Wednesday, November 26

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.

Tuesday, November 25

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.

Monday, November 24

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.

Thursday, November 20

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.

Tuesday, November 18


I have a few more of these to do.

Jay - "Of Hot Dogs and Love"

I hate myself.

Monday, November 17


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.

Friday, November 14

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.

Thursday, November 13

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?"


"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.


Wednesday, November 12

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.

Tuesday, November 11


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.

Monday, November 10

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.


Friday, November 7

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.

Thursday, November 6

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?


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.

Tuesday, November 4

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.

Monday, November 3


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.