Treinta

What an unfortunate thing it was to spend precious time watching that "fight" I posted about last week. It was very likely the most boring piece of shit fight I have ever seen in my life. Amputees could have squared off and produced a more entertaining boxing match. 

That being said, Evander Holyfield deserved an obvious victory and a piece of his old heavyweight crown back, but it was not to be. As happens so often in boxing, a terrible and most likely corrupt decision was made in favor of the giant Valuev. Usually when I spend $25 and wind up that revolted and depressed I have to get a blood test done afterwards.

As I watched Holyfield plod around the ring so much slower and generally just less than what I remember, I couldn't help but think of the horror that awaited me this week.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I will be turning 30 years old. This may come as a shock to many of you who had me pegged at about 14 based on my insecurity and fondness of dick jokes, or those who thought I wasn't a day less than 47 due to both my looks and 3 teenaged daughters. But I digress...Really, I do. Mostly when I'm alone. 

Sometimes I feel that my life so far can be summed up with the phrase "Stop at a Whammy..." but other times I think I'm pretty okay. 

I'm not really sure how to handle this milestone of making it 3 decades without killing myself while trying to impress some girl.  I really don't want to reflect back on what I have accomplished in my life because I want to kill more than 28 seconds. After 30 years it seems my biggest contributions to the world have been frightening examples of poor fashion sense and popularizing the phrase "It's like buttering a waffle."

I can't say that I am where I pictured myself being when 30 ticked off on my clock, but many of those dreams involved a scantily clad Susan Lucci and the magnificent benefits that come with having superhuman strength. Am I close to being where I feel I should be? Not at all, but  I did manage to lose my virginity along the way somehow, so that's a nice surprise. 

30 years without getting drunk is something. I'm not sure what exactly. But something is definitely a description of it.

I'm  depressed over the shrinking of the range of "older women" who I would pork caused by my rapid age gain. Am I about to lose the right to use the term MILF?

Physically I have never been anything to write home about, so I could always work out like crazy and turn into of these assholes who winds up telling every person he bumps into, "I'm 35 and in the best shape of my life!" I hate those fucks, but you can be sure the second I see one ab muscle I will have my shirt off and flex until I prolapse my rectum.

I guess that's it I worry if I think any more about my birthday that I will start crying and fall headfirst into a tin full of various flavors of popcorn that all of you have probably been sent by now. Before I stop I would like to ask a favor. 

If you are kind enough to comment, please refrain from using any of the following phrases:

"30 is the new 20"

"The big 3-0"

"It's all downhill from here"

"You're still so young"

If you use any of these, you will ruin my birthday. When you see a news report of a man getting paralyzed as he tried to hang himself with tinsel, I hope you'll be proud of yourself.

The Real Deal

I'm not a religious person by any means, but I can't help but feel the love of the Lord fill my body whenever Evander Holyfield fights. He is a Warrior of God. You can see the strength of his convictions in the way he fights and his dedication to spreading the love of God by the 11 children he has with numerous different women (according to wikipedia the number is "at least 11").

Tomorrow night Evander, now 46 years old, takes on World Champion Nikolai Valuev of Russia. His nickname is "The Russian Giant" Here is why:

What a mountain God has put in front of The Holy One to climb. I'm positive he is an actual living, breathing ogre and that he gets paid for his fights with buckets of raw fish.

In all seriousness, this fight should be ugly. Evander is well past his prime and has slowed down significantly. At 7ft tall and 310 pounds, Valuev isn't exactly Barry Allen either. Despite this I will watch. I will cheer. I will yell. I will make the sign of the cross and hold on to the tiny shred of hope that Evander Holyfield will turn back the clock tomorrow night, for both of us.

That being said, look at this monster bastard.

Seriously

For at least 2 decades I thought Tom Jones was black.

"You never listen!"

Now that may be a bit of hyperbole, but it is not completely inaccurate. I would say I have "listening difficulties." My girlfriend would say, "You don't ever fucking pay attention to me when i talk!" Tomato, Tomahto.

This problem is not limited to only to her. Co-Workers, friends, parents, financial advisers, acquaintances, parole officers, etc., all fade into the background eventually. Their words ricochet off the side of my huge head as I start to wonder things such as how I would look in a fedora or if someone has already taken the woolly mammoth as it's national symbol.

I don't want to zone out when I am spoken to. I would like to say it's the fault of chronic ear abuse that started many years ago as a young Ryan  pressed the headphones of his Walkman tightly to his skull so he wouldn't miss one note of "Armageddon' It". I would like to say that I have conversational ADD. It is more likely, however, that I am disgustingly self-absorbed.

I want to pay full attention, most of the time. I feel that I would have better and more meaningful conversations. My overall knowledge would increase, and I would get yelled at less. 

For those of you who would like to pay less attention when certain people are talking to you, I will share a list of useful, but mindless, refrains you can spit out every so often during a conversation to pretend like you are paying attention.

There are the obvious ones such as "yeah," "Uh huh, "I know," "really?" and "That's weird."

You also have more advanced options such as "I know, right," "No way," "Are you serious, "Are you sure about that," "No No. You're right. You're right," "Ummm...I don't know about that one," "That's something you have to do some thinking about," and "They really need to cut that out."

Laughing can also work, but like the advanced options should only be attempted once you have become better skilled at talking without listening. Also, never use "You don't say." No one says that anymore and will blow up your spot in a jiffy.

I take zero responsibility for any failure with these phrases. You may just use them wrong and there are some out there who actually pay attention and will know what you are doing right away.

What's Wrong with Cash?

I'm taking a break from my healthy diet bashing today as I am so full of succulent meats and flaky goodness from this weekend that I do not wish to ruin the vibe with talk of something disturbing and vile, like fish. There is a much more pressing matter at hand. 

It's holiday shopping time.  Across the country people are turning out in surprising numbers to get amazing deals and crush underpaid immigrants under the weight of their Christmas cheer. This is also a time of great stress as I, and my brethren, desperately struggle to decide what to get our significant others.

I'm not one of those folk who wants their girlfriend to specifically tell him what to buy, although once Dec. 20th rolls around and I start to wonder if my mother has anything cool I could steal, I reconsider my stance a bit.

It's the thought that counts, but I don't have a thought. I have thoughts. Numerous, ridiculous thoughts.

"What do girls like? Girls like clothes. I should get her clothes. What kinds of clothes does she like to wear?  Why can't I remember what she wears? I hate it when she wears clothes. I can probably go to the store and pick out something good. Maybe a nice top, or some kind of frock. What size is she? If I get something too big she will say I think she is fat. If I get something too small she may feel fat and bite my nose off. Think! Think about when she talks about clothes! OK.  She told me to never wear that button down one with the hot dogs on it ever again. Usually when she sees me in my underwear she laughs and says "Oh no. Oh Nooo." And here's her constant anti-jean shorts campaign...OK forget clothes.

How about shoes?  If I get heels that are too big she might be taller than me. Do they still have those looks like a pump/feels like a sneaker deals? What's her shoe size again? OK forget shoes. 

Jewelry!! Where do I get decent jewelry? Tiffany's. Chicks love that place. I wonder if they sell giant clock medallions. Oh these earrings are very ni-Holy shit this is expensive!! They have to have good items for a bit cheaper. Oh look this is only 100 dollars. A "sterling silver money clip." OK forget jewelry.

Maybe she would like some books. She is literate, and I remember knocking some off her bed every now and then. I wish i could remember what kind of books they were. Was there some kind of long haired pirate with an open shirt and windswept hair on the cover? Would a self-help book be insulting? Maybe something from Oprah's book club? Wait, I don't want her gaining enlightenment and realizing she should dump me. This is hard!"

If only she would be content with me tying a bow around my genitals and doing that Beyonce dance that all the kids seems to be into.

My Diet, Part 3: Smile and say Puke!

This will be brief as I have a half day today. I think it's for parent teacher conferences.

I LOVE mozzarella cheese. I like a smattering of Parmesan cheese on my foods. I am pleased by Ricotta when it is stuffed inside a ravioli.

I despise all other cheeses. 

Despite being sickeningly patriotic at times, I will can not bring myself to even taste American cheese, and I am definitely not neutral when it comes to Swiss. Gouda is not Gouda, and Feta is no betta.  I hate all this shit. 

Cheese is gross. It smells gross. It feels gross. I really don't even want to touch cheese unless it is to throw at people eating cheese. 

Does it bother any of you that any kind of vile buildup of filth and gunk around the loin area is described as cheese? How can something comparable to smegma be at all appealing to eat?

Do you know how cheese is made? I will tell you. You leave an unfinished bowl of cereal on your dresser for a month and half. There,  you have just made some cheese. Who wants to eat something made like that? Do you know how much Febreeze winds up in there?

And what the hell kind of food comes wheel form? 

Artificial cheese flavoring is A OK in my books, and I am obviously not opposed to cheese in written form.

My Diet, Part 2: I've had my Chrlorophyll

Ugh. That barely even makes sense.

In today's exercise of extreme narcissism we will look at my eating habits in respect to vegetables. Can I stand any of them? Does the fact that many are found on, if not in, the dirty ground  gross me out? Does their phallic shape make me want to eat them more? Let's find out.

My situation with vegetables is a bit better than it is in regards to their fruity friends as there are some that I actually eat on a regular basis.  I will tell you what vegetables they are even though I already know your reaction to them. They are the holy trinity of Corn, Peas and Potatoes.

Let me guess. "Those aren't even real vegetables, weirdo." I know you said it. Everyone does. I'm not sure why they don't count. I mean, there is the whole thing with corn not being digested, and who in their right mind would eat a potato that isn't at least covered in salt and butter? OK so maybe I see it a little bit. But don't forget the peas! Peas are weird. I'm pretty sure they are actually good for me. Does this mean I win?

Every other vegetable you can cross off my list. My dog ate more vegetables than I do. He would gladly chow down on some carrot sticks where as I would only use them as a faux wang to shock and surprise people during one of my world famous adult web cam variety shows. In fact if it wasn't for the disturbing glee I received from people recoiling in horror at what they thought was my deformed cock, I would have absolutely no use for yams, broccoli, eggplants, zucchini, turnips or bell peppers. I am considering them a vegetable here. 

The biggest downside to having no love for vegetables, aside from being dead by 33, is the  situation I run into at restaurants. I have never eaten a salad in my life. Sometimes an unrequested plate of greenery and pals finds it's way in front of me, and I am left to stare at it uncomfortably. It's a lot like if I were invited to  a dinner party and sat down to find that an ex-girlfriend was seated next to me. I didn't ask for it. There are a lot of awkward glances and sighs, and quickly I realize why I never wanted to see them again. If I can't pass my salad off to someone else, I will move the components of it around my fork to make it appear to the waiter that I have eaten some of it.  

So I do feel some shame about all this, but I don't see any future for me other than a diagonal life of a person whose body is in desperate need of a V8.

My Diet, Part 1: Hello Scurvy

With Thanksgiving happening this week I figured this would be a ripe ol' time to discuss a fact you may have discerned about me. 

I am a picky eater.

This in itself is not an awful thing. There is something to be said for having "refined" tastes when it comes to food. The problem with me is that I have the diet of an undisciplined 6 year old.

Today we look at fruit.

Unless Skittles are considered fruit, I do not make a habit out of eating fruit. There have been periods in my life where I have gone years and years without fruit touching my lips.

One day I decided that I should try to eat an apple because they are good for your bowels and I was convinced a psychotic doctor was trying to kill me. I purchased a shiny red one from my local fruit vendor. It took a good 10 minutes of pumping myself up to get into a mental state where I would bite it. Unfortunately my physical state was not as ready, and I immediately spit out the small bit I had sheared off. Why? Because it tasted "too planty." 

I have, on two occasions, forced myself to eat  a few slices of an orange. Strangely, one of these times was in a school cafeteria surrounded by 50 or so people who. I am sure, were gawking at me and wondering if they had to run over and make sure I didn't bite my tongue during the epileptic fit I was obviously experiencing. Every time I would insert a slice into my mouth, I would have some kind of involuntary spasm that I figured was my body's physical rejection of this strange unknown substance.  

I've tried berries of the straw and rasp kind, but the seeds skeeved me out. I will not use a melon for anything other than a way to keep my other hand busy during masturbation. I would be happy if I never saw a pineapple again. The only way I would ever buy a banana is if the ridiculous anti-monkey laws of this state are repealed. Millions of peaches? Peaches not for me. I'm positive a kiwi is some sort of egg, maybe for a platypus.  I would consider eating a grape only if it was being fed to me by a barely clothed slave girl while riding on a palanquin.

In closing I will say that fruit is more useful for throwing at people purposes than eating purposes.

I Require Musical Assistance

My exercise habits are very bi-polar. I swing between periods of steady and increasing activity to states of intense loafing where I change my name to Argon and expend as little energy as possible.

Currently I find myself in a fit of running. It's going very well. I feel my wind building up faster than my Uncle Len's at Burritoville. I would like this trend to continue for a while longer, or at least until I stabbed by some street tough because I run at 10 o'clock at night. So I need some help to make this happen.

Good music make running  a hell of a lot easier. I must keep my play list constantly updated and refreshed.  If you would be so kind as to  suggest some tunes that will keep my legs moving when my brain is thinking of sofas and leftover chicken cutlets sitting in the fridge, I would greatly appreciate it.

I won't set any guidelines for the songs. I will check out  any selection you feel would help, but I may lose respect for you if you suggest something that is the garbages.

Ugh

I have a few more of these to do.

Jay - "Of Hot Dogs and Love"

I hate myself.

WISWIM

Over a year ago I attempted to cleanse myself of evil and guilt by dragging my dirty lies out into public for all to see. I also vowed that I would attempt to curtail my fibbing, as I had learned that it was wrong. Who knew?

Things did not go as well as they could have. However I will once again relieve myself of the burden of deceit by confessing to you what I said/what I meant.

I'm going to try to not lie so much.

I'm lying right now.

No. She's not hot.

I love you, but she is pretty fucking hot.

I ordered it last week. I don't know why it hasn't gotten here yet.

I only remembered this morning it was your birthday and couldn't be bothered to go to the store, so I ordered it 15 minutes ago.

I don't even know how to take pictures off someone's webcam!

I may need a bigger hard drive after this.

I'll eat whatever you put in front of me.

I will eat whatever you put in front of me, as long as it's not fruit, vegetable, fish, soup, stew, has no brown sauce on it, has no mayo on it,  or wasn't invented by Indians.

Not really, but it's thick.

The first part is actually true.

I don't know what you're talking about.

I know exactly what you are talking about, but I hope if I play dumb you will stop yelling.

No, I don't know where the cookies went. I didn't even have any.

I know where they went. I untucked my shirt to hide the bloating caused by an entire package of Nutter Butters.

Oh yeah. Getting an apartment together would be very cool.

HELP!!! SOMEONE HELP ME!! EJECT!!! EJECT DAMN IT!

Close Call

Naming a baby is always a time of danger. Pick the wrong name and your child may be tortured for life. I've often wondered how much impact a name can have on a person's identity, success and even physical development.  For example, if I name my son Gravel Facepunch, will he be tougher, larger  and more forceful than if he were named Feighleen Unicorn. Had I the means to travel backwards in time and speak to my own parents before my birth, I would have tried to convince them to name me Stack Overload.

A co-worker of mine was discussing the debate going on over the name of her newest grandchild. This woman is in her early 70s and was previously occupied as a nun. The kid had been named a few things already before the birth. At one point he was Dylan and then he was Ryan. After he was born they were considering the name Brody which makes my stomach twist just typing it. However Brody was shortly axed in favor of Dylan again.

When Office Nun mentioned his middle name was James, someone piped up and said, "Hey. You can call him DJ."

Office Nun then said, "You know that's why they decided on Dylan. It was going to be Brody, but apparently there is some problem with him being a BJ"

The reaction you probably just had to this statement was the same as those in the office had upon hearing it. To make things worse, she kept saying, "What? What's wrong with BJ? Is it something bad? What's BJ? What's BJ?"

Now this situation is not foreign to me. Usually though it's with a much younger girl who is playing dumb when I make a suggestion as to what we can do that evening. In this case though I had zero desire to tell someone who lived in a convent what the hell a BJ is.

However she continued to ask anyone who would listen, and eventually she came over to me and said "What's wrong with BJ?" Knowing my mouth could not be stopped when confronted with such a question, my legs decided to take action. I stood up and race walked away from the scene as "I don't know! I've been asking my girlfriend that for months" escaped from my word hole.

I'm still not sure if anyone explained it to Office Nun, but if Pancakes had been around I'm sure he would have.

While I do appreciate the parents of this child were kind and smart enough to avoid the BJ debacle, the name Dylan is still kind of lame. This may be a result of my inability to stop thinking about 90210...ever, but I fear he has been sentenced to a life of sideburns and squinting.

Still haven't found what I'm looking for.

Ann unfortunately neither have two people who found this blog by searching for the following terms:

"When did jean shorts come out?"

and

"warm bucket of water vagina" 

Some guy from Australia searched for that second one.  It's even more disgusting if you say it out loud with a piss poor Australian accent. Do it. I will wait.

See? Now do it with a German Accent.

Now do it like you're a robot.

Now do it like Jack Nicholson.

Gross

The Password is...

In the history of me there has been many a moment of  unfounded paranoia. One such occasion took place while I was entrenched in the disgusting real of chat rooms and instant messages. 

One day I found myself in a familiar situation. Some young gal in a far away land was on my monitor and self consciously  fiddling with her hair as I sent streams of innuendo into her IM window. As we chatted she wrote to me "I have something I want to show you."

Jackpot! I thought for sure I was going to see at least some side boob if not full on panty. Oh how wrong I was.

She leaned down to her left and when she returned to her previous upright position, she was holding a large pineapple. This probably sounds incredibly random to you, and it should have to me as well, but this piece of fruit sent me into a paranoid fit. You see at the time, the password I was using for my Yahoo IM name (crabbyjay, please entertain me at work) was pineapple12. 

Immediately I thought of the only logical explanation for this coincidence. This woman was one of those sicko Internet hackers who was playing mind games with me.

She was holding the pineapple next to her face and smiling dubiously as I logged the fuck out of yahoo and frantically tried to figure out how to change my password before this deviant criminal used my password for evil purposes. Looking back on it now, I may have over reacted a bit because the worst she could have done was check my email and find out that I had tried more than once to respond to those penis enlargement ads.

In a brilliant attempt to find out the truth I changed my password to michaelboltonalbum. If I ever got her on her web cam again and she held up a Michael Bolton Album then I would know that she was fucking with me or just had really awful taste. Either way I would be done with her. 

I logged back into yahoo with my new security system function and sent her a message saying that my Internet was disconnected for a minute.  The conversation went like this.

Me: Sorry about that.

PineapplePrudence: It's ok. For a second I thought you hated my spongebob house!

Me: What?

PineapplePrudence: You know! Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?

Me: Spongebob Squarepants.

PineapplePrudence: YAY! I LOVE Spongebob. I collect tons of Spongebob stuff.

Me:  How old are you again?

PineapplePrudence: 25

*Me has just gone offline*

I guess my paranoia was more misplaced than unfounded. It's like my own kind of Spider-Sense.

911?

Should I be concerned that for the past week I keep finding what looks like tiny blue pieces of candy in my belly button?

I haven't tasted any, yet.

When it rains, it poors.

I don't consider myself a dumb person. Sure it took someone drawing a diagram of a vagina before I realized women had a separate hole for peeing, but overall I genuinely believe I am somewhat intelligent. However, I recently began to doubt this assessment of my brain power after reading a post a few weeks ago over on Jay's blog.



In this particular post, the phrase "for all intents and purposes" was used. For three seconds I wondered why he had typed this phrase incorrectly. After my brain took those three seconds to use that ever elusive thing called reason, I suddenly became aware that I am in fact a massive dumbass because for as long as I can remember I have been saying "for all intensive purposes."



I'm sure I have used it on this blog more than a few times. This kind of mistake makes me feel quite stupid because I have been walking around saying it to people for years like I am some genius while they laugh at me later on during cellular chats with their friends. I know I am immediately calling them dopes and morons to other people as soon as I hear someone make a similar mistake.



The last time I remember this happening was when i realized I had been mispronouncing the word "covalent" since High School because I had a Sikh chemistry teacher with a very thick accent.



Anyway, that was dumb. Here is another paint piece.



Becky: Here is mine. Please draw Estelle Geddy wearing jean shorts, a coconut bra, and a hat with a very long feather attached to it. The feather should be yellow.She needs to be standing next to Patrick Duffy, holding hands and watching YOU riding a shark to work.

It's Estelle GeTTy, Becky.

Dumbass

More Arts

This is more difficult than I thought it would be. My lack of artistic talent is staggering.

Diane: I request a lovely sunset or a rainbow. It could be worse, I could have requested a unicorn.

That would be a Unicorn waiting to cross the street....

yllwdaisies: A gorilla running toward a plane w/ a ziploc bag of bread (2 slices).

You have to trust me when I tell you there are two pieces in there.

The Art of Desperation

I'm shot this week. Perhaps I need a break. Perhaps I am emotionally drained from witnessing history as one of my fellow African Americans was elected to the most powerful position in the world. Whatever it is, it's not giving me any "oomph" to blog.

So we turn to gimmicks and reader participation.

I would like to draw you a picture in MS Paint. I am not a good artist, but I will attempt to create an image of anything you would like. What should I draw for you?


*UPDATE*

Here is what I have done so far.

Chris : In honor of the economy, how about you draw me a soup line?

Em: A smiley face.

Crystal: flying tiddies with a knife through the right breast and a moon shaped like an orange slice to represent the detriment that the objectification of women has on today's youth.



Obviously I have never seen breasts before.

Rocking the Vote

Due to reports of long lines  to vote today I decided to bring my MP3 player along with me to help pass the time.

For 2 hours and 3 minutes I listened to nothing but "The Final Countdown" by Europe. That is 27 times in a row.

By the time I got into the voting booth I was completely worked up and oblicvious to the people staring at me every time I yelled out "Come on!" or "LETS DO THIS!!" and "NOW IS THE TIME!" I was so amped for Freedom and jacked up on Liberty that accidentally ripped off one of the switches as I voted.

So I apologize ahead of time to State Assemblyman Michael Cusick if you lose by one vote.

Sorry dude.

Nothin'

Due to a discussion I had over the weekend, I don't have anything to post today. It went something like this.

Me: I am working on my rebuttal to your rebuttal.

Lady-Friend: What?

Me: A response to your bread story!

Gal Pal: Think for a minute. Do you think the bread story is the only story I can tell to demonstrate your lack of charm?

Me: Crud...

So with that I am left with the always risky move of talking off the top of my huge head.

I don't drink coffee. Really I am pretty grossed out by coffee. I can not stand the smell of it. I'm not talking about the smell that may fill one's breakfast nook when one is brewing a fresh pot of java. That I can tolerate. I'm referring to the smell that I can not seem to get rid of when I pick up a cup for someone and it spills on my fingers. Then every time I bring my fingers anywhere near my face, which is a lot because I am one of those face touchers, my head jerks back because there is coffee whif on them. 

Coffee Fingers are the worst. The smell takes forever to go away, so all day I am forced to encounter the stink of that dirtbag Juan Valdez. I guess I could wash my hands, but I'd have to get up to do that and I doubt there are enough scrubbing bubbles to erase the columbian taint from the tips of my digits.

Coffee ice cream is horrifying. I am fighting the urge to expand on this statement because it would quickly turn into my dissertation. Let's just say I find the coffee flavor in ice cream as appealing as tapeworm  flavored ice cream, with real bits of Tapeworm for that extra tapewormy taste.

Tomorrow will be better.

Charm Fail

Please Note: This is a response to my previous post written by my girlfriend. I agreed to post this in the interest of fairness

Hi.

I'm going to make this quick. You probably aren't used to that on Ryan's blog, but I am. All I need to do is tell you one story for you to fully grasp his lack of charm.

A few months ago my boyfriend was to pick me up from the airport. Before my flight I told him that I would probably be hungry when I landed, and he said he would have food for me when I arrived. What a great boyfriend, right? 

There are lots of places to get good junk food at the airport. So what does Ryan have for me when I arrive?

A ziploc bag full of sliced bread.

And when I say "full of bread" I mean it was probably full of bread when he left for the airport, but when I got there only 2 pieces were left.

Not a bagel from the deli. Not some fries from McDonalds. Not even a candy bar. Just two pieces of bread in a plastic bag like I am some pigeon he is going to feed at the park.

So charming.

P.P.S. If he does post this it's only because I told I wouldn't blow him until he stopped lying to the internets.

"You used to be charming"

These words were produced by the mouth of my girlfriend and flung towards my heart. If not for my abnormally strong ribs due to my bizarre habit of drinking a gallon of whole milk a day, these sharp words would have pierced me to my very core. Still, the blunt force of it hurt. It hurt bad. I have this strange high pitched wheeze whenever I exhale, and I can't read certain fairy tales without openly weeping.

I know you are suffering from a similar shock that I was experiencing after hearing this statement. How could anyone say that I am not completely charming? I apologize for what may be a boring post, but I feel I have no choice but to defend myself.

Oh Girlfriend. Have you considered that I am, in fact, no less charming than when I first got into your pants? Maybe it only seems like this because you dismiss the nice things I say and do for you.

Early on in our relationship if I were to comment on the loveliness of your hair, you would smile your gorgeous smile and start making out with me. If I were to make the same comment to you today, you would say, "Whatever. It's gross. I need to wash it. Make me french toast!" 

Many months ago when I would purchase for you an inexpensive but thoughtful gift, you would thank me and rub your hand over my crotch. Now you often tell me, "Buy me shoes" and elbow me in my tender shanks.

Maybe this is my own fault. Maybe I have too often proclaimed you beautiful and told you that I love you, and as a result it is no longer as special as it once was. This I can accept responsibility for. But to say I used to be charming and no longer am? Baby I got charm hangin' out my ass.

I'm only 65% sure I will regret this.

Real American?

This is a photo of a business card that was found on a bulletin board at a supermarket.
I apologize for the cell phone quality.

I'm concerned that "Deer" is secret code for wife.

DJ Restraining Order

Is it normal to have a big party for your child's 1st birthday? I can see a healthy gathering of friends and family would be appropriate, sure. A nice yard party perhaps.

What about if you have the party in a hall? With a bar? And a DJ?

That's what I was at yesterday. Instead of ranting about what this says about the current state of society, I have to discuss this DJ.

He was a large fellow. He was about 6 feet tall and dressed in all black. His gut was light years passed the point of entertaining any thoughts of fastening his belt over it. Lifting it has to take so much effort that he has resigned himself to sitting down to take a leak. He had a short pony tail and arrived in a creepy vehicle that my cousin's husband referred to as a "rape van."

I'm not sure how a 1st birthday party rates on the scale of gigs for a DJ, but I can't imagine it is very high. I'd have to put it above Nursing Home Christmas Party but below a Bris. The self loathing this DJ was experiencing had to be monumental, and it started to show at points during the shin dig.

When he asked the father of the birthday boy if he should play music to entertain the many kids present or some more adult jams for the bulk of the crowd, he was told, "I'd say focus on the kids, but don't forget about the adults." This couldn't have cleared matters up, but I still don't believe it is a valid excuse for playing unedited versions of "Crank Dat" and "Jump Around." I can only imagine the awkward silences and near collisions that were caused when more than one child asked their parents what "Supaman dat ho" means during the ride home.

I will give him credit because the kids did look entertained. He showed them had to dance to several of the songs. Sure he commented on a woman's large breasts into the microphone while the children were limboing and wouldn't stop talking along with the singers, but the kids expectations seemed very low.

And it's a good thing the kids didn't expect much because this guy had the absolute worst balloon art skills anyone has ever seen. It was obvious he couldn't make anything resembling an animal. Maybe a dead snake, but that's it. Most of what he handed out was, I hope, supposed to be a sword, but more resembled a giant drooping cock. I have no idea what the other objects he made were supposed to be, but here is a picture I took of what I can only describe as a pile of fail.

As I left I saw him sitting at a table eating his third piece of birthday cake. Two kids whacked him in the face with their big pink balloon dicks as "Number of the Beast" by Iron Maiden blared out of the speakers.

I'm going to check the paper today for any reports of a fat guy hanging himself with his own pony tail.

Criminal or Just Creepy?

Yesterday a gentleman I work with, the one who used to make pancakes in his office before someone ratted him out, approached me at my desk and threw some papers onto it. They were pictures he printed out, pictures of some girl walking along Broadway. Four of them. From different angles. Not expecting to see paparazzi photos of some strange woman walking down the street, I didn't know how to react which lead to my default setting of staring blankly. 

"She's hot huh," Pancakes said to me. 

"Oh. Oh! yeah. She is smokin'," I replied, deciding it was better just to act like I wasn't wondering if viewing these photos made me an accomplice. The girl was very hot though. She looked to be a tall, large breasted Asian gal in a small plaid skirt. I have always been sad I have never had the chance to experience the joy that is a large breasted Asian gal, but looking at these pictures still made me feel lecherous, even the shot from behind.

"She was wearing that same outfit the first time I saw her. Oh my god I love her." Ooookay this

sentence was enough for me and I went to hand him back the pictures.

"Oh don't worry about it. You can keep those. I have my own copies. Just put them in your desk so no one sees them."

"Oh.. cool. Thanks," I muttered as I buried them under a pile of junk in a drawer.

I feel gross.

The "H" Word

None of you know what this is? Really?

I'll paypal 5 American Dollars to whomever knows it first.

If you really want to know you can always take off your pants and call me. I'll say it eventually.

Distraction

Lately I have taken to using the seaborne portion of my commute as a time to write, or at least think of, things I can post on here. I do this with a ball point pen and a spiral notebook I keep in my man bag along with an uncanny ability to block out all ridiculous chatter around me.

Most of the time this chatter comes from groups of Russian people spewing out noise that sound like me when i vomited after trying borscht. In high school I took 3 years of Russian, but I can not understand more than a word or two of what these Chatty Katyas are saying. Unfortunately the only bits of Ruski that remained in my head after graduation were "The milk is near the window," "I live in a summer house," and "I love men in sour cream." Therefore I do my best to ignore them.

Yesterday I was in the early stages of writing what could have been an award winning short story, when my obliviousness was destroyed by a wackjob that sat across from me. This fella was a straight up weirdo. He didn't need to open his mouth for me to gauge his lunacy because he was wearing a bright blue cap with big silver wings sticking out from the sides. It looked like something Thor would wear if he was a slow adult. The hat was so bizarre it took me 5 minutes of discreet staring to notice that he was also wearing one of those always stylish leather jackets with hundreds of tassels hanging off of it. Topping it off was his ratting almost ass length pony tail of pumpkin colored hair. This bizarre vision blew out some fuses in my brain, and my attempts to block out the surrounding noise were about to fail miserably.

The weirdo was chatting to a more normal looking colleague across from him.

"Sunday I got up early and got ready before heading to the cat show"

This is when I realized what I would blog about today. I didn't expect to be nearly blinded with confusion and rage as his comments continued.

"You know, for all the Italian people around, there is a lot of bad pizza on Staten Island..."

What the?! Having lived on Staten Island all but one year of my life and being one of these Italian people, I couldn't believe what i was hearing. I had maybe run into a bad slice once or twice. Don't ever order from Monty's. Aside form that it's a regular pizza heaven. He then dropped this nugget out of his unbrushed mouth.

"We got Domino's the other night. In all the times we ordered from them, this was the first time they got there in less than 30 minutes."

What? What?! 30 seconds ago he is complaining about bad pizza. Now he is saying that he orders from fucking Domino's? More than once? That's like saying "Man music today is really bad...I love this Scarlett Johansson CD."

Domino's pizza should only be eaten by students away at college in a place where people say "Eye-talian."

Thanks for the post, asshole.

867-5309 Meghan

I have had a healthy amount of phone sex. I have had it with girlfriends, people I've never met, and even a married woman. I do not count the time my aunt had an asthma attack while on the phone with me despite it sounding virtually the same as my previous telephonic encounters. This is story about the first time I participated in the act of the Phone Bone in one part.

At the tender age of 19 I had begun to spend more and more time swimming in the cesspool known as online chat rooms. Until this point, I had only used them as a source of mirth and merriment by way of insulting people until I got banned from AOL. Things started to take a much more mature and unfortunate turn for the worse when I began to use them for socializing. I found myself enjoying it far too much as a result of this pesky social anxiety problem I couldn't seem to shake. Conversations were had. Jokes were made. Girls were flirted with.

There was one broad in particular who enjoyed my textual stylings a great deal. Her name was Meghan. She was from New Jersey, but I didn't hold it against her because she talked about her boobs a lot and would send me winking smiley faces. ;) 

Meaghan and I had talked quite a bit for a few weeks when it was suggested, I don't remember by who, that we should maybe talk on the phone. Up until this point the depths to which our sexual chatting had gone was only at a level of half-joking genitalia mention that was usually followed by yet another lame ass emoticon. For example:

Megan: Oh it's so cold in here. I guess I have to put my pants on.

Me: :-O

Meggin:  hehe

Within minutes of getting on the phone however, she ratcheted  up the raunch a notch or eight. Her vocabulary became peppered with "F" words, "P" words, "C" words and even an "H" word. I feel uncomfortable even thinking about that one. She not so casually mentioned she was strumming her harp and suggested I start tuning my mandolin. Only in a much filthier and less musical manner. My brain quickly abetted my loins. 

Brain: "Well she definitely sounds like a girl, and that fake picture she sent us was pretty hot. Go for it, cowboy."

What followed this decision, aside from hellatious chaffing, was an awkward realization that I had zero clue what I was supposed to say. I mean I knew I wasn't supposed to ask her what she thought of the latest episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer no matter how much that would have aroused me, but at this point in my life I did not have the best friend-like familiarity with the language of filth that I do now. Mghan was well underway when I decided I need to pipe up before I lost her. Not having formulated a plan yet, I sent out an array of fail.

"I want to kiss your boobs," didn't sounds as bad as you think when I followed it up with, "I bet your vagina feels really good." Yes, I said "vagina."

Miraculously her enthusiasm didn't wane one bit. In the midst of my futility I came up with an ingenious strategy. Or maybe it was a tactic?  We all know how well a man thinks when he is full on masturbating. I brilliantly decided that since Meghan was clearly much better at this than I, taking what she said and using it in my response would be my best bet. This plan resulted in a series of exchanges that went something like this.

Meghan: Do you want to fuck me?

Me: Oh yeah I want to fuck you.

Meghan: Oh god I want you to fuck you now.

Me: I would fuck you now.

Meghan: Yes! Fuck me now!

Me: I am fucking you now!

I can't even get into how I tried to force some grunts and moans out in response to hers. Let's just say that for a week after this, neighbors were asking me to come over and play with the sea lion they heard me training. This all went on for a surprising 15 minutes due mostly to my confusion delaying the inevitable mess I failed to plan ahead for. 

Alas, no mess was to be had as suddenly I heard a door slam shut. Before I could realize what was happening,  I heard  my mother's voice say, "Ryan ! Come down and help me bring in groceries!" I froze in terror which only resulted in her yelling again. My lack of response caused her worry which led to the sound of footsteps on stairs.

Panicked, I stood up and tried to return to some state of dress as Meghan continued to frost her cupcake. What the? With my mother's presence looming on the other side of my bedroom door, I blurted out "GOTTA GO," and hung up. I stood there sweating and out of breath as I told my mom I was just getting off the phone with Johnny and didn't hear her come in. Smooth.

I actually told Meghan what had happened later on. She thought it was funny and for some reason wanted to have phone sex again. Crap, she was a dude wasn't she?

Questions

Next week I plan on posting a story that is large in both size and embarrassment. My dilemma is whether or not to break it up into two posts because of it's intimidating girth. It worked pretty well previously when I broke up my nightmarish Jean Shorts epic into Part 1 and Part 2. 

So what do you prefer? One over sized post, or a two part special with some time in between to digest how ridiculous a human being I am?

My other question is equally as dull. I need some new books to read. They make my commute more bearable.  Recent ones I have read include Pound for Pound by F.X. Toole, Agent ZigZag by Ben Macintyre and The Wizard of the Crow by Ngugi Wa'Thiong'O. I picked out the last book because the guys name is awesome, and it turned out to be a fantastic choice. I also read a few by my second favorite writer from the damp and lush land of Northwest America, Tom Robbins.

So what should I be reading? Books involving dinosaurs will go to the top of the list. 

Mistakes on a Plane, Part 2

Previously, I told a tale of fail regarding my method of dealing with air travel. This is basically to deprive myself of sleep the night before my flight, resulting in sleep filled, but panic and boredom free flight. Never one to give up on a bad idea, I put my method to use again even after spraying hot saliva all over economy class on my way back from Florida.

One reason I had been so enthusiastic about the idea of sleep flight was the whole not sleeping bit allowed me to engage in obscene amounts of procrastination. So the night before I was to fly to Minnesota I had a grand ol' time packing 3 items of clothing every time I felt like taking a break from Nintendo, the Internet and On Demand Showtime porn.

Previously my flights had left early in the morning which facilitated my plan. This time however, the plane was not due to leave the Earth until 2PM. As you can imagine, after about 32 hours without sleep or even listening to Losing My Religion, I was not in the most solid of mental states.

I have no recollection of how I made it to the airport, through security and onto the plane without  falling down or asking someone if I could pet their unicorn. Somehow I stumbled into my seat feeling like tiny Shaolin monks were kung fuing my brain. It felt like they were using the Plum Flower Fist style. Had I fallen asleep when my ass hit flotation device, things would have gone swell. It seemed as if some part of my tea totalling self was enjoying this euphoric brain damagey feeling and wanted it to continue.

The plane was not full by any means, but the few people who walked by me on the way to their seat stared as I made feeble attempts to fasten my safety belt. I had struggled with insertion before, but never in such a public venue. We pulled away from the gate and I still was not buckled in. A kindly, and somewhat cute, flight attendant felt sorry for me and offered to help.

"Let me give you a hand. They can be tricky," she said before leaning down, snapping the two ends together and pulling the strap tight with ease and grace. " There you go. You're all set."

Under normal circumstances my brain would be exploding with ridiculous thoughts that would paralyze my vocal chords. Right now though, my brain was mush. Out of my mouth slipped, "You smell pretty."

Mercifully, sleep came quickly after. When I exited the plane I nearly sprinted off the plane staring at the floor as to avoid her gaze of disgust. I also tried to hum loudly to avoid hearing anything horrible, but I did make out someone saying, "Man that guy must really love Minneapolis."

These days I sleep plenty and bring lots of reading material.

Mistakes on a Plane, Part 1

I have mixed feelings about flying. I like the idea that in a few hours I can be in a strange new place where I don't have to work. I do not like that this place may be a giant  fiery wreck 35 miles away from my destination.

In the past my main concern before a flight would be how I could avoid freaking out to the point where I am squealing as I eat fist fulls of my own hair. These days I am much more comfortable with airline travel. The main thing I worry about a flight now is how best to make the time in the air pass quickly, so that I do not get so bored I start asking people if they want to play a game of "Guess Who has the B.O. Problem."

The plan I devised to solve the problems of boredom and mid-air panic seemed fool-proof. If I were to not sleep the night before a flight, I will be so tired that once I am strapped in on the plane I will pass the hell out. Not only would I avoid  the risk of soiling myself thinking the plane is going down when I sense vibrations as the fat guy next to me farts into his seat, but it will feel like no time had passed when a kindly flight attendant wakes me up telling me that if I don't get off the plane they will release the dogs on me. Sounds perfect right?

Almost. While I had several successful runs with Operation pass out on a plane, there were two incidents.

The first occurred as myself and a number of my high school classmates returned from a Senior Trip to Florida. Nothing 17 and 18 year-olds want to do more than go to Disney World. I was asleep for much of the flight, and only awoke as we descended into Newark Airport. I began slipping back and forth from being awake back to unconsciousness. On one jolt out of dreamland I gained some awareness as to my situation. My head was leaning forward. My mouth was agape in a bass-like manner (the fish or the Lance) .  

Even being somewhat out of it, my embarrassment alarm went off when I realized how ridiculous I looked. Seeking to correct this, I quickly jerked my head backwards and my mouth shut.

Unfortunately, in my woozy state I failed to notice the thick strand of drool that hung from my low hanging  mouth. As I attempted to avoid humiliation by yanking my head back, the almost pillar-like drool was flung from my lower lip  through the air and landed across the back of the seat in front of me with a surprisingly audible SLAP.

I stared at the glistening gob for a good ten seconds before slowly turning my head toward the aisle, now fully awake. Across from me sat a girl named Holly. Holly with a pretty smile. Holly with a nice ass. Holly with a look of complete revulsion on her face. You know, one of those looks where your top lip curls up really high and you kind of look like Ellen Degeneres does all the time. I was frozen by her Medusa gaze of disgust shooting across the aisle as the wheels hit the runway.

Holly and I never had a thing like I thought we would. I wasn't ready for a serious relationship being at the end of my high school run, and she didn't want me to drench her in saliva. For some reason, this didn't not cause me to abandon Operation Pass Out On a Plane.

Does the Dalai Lama have nice breath?

This morning I needed a number. No one else knew the number, so I had to turn to the big Rolodex.  This thing is massive and filled with almost 15 years worth of numbers and cards. It looks like it should be powering a Mississippi riverboat.

So me and three other guys haul it to my office and I start to look for the name in the section called G.

Abert Gargano

Gateway Casting

Amanda Gaul

Richard Gere

Michael Giordano

Wait a second...

This card says nothing on it, but Richard Gere and a phone number with the area code 310. I checked and it is sunny Southern California.

No one knows why this is in the Rolodex. I asked around. 

The question I pose to you, is not if I should call him, but when I do, what should I ask Richard Gere?

Please no hamster/gerbil related suggestions.

Don't forget de Willie

Last week, a man who used to work at my office passed away. His name was Guillermo, but everyone called him "Willie." About a year ago he was diagnosed with liver and colon cancer , and as a result stopped working shortly after. 

Not having him around the office was a great loss. Without him strolling into my room all day long to tell me bizarre things or call Oscar De LaHoya a pussy, the only reason for me to get up and come to work was the chance that my "work wife" would brush a boob against my forearm.

It is unfortunate I can not tell this story to you out loud as I feel my humble impression of his accent better conveys the hilarity that was Willie. Despite having moved here from Puerto Rico about 40 years ago, his accent was still thicker than London fog, and he often forgot the a word in English, usually during the punchline of a joke he had spent the past 10 minutes telling you.  

So picture a short, energetic,  bongo drum playing sixty year old Puerto Rican man with this heavy accent as I tell you this story. 

One day during my lunch break, myself, my work wife (yes I feel the urge to clutch my man bag every time I say this), and two other co-workers were in my office hanging around my computer. We were looking at some old sex pictures of a girl who was on American Idol, or Survivor, or So You Think You Can Kazoo, or whatever. The point is, on my computer there was a picture of a girl with a penis in her mouth.

As we are observing and discussing said photo, Willie happens to walk by and looks in to see what all the hubbub is. Upon seeing the reality contestant engaged in  her vocal exercises, the following conversation ensues:

Willie: "ooooOOOOOOOOH"

Me: Laughing

Willie: "Is like... Is like de chicken."

Me: "The chicken? what?"

Willie: "You know is like de chicken. How you say? Chicken? With de corn?"

Me:"Chicken with corn? what?"

Willie:" You know de chicken! With de corn! De Chicken!"

Willie then proceeded to open his mouth wide, lean forward and bob his head up and down, simulating a chicken eating off the ground. After realizing what he was talking about finally, this yanked a great bellowing laugh out of me that I would dare say might even be classified as a guffaw.  Once he saw I got it he said "yeah! De Chicken!" And then walked down the hall laughing, Ah...Ah...Ah" like the count form Sesame Street. 

For the next week Willie would walk by my door multiple times a day and say, "Hey. Hey Ryan. Ryan...Don' forget de corn. Ah... Ah...Ah."

I really need to figure out how to record something and put it up here so you can get the full experience. But, even if I can't I now plan on sharing the story he told me where he got too drunk to have sex, why he loved Derek Jeter and why he called me "Ryan de Octopus."

Comments?

Should I respond to comments left by those of you who are kind enough to leave them? 

In cases where a blogger does respond to comments, do you actually go back to check what they said in response to yours? I do, but I am a filthy attention whore, so I can't know what others do.

Who has it harder in life, a very ugly man or a very ugly woman?

It's got a good beat, and you can hump to it

Until somewhat recently, I had never made sweet love on a woman while music was being played. 

I should clarify here and say that I have never intentionally done it. There was one time sex was in full effect while the TV was on, and I wound up winded due to the Price is Right theme. There also was a time  where I was receiving an oral gift on a park bench and, in an attempt to act nonchalant, I whistled "White Christmas." Neither of these count.

I had been with a girl who had mentioned she wanted to bang to Closer by Nine Inch Nails, but I couldn't be bothered to burn it to a CD. I have often mused about having sex while the Mortal Kombat Techno Theme plays, but it might lead to me breaking my neck when I try to jump off a dresser. I can understand why some people might feel some sexy music can enhance the mood while hittin' the skins, but I personally don't see how anything can enhance a mood better than actual intercourse with a woman does.

That being said, this past Valentines Day I decided that for the oh so special night I was planning for my ladyfriend I would purchase a CD by a musical artist she loves. This Compact Disc would be played as I romance her down using candles, exotic oils and a precoital dance I like to call "The Lusty Gibbon."

The music played as we did our thing. I can't say I noticed the music very much at all once the heavy petting began. I have the ability to tune things out during lower stimulation which in the past has lead to many awkward moments with my family during my youth. I feel it was a blessing in this case however. 

As we lay in the bed afterwards, sweaty and ignoring the disappointment that hangs in the air after I do it, I put my arm around her and said...

"I can't believe we had sex to Purple Rain."

What is the soundtrack to your reproductive acts?

Sex? In my Dreams!

As pathetic as it is, I have always had problems getting laid in my dreams.

Unlike when I am awake, the trouble is not the whole tricking a girl into agreeing to let me mount her. The problem has always been the complete randomness of the unconscious world I reside in during the night. Many a time I have been in dream land lustily groping a young lady with skill and dexterity I could only hope for in real life, when suddenly members of my family will enter onto the scene, abruptly ending my march toward a perfectly enjoyable wet dream. Upon turning my attentions back to the young lady, it is too late. She has turned into my 4th grade teacher, Mr. Schulman, or a giant pair of chopsticks.

You know I can never recall having an actual wet dream. I may have had one, but I pissed the bed until I was 23 so maybe I missed it.

There was an instance where I actually achieved dream penetration. The dream sex was like a bowl of hot clam chowder. Steamy. Bubbling. Exploding with flavor. And full of the finest ingredients New England has to offer. What the? As I lay on my back and she used me like a hippity-hop, I felt the final moment approaching. Eruption was imminent.

Just as the celebration was about to start, she placed her hands on my stomach and proceeded to lift herself into a full handstand. She held herself there for a good five seconds and then violently brought herself down, driving her knees directly into my balls. This was kind of a precognitive dream as it turned out to be a good metaphor for the relationship I wound up having with her.

I do not have these kinds of dream problems currently. Something new and horrible has arisen from the darkest parts of my brain.

Last night I had a dream that start off with me in the audience for some kind of debate. The situation quickly changed into an odd scene where two semi-nude and fully-hot chicks began getting all up in my business and drawing me into a threesome. What a fantastic dream!! I was so aroused that I couldn't help myself and had to say something to spice things up! I opened my dream face and said...

"I have a girlfriend"

Wait. That can't be right. let me try that again.

"I can't do this. I have a girlfriend"

No! NO!! Stop it mouth!

"No really I have to go. I have a girlfriend."

AARAGGHH!!! This is wrong! But as I attempted to take the controls and guide myself back into the situation I saw it was too late. I was in a cafeteria with all new people who were discussing pudding.

This has happened 3 times in the past week! I think my brain hates me.

Bourne Right

Today I just want to share a quote related to yesterdays Jurassic Rant.

During a recent interview, international super secret agent Jason Bourne was asked about Sarah Palin. He said of her

"I need to know if she really think that dinosaurs were here 4000 years ago. I want to know that, I really do. Because she's gonna have the nuclear codes."

A-fucking-men Matt Damon.

Here are some dinosaur pictures for your enjoyment.

The Line Has Been Crossed

It may come as a surprise due to my recent eruptions, but I have a high tolerance and a very long fuse. I will listen to all kinds of nonsense and not say a word. I will put up with unseemly amounts of ignorance from a person, yet still think they could be an OK guy. As long as I can zone out and manage to spit out "uh huh" and "I know, right?" a few times, I remain in a place of serenity.

There is one subject however, where I see zero room for any freedom of opinion. It is not up for debate. Any deviation from what I believe is an indictment of one's character and a sign of complete and total worthlessness. The subject?

Dinosaurs.

More specifically, the reality of, and facts regarding, the existence of dinosaurs. As incomprehensible as it is, there are people who will debate these things.


I was recently sent this here tidbit by Girlfriend which describes how, widely recognized genius, Sarah Palin believes that dinosaurs existed 6 thousand years ago.


Now, if you go on TV and make an ass of yourself trying to speak on subjects you clearly know nothing about, I may sympathize with you. I will laugh and send the YouTube link to everyone I know, but there will be some sympathy in the air. If you want to proclaim yourself knowledgeable on a subject due to your geographical proximity to it, I may lose some confidence in your intelligence. But as soon as vomit up insane bullshit about dinosaurs and people running around together you go on the list of people I want to violently pelt with a metric ton of wet paper towels.


Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me?How can anybody with enough brain power to dress themselves believe something as ridiculous as this? Has she seen what a fucking Tyrannosaurus Rex looks like? Obviously not. Look at this motherfucker.

He is 7 tons and 40 ft long. He has teeth that can reach up to 12 inches in length and an estimated bite force of 230,000 newtons! You know how many newtons it takes to puncture a human skull? 12 newtons! Don't bother to look it up. I didn't. The point is, if people were running around in loincloths with zero machine guns, we would be wiped out. No civilization. No technology. No Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers. Nothing!


Shockingly there are people out there who are even more despicable and useless. My closest encounter with one of these walking pile sof refuse was when Girlfriend informed me that a "friend" of hers does not believe in dinosaurs. It is difficult for me to put into words the amount of fiery visceral rage this causes me to know such a person exists, so I will just say this...

jklilsnsfeuopsfe8psen JDNLLUIN:EONEjn;nuen983pn3;3s8938pj9

I normally do not care whatever nonsense people choose to believe, but if you think that all of these bones that have been dug up over the years are some part of a massive scientific conspiracy then you need to be flat out eliminated. Anyone who can maintain this powerful a dellusion can not be of any use in the progression of mankind. When your religious beliefs cause you to ignore reality to this extent, it is time to lay off the sacremental wine for a while.

Strangely, I am not allowed to meet this acquaintice of Girlfriend because she feels I may immediately start a fight. She is correct, and it is probably for the best because I would feel terrible if a dinosaur-hating harpy beat me up. I'd be remiss if I also didn't mention that this lunatic will refuse the existence of dinosaurs because of her religion, but routinely participates in group sex, wife swapping and has tried to get my girlfriend to have a threesome with her and her greasy husband. Praise to you Lord Jesus Christ.

I'f you've made it to the end of this monster, I would like to leave you with one last thought.

A Vote for Obama is a Vote for Dinosaurs.

Spread the word.

I hate you because of your face

Hate is not a word I throw around very often when it comes to people. Hate is an extreme feeling that should be reserved for those who have committed heinous acts against you or those close to you. If I hate someone, merely thinking of them will fill me with anger and venom to the point where I feel the need to take a shit. A glowing. Red. Shit.

Since I am what some might call "a complete sap," I find it difficult to harbour such vile feelings for people I have actually come in contact with. This leaves a vast pool of individuals who I will most likely never meet. They will never get a chance to tell me how three times a week they go to a school in an impoverished neighborhood and read to kindergartners with learning disabilities.My loathing will never waiver because they adopted a dog who lost a leg saving people in a flood. Never will I hear them describe how difficult it was to overcome the crippling fear of capybaras to become one of the top zookeepers in all of South America. They can not grab my heartstrings!


Now, if I had to pick a person I hate the most, it would be Julia Roberts. The reasons for this are numerous, and I will not go into them now. For today we will discuss people who fill me with hate just because of their face.


You may say, "Hey man. That's shallow." Maybe it is, but I don't always hate them because they are ugly. Many are not. It is simply a reflex reaction I have whenever I see these people. Their faces infuriate me. I will do my best to explain why for those I share with you today.


Hal Holbrook - Maybe it's the eyebrows. Maybe it's because I get the feeling he has worn a bolo tie more than once. Maybe it's because he looks like he should be sitting in a balcony with a friend making fun of Fozzy Bear. Whatever it is, I can not stand looking at him for more than 5 seconds without getting up and throwing phantom kicks. I will admit that I am somewhat jealous that he gets to bone one of the Designing Women.


The Red Headed Guy on ER - I haven't watched ER in nearly a decade. I don't know who this guy is. I've only seen him in commercials while I am watching The Office. I know nothing about him. But I fucking hate him. He just looks like he would be a prick. Every time his freckled mug pops up in a promo I am overcome with the need to grab him by his fucking lab coat and toss him into a large bookcase filled with an inordinate amount of bulky reference books. Writing this is becoming increasingly difficult with his picture there, as I have become so irate that I am typing with my fists.


Sophie Monk - You may be confused now and thinking, "Hey what the hell? She is pretty." Wrong. She is not pretty. To me she looks like an alien race's attempt to create a hot chick. They used all kinds of advanced technology and research data, but something still was not quite right, ultimately leading to the failure of their plans for world domination. The fact that I actually know who this person is also contributes to my hate. How can someone have a career based on nothing but looks, when they look like Miss Piggy on Jenny Craig.

I have Muppets on the brain today. Anyway, I left of the one person whose face infuriates me the most, but my webcam is malfunctioning



Whose face do you hate?

Top Beau Bridges Movies

After seeing him in an episode of My Name is Earl last night, I felt Beau Bridges needed some attention. I'm not saying he deserves it, but he was pretty funny on TV Thursday night, as I never expected to hear the words "I'll take a box of your largest condoms" spew out of his mouth.

I would classify Beau as the 4th most heralded of the famous Bridges clan, narrowly surrendering 3rd place to youngest brother and  adult film star, Stone Bridges.

There were some difficulties in making this list. After writing for a good three hours I discovered I had to remove 75 percent of the films once I realized that they starred a more recent and beefier Jeff Bridges, and not in fact beau.

So here we go.

The Wizard - This was honestly the first movie I thought of when I was trying to remember beau Bridges flicks. It told the story of Fred Savage and his little brother who had some kind of bland mental problem that made it so he didn't talk, but was awesome at Nintendo. I don't remember his name, so I am calling him Ben. Beau Bridges played their dad. I'm pretty sure their mom was dead. Anyway Fred and Ben wound up travelling across the country by themselves with some chick,  in order to get Ben to some giant Nintendo competition.  The bad guy was this blond kid with a mullet who for some reason I remember wearing a leather vest. I hate this fucking kid. At one point he pulls out a Power Glove and starts playing Rad Racer with it. It looked amazing. It was a cyborg like thing you stuck over your hand and forearm, and just by acting like you were driving, you could drive in a game or throw punches and beat up  King Hippo.

Wrong!!! I spent 80 god damn dollars on this power glove. It turns out that in order to drive a car in a game, you had to more or less flap your arms around like a flamingo. And if you wanted to ace Mike Tyson's punch out, you had to perform movements akin to sipping tea. 

So Fred and Ben make it to the Nintendo competition where it is shockingly revealed that the final battle will take place on the never before seen Super Mario Brothers 3. That was pretty cool.

Fabulous Baker Boys - I honestly don't remember anything about this movie other than Michelle Pfieffer looking hot. Also, in what I imagine was not the first time this happened, Jeff Bridges was the one who banged her.

The Wild Pair - This little gem from the 80s did not garner as much attention as it should have. Beau both directed the movie and starred in it as an all business FBI agent who has to team up with a cop, played  the legendary and multi-talented Bubba Smith. I don't remember the plot really, but I what I do recall is a lot of jokes about how big Bubba Smith is, Bubba Smith beat up a lot of people because he is too big for normal humans to battle, people being scared of Bubba Smith because he is so big, and Creed from the Office was in it. It was basically Lethal Weapon if Mel Gibson wasn't crazy, and Danny Glover was a giant.

Sidekicks - Probably the most popular of all Beau Bridges movies, Sidekicks was the story of Jonathan Brandis being a skinny wimp who got beat up a lot at school.  He winds up meeting a wise old Asian man who teaches him the deadly ways of Karate. After much hard work and dedication, the young man overcomes all odds and defeats the boy bullying him, much to the chagrin of the bully's evil teacher.

Now before you go and say, "Hey man, that sounds exactly like Karate Kid," I will shut you down with the following information. 

In Sidekicks the main character, Barry, has the handicap of asthma. In Karate Kid the main character, Daniel, has the handicap of being from New Jersey. 

In Karate Kid, Daniel's only parent is his mother who embarrasses him and wears outfits with large shoulders. In Sidekicks, Barry's only parent is his father, played by Beau Bridges, who scores with a super hot Asian woman with an ass you could use to draw a perfect circle.

In Karate Kid Daniel gets repeatedly assaulted and embarrassed by bullies, he is run off the road down a giant hill and his bike is nearly destroyed. In Sidekicks Barry gets kicked once, and the bully calls him "Barry Warry." 

In Karate Kid, Daniel gains revenge, respect and acceptance by battling his way through numerous opponents in a full contact Karate Tournament. In Sidekicks, Barry gains revenge, respect and acceptance by breaking more bricks than his bully can.

Fuck it! I can't even joke about this any more. For Christ's sake the evil sensei was played by Joe Fucking Piscopo. At the end of the movie ChuckNorris  shows up and kicks the seven shades of shit out of Piscopo. Lame. I don't care what the internet says, Chuck Norris is the garbages.  I hope he convinces Mike Huckabee to grow a beard and move out into the woods with him, never to be heard from again. Mike Huckabee with a beard is really hard to picture.

At this point I am sure everyone has long stopped reading. If you had continued, you may have noticed the same thing I have. In my recollection of all of these "Beau Bridges movies," I barely remembered anything about Beau Bridges.

What a waste of time. I'm disgusted with myself. He is being  moved down the list of top Bridges family member from 4th to 5th, slipping past cousin Todd.