Wrecking Bitches…

29 03 2008

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

18 03 2008

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…

14 03 2008

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

9 03 2008

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

9 03 2008

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

6 03 2008

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

5 03 2008

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.