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.





The Fat of the Land

22 05 2008

I know I spend a lot of our–yours and mine–time on here talking about fat people. At some point, I’m sure a lot of you have probably wondered just why the hell fatties bother me so much. Is it that ever-present odor of sweaty ass and belly-wrinkle goo? Is it the wheezing and panting after charging up a massive three-step flight of six-inch stairs? Is it something more personal?

No, it’s not personal. It’s just that I don’t appreciate being lumped in with all of my country’s grossly overweight citizenry. I don’t work hard to keep slender or anything, but I also haven’t been blessed with the metabolism of a tomcat, either. I just don’t eat as much as I could, and it helps me to not be a total fatty. I rarely exercise anymore–in fact, I seriously lifted weights for the first time in about ten years the other day, and I’m still ridiculously sore–and I’m still a bit leery of going for one of my midnight runs in this strange town. I’m not afraid of running into coyotes or rednecks in the middle of the night, which was a danger more present than it probably seems since I moved from the country, but I am kind of worried about being hit by some drunken fraternity assbag in his daddy’s Beamer.

What spurred all of this was a combination of three television shows, all of which are on the same channel. No, I’m not talking about Celebrity Fit Club. 

G4, the channel for gaming nerds and their ilk, has brought to us from Japan two of the most grueling and heartbreaking–and yes, entertaining–shows I have ever seen. The first was, obviously, Ninja Warrior. Holy fucking cats, what an awesome show. If you haven’t seen it, the basic idea is that some Japanese engineers put together one of the hardest damned obstacle courses ever built, for hundreds of their countrymen to risk life and limb to beat. Well, they risk limb, anyway. 

Also, there’s this to consider:

Ayako Miyake, three-time Women of Ninja Warrior champion. Yowza.

The second show is called Unbeatable Banzuke, and fuck if that’s not an apt title. When you combine the three ludicrous pastimes of pogo-sticking, unicycling, and hand-walking, then put all of those skills to work on an obstacle course that looks like something out of HR Giger’s worst LSD nightmares, then allow ten-year-old kids to compete right alongside the adults, you have a recipe for some fantastic television.

Then, as if to bring a sense of balance to the awesomeness that is Ninja Warrior and Unbeatable Banzuke, G4 also gives us another show:

 

Yes, just puke it up guys! That's it! Nobody will judge you!

 

 

As you can probably imagine, the competitors are not forced to fight their way through rough, unyielding obstacles in search of total glory. Instead, they’re asked to force-feed themselves until nearly bursting, after which they will go through a battery of “endurance tests”. Inevitably, someone will vomit. Hence the name–“Hurl!”.

So, to recap:

Awesome:

 

Fat and gross:





Goddamned right I didn’t run you over!

21 05 2008

I’m drunk. Perhaps I should make that clear before we go any further: I am drunk, and don’t quite know how to contain myself at the moment. As to whatever else might be wrong with me, well, it gives me a certain kind of peace to know that–whatever else actually happens to me, personally–you readers don’t really know fact from fiction as this point. I could have swallowed seven forty-mil oxycontin after an eight-ball of some 98% Bolivian Superblow and a solid liter of Jose Cuervo, and none of you would know the difference unless I told you so.

What does that feel like, I wonder? What if I am sinking into one of the best China White jabs of my life, and not just swaying slightly in my dumpster-chair, the victim of too much tequila and something called an Irish Car Bomb. And another something–this time incredibly sweet, even cloying–called a… fuck. Water Moccasin? Whatever the facts, the point is that I’m pretty fucking drunk. 

I’m looking up at the title of this entry and freaking out, right now. I have no clue as to what the fuck it’s supposed to mean. Who did I run over recently? Did I run anyone over tonight? No, impossible. I walked to the bar–a wise choice, if you ever have the option–and managed to make it to someone’s house before the brunt of the liquor even hit me. And then… Well.

Anyway, I can’t help but relate to you the event of my emailing a fairly vicious letter to the editor of the San Marcos Daily Record. Now, I wasn’t doing anything immature–like counting off spelling/grammar errors like I did in 3rd grade–I just sent them a strangely poignant letter-essay about my job at Essay Writers and the work we perform there. It wasn’t a pleasant letter, by any means. I wrote it, so it could only conceivably involve forced sodomy and Mind of Mencia marathons.

Actually, it involves the probability that a good portion of the students here in San Marcos have actually bought their essays from sites like mine. It’s kind of addressed to the parents of such individuals, but not in a joking or ragging way. It actually does a decent job of paint the world of professional essay writing as a grim, grimy place inhabited by drug-runners and pimps. Which, for better of worse, is total bullshit. I’m pretty proud of it, actually, which sets it apart from pretty much everything I’ve ever written (except for a couple of poems), and really sets a high bar for something that is actually not that spectacular. Fuck it–I like it. Piss on you whores. 

Okay. So, hopefully that letter doesn’t actually get published (yes, I was actually sober when I wrote the fucking thing), and if it does… God save us all. 





Is it just me, or does it feel like my brain is melting?

30 04 2008

You know, in case you haven’t noticed, I try not to do a whole lot of “serious” blogging. I try to keep things as stupid as possible light and humorous in tone as I know how. This is mainly for selfish reasons–because I’m a depressive and get bummed easily–but also to keep you slavering cocksuckers my readers entertained. It’s not that I don’t care about or discuss serious issues; it’s just that they don’t appeal to me as much as the stupid and strange things in the world.

Having said that, this video is one of the most awesome and powerful things I’ve seen in a very long time. Keep in mind that I’m including both Batman Begins and the video of Danny Bonaduce dropping Johnny Fairplay on his face in that summation.

For those of you too lazy or technologically unequipped to actually watch it, it’s a video of a lecture by neuroanatomist Jill Bolte Taylor as she describes the events that transpired while she suffered a fairly serious stroke. For those of you too stupid to understand the import of that sentence, it’s a video of a lady describing, in lucid detail, the time her brain started bleeding itself out into her fucking skull. That, my friends, is beyond anything you or I could ever imagine.

What’s so amazing is that she was able to function, albeit in a severely limited fashion, enough to be able to call for help. I can barely use the phone when I have a migraine, let alone a full-blown stroke. The level of intelligence she must possess has to be astronomical; during and after a stroke, your overall brain function is considerably diminished, so to function on the level of an average person during one is pretty damned impressive. Besides, how often do neurologists get to observe brain phenomena from a first-person point of view?

Now, the way she describes the discorporated feeling she had is reminiscent of a particularly spectacular psilocybin trip. The perception of increased size, euphoria, motor function distortions, and the feelings of intermingled epiphany and confusion delineate a shockingly accurate recount of one or two fairly heavy psychedelic mushroom frolics I have personally experienced.

This isn’t to say that they’re equable–what with the partial paralysis and pronounced brain hemorrhaging–but it’s still a little disconcerting to see even those few similarities between casual recreational drug trips and a major, potentially deadly neurological event. Contrary to the prevailing opinions of my friends and family, I wouldn’t recommend either to you, my dear readers.

Maybe one day I’ll write about the craziest mushroom trip I ever had to deal with–the climax of which mainly involved driving…on the freeway…at night…in a rainstorm…with all of the damn windows down–but not tonight. For now, I’ll just leave you with that video, and a couple words of wisdom:

Psychedelic mushrooms, for all their demonization by various anti-drug propaganda movements, are capable of rendering a person into a state of unimaginable happiness and cosmic understanding. Moreover, it’s practically impossible to not have a good time, so long as they were all “good” mushrooms, and not the kind that will cause immediate renal failure and eventually an ugly death. If you’re feeling down, or have too many loose threads in your mind that distract you from your God-given right to be happy, take a ride on the mushroom trolley.

Do not, on the other hand, assume that LSD is in any way comparable to psychedelic mushrooms. That kind of thinking can lead to psychosis, suicide, and a pronounced increase in falling out of thirteenth-story windows screaming “I can fuck the sky!”. That’s a pretty stupid thing to do, since you can’t fuck the sky. Even if you could, the ground is a little bit more discriminating in allowing people to fuck it. Generally, when falling from that height, the ground fucks you.





I hope you go blind. Seriously.

18 04 2008

There is a time and place for everything, guys. The Byrds said it much more prettily than that, but the concept is the same: there are appropriate venues for specific actions. Tennis should be played on a tennis court. Crack should be sold in the ‘hood. Anal sex should always be performed–always–in the butt. When one or the other of a proper couple is altered, the universe becomes imbalanced, and has to right itself by giving us television shows like Lost, and by inventing ass cancer.

Having said that, I swear I caught a minion jerking off in the bathroom today.

I won’t go into too many details, because we all know what jerking off is about: not so much the “jerking” as the “off”. Suffice to say that I went searching for one of my wayward minions today, a kid who conveniently wanders off whenever there’s work to be done. After about twenty minutes, I ended up quitting the search on the reasonable, mature, wholly defensible grounds that I had to take a massive dump. By “wholly defensible” I mean that no one in their right mind would ever require me to prove my assertion that I had, in fact, taken a massive dump. However, I digress.

Upon entering the shop bathroom–one toilet stall, one sink, one urinal–I noticed a pair of (safety-write-up-worthy) Nike basketball shoes swinging around haphazardly beneath the door of the toilet stall. The toes were pointed straight out, like someone stretching early in the morning, which is completely understandable; the only problem was, it was almost lunch time.

I didn’t stick around and watch the show, because I would like to achieve at least one more guilt-free erection before I die, and there’s no way I could ever a) get it completely up, and b) have sex with The Girlfriend without the image of a self-abusing minion popping into my head.

Obviously, I didn’t want to call his name or knock. I’m usually pretty polite about things like that–when and if they come up (accidental punnage, sorry)–but remember, I had to unload a book-of-the-month-caliber steamer posthaste, and this little jerk-off (sorry again) was wasting valuable clean pants time. So, before I left the bathroom, I did the only reasonable thing I could think of…

After a stern talking-to from my supervisor’s supervisor, I was compelled to apologize to the man I had terribly embarassed by my insensitivity and lack of couth.

“Sorry, Garrett,” I said sheepishly.

“That’s okay, Kenneth,” Garrett cheerfully replied around a massive lump of chaw in his lip. “I know you weren’t trying to pull nothin’ over on me.”

“Yeah, but you know how it is…”

“Hell,” he retorted gleefully. “If it had been me, I’d have sent Barbara in there after ‘im!”

Yes, Dear Reader, you understood that correctly: “Garrett” is not my minion, but a regular employee who has been with my company for thirty years. He is also a Vietnam veteran, gun enthusiast, and a devout lover of snakes. That last attribute came in handy when I told him that there was a big-ass snake in the men’s room, but I couldn’t figure out whether it was a king snake or a moccassin.

It took maybe ten seconds for the entire event to transpire, but it was worth it, if while viewing only from the sidelines. Garrett had burst into the bathroom with a broom and small wastebasket in hand, and a full-face welding mask on with the tinted lens pulled up. He looked, in short, fucking scary.

Garrett assured me that the scream from the bathroom most likely came from the minion, who may or may not have been actually jacking off. Garrett wasn’t sure, since he was looking at the ground for the snake. The minion was so embarassed, I assume, that he took the rest of the afternoon off, leaving without even getting his paycheck.

All in all, I’d say it was a good ten seconds spent wisely.





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.





…and The Girlfriend said, “Hurl!”

5 03 2008

 

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.