Everyone you know is going to die.

1 09 2008

So I went home to Moulton* today and hung out with the family. My stepdad’s mother was there, and my brother came around later on, so it was kind of small affair. No bouncers, or anything. Very few, if any, strippers.

I also went, as usual, to visit my buddy Rae and talk shop about a few things. While there, he was explaining something to me about how a starter solenoid works, when I noticed he was a little more out of breath than usual. It reminded me of a while back, when I first began to notice that Rae is actually getting old.

It’s not that I can’t understand people who live past thirty, or anything like that, but Rae just turned 64 this past July. When I met him five years ago, he had long, wild blond hair and wore enough Native American jewelry to costume every single back-up dancer at a Cher concert. When I found out that he was about to turn the big Six Oh, I couldn’t for the life of me reconcile those two things in my mind: the wild-eyed Vietnam vet I hung around with, and my own preconceived notion of what a sixty year-old person should look and act like. He just seemed so damned young. Perfect eyesight, quick, clear, modern speech, and a mind like the proverbial steel trap.

I kind of pieced it together today, when I noticed his speech is beginning to slur, and his encyclopedic knowledge of cars is beginning to blend together. It could be his medications–God knows he takes enough–but I think life has caught up to him again**, maybe for the final time. He could very well be at the beginning stage of the inevitable ten or twenty-year downhill slide. Hell, it could be sooner than that. Who really knows?

Anyway, the point is I had one of those moments today where you realize with over-sharp clarity that every single person you have ever known is going to die. Many of them will go before you do, while many more will wait (perhaps spitefully) until you’ve passed. I couldn’t give any less of a damn about who would smile at my funeral, but I absolutely do not want to watch my friends die. And, because I feel so strongly about it, I’ll probably outlive every last one of the lucky sons-of-bitches.

*Why did I make a 140 mile round-trip just so I could hang out for a few hours? Because my mom made meatloaf, that’s why.

**I say life caught up to him “again” because of the sheer insanity of the first fifty years of it. If I get his express permission, I might write about his life, maybe share some of his stories with all of you. Some of them are nigh on poetic.


Fine, I’ll give the baby back.

22 04 2008

Sorry I haven’t been updating like I should. You guys are like family to me, seriously. Well, if you discount the fact that I never (well, rarely) discuss anal sex with my family, then we’re practically cousins. As it happens, I’ve been neglecting you for a good cause: this guy’s blog archives have kept me from your grabby, suffocating, loving arms for the noble cause of selfish entertainment.

And now for a witty segue!

*whispers offstage*

Oh, okay. Ahem. And now to completely change subjects without so much as a second’s warning!

There’s nothing more apt to make me sick with glee/sickness than the thought of stolen babies. I can’t remember what made me think of this–maybe I read something about it earlier?–but I just wanted to go on record as saying that I do not support the theft of infants for personal gain. If by some strange set of circumstances someone should steal a baby in the name of charity and humanity, well, I could get behind that, I guess. Just so long as there’s no money changing hands, I’m peachy keen.

Speaking of stealing babies, I’m still looking for a job in the town to which I’m about to move in little more than a month. Holy fuck, is that right? A little more than one month? Christ Almighty, I’m beginning to panic. Or rather, I should be. At the moment, I couldn’t give a shit if I stole someone else’s shit and was simply looking to make a quick buck.

Too many nights where I only get two or three hours of sleep, followed by nine straight hours of work with barely a breather, have turned me into something resembling a zombie. Well, a zombie who doesn’t eat brains and is vehemently against the theft of infants for personal gain. Just so that’s clear. Some zombies have no social mores.

I’m not one of those.

Goodnight everyone.

North, and slightly West

17 04 2008

So, in case I haven’t said anything about it, The Girlfriend and I are moving in together.This means that she’ll be moving a few dozen blocks from her dorm residence hall, and I’ll be moving about eighty miles Northward. It also means that we will be on equal ground–we’re both living there, rather than one of us moving into the other’s space–so there should be no territorialism. Unless I try to pee on her furniture.

Further, it means that I have to find a new job in the next six or eight weeks. She’ll be moving first, and I’ll follow as planned a month later. I still have to train my replacement at work and, oh yeah, inform them that I’ll soon be quitting. It would be nice to find something along the lines of what I’m already doing, but hey–beggars can’t be choosers. They can, however, be hookers.

In order to ease the process of moving in together, I have set forth a few personal goals that I hope to achieve before she gets sick of me and feeds me to my dog.

I will not:

–Fart* in front of her.

–Extinguish cigarettes in food.

–Use my dog to sweep the kitchen floor.

–Eat butter and crackers.

–Forget to flush after depositing evidence of Taco Bell.

–Wipe boogers on the walls behind or beside the toilet.

–Throw things at my neighbors.

–Vomit in the trashcan.

–Order pizza before counting how much money I have to spend.

–Borrow money from my neighbors to pay the pizza guy.

–Masturbate in the living room.

–Sing along to commercial jingles while masturbating in the living room.

–Take out the trash only as far as my neighbor’s balcony.

–Leave frozen burritos in the pool to become unfrozen goo.

–Allow meat products to thaw in the sun while I swim.

–Put old hotdogs in potted plants around the complex.

Hopefully, I won’t have to remember this list the hard way, which usually involves repeated admonishments followed by a strict questioning of moral values, of which mine are often in question. Then again, it will be our apartment. That’s an important distinction, in case it ever comes up in court.

*While she’s awake, obviously.

The filth in country music, and why I’m beginning to hate my job

3 03 2008

At the risk of earning the ire of yet another insane C&W fan, I have to send out a word of congratulations to whoever wrote the following lyrics:

“Why don’t you stay? I’m down on my knees. I’m so tired of bein’ lonely, wanna give you what you need.”

Now, it may just be that I’m incredibly immature, but that little sampling of lyrics just smacks of desperately offered fellatio. It makes the singer sound like a woman in the last extremity, who has been broken down so much by the weight of her solitude that she has finally chosen to put her absent lover’s genitalia in her mouth, provided that he come back to her.

I’ve had girlfriends like this, actually.

Whatever the actual point of the song, I like my interpretation better. Not only does it speak of a pronounced increase in oral sex awareness, but it also gives me ammunition to use the next time someone complains about sexuality in rock and roll. Not only that, but it instructs young girls everywhere that, in order to keep their men, they might have to blow them.

About the job: I am getting intensely bored with my job. Not “bored” in the Office Space sense, or even in the Fight Club sense. No, I’m getting bored with my job in the “Christ, there is nothing left to DO here” sense. Things have slowed to a crawl at my company, so much so that I can call in whenever for no good reason, and no one gives a shit. I don’t like working for people who won’t fire me.

On top of all of that, I’m going to be moving soon. San Marcos is over seventy miles away, and I just don’t see commuting back and forth five days a week to a job that really isn’t very fun. Add this to the fact that I might be getting married* soon, and you’ll see why I kind of don’t care about my job anymore. 

That’s about all that’s new in my world today. Oh, that, and my girlfriend convinced me to shave my stomach. Don’t ask.

*More on this later, as the story develops.

Well, I guess we could flip a coin.

29 02 2008


Earlier, I was talking to my girlfriend (future co-Schroederist Kelly) about babies, when she happened to bring up the details surrounding her birth. It seems that she wasn’t the easiest child to bear (no, she wasn’t horned or fat), and during her birth, there arose a relatively common but frightful phenomenon. In addition to other issues, she had become entangled in her umbilical cord, and was strangling.

The doctor, a man no doubt renowned for being a total jackass, asked her father, Guillermo*, one of the most obscenely tactless and insensitive questions I’ve ever heard. He said, “If it comes down to it, who would you rather I save?”**

My first thought–unvoiced until now–upon hearing that was, “What the fuck is wrong with that man?” I’m not up-to-date with my physician’s ethics, but I’m pretty sure that falls into the category of “Bedside Manner for Doctors Who Enjoy Being Shot in the Stomach”.

I don’t even understand the mentality behind the asking of such a stupid thing. What are you supposed to say, “Well, Doc, what’s market value on infants these days?” 

To Guillermo’s eternal credit, he responded, “I can’t make that decision.”

Anyway, when Kelly and I have children, whatever complications arise, I hope to never be confronted with a similar situation. I can handle the stress and terror, but I would sincerely hate to go to jail for circumcising a grown man during the birth of my child.

*Guillermo was a Mexican immigrant–also a college student and revolutionary, which is pretty awesome–who then became a Canadian citizen to better ease his American nationalization. Pretty crafty.

**Honestly, I don’t see how there could be an option. It’s not a fucking Lady and the Tiger scenario.

The very first thing I ever published

28 02 2008

Not that I have some lengthy legacy, or anything, but this is the first of any of the things I’ve written to get published. It’s long, and I kind of lose steam through the middle of it, but hey–it’s something, right?

Anyway, for posterity, here’s:

Parenting For a New Century

By Kenneth W. Schroeder, Esq.

 Okay, since I don’t have any children of my own, I feel qualified to write this how-to in the utmost objective manner possible. Children are a nuisance- screaming, snot-nosed vortices of food and money whose sole mission is to disappoint and slowly leach their parents of money and the will to live.

 The biggest downside, as I see it, is that these awful creatures are often allowed to grow into a much larger physical state, while little or no effort is made to change them from the ego-centric little assholes they were when they were children.

Parents, I am here to change all of that.

 Utilizing the latest cutting-edge techniques in child psychology and combining them with the age-old art of “beat ’em now, beat ’em later” jiu-jitsu parenting, I have devised the perfect solution to the eternal issue of having people who look like you but are otherwise savage, unholy maniacs.

Chapter One- The Early Years

Step 1- When, at an early age, a child shows the slightest inclination to question your omnipotence, use any and all short-range weapons in your arsenal. Ashtrays, telephones, beloved family pets- anything that will clearly illustrate this concept to their under-developed, spongy brains.

Step 2- You may have noticed a strange phenomenon occurring whenever you go into the back yard to feed your kids. They have increased in size, and seem to attempt the formation of rudimentary language skills. This is certainly not what the proactive parent desires in an offspring.

 After administering the above treatment, which you should be doing at least three times a day at this point, bring the child or children into the house to begin their education regimen. If your spawn are too noisy, fat, incontinent or any combination of the three, feel free to perform this exercise outside or perhaps in the garage.

 Place each large-headed, drooling cretin in front of a television set. Apply restraint devices if necessary. Tune into a channel that airs no fewer than five reality television series, or three consecutive hours of celebrity/hip-hop “insider” programming. Rinse and repeat.

Step 3- If, during the course of their formative years, you should have to venture out into public with these lowbrow miscreants in tow, fear not, there is hope. 

 A simple, effective strategy to ensure proper behavior is to bring along a certain item of which the breathing growths have become fond. Whether it’s a doll, a squeaky frog or a shiny rock, the same technique is advised. Threaten the well-being of said artifact constantly- in the garage while you’re attaching the choke collars, in the car (assuming they can still hear you from the trunk), even at your intended destination.

 If your lumps are so dull as to have connected on no discernible level with anything, bring the toy along anyway, only this time you should substitute threatening the object with repeatedly thrashing the child. This will ensure their absolute subservience while among normal people. The true genius of this method is the fact that should you yourself have to leave the room, the toy may be left behind as a menacing sentinel.

 Given your child’s limited understanding of, well, anything, they will not grasp the concept of an inanimate object’s inability to harm them- in the beast’s eyes, the object is just as dangerous and malcontent as you, the attack dog in your bedroom, or the door to the refrigerator.

Step 4- Bathing. This is an inadvisable and fruitless chore. If they must be cleansed of the remaining chunks of food, excreta and other assorted wastes, simply move the cage closer to your outdoor trash receptacles. The flies will do most of the work, and your beloved tax write-offs will enjoy a healthy, delicious snack.

 Thus concludes the first installment of my Parenting for A New Century series. Feel free to write me if you have any suggestions or comments. Be sure to catch the next chapter, Adolescence, which contains valuable insights into the lumbering mechanics of the teenage mind. As an added bonus, I will also include helpful tips on the subjects of child labor laws, sexual development, and how to change your burden into a working facet of your burgeoning plantation. Until then, I remain

Kenneth W. Schroeder, Esq.

(Please note that Mr. Schroeder, while brilliant and inventive, is not an actual child psychologist or therapist. His methods have been outlawed in many countries and provinces throughout the known world, and are known to the state of California to cause cancer.)

Parenting For a New Century

 Welcome back friends and neighbors for the second installment of my parenting series. I hope the last chapter was informative and enlightening, and at least moderately witty. Tonight’s lesson deals with those large, odorous organisms known as Adolescents, or in slang terms, “teens”.

Chapter Two- Adolescence and The New Horizon

 By now, should you have kept a studious eye upon your mutating subject, you will have noticed drastic and oftentimes shocking physical and emotional transformations taking place. This is not to say that such metamorphoses are beneficial to yourself or to society, but that this weakened, hormonally charged phase can provide ripe opportunities for conditioning.

 Pavlovian training methods are often utilized in such cases, but I find such principles to be weak and ineffectual. Instead, we shall apply a shocking new theory as yet unheard of in the world of parenting: the Catch and Release ploy.

Step 1: Should your teenage dirtbag become irritable and willful, it is advised that you put an immediate stop to such behavior, as the wooly lump will only increase in size and musculature from this point on.

 With any common household instrument, say a pair of barbecue thongs perhaps, grasp the offending lip and twist until your wrist is perpendicular to the floor, then incline the head to a forty-five degree angle. Now begin a slow march around the room, making absolutely certain to guide your stock directly into the path of low-lying furniture and jutting cabinetry. This ensures that the lesson will be at least slightly absorbed by the porous matter that substitutes for an adolescent brain.

 If your heathen has a certain cosmetic piercing, and in it resides a circular metal object, this process will be made ever-so-much easier. On you, that is. One particular student of mine advocated the application of mild to moderate electrical currents to such jewelry, so you may indeed consider that option.

Step 2- Sexual development is key to the rearing and social adjustment of any normal being. However, in this case we will not address such ludicrous concepts as “development”, since that may very well prove disastrous to the delicate balance of nature. Instead we shall focus primarily on the repression and denial of adolescent sexual desire.

 Should you notice a slight protrusion originating in the pelvic region of your male child, you must immediately douse it with scalding-hot oil. This unhealthy growth can lead to a good many bothersome symptoms such as prolonged restroom occupance, leering at other female members of the species, and the secretion of a highly toxic substance known among feral adolescents as “spunk”.

 Again, and I cannot stress this enough, should you notice such a growth, do not hesitate to dump any boiling liquids or oils into the potentially contagious lap of your hairy embarrassment.

 If you notice said condition and yet presume to possess a female of the species, I urge you to at least have a veterinarian perform a basic physical examination. It could be that, while smartly avoiding close contact, you may have misinterpreted the gender of your beast.

Step 3- Grooming is an important issue among any and all of God’s creatures. The notable exception being of course the male subhuman adolescent, and the female being a slightly better choice between the two, I would suggest trading your ape to a slightly more gullible family in exchange for their “daughter” or pet ferret.

 If you find that no one will make such an exchange, keep things simple when dealing with grooming techniques. The most assured method is to simply beat the mutant until his hair refuses to grow. Or you may attempt to scorch the curly mess with a butane torch, but this has often led to foul-smelling smoke inhalation deaths among parents burdened with enormous, hairy offspring. Stick to what you have already learned from me: “beat ’em now, beat ’em later”. You can’t lose with a mantra like that.

Step 4- Since your rancid pile of love-dumpling has reached a point in his or her life where it is now feasible to begin menial labor, I suggest starting small. Of course I don’t mean small weights, but small concepts, since the brain during adolescence resembles Renee Zellweger’s hind-quarters after being run over by a football team. In other words, dimpled and extraordinarily spongy.

 Physical training begins with tractor tires, or just tractors if you want to speed things along, being strapped on about the neck and then forcefully tugged for great distances. Applying Step One has been rumored to increase productivity ten-fold among the overweight and asthmatic demographics, but has been surprisingly ineffective when used in conjunction with attention disorder medication. That concludes the lesson for the evening, ladies and gentlemen, and be sure to catch my third and final installment called Emptying The Nest: Optimum Height For Optimum Results. Until then, I remain

Kenneth W. Schroeder, Esq.

 (Please note: Mr. Schroeder is not an actual child psychologist, nor is he a therapist by any normal standards. In fact, Mr. Schroeder is a recent parolee who was allowed back into the normal world after teaching a Texas Correctional officer how to properly bludgeon his and others’ infants.)

Parenting for A New Century

  Welcome, desperate parents, to the final installment of my acclaimed series, Parenting for A New Century. I trust my previous posts were sufficient to improve your shamefully inept child-rearing tactics. If not, it is no fault of mine, but that you plainly were not paying any attention. Do not allow this to proceed. I know all, and will smite thee with grievous force. Also, I reserve the right to use any number of negatives in my grammar. You, as a mere mortal and therefore confined to Earthly rules, cannot.

  Thus far we have covered the two primary stages of growth and mutation in the sub-human species of “children”, infancy and adolescence. While my advice is best applied to the male animal, only slight changes are required to fit practically any sex. Of course, by now you might have realized that there are limitless variations of gender among the chromosomally challenged. Rob Schneider and Renee Zellweger, you might be surprised to learn, fall into this category.

Chapter Three- Emptying The Nest

  Although your pitiful loin excreta has technically aged past the adolescent stage, it is likely that he/she/it/they may not have reached a sufficient level of maturity. Fret not, dear follower, for your worries are not long for this world.  In a rare fit of rationality, our government has actually provided in favor of the parent in that, as of age eighteen, you are no longer legally responsible for the ghoul’s well-being. Thank whatever god you wish for such enlightenment. Thank me if you feel it necessary.

  The only remaining issue, if you have not yet succumbed to thrashing your mutant to a nearly dead state, is what you should do to remove them from your domicile. Follow these few guidelines to your deserved liberation.

  Step 1-  If, at any point in your detached “relationship”, you should have purchased items of emotional value to the subject, immediately remove these things to your front yard or fire escape. If you had purchased objects of monetary value, confiscate and pawn them at once. The free ride is over, after all.

  The logical purpose of placing the forever tainted possessions outside of your home is to lure the wet-brain offspring outside. If you did not realize this by now, I feel I must have a stern talking-to with your parents, you clubfooted monster.

  Once the ghoul has exited the vicinity, gather up all remaining soiled artifacts such as clothing, bedding, and carpeting he or she may have tread upon during those rare indoor moments. Burn these things at once, as they will invariably contain gooey, highly contagious, crawling genetic material. If you came into contact with said material, light yourself on fire and leap from the balcony. You are doomed.

Step 2- Assuming you survived step one, you must now set about the task of sealing your home with swift decisiveness. Retreat to your garage or supply closet while the mongoloid is still distracted by the shiny toys and bright lights of traffic.

You will need the following: hammer, nails, two-by-fours, holy water, nail gun, screw gun, shotgun, crucifix, and one huge jug of cheap vodka.

 Begin your work by nailing shut all windows and doors. Air-conditioning vents are also potential avenues of ingress, so the use of roach-bombs or ricin gas is permitted. Once your home is sufficiently secured, begin the ridiculous job of spiritually cleansing your rooms with the crucifix and holy water. Even if you are not a Christian these methods are advised, as both Buddha and Krishna share your shameful child’s physical and mental handicap, and thus might find favor with it instead of you. Besides, everyone knows that God hates the stupid and infirm.

Step 3- With your remaining tools in hand, venture carefully outside to locate the monster. It may seem dangerous or foolhardy, but entice your walking tumor to partake of the vodka, preferably in copious amounts. Allow for appropriate drunkenness to settle in, and retreat to a safe distance.

 Within view of the child, fire the nail gun and screw gun arbitrarily at various objects, people, and animals. If you are of brave constitution, pantomime nailing yourself through the upper thigh or lower colon.

 Place your weapons on the ground no closer than fifty feet from the newly-liberated beast, and back away slowly. While there have been no know instances in which a relatively ambulatory parent has been caught by an advancing mutant-child, safety is always the best bet.

  Once you have reached a safe distance, sprint to your door while keeping a wary eye upon your subject. If you reach the domicile safely, place a chair about six feet from the inside of the door, and ready the shotgun. Wait for no fewer than three hours, as such creatures will invariably forget within this allotted time.  Should you hear screams from outside, and can distinguish them from the idiot-bawl of your child, place an anonymous phone call to your local emergency police and ambulance.

 With any luck, and you shouldn’t honestly need any in light of my exhaustive wisdom, your trials and tribulations are over. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, and for the love of God-  DO NOT CONTINUE TO PROCREATE!

  Thank you dearly for your time and donations. I trust that you and your significant other will now consider my deification, and I shall gracefully accept your worship.

Kenneth W. Schroeder, Esq.

 (Please note: Mr. Schroeder is not a licensed professional and is, in fact, a degenerate maniac. His teachings have now been outlawed in every nation, province, township and village on this and any other planet, with the single notable exception being Newark, NJ. I pray that you do not follow his advice and turn immediately from his deviant lessons.)

The Half-Sister, and other items of interest.

26 02 2008

So, when I was a little kid, I may or may not have met a girl who’s probably my half-sister. If memory serves–and there’s no reason why it shouldn’t–I almost met her at a Wal-Mart in or around my former hometown of Odessa, MO. Almost, because I’m pretty sure she just ran away between the aisles. Stupid girls.

Now, some seventeen years later, she’s back in our lives. And, if that wasn’t exciting enough, she wants to know about her biological father. I almost don’t have the heart to tell her about my–our, what ever–dad. It’s not that he’s a bad guy, or anything. He’s just a forty-three year-old kid.

To provide a frame of reference: I’m twenty-four, with a cumulative score of zero on my Illegitimate/Accidental Children test. At twenty-four, my dad had already sired me, my brother, and, apparently, my half-sister. My little sister, Callie, was probably readily on the way, too.

If that doesn’t seem like a feat, there’s this: he was nineteen when I was born, and my brother is four years my junior.  

That’s four kids in less than five years, if you’ve been keeping count.

I hope you’ll excuse me if I say, “How the jumping Christ does someone manage that?

“Well,” you might answer. “It comes from being insanely irresponsible, obviously.”

To which I wouldn’t answer, only nod my head in tacit agreement.

Other Items

Higher Education Apparently, according to the Associated Press, Californians at Oaksterdam* University are paying $200 for a two-day course to train in the burgeoning medical marijuana industry. I guess they don’t realize that the same course is offered for free in Texas.

It’s called “public high school”. Keep your admissions fees, guys. We’ll show you how to turn that $200 into a cool grand in three days.

You Gotta Keep ‘Em Separated Again from the AP, a county in Georgia is segregating its males and females into completely isolated groups. The problem here, as I see it, is that eventually all schools in America will be doing the same thing.

It won’t be long now ’til we have headmasters and rampant sodomy in the boys’ schools. Well, I mean in the public schools. Private schools don’t consider that sort of thing to be a problem. I guess the KKK will have to decide which side it’s on, too.

*Is it just me, or does “Oaksterdam” seem like the dumbest college name since South Harmon Institute of Technology?