Wrecking Bitches…

A couple of weeks ago, I was in a local convenience store when the oddest little single-sided conversation took place. This little skinny Mexican boy–who had a head much too big for his body, and was wearing a ridiculous chain pendant–was walking around just kind of mumbling to himself. When he rounded the aisle and came face-to-face with me, he looked me right in the eye, and said:”Man, I will straight up wreck a bitch.”Then walked on without saying anything else.Actually, the way it sounded, phonetically spelled, was this: wreggabitch. One word, no pauses.  In my day, we pimped bitches, regulated bitches, slapped bitches down, and occasionally bitched and moaned about stuff. We did not, I can assure you, wreck bitches. Anyway, I still am electricityless. It sucks, but I now feel like a mountain man.  

A Wicked-Fast Update

Okay, here’s the news before my latop dies:

I’ve written a whole metric shitload of things which may or may not make it here. They are awesome, and if that fact makes you all quivery, you’re not alone.

Tomorrow will mark the second whole week I’ve bee without power. It is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever had to deal with.

This weekend I’m going to rock my effin’ fucking socks off in Rockport with the Girlfriend and Sal. It will be epic, in the sense that it will be really fun, not that it will be a long poem about Greek heroes.

Electricity is easy to steal and save, as long as you’re willing to go to terrible lengths to do it. I can charge my phone and laptop pretty much wherever I can find an outlet, although most places frown on that sort of thing.

When you live in the country–as opposed to the city–having no electricity means having no water. For the first time in my life, I’ve been drinking bottled water. I’m so ashamed of myself.

I will attempt to continue these blitzkrieg updates as long as I can. Wish me luck.

Where I am…

You all might be wondering why I haven’t updated in over a fucking week. Well, due a set of increasingly ridiculous circumstances, I don’t have power at my house. That isn’t to say that I have no power–since I’ve got Black Power oozing out of the fucking walls–but rather I don’t have electricity. That’s about the stupidest thing that I can imagine happening, and the circumstances are beyond belief. Anyway, for the two or three of you who still read this blog after being abandoned, I’ll be back. I could conceivably let The Girlfriend post, but that probably won’t happen. She’s not going to want to write a bunch of stupid nonsense, unless I pay her a lot of penis dollars. I mean, I can afford it, but I’m trying to save up and buy a motorcycle. A penis motorcycle.Sorry, I’m a little rusty.  

The best way to start a fight

You know, there’s something terribly satisfying about fighting. I don’t mean that in a Fight Club sort of way, especially since that movie wasn’t even really about fighting at all. I just mean that some things are just better after your face gets pounded nearly off of your head. I’ve had my ass thoroughly handed to me over the years, and while it’s not a religious experience, it can do wonders for the frustrated or woebegone soul.  

I used to be a fighter in my younger years. I boxed, and got myself into a fair amount of “street” fights. I also took a whopping month of kung-fu when I was nine, so I’m a pretty dangerous martial artist, too. You should see some of the shit I can pull off in Soul Calibur.

Anyway, last night I got ridiculously drunk at a local bar. I don’t mean that I had a few, or that I worked up a good buzz. I mean I got fucking drunk. Not only that, but I also tried my damnedest to get into a fight. I’ve had a pretty hard time lately, and things have ben more or less intensely frustrating. So, in true American Male fashion, I set about resolving my personal issues by beating the everloving Christ out of a total stranger, in public, in the presence of at least one cop and several large bouncers.

Believe it or not, but it’s incredibly difficult to start a fight. Even in Texas, and even when I’m being an immense asshole, people will try anything to avoid having to come to blows. I tried everything except full-on bodily attacking someone, and got absolutely nowhere. It’s not like I’m intimidating or anything. I’m six feet tall, and weigh only 180, most of which is not visibly muscle. So, it had nothing at all to do with me being “scary”.

One guy, God bless him, even went so far as to apologize to me for nearly knocking him over wit a hard shoulder to the chest, which was so obviously intentional that I couldn’t have made it clearer if I had worn a sign saying “Moustache Rides Free Punches for Everyone!” People these days just are not inclined to fight, I guess.

It’s pretty sad, too, that the last good one I got into was about five years ago. This asswipe was picking on a couple of my friends, one of whom actually owned the apartment we were partying at. He was offering shots to them, and slapping them when they refused. When he came around to me, I stood up and decked him without warning. I think he was even unconcious for a few minutes, but I don’t know, since his buddy actually tackled me to the floor to prevent me from really laying into him.

His big manly response? Oh, just to throw a whiskey bottle at my head and scream like a girl.

Anyway, fuck them. Sometimes I just want to fight, and there aren’t any babies or crippled women present.

An Update from Dairy Treat

I’m sitting in the local greasy spoon, listening to these two odd guys bitching and moaning about Bellville. It strikes me that maybe they’re vagrants, or something, since they keep trying to fall asleep in the booths. However, they’ve paid for their food, which means they either have money, or are about to rob the shit out of this place. If that happens, well, let this be my last will and testament. I only have about five dollars in my pocket, but goddamned if these two asswipes are getting it.

Besides, I’ll be the first one to let them know why the grocery/gas station across the street should be robbed. Speaking of thieves… Jesus, do you know I spent six dollars on a gallon on milk there? Yeah, I would think that qualifies them for a good hard robbery. Assholes.

The Girlfriend just left, after having a greasy, gross lunch. She’s on her way home to Oysterfest, where she won’t be able to eat any oysters, since they’re all toxic along the gulf coast this season. I forget why exactly, but something having to do with the tides and chemical companies had rendered all of the Texas oysters poisonous.

I miss my damned girlfriend.

I’ve gotten used to these weekends where she’s with me, just wiling away the time until Monday morning. Then, fucking Spring Break comes along and she has to jet on home, because apparently you can’t stay in the dorm room you’ve already paid for. Whatever, she needs to see her family. I’m just bitching because I can’t go this time, for the simple reason that I’m a poor bitch with too much shit to do. I hate being a responsible adult.

More country music being piped in from… somewhere. “Two of a kind, workin’ on a full house.” Garth Brooks if I’m not mistaken. You’ve got to love the idea behind that, though. Imagine how many people were singing that song when it was popular. Old women, little kids, preachers, teachers, and every other kind of American staple; every last one of them singing to the best of their abilities. And, every last one of them singing about fucking.

Well, that’s it for now. More later, as I figure out what I’m doing today.

Girls, gummy worms, and a near fistfight

So, not too long ago, a girl from my work invited me out to dinner. Then, after I refused, it became a private lunch invitation. After my second and final refusal, it became a fried chicken lunch at the picnic table outside work. I accepted, on the reasonable grounds that, hey, fried chicken.

Anyway, she bought all the food, since, as a true gentleman, I had no intention of doing that. Everything went swimmingly, until five minutes in, when I mentioned I have a girlfriend. Then she stormed off, leaving me with twelve choice pieces of dark meat, and some delicious rolls. I considered going after her to apologize but, again, fried chicken.

She never came back to the picnic table, although she did pass the doorway looking out at me in a very rude manner, like I stole her chicken, or something. And that, I assumed, was that.

A few weeks later–today, in fact–I was giving helpful hints this guy who looks just like Luis Guzman. In case you don’t know what Luis Guzman looks like, picture Tom Cruise in Top Gun, then forget about him because he looks nothing at all like the hideous sin against nature that is Luis Guzman. Anyway, the guy was impressively ugly.

I had assumed that I would be assisting young Luis with an honest mistake involving measurement. I was wrong. Apparently, all I managed to do was make him look like a shit-for-brains by explaining very calmly that math is key to solving number problems. Or some such thing…

It also turned out that Luis was heavily interested in fried chicken girl, who kept passing by and pausing near us as I went through complicated abstract theorems like the 1/16 markers on a tape measure, and why a rectangle must have two pairs of matching sides. God knows what she wanted, but it became pretty obvious that Luis wanted nothing more than to beat holy hell out of me for being… I don’t really know. Patient with him despite his smothering ineptitude?

Anyway, it so happened that he said the following:

“You wanna fucking do something about it, bitch?”

“Hell no, man. Why the fuck would I want to clean up your mess? I didn’t fuck all of this stuff up. You did.”

Apparently, I’m a little dense when it comes to people trying to start fights with me.

“No, bitch: you wanna do something about it?”

Oh. I get it.

“Sure. Go ahead–do something.”

He stood there for a moment, kind of swaying back and forth and trying to look menacing despite having no chin and a top lip that wouldn’t cover his teeth. I didn’t say a word, or change my expression from that of calm wonderment.

“Pssh. I wouldn’t waste my time witcho’ punk ass.”

“Oh, okay. Why don’t you get to fixing all this material you fucked up, then? Otherwise, I’ll write you up, and then you can “do” something about it from home.”

Luis is a temporary minion from another department, and for the time being is under my authority. He didn’t like it very much, but hey, fried chicken it’s not my problem what minions do and do not like. Chicken girl was watching all of this from the sidelines, evidently impressed with the balls it takes to stand up to such an overbearing oppressor like me.

Sadly, that’s only what Luis thought. He looked at chicken girl, and she kind of just rolled her eyes and looked at me with. I did the same thing, and looked at the wall. It seemed an appropriate response.

The rest of the day went smoothly. Chicken girl hardly glanced at me, despite hovering around my area for no good goddamned reason, and didn’t say a single word. Luis, on the other hand, ended up “feeling sick” and went home early. Asswipe.

Anyway, that’s my little story. The moral? If life hands you lemons, don’t return the free chicken.

Also, gummy worms: get some. They will rock you.

Blogging in the dark

So, the electricity at my house got disconnected today. There was really nothing to be done about it until tommorow, and I am a lazy sack of ass anyway. Luckily, this here laptop runs on BATTERY POWER OF AWESOME, and therefore doesn’t need to be plugged in. If the AWESOME POWER OF BATTERY runs out, I can just take it to work, and recharge it.

On a related note, I bet there aren’t many people out there who blog in the flickering light of a dying candle. Well, besides the incredibly fat chat room trolls, who might get a sense of enjoyment out of cyber-balling 12 year-olds in the light of a romantic candle or two.

Oh, and the goth kids. There’s nothing better to inspire shitty poetry than candlelight.

Besides them, though, I’m all alone. That’s really not so bad, either, except that there’s something furtive and paranoia-inducing about looking at porn with all of the lights out. Makes me feel dirty. It’s much better to jerk off in the honest light of day.

The only problem with not having any electricity is that I am biologically incapable of going to sleep without reading. I’ve tried it before, and unless I’m drunk or absolutely sexed-out, I can’t do it. It also doesn’t seem responsible to try to sleep with a candle burning. This is going to be a long night.

What sort of stupidity will lead YOU here?

Well, possibly because I tag the Christ out of my entries, there are a lot of different weird search titles that lead here.

To avoid this in the future, don’t search for the following:

• “oboma (sic) antichrist”
• “school is stupid odessa mo”
• “stealin cinderella lyrics”
• “feces”
• “dog feces”
• “humor feces”
• “country music”
• “homosexuals”
• “Batman homosexual”
• “superheroes”
• “christian bale is hot”

…and a host of other things that I’ll list when I get enough to compile.

Anyway, don’t say I didn’t try to help you find your way out of here.

So, I found this old essay about dog crap

 

Say whatever you will about dogs- they’re cute and dumb and a joy to own. My ass, dear reader. These beasts are not the best friends of any man. They are conniving, calculating monsters who do whatever they can with whatever they have to completely ruin your day.

Specifically, I’m speaking of my own dogs. Gigantic, slack-jawed retards who eat more than they weigh and have absolutely no shame in their hearts. Mastiffs are supposedly a noble breed meant for protection and the loving adoration they bestow upon their owners. I say they are devious creatures who love a good laugh every now and then.

To illustrate, allow me to relay a tale of intrigue and suspicion.

One day, as I was walking up the path to the driveway, I noticed our largest dog, Deacon, behaving rather strangely. He was slinking around in the tall prairie grass in that manner of an animal who has done something very wrong and fears the consequence. I looked briefly around and, seeing no obvious damage or, you know,  dead cat, I continued on my way.

It was nearly dark, the dusk waning as night overtook it, and I reached my old Buick just as the sun went fully beyond the horizon. I opened the driver’s side door, and leaned across the seat to reach my c.d. case lying in the opposite floorboard. I remember slightly kicking the velour interior of the door to prevent it from slamming on my exposed ankle.

That was when I first noticed the smell. That horrid, meaty stench that can only mean one thing permeated the inside of my car and I gagged against the soft armrest. Dog shit. A fair amount of it, judging by the strength of the odor. My head jerked upward and I glanced around in a maniac fit, trying to locate the source.

There, on the plush velveteen lining of my old junky car, was a reddish-brown stamp in the exact pattern of my boot-soles. Son of a bitch. Cursing the gods, the dogs, and any other entities whose names are anagrammatically interchangeable, I shoved my furious form back out of the car. And right back into the same monstrous pile of steaming excreta. God damn it!

Using an old t-shirt to brush away the foul goo from my door, I stomped my heavy boot against the gravel in a vain attempt to rid my feet of the abomination. The smell was overwhelming, like hamburger and bacon left to ripen in the rainforest.

Satisfied that my work had accomplished all that could be hoped for, I turned to make my way back home. That was when I noticed it. There, black against the moonlight like the eyes of a golem, were enormous ice-cream dispenser curlicues of fresh dog shit all tactfully hidden in the low grass beside our walk-way. Deacon. The little bastard.

I finally managed to make it home, but not without one more incident to put the icing on an awful cake. As I climbed the steps up to the house, the crap I’d assumed was wiped away from my boot heel lubricated the stairs just enough to send me sideways off the porch and into–yep, you guessed it–another pile of dog shit.

How does one counter-act such a blatant attack on their well-being? Do I beat the dog to within an inch of its life?

Do I drag the gargantuan monster from pile to pile and rub his nose in each?

Or, do I personally go and crap wherever I know he makes himself comfortable during the day?

That seems like the ticket. Just go and lay a fat log everywhere Deacon is sure to walk, eat, drink, or sleep. That’ll show him. Asshole.

…and The Girlfriend said, “Hurl!”

 

I’ve been planning to write about this for a while now, but only just got around to doing it. It’s about the very first time my girlfriend got actually drunk. (Girlfriend, I won’t tell them the whole story. You’re welcome.)

It all started out as a bit of curiosity on my part. She had seen me drunk on at least one occasion, and yet, even on New Year’s, she wouldn’t get past the “Little Bit Tipsy” stage. I thought, in the spirit of fair play, that we should get drunk together and have a grand old time. That way, since I knew we’d be together for a good long while, I could be prepared for later events in life, like when my constant pessimism turns her into a raging drunkard.

We went out to a local McDonald’s to eat early that night, on the grounds that it was close to the liquor store, and pretty cheap, to boot. From said liquor store, I had procured one small bottle of Seagram’s gin, one can of maraschino cherries, and one little squeezy fake lime thing. All told, I spent about twenty bucks.

Now, The Girlfriend doesn’t like beer, but has a taste for wine. Being an experienced drunkard, I know that overindulgence in wine can lead to the most god-forsaken hangovers anyone could ever experience. She wasn’t sure if she liked gin, but I was reluctant to just shove her into Brown Liquor Land just then. Also, I hate the taste of vodka, so that was out. So, Seagram’s it was.

At the house, we had a few little gin-and-Sprite mixers at the kitchen table, a little conversation, and some laughs. I’m a fair and decent bartender, so I mixed them pretty moderately. The Girlfriend, with her incessant curiosity, decided that she wanted to find out what gin tasted like by itself. I thought this a rational, natural desire.

Of course, I didn’t plan on her slugging down about five shots’ worth at once, which she did twice.

Flash forward, twenty minutes later: Still at my kitchen table, I had been relegated to drunk-sitting duty, not always the most pleasant of tasks. Either way, I made the best of it, and found most of it quite amusing. After a while of her falling out of her chair and feeling dizzy, I suggested that she try to eat the rest of her McDonald’s burger. She found this idea to be repugnant, and went off to bed feeling pretty squeamish.

I went back to the bedroom to check on her, not fifteen minutes later. She lay more or less asleep at a relatively normal angle on the bed. The noise of my entry into the room woke her, and we spoke briefly:

HER: “What time is it?”

ME: “It’s, uh, nine-forty-five. PM.”

HER: “Oh.”

I sat down on the couch near the bed, trying to be as quiet as possible. However, The Girlfriend had imbibed too much gin to simply lay back and relax. She warned me that she felt ill, and attempted to lay back down. Within seconds, she was up again, asking in a thick voice for a bag , or something, to throw up.

ME: “Oh, Jesus.”

HER: “Hurry, I–”

And then it happened: the drunk-girl hurl. Conveniently, the little cardboard box my puppy came in–and called home–was located right in her path.

To her credit, she managed to save both of his toys, and not hurl on any of my things.

I held her hair back as she evacuated some things, and she cried a little. Apparently, girlfriends don’t like boyfriends to see them puke. I think it’s an important step in any relationship, but I’m not anybody’s girlfriend.

She went to the kitchen to brush her teeth, with my assurance that no one was in the house. Upon arriving in said kitchen, she was heard to remark:

“Aw, crap.”

Because of the presence of my brother and step-father, both of whom then heard the whole story as The Girlfriend attempted to make conversation. It did not go swimmingly.

The next day, she felt fine and dandy, as usual. What little embrassment from the night before seemed to be more or less forgotten, since pretty girls just have that way of getting away with terrible things.

As penance for talking her into it, I got to take out her befouled box and burn it.

Well, that’s the (heavily abridged) story. Goodnight.