked.  After three months, I figured out that I hadn’t been feeling right.

I told my wife and she confirmed my senility and suggested/demanded that I seek help.  I did.  I went to a doctor and she gave me some pills and advice…”don’t take all the pills at once.”  It was funny, you had to be there.  I began taking the pills just the other day when I lashed out and had a huge fight with my wife.  She was so angry and frustrated with my new crazy behavior that she grabbed my pills and flushed them all down the toilet (against the doctor’s wishes, no less).  Today, I’m without my pills and the toilet has been vomiting all night and I can’t stop fondling the poopies that come out.  I need assistance. I’m sick!  Sick I tells ya’!

Do you think I’m crazy?  This stuff has really been happening.  What do you think I should do?  Help, please.

What Up, G?!

This was me at a young evolutionary age

I was a kid for a while.  That was a rough time for me.  I grew up in a tough neighborhood near a Sizzler.  The kids in my neighborhood were violent and they wanted me to join their gang.  They made me do all sorts of gangster things like steal cigarettes from my parents.  I was told if I wanted to join the gang, I had to build a hideout.  I used all of my allowance to build a pillow fort in my basement.  I used thumb tacks to keep the sheets pinned to the wall.  It was hard-core.  They told me that if I wanted to join their gang, I’d have to commit a crime.  “I stole a car,” I said.  Lying was the crime.  I was in the gang.  I was slanging drugs and banging thugs.  I held my Nerf suction cup dart pistol with a sideways gangster grip.  It was tight…the grip, I mean; I didn’t want to lose the gun.  I was the original, genuine thug; an OG…T.  I didn’t even own a belt so my pants would always sag gangsterly (the point at which they would fall off).  One day, a Catholic priest called me and said it was time to hang it up and cut the crap.  I said that my gangster friends would do harm unto me and my sheet fort if I left.  He offered me full protection in his house of worship and a job at the Sizzler.  The priest was banging, alright; banging all the boys.  I quit the gang.  They said they were going to miss me and that they were sad to see me go.  To tell you the truth, I miss them, I miss them a lot.  Word to your brother.

God Loves Gays And You Should, Too

The ultimate sign that some all-knowing Godish being/sea monster exists is evident in the concept of fate.  Fate says that your path is chosen for you ahead of time.  There’s no evidence against it, my friend.  You will be born and die and what lies between is filler.  If you’re a crazy person, the filler might be intermittent murdering sprees and jail time.  If you’re ambitious, your life’s filler might be a rise to power followed by jail time.  And likewise, if you’re gay, you’re going to have filler, too.  Granted a gay person’s filler is more likely to include a butt full of c*ck and then jail time, but the path is predetermined just the same.  There is nothing wrong with that.  Discovering the person that you are is a feat that most people will never accomplish.  Realizing, accepting and living your designed path despite an onslaught of social criticism is even more remarkable.  Gay people have shown true courage.   Uncovering their true nature takes a lot of balls.  In some cases, two sets or more.  For that, I commend you, gay people.  You can take a licking and keep on pticking.  You show what the rest of us how hard it can be to conquer your ambitions in the thickness of adversity.  Gays have been granted the biggest challenge and over cumming it is one that the-one-you-call-God can appreciate.  After all, you’re doing his dirty work.  I couldn’t be prouder.  Good job.

Hand Puppets

He's only smiling because he wants to take your hand to a sick place. He's sick.

If there’s anything that I need to tell you it’s this: hand puppets are a disease.  Not only do they scare the bejesus out of little kids and animals, they are gross.  From the cheery sentiments of Mr. Roger’s, Daniel Tiger, to South Park’s, Mr. Hat, hand puppets are a sick attraction.  Who wants to watch as a grown man or woman grotesquely shoves his or her hand or hands into the inner workings of the representation of a cute animal?  Not me; I’d rather just have the real animal.  In Lamb Chop’s case, I want to eat lamb; not watch Sherry Lewis stick her filthy mitts all up in it.

 

It is with the heaviest of hearts that I explain my angst, for it is a story in which I know all too well.  This story is one of a small, 20-year-old boy who is curious about his body and eager to explore.  He unknowingly took his pleasurable show-and-tell outdoors.  His exploits were deemed deceitful and gross in the public’s eye.  He became known as a masturbation artist, a shank scraper, a pee-board artist or dick wrestler, a ding donger, a jerk-off, a cock-a-rub-a-do, and a stay-at-home dad.  He was terrorized by the ridicule.  He escaped to his home.  In a purge of suppressed memories, he remembered a time when, during his parents divorce, he was asked by his therapist to role play with hand puppets.  These furry representations of his parents relived all of the pain he had wished to dismiss from his parents tumultuous relationship.   The boy, now older, was distraught that his penis had become his makeshift hand puppet.  Bereft of hope, he was only barely able to finish masturbating with his tears.

Hand puppets account for over six percent of hand accessories in the US and its crooked North American cousin, Canada.  Hand puppets are half as cute and twice as deadly as hand puppies.  Users beware: hand puppets are awful things.  They are dreadful and weird.  Please heed caution in your future encounters with these monsters or else you, yes you, might end up alone in your house masturbating.

I’m Tough

Tough as snails.

I’m tough.  Yeah, you heard me!  I’m tough as bullet-proof bricks.  I’m so tough that when I bend, I break…your nose.  If I were a piece of lumber, I’d be a sixteen-foot long steel I-beam.  I get most of my toughness from my parents.  My father was tough.  The skin on his face was sixty-eight percent rhinoceros hide and thirty-four percent barbed wire.  Before my mother met my father, she bare-knuckle boxed grizzly bears at the circus freak show.  She wasn’t even apart of the act, the bears just had a bad attitude.  I was conceived during a gun fight in which everyone died, including my parents.  My heart beat was so strong, I revived my mother and kept her alive for eleven months before deciding it was time to be born.  I drank whiskey instead of breast milk.  My first toy was machete that I used to shave.  My bones are titanium just like the frames on my glasses.  I eat light bulbs and piss blood.  I’m so tough that I made a woman cry just by whispering my name.  I once bit through a rattle snake using its own fangs.  I don’t wear shoes in the snow and I don’t wipe my feet.  I don’t need oxygen to live because I breathe souls.  I Karate chop trees for fun.  I’m so tough that when I die, I’ll have to be buried alive.  You couldn’t even cremate me because my bones are flame resistant.  Yeah, I’m tough alright…definitely tougher than you.

Living Equals Spending

There are two things you need to know about me.  I like kittens and I have questions about Capitalism.  There is something about furry little cats that really gets my motor running.  You can see for yourself Kittens by kittens.  The part about capitalism is a little less obvious.  We can all agree that in capitalism, time is money.  You’ve heard it before in movies and from your mom’s friend, Aunt Rita.  This is where my grievance begins.  To understand what “time is money” actually means and why it irks me, it’s imperative that you consider a short thought experiment that reflects real life.

It begins now…Say you’re an American and you’re born.  (Congratulations!  You’re now entitled to a percentage of the world’s wealth.)   You have just become a burden on society and on your parents…I’m sure that they made the right ‘choice’.  Well, what you don’t understand at that ripe age of five-minutes-old is that you cost money just to exist here.  There are doctor bills and hospital bills before you’re even born.  After delivery, you’ll need to eat and be clothed and live somewhere otherwise you’ll end up like some of those rotting dumpster babies that you’re not supposed to know about.  The cost that you require to live increases dramatically as you age.  You’ll need more food, bigger clothes, more stuff.  It’s all free at first.  For most people, you don’t start paying your way until you’re sixteen or twenty.  All of the cash that you need to live is provided for you until your parents accept your state-declared adulthood.  At that point, you’re supposed to go out and make it on your own.

Hopefully, you’ve learned some useful skills or have discovered a talent or a dream that you can use to your advantage.  Hopefully, you’ve been prepared properly to take on the upcoming changes.  This part of life gets chalked up to responsibility.  If you fail to take responsibility for your survival, you’ll be labeled as a lazy free loader.  This is the part I’m not quite sure about.  What is the responsibility you’re taking on?  In my opinion, you’re absolutely directly responsible for your survival because the system mandates it.  If you don’t pay, you’ll end up like one of those dumpster babies that everyone is always talking about.

Indirectly, however, you’re responsible for maintaining the capitalistic norm.  What will people think of the guy who just pursues personal interests with a total disregard for making money?  Is he an artist?  Nope…just a free loader and lazy.  Your existence is expensive and if you’re not fitting the bill, you’re taking advantage of the system (specifically, advantage of other people).  Even though your entire upbringing maintained that you would be taken care of by other people, you’re immediately expected to take on the expenses of your life.

I’m confused.  Life is pleasant when it is spent doing the things that you love to do.  As a member of the Capitalism Club, you’re not always welcome to do the things that you love.  You’re expected to toil.  It is often said that only the lucky few of us get to make a living doing what we really love to do.  Your chances of being one of those lucky few are slim.  The chances are so slim that most people don’t even try to live for their passion.  And of the people who do, there is a great chance that they’ll fail.  Capitalism dictates that you suck it up and do whatever you can to pay for you existence.  It’s a cheap trick that has no morals.  I don’t know that I’m prepared to accept it.  Do I have a choice?  Are there any other options that would make life seem less like a chore?  What do you think?

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.

The Simpsons

Big deal Wolfy.  Marge is my soul mate. Now show me some inner peace or I’ll mop the floor with ya’.

 Sometimes I think I’m being really funny.  I’m engaging conversation with strangers and they’re thrilled and captivated; laughing at my every word.  And then it hits me.  Everything I’m saying is a recital of Simpson’s quotes and situations that I’ve stored away in my subconscious.  “Remember the episode when Bart was a baby and Homer wanted Bart to call him ‘daddy’ and after several tries he called Homer, ‘Domer’?”  I know that was a funny episode.  I know that was a funny event.  But in that instance I’m no more than a hack.  Simply put, I’m stealing material from other people in an attempt to prove my funniness.  The problem is that it works.  People love Simpson related stories and quotes.  “Do you remember the episode with the Bear Tax?  Homer and Lisa are standing in the front yard opening mail and Homer gets his pay check.  He’s wondering why his ‘pay is so low’ and Lisa says it’s the Bear Tax that Homer so triumphantly demanded. Then Homer outrageously exclaims something like, ‘I don’t want to pay the bear tax, let the bears pay the bear tax.  I pay the Homer tax.’ And Lisa responds by saying, ‘Dad, it’s the Home owner tax.’”  The Simpsons are so damn funny.  Do you remember how funny that was?  Well, I do.  And now, in some hacked up version of the real story, you’ll remember it, too.  I’m so funny.  You’re welcome.

10 Axioms To Live By

We’ve all ventured out into the expanses of the world gleefully returning full of knowledge.  Such life lessons always prove to be invigorating and help guide us through life’s meaningless journies.   Here are 10 tidbits that I’ve picked up along the way that I remember everyday:

He ate a bunch of rabies-filled clams and wants a kiss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

10. “Wild animals don’t make good house pets” – We tried keeping a wild raccoon once.  His name was Ricki; Ricki the Raccoon.  He ate all of our mollusks and gave our cat the worms.

9. “Rock always beats scissors” – I learned this the hard way…watching a Bud Light commercial.

8. ”Poop stays in the toilet” – It certainly does not belong in my hands or mouth.  It took me months to get the stains out of my moustache.

7. “Gay-for-pay is straight” – Life is about doing what you love, not loving what you do.  Don’t define yourself based on one experience you had during your “best years”.  You’ll just end up confused; ass-a-throbin’.

6. “Pack it in, pack it out” – Showing respect for the world outside of yourself will convey just how incredibly unselfish you are.  And isn’t that what it’s about…You?

5. “Cock, step, punch” – I learned this playing high school football.  You have to stay low and maintain good technique.  Don’t forget to throw out some “pass” and “ball” calls, too.

4. ”If she looks like a man and she talks like a man, she’s alright with me” – Expanding your horizons starts with accepting people for who they are, who they’re not, and who you thought they think that they thought you were.

3. ”Two hands when you’re learning” (thanks Brandon!) – Whether it’s riding a bike or dishing out your first “blowie”, two hands when you’re learning will keep you working hard towards your goals.

2. “Always come prepared” – Preparation is the key to success.  Just like bringing a joke book to a gun fight, kids are a terrible mistake.  Wrap your (or your partner’s) ding dong up in a condom and you’ll avoid my mother’s 3rd and 4th mistakes (me and my twin)

-And Finally-

1. “There’s no such thing as too much lube” – Designated lubricants like veggie oil, silicon based slickers, lotion, spit and telephone books all exponentially increase fun.

The Dentistry

Teeth strings for the plucking.

Sometimes you go to Pittsburgh and your teeth hurt.  There was a building called the Dentistry.  When you went there an irate Aussie was working beyond the counter.  In a thick Australian accent he said, “You like your teeth and so do Aye!”  You were frightened about the insurance.  No copay?  You were vulnerable then.  The Aussie glanced up from his stack of answers holding a knife to your face like a pen to paperwork and quietly barked, “I’m not from around here.”  Shhh.  You take the clipboard to the lobby.  The lobby?  The lobby.  All of the white magazines and doors were covered in copy from covers to floors.  You filled it out.  Your appointment was sooner than it was.  “You get in the chair,” he said.   The gas passed.  “Don’t forget your toothbrushes for the long trip.”  Not again today.  The Aussie gripped a knife in his hand’s palm; his main digits were thumbs.  He has your teeth in his stack.  He was nice enough to leave you smiling.  It is what it is.   You’ve always looked taller.  The Dentistry was a building in Pittsburgh.  It was made from teeth.  They had rot.  You can whistle again.

How To Kill A Fly With Your Bare Hands

He's as good as dead anyway; he's not even wearing a helmet

Here is a very simple method to destroy a fly using only your bare hands.  This act will not only kill the fly, but also teach valuable lessons to his next of kin.  C’mon, really?  You’re having second thoughts.  Don’t think of his family.  Just do it.  He’s dirty.  You know where he’s been: poop, vomit, trash.  And that was just breakfast.  He’s spreading disease on you.  Ew.  Grow a pair and kill him.  Everyone else is doing it and here’s how…For this task, you’ll need a set of hands.  You’ll also need enough patience to wait for a good moment to strike.  For this to work, there’ll need to be a single fly bothering you; more than one and it’s a sign you’re dead and rotting.  Usually, if you’re focused at work or peacefully enjoying the day, one will come along.  When you are sufficiently bothered, you’ll need to pretend that you don’t care that the fly is buzzing around.  Don’t flail as you will only briefly scare it away, thus making the annoyance last longer.  Act naturally and he’s sure to fall into your trap.  Once he’s comfortable flying near you, you may start the procedure.  First, see where he likes to go.  In the two flies I’ve ever dealt with liked my skin.  Maybe it’s because I smell like sweat and garbage.  When I gently shooed them away, they would fly up, circle in the air, and then land on my desk.  Based on these experiences, I undoubtedly say that all flies will repeat this.  Next, you’ll need to position yourself in a way that you can easily clap your hands together directly above the fly.  Now, wait for him to land.  When he settles on the desk, slowly move your spread hands about 3 inch above him.  He should be centered between your soon-to-be-clapping/killing hands.  Finally, when he takes off, which he will…Clap!  If you missed, repeat this process until the bugger is dead. Ta da!  Congratulations!  You’ve just committed murder.

I’ve Always Wanted To Be A Comedian

I’ve always wanted to be a stand-up comedian.  Looking back over the years, I’ve gotten a huge response from people just by talking and acting the way that I do.  I read this article that explained making your friends laugh doesn’t actually make you a funny person.  Sure, my friends laugh at me, but they laugh at lots of other stuff, too; real comedians, for example, or the musical stylings of  the play-him-off cat , to name something else.  Fortunately for me and my dream, I have an uncanny ability to make strangers laugh or, at the very least, cringe.  While I believe in my inherent abilities to humor people, my desire to get up on stage is hindered by a small hurdle.  Quite frankly, I am scared to be on stage.  I attribute the fear to a poor performance I gave in the third grade.  I was playing Anonymous Man #2 alongside the wonderfully talented Falon Mahoney in the Westgate Elementary sensation, A Christmas Carol.  I had one line – “I’m just a man whose anonymity should remain intact”.  I bombed in front of the whole school, parents and talent scouts.  I forgot the line.  I stammered on my speech and on my feet.  I tripped into the set and knocked over a backdrop which broke a spot lamp above the stage.  It fell directly on top of our school’s only prodigy and the play’s leading man, Nathan Hale.  He was injured instantly.  After that hack job, I second guessed myself whenever I got in front of an audience bigger than five deaf-mutes.  The underlying problem may be that I have just convinced myself that I’m scared.   I haven’t actually performed on stage since then and it stands to reason that I don’t know what I’m scared of.  I’ve always heard that courage is something you gain after you overcome your fear.  Maybe the best way to achieve my goal is to just go out there and give it a try with my nerves fluttering.  But if I accomplish my goals, what will I have to complain about not achieving?

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)