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 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.

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;)

Shaving My Balls

These are just  some of the reasons I shave my balls:  I pride myself on being clean and proper; I also try to keep myself current with popular trends; my lover really appreciates round, smooth and hairless objects (she has allergies); if my pubic hair gets too long it pulls when it gets caught in clothing or between me and a chair.  Additionally, long pubes are harder to clean than short; trapping moisture, dingle-berries and, consequently, smell.  The way I see it cleanliness is pleasant.

As much as I like my balls well kept, I find that it’s a chore to get them clean and shaved.  However, I have developed a system that allows me to shave them like the dickens and gets the chore out of the way quickly.  I find that timing is everything.  I schedule my shavings around my face razors.  When they get too dull for my face, I take them directly to my nuts (nothing’s too good for my ball sack).  The hair cutting process is a two-parter which includes the trim and the shave.

(1.) The Trim – hover directly over a toilet with a set of hair cutting sheers, hips pushed forward to get the clippings into the toilet, grab a hand full of nuts, keep your head down and go to town.

(2.) The Shave (post trim)- sit in a bath tub, dull razor in hand, legs up and out, ass cheeks spread with butt hole puckered right up to the cold cast iron tub, balls lifted, shaving cream slathered all over, hot water running slightly, get shaving mister.

I usually reserve this activity for non-public showers with locking doors.  I feel awkward doing it and, to onlookers, I probably look like I border on the side of auto-erotic masochism.  Whatever.  I like the way it makes me feel.  I also like when my lover esses my dee.  Unfortunately, she won’t go near me when my pubes are as long and as thick as night crawlers.  Do I have a choice?

Flower Power

I am as liberal as Adolf Hitler was gay…flamingly.  You want abortions, take two.  You want affordable heath care, have some.  Taxes?  I love taxes.  I’ll pay yours.  That’s how frickin’ left I am.  You might be reading this thinking, “this assh*le is a borscht loving, Stalin sucking, rabbit eating Communist!”  Thank you for thinking that, but no.  It’s simply outrageous!  Truthfully, I’m only borderline Communist.  And actually, I’m moving away from that.  I’m growing up.  I’m becoming a small, bearded man.  You see, my understanding of true communism is that, as a member of the party, each person works as he pleases and is compensated according to his needs.  It’s like skirting through life doing your hobbies.  “Hey kid!  You’re really good at video games and rippin bingers from your bonger.  Here have a boiled goat’s head and a bag of KGB Branded Funyuns.  And kid…keep up the good work!”  Truly amazing.  The thing is, though, it’s not that amazing you crazy dreamer.  You might be saying to yourself, “That would be pretty cool.  But, gee whiz.  Something that awesome couldn’t ever happen in my America.”  Bullsh*t.  That stuff happens everyday in your America.  And that’s why I’m not Communist.  Not only could I sit around playing video games while dabbling in my other “hobbies”, in America, I can get paid to do it.  Paid to do what you love?  America, f*ck yeah!  America is a land of opportunity.  Golden, plentiful, tig ol’ bitty opportunity!  Yeah, you may have to work hard and play politics and beat out competition to reach your pie in the sky, boiled goat’s head dreams.  But you can do it.  And with an understanding of marketing and merchandising, you could be living big just by doing what you love.  Just remember to pay your taxes when you start making your buko bucks  and maybe, just maybe, pick up one of those BOGO abortions for yourself.  After all, you earned it.

What Are You Selling?

I used to work for a property management company.  I leased apartments to suckers.  It was a sales job and I effen hated it.  I used to run home in tears from the monotony of pushing some serious units.  Now usually, I’m not a quitter (Read: I am a quitter with a huge, meaty vagina), but in this case, I wanted out.  However, I was afraid to quit, and I didn’t know how to tell the management I needed something else.  Fortunately for me and my lady parts (see about engorged vag above), the company decided to sell the property.  I felt it was the best time to get out without giving a two week notice or telling anyone that I was unhappy, thus saving myself the trouble of embarrassment.  It was through this experience that I learned something about sales that I would like to share with you today.  Through leasing these sh*tty apartments, I learned that for the most part, two things are true: 1.) Sales are apart of every job, and 2.) Unless you sell something that you really love, you are going to loathe it.  To combat this you need to love yourself and sell a product that everyone wants: you. 

Take a moment and consider every job you can think of.  Time!  What d’ya come up with?  At some point in all of those positions, you are going to be selling either a product, an idea, or yourself.  Businessmen sell ideas and products to investors and clients.  Teachers sell drugs to kids.  Hookers sell their bodies to businessmen for drugs.  And even if a job doesn’t directly entail some salesmanship, when you apply for that job, you are still selling your skill set to the employer.  You are a product of a material world.  Luckily it pays cash.  Cold, hard cash.  You have to be a provider, right?  If you don’t provide for yourself, you’re going to die sooner rather than later.  Remember all of those trinkets/candy bars/books/carpet samples you sold as a kid?  The system was priming you for the dog eat dog arena known as life.  Now rather than fight this reality (something I tried and it made me really angry; remember my tears?), you’ll need to embrace it.

Once you accept that you have to participate in a competitive world (which is something you have little choice over), then your survival depends on selling something you love.  For some folks, it’s the love selling sh*tty apartments.  For some, it’s selling their bodies.  For everyone, it’s selling yourself.  This is a task that takes a great amount of energy and self love.  (I have to point out it’s not the kind of self love that 5 minutes alone at the computer in an empty house with a bottle of Jergen’s and box of Kleenex can provide.)  You have to really like yourself.  If you don’t love what you’re selling, you’re going to hate the job.  If you hate what you’re selling and you are the product, you are going to hate yourself.  When you hate yourself or your image or your skill set, your buyers are going to recognize that and reject you.  If you are rejected by someone else, you’ll feel even worse about yourself.   The truth is, no matter how much you love yourself, you’re going to be rejected…a lot.  With the aide of self love, however, coming back from rejection is easier to do.

The cruel reality of this is that the world you live in is unjust and unfair.  Somewhere down the road, the key to your chance at personal success is held by another person.  Did you read that?  Your success is controlled by someone else!  That sucks big, old, hairy gorilla balls!  To be happy you can do and act and say whatever you want but you cannot control what other people think of you or how they react to you.  You do have the ability to control your attitude, however.  Your ability to sell yourself as a confident and hungry person is paramount to your personal success and happiness.  If other people aren’t buying it, they can eat a bag of d*cks.  There are many opportunities out there because people are always buying and it’s not hard to find them.  Buyers will buy you because they like you for who you are so long as you like you for who you are.

Sales is a brutal business and is impossible to escape.  If you’re not selling the filth you are absolutely passionate about, you are SOL my friend.  Your happiness and self satisfaction depends on it.  Your ability to sell yourself is one based out of the love that you have for yourself.  You’re ego is going to be beaten and bruised along the way, but remembering what is really important to you will keep you on your horse.  If you can’t manage to do that, you might as well pull the trigger now and save yourself the trouble.

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.

My Life

Guess what, friends.  You’re hired!  Not really, though.  I want to tell you a little about my life.  It all started at the beginning when I was born.  I was a twin then and still am today.  My wombmate, Milhouse, as he is referred to by no one is one of the largest men that an ant has ever seen.  During my youth I grew up.  I marked all of my belongings with urine and shared everything I had including bath water.  My mother was an earth science teacher on the moon and my father was half lemur and three-quarters poet.  We climbed great heights together.  I went to school in reverse order and Milhouse attended in normal sequence.  We met once in 6th grade.  Elementary school was a breeze.  That’s the time when we lived on an island.

I became very strong playing ball sports under coach Lifton.  I was younger then.  It was then I learned a sad story; my best friend died before I knew him.  He was a quadriplegic.  He had no arms or legs and but he played in the grass.  His name was Russell.  I had a dog with fleas and a hamster with thumbs.  After graduating kindergarten, I joined the Peruvian circus in Brazil.  I was a flutist and I made delicious crepes.  That was a long time ago.  I met people like Biz, the singing ninja.  Almost everyone heard him coming.  He was married to a deaf princess from Albany named Sheila.  I met her too.  We used to take pictures of each other and watch them age.  It took forever.

After the circus I lived on an escalator for a short stint.  At the top I met a girl.  We were wed.  She grew into an ogre and ate all of our house plants.  She had a way with squirrels.  She would eat them, too.  We grew older every day.  We had children.  A boy and his sister.  She died shortly after the kids in a salt water bath I had given them.  I learned that ogres can’t breathe under heavy rocks.  It was her anniversary.  I didn’t celebrate holidays then.

I lived alone after that.  I liked short stories and to pass the time I read a lot of booklets.  I briefly took up smoking and then stopped.  It was one of the hardest things I ever did.  I got older and my breath got worse.  I bought a boat and sailed around a buoy for a year.  It turned out that my anchor was stuck.  I ate a lot of fish then. 

I am sick now.  I’m getting older and my bones are getting shorter.  I’ve grown as much as I have shrunk and I think that I’ve learned more than I’ll ever know.  I’m in a bed and the sheets are wet.  I guess that makes it my bed.  Would you like to join me?  You’re hired.  Not really, though.  I already said that.

A Letter To Mrs. Stransard

Mrs. Stransard is my boss at work.  Since I started working with her, our working relationship has really slipped.  At first she seemed quirky and fun but now I feel threatened.  I want to express my frustration with her but doing so would probably get me fired.  I need this job.  Here is a letter that I’ve written to her (somewhat annonymously, she doesn’t “get” technology):

Dear Mrs. Stransard,

Since my employment began nearly a year ago, I have noticed that our work relationship has gradually become uneasy and tense.  I know that your mandatory attendance at corporate “meetings” is merely an excuse to frequent the head shop across the street.  I didn’t realize that pipe shops were also typical hang outs for dead beat sex addicts.  I have seen you go in there and come out with multiple men.  The lack of communication in the office is probably due to all of the cocks shoved in your mouth throughout the day.  What’s worse is that your time out of the office is the most productive time of my day. 

In addition to being very distracting, I feel that your personal choices during working hours are having detrimental effects on morale in the office.  Your attempts at correcting morale problems are often shot when you parade around the office half naked and drunk.  Two times is way too many.  The last thing I want to see at work is a 63 year old set of sagging breasts and ass cheeks painted up in clown make up.  No matter what clever and colorful artistry you apply, your nipples and cesarean scars will always show how sad you really are.

I find it exceedingly difficult to complete work when you insist on playing your made up game “Stinkin’ Kitty Cat” where you lower your pants/lift your skirt, spread your bare ass, and sit on my computer mouse.  Your game is spoiled more (as if it were possible) when you stand up and walk away with the mouse cord still attached to you and my computer.  The suction sound that the mouse makes when it reaches the end of its tether as it pops out is one of the most unsettling noises I’ve ever heard; especially when you did it that day you were particularly sweaty.

It frightens me when you make balloon animals out of the condoms you find outside.  The glue inside of them is not there to preserve the inflation…that’s clearly ejaculate.  I know you know.  It angers me because you don’t trust my judgment.  As well you shouldn’t.  I have made a poor choice by continuing to further my career here.  Aside from your lack of respect for other people, I like this company and have tried to notify HR of your behavior several times.  I don’t know what kind of fur you’re pulling over their eyes but they have denied any wrong doing in every instance.  Unfortunately, my requests to transfer have been denied.  Upon this news, I would like for you to comply with several requests otherwise I will have you arrested for indecency:

Don’t touch me EVER

Do not call me EVER

Please do not ask me to smell your cell phone or work phone

Please do not invite me to lunch at any motels

Do not leave your pubic hair clippings on the toilet in the men’s bathroom (I know their yours because you sent out a memo)

Do not sneak up behind me and rest your breasts on my head when I am at my work station

Do not put your hand on my chair thumb up when I sit down next to you

Wear deodorant

Leave me alone

You have announced several times that you are an excellent boss, but the fact is you’re not.  You are a terrible manager and an even worse person.  Please leave me alone and we might get along just fine. 

Thank you in advance,

 

Wolsamnoraa

Big Ballin’

This tiger is an insanely intense ball handler (in his mouth). Look at all that sweat!

What’s your story?  Actually, don’t tell me.  I have something better to waste time with.  I’m a basketball player.  Why, though, huh?  I put the ball in the hole.  People want me on the team so they can pass me the rock.  I post up in the paint.  I’m a big  huge monstrously gigantic dude and I’m all athletic like an agile freak.  In the weight room, I can bench and squat press over 400 times.  When I get out on the ball court, it feels unnatural as hell.  That’s why I excel.  People always ask, “Why are you sweating so much around your nipple area, are you lactating?”  No, not really.  That’s grossly inaccurate and sick.  Here’s a little factoid: nipple sweat is sourced from pure adrenaline.  Try this: Put a tiger on an airplane.  He’s going to get nervous and then maul a pilot and then land the plane and then save everyone else on board and then they’ll all make their connecting flights, probably.  It’s unnatural, but heroic.  He’s excelling, he’s nervous.  You didn’t know this until right now but tiger’s nipples sweat big time.  When tiger nipples are sweating hard, I’m competing hard.  I’m heroic-ish.  Pounding the boards, inbounding the stone, eating an apple.  That’s what I do.  That’s why I play shooty hoops.

10 Reasons for Hating Job

It's bad when the TP is wetter before you use it.

10. No cell phone reception at desk

9. Free lunches are taxable

8. I am literally a pawn in a game of chess and my legs hurt from standing

7. Boss is a radio-active polar bear with a temper, no college education, and valid work visa

6. Toilet paper in the bathroom is wet

5. Paycheck is post dated

4. Desk job is actually a sexual position I’ll be presenting for the 3 o’clock meeting

3. Desperate times call for disparaged Labor Ready drunks

2. Babies are allowed at work with their parents for the first 216 months

and finally….

1. Making nooses all day really makes me consider early retirement