Sedated Gorilla

Home Euch

2010-03-05T14:20:00.007-05:00

A while ago I mentioned that I took up a new hobby. The hobby of baking! All summer I experimented with the process of making cookies. I met with both disappointment and great success. I am mildly confident when I say now, that I can make you a delicious cookie you will enjoy.

After months of riding solely the cookie train, I decide I would use a transfer and hop onto the cupcake line. The results were simple, yet tasty. Various combinations of Vanilla and chocolate were made. Everyone who sampled them rejoiced in sweetness and racial harmony.

A couple of weeks ago I decided to try something a bit more complex in the realm of cupped cakes. My objective...Red Velvet.

As I was preparing to create these tasty delights, I felt the surge of rebellion in my heart. Why the hell do they have to be RED velvet? Maybe I like green better. Maybe I'm such a fan of the movie Blue Velvet that I want to honor it in the form of single serving hand cakes!

Once I realized I only had red food coloring the revolution ended and the mixing began

I cut my finger on an overly sharp soon and I was putting ingredients.

Topped with cream cheese icing, it almost looks edible.

Don't let my dainty fingers fool you, I tore into this bad boy like a hyena with the plump haunches of a zebra.

Delayed Testicle Update

2010-02-26T12:13:00.002-05:00

What a weird series of spam I was assaulted by. Weight loss, special programs for boat auctions, and generous thank yous for helping with college assignments? Awesome.

And now on to the Polar Bear Club.

Sunday rolled around and, much to every one's surprise. I still had not chickened out. I made my way to Long Beach out on Long Island where I met up with my cousin who gave me a Polar Bear sweatshirt and said we were leaving immediately for ze beach.

With the lack of time for research and preparation that I had, it could only be expected that a nitwit like myself make a few mistakes my first time out.

Mistake 1: Not wearing my bathing suit under my pants. This led to a completely comfortable moment in my life where I was bottomless in the back of a Hyundai Excel belonging to my cousin's neighbor in the middle of a jam packed parking lot at high noon, struggling to find enough leg room to put my swim trunks on.

Mistake 2: Wearing jeans instead of sweatpants. This increased the difficulty of the above mentioned maneuver a bit, and in case you didn't know, bunched up bathing suit under a pair of jeans does not make for a flattering ass view. Also, jeans and wet legs aren't a whole lot of fun either.

Mistake 3: Swimming in the Atlantic Ocean in fucking February.

Mistake 4: Allowing topless photos of me to be taken. I blame being distracted by crippling toe pain for allowing this to go down. No I will not post them until I learn how to photoshop down my B-Cups.

The beach was packed. Having not be informed in any way about this event, I had no clue it was for the Make a Wish foundation. I didn't get any sponsors. I didn't sign up. I didn't even fill out a waiver (I was told to lie and say i was only there to watch if asked where mine was).

What I did do was hastily disrobe. Marvel at how cold sand can be. Remove my glasses and blindly follow my cousin's bare back down to the ocean. Stumble out into waist deep water. Go into shock. Come out of shock. Turn around . Get splashed by another cousin. "Fuck you Kathleen!". Start running for land. Realize if I don't put my head under I am a pussy. Dive underwater. Fill up with regret. Ditch my relatives to feel my way back to my clothes. Pray that none of my important toes fall off. Drink vodka.

I'm still surprised to say this, but it was a very fun time. I always enjoy some cousinly bonding, and I got a free hoodie out of it. The best part by far though is seeing everyone go into complete shock when I tell them what I did. It almost makes up for the one nipple that froze solid and fell off.

R.I.P.

2010-02-05T11:12:00.002-05:00

Due to a complete lack of intelligence and good judgement I have agreed to join, along with my peer pressuring cousins, what is known as the Polar Bear Club this Sunday.

As a result, I would like to take this time to announce that the funeral service for my genitalia will take place on Wednesday the 10th at 10AM, and the public viewing will be held anytime you want baby.

More details to follow.

Who can take a sunrise, sprinkle it with dew?

2010-01-26T11:23:00.001-05:00

This morning I found myself in a difficult situation. The boat portion of my journey to work had only just commenced when a slight chill lead to my hands being placed into my coat pockets. My left hand met with some unknown object that caused a crinkling noise upon collision. I took hold of this item and pulled it out to discover it was....a half-full bag of skittles.

What an unexpected delight! Few things are as sweet as rediscovered candy you somehow forgot about. Even then it is normally a yellow starburst you weren't in the mood for 3 days ago, or 6 nerds that escaped as you tried to open the box, so a find of this magnitude filled me with seven kinds of joy.

I smoothed out the bag and anticipated dumping as them down my gullet until I gagged. I was fully enthused and downright elated at the thought. I was going to suck off Roy G Biv until I taste the rainbow. Gross! Yay Candy!

Ryan's Brain: Hey buddy. Hold on one second. Aren't you forgetting something?

Ryan: Maybe, but I'm not even sure what kind of wine goes with Skittles.

Ryan's Brain: No friend. It's 8:05 in the MORNING.

Ryan: I'm not following you.

Ryan's Brain: You can not eat candy for breakfast! It's not healthy or socially acceptable.

Ryan: That's very close minded of you.

Ryan's Brain: OK. Look at it this way. You are sitting in the middle of a large group of people. If they seem some lunatic chugging skittles at 8 in the morning they will take notice and remember. Do you want to be known as "The Candy Guy" or even worse, "Skittles O'Rourke."

They will be pointing and laughing every day!

Ryan: Fine! I will wait until I get to work and hide in the bathroom.

Ryan's Penis: Whoa!! Guys look at that girl's tits!!

Ryan's Mouth: "Holy shit those are nice!"

Ryan's Brain: LOL Mouth you idiot!

Ryan: I hate you guys

And that's exactly how it happened. I had to pass on my favorite thing, instant gratification, for fear of the social stigma of AM Candyman.

Things I wish I Said

2010-01-21T10:26:00.002-05:00

We all have had countless moments in our lives where, due to nerves, not thinking quick enough on our feet or just plain stupidity, we have failed to say the right thing. This realization can come much later on, or before a sentence is finished escaping from your dumbass mouth. Lately (lets say the past 18 years or so) I have been thinking about this quite a bit.This is a list of things I should have said instead.

"No. I think that is an awful idea."

"I have no clue where we are. let's ask someone."

"I enjoy both your personality and looks. What say you and I go on a date?"

"That's definitely a guy."

"I think we should take this FAST."

"I didn't want to be on your stupid team anyway!"

"Sorry. I don't pork and tell."

"I may have four eyes, but I heard you have two dads!"

"I don't care if we can get a whole barrel for 5 dollars, they smell like a nursing home."

"Who the hell are Edward and Jacob?"

"That's not my bike. it's my sister's."

"Yes I do. You just never met her."

"Of course I was joking. Why would I invite you over to watch me play Warcraft?"

"No. That does not turn me on"

"Seriously, if you put your finger in there again I will snap it off"

"I just wanted to tell you before it was too late that we appreciate everything you have done for us, and you were awesome in The Outsiders."

I feel somewhat cleansed, and fully depressed.

Flattery Will Get You Headbutted

2010-01-19T14:53:00.005-05:00

During a polite conversation with a female, the following was said to me:

"You know you could be completely hideous, but you'd still be good looking because you're so funny."

Thanks?

I suppose a healthy reaction to this would be to feel warm inside because someone thinks I am so funny that it could dampen the stomach turning effects of grotesque facial features. I like when people think I am funny. Being told so would normally cause me to feel so good that my loins would fatten pride, but in this case I feel no such swelling.

I will now list other compliments I feel are on the same level as this one.

"You are such a snappy dresser that it weakens your stench a bit."

"I have such a good time talking to you that I don't even want to have sex."

"You remind me of a super intelligent chimpanzee."

"I have to tell you that ever since all of my friends, my entire family and half my facebook list died in that Volcano, you are my favorite person"

"When you consider how little people thought of you in High School, its pretty amazing you've done as much as you have."

If we didn't have free pancakes in the morning I would be out ze door.

Affirmation

2010-01-15T10:21:00.002-05:00

There is only one thing I do not look good in...

General

I Have Gained Much Respect For 8 Year Olds

2010-01-07T14:19:00.009-05:00

Jumping rope is breaking me down in ways I could never have imagined.

First it caused me to have a heart attack which morphed into TMJ, and finally settled in on a pulled muscle in my neck/head. Then a few days ago as I again engaged in this ridiculous form of self destruction, my cellular phone escaped from the pocket of my sweatpants. I failed to notice it's journey to the floor mainly due to the adrenaline pumping sounds of Bonnie Tyler flowing through my headphones. All of this going on, the stealthy mobile, the holding out for a hero, and the constant smacking of rope against my ankles all led to another wonderful occurrence.

I jump roped on my phone.

Incredibly, despite my considerable bulk thudding down upon it, my phone was not completely obliterated. The top part (yes I still had a flip phone) no longer worked, meaning I couldn't see the screen or hear anyone talking, but the bottom part functioned normally. For a brief moment the idea of a phone that made it so I couldn't hear anyone, but allowed me to talk seemed like all my self-centered dreams come true, but once the text messages started, I realized this was horrible.

This may come as a shock, but as popularity goes I am not exactly Troy Bolton. However, that night after breaking my phone with recess, I was bombarded by no less than 15 text messages between 11:45 PM and 12:15 AM, and I have no idea who they were from or what the hell was so urgent. I asked all of my friend if it was them, but that lead nowhere. My worst fear is that they were texts from local ABC News Anchor Liz Cho, saying that she was being consumed by the flames of lust and needed me to come over and douse her. Gross.

Anyway now I have a brand new Nexus One from Google which has allowed me to do so many amazing things in the past few days, like dial my mom by saying "Mom" and scan the barcode off a can of ginger ale to find out where I can buy more ginger ale. 2010 is mind blowing.

I think I might be better off using this jump rope to hang myself. It would do less damage.

Heart Broken?

2010-01-04T10:12:00.000-05:00

A few days ago a whole new and exciting pain entered my life. It made itself known to me while I was, of all things, jumping rope. Yes, jumping rope. OK, maybe it was a bit more like relearning to jump rope, except I never did it that well at any earlier point in my life.

After 20 minutes or so of reaffirming my total lack of coordination, this strange tightness/ache slid into my jaw and neck region. I continues to sk-... err jump rope for a bit longer because I am a pro athlete who plays through pain.

Post-rope the pain began to intensify and become located in one of my bottom molars. "Crud," I thought. The thudding of my bulky frame hitting the ground must have exacerbated some hidden problem. Thoughts of a root canal ricocheted off the inside of my skull. This theory seemed completely viable due to 45% of my diet consisting of watermelon jolly ranchers.

I am ashamed to admit it had been much too long since I had visited my molar mate. My bicuspid buddy. My canine compadre. This had been due at first to a lack of insurance. Once I managed to pry some from the death grip of my employers, further delay was a result of the feeling that I was letting down my dentist. I have been going to the same place for about 25 years, and I was sure after he took a look in my mouth he would look at me and say, "Oh Ryan. I thought we taught you better than this. I have failed you and myself." However. this throbbing sparkle in my face was enough to get over all that nonsense and make an appointment for the next day.

As the attractive dental assistant put on my bib, I wondered if I should ask her name and have a nice chat with her. After 4 or 5 seconds of deliberation I decided I didn't care what her name was, and talking to her sounded like much more effort than I was willing to put forth at that moment, so we both sat there in silence for about 7 months or so.

The dentist came in and was nicer to me than I deserved. He asked me what the problem was and then threw a 65 pound vest on my ribs and began taking a large number of x-rays. After examining the results he told me the following:

"Well the good news is I don't see anything wrong with your teeth that would have caused the pain. However, when you tell me you had jaw pain it worries me because that could be a sign of a heart attack."

What the what?!

He said that he could tell I kept myself in immaculate physical shape by the way my thighs were spilling over the sides of the chair, but that this didn't matter because this can happen regardless. My initial thought to this was to challenge his hypothesis by pointing out he was a dentist and if he was smart enough to diagnose heart problems, he would be a normal doctor, but I thought better of it because he was only trying to help and at some point he will be jamming sharp objects into my fat maw.

I have not jumped into the heart attack camp just yet. When I turn my head really far to the left I can feel a twinge of pain where my neck and jaw meet, so perhaps I merely pulled something. An appointment is being made just to be on the safe side though. But for now I am left to wonder, like I have many times before, what the hell is wrong with my face.

Something to Believe In

2009-12-23T11:19:00.004-05:00

In this post I will continue to explore candidates for my second attempt at faith. Please note that I used a post EGAE picture of Goldblum only because I have a general sense of him being from outer space.

Fictional TV Characters - This idea sounds futile at first. Why believe in something that you are 95% sure isn't real? However, there are many benefits to exalting the pantheon of television personalities. They are always there. Any time of day I am feeling down or lost, I can grab my remote and find Dr. Jason Seaver urging me to show him that smile again, and I know that Ross Gellar will always be there for me.They are also excellent as sources of advice and role models. I can't imagine how the dire straits my love life would be in if not for the brilliant tutelage of Sam Malone. And I would still feel weird wearing a short sleeve shirt with a tie if not for Detective Sipowicz. Best of all, when I get tired of one I can always change the channel.

Dragons - Powerful. Awe-inspiring. Majestic. Such words can be used to describe the beasts known as dragons. They horde a vast amount of treasures, can melt your whole neck and body with their breath and have I've seen one kill Matthew McCounaghneaghey. Unfortunately, aside from the potential of the most cool ass stained glass window you could ever imagine, I don't foresee any personal benefit to Dragon worship currently, , because I am 85% sure they don't exist.

Food - I am considering food as per the suggestion of Jay. Food is off to a good start because I know for a fact that it is real (it's true. Check wikipedia), and it gives me good feelings. There are countless types of food though, many of which I don't like, so perhaps it would be pragmatic to think of food as a polytheistic religion, with the Zeus slot obviously being filled by Chicken Parm Heroes. My main problem with worshiping food is that I am constantly lusting after it, and the way I eat is practically a deviant sexual act. Although this isn't much of a problem if I am going with a Greek model. Not bad.

Genitalia - A source of inspiration and motivation. A cause of great pleasure, but also terrible shame and guilt. I see it so infrequently that I some times think it does not exist. Sounds about right to me.

This is tough.

Thanks Dad! (A Christmas Tale)

2009-12-09T11:30:00.002-05:00

It's that festive time of year again where memories of past Holiday disappointments, fist fights and trauma come bubbling up to the surface to bask in the warming glow of multi-colored LEDs. Of the numerous ones I can recall, perhaps the one that is most vivid in my mind is the time I found out that (SPOILER ALERT) Santa Claus is not real.

I was in 4th grade at the time which puts me at what, 12 years old? This must be a normal time for kids to discover "The Great Lie" because I remember having a few rousing debates over the existence of Sainted Nicholas with fellow classmates. I hypothesized that Santa was in fact real; however the Tooth Fairy was obviously a ridiculous creation from the mind of man. I firmly believed this to be true and vehemently defended my position in between sips of Hi-C during lunch.

My childhood came crashing to an end soon enough though. As more and more chocolate was taken out of the advent calendar, my father decided he should ask what I wanted that year. I hate that what I am about to say makes me feel old now. For Christmas that year, all I wanted was a Nintendo. Not a 64 or even a Super one. A boxy, mike tyson punchin, blowin 'on your cartridges Nintendo Entertainment System. When I told my father this, in a much more brief way, his immediate response was to look away and almost grumble, "Santa isn't made out of money you know."

Devastation.

I peaked very early intellectually, so I quickly figured out what this meant. I ran to my room, jumped on my bed and sobbed. It probably didn't help that my father delivered this life-altering news with all the subtlety and tact of a rampaging locomotive. My entire life was a lie! Why would they do this? What else were they lying to me about? Are they really even my parents?! It won

It was a very sad day, but I eventually recovered. That is until my brother woke up at 3 AM on Christmas morning, ran downstairs before everyone else, and then ran back upstairs to wake me up and tell me I actually got a Nintendo ruining the surprise. I cried again. I was a huge pussy back then. Until about age 27 really. Then I downgraded to "kind of a pussy." Things are looking up

Civil Rights Hero

2009-12-03T19:31:00.001-05:00

There are moments in time where fate unexpectedly calls upon a person to step up for the greater good. History may call their name by pure chance or coincidence, but they recognize society needs them to take action. I I am experiencing such a moment now. This is how history begins.

Like many people, I go through periods of time where I do not have much concern for my health or weight. I call these periods "normal." There are occasions, usually when I sniff out a chance someone may see me in the naked, where I decide that it is my waistline that is making my shirt stick out so much on the sides, and not that "it's just the style these days." Menswear companies will never decide that next season all the stylish men will want to look like over ripe pears.

I had such an epiphany several months ago and began to exercise more and eat better. Now, the list of foods I eat is short and has about as much nutritional value as a sack full of rubber bands, so for me, eating better means eating less and trying to find anything halfway decent to substitute for my usual meals of shaped lard and several small piles of sugar. This lead me to the item known as the bar. Some are called energy bars. Some are called meal bars. Everybody knows good ol' granola bars. All bars, and all of them containing fewer calories than my normal junk.

My genius plan? Have one of these in lieu of a normal lunch every day that I am at work, since that was probably my most damaging meal due to the ease at which one can obtain fantastic tasting garbage in Manhattan. Not exactly the most sound dietary practice, but combined with some exercise and a bit of self control, it worked quite well.

You may be wondering what this has to do with me becoming the figurehead for a social revolution. You see, it came to my attention yesterday, after months of eating these bars, that my particular bar of choice, the Luna Bar, is in fact a nutrition bar for women. I made this discovery when I looked on the package and hidden on the front of it under the word "Luna" I saw "The Whole Nutrition bar for Women."

I was appalled at first. I felt violated as a result of such devious packaging design. For I moment I also felt the kind of confusion set in that I usually only experience after I have one of those dreams where I am playing touch football with a shirtless Tom Wopat. But I fought that off. This was not my fault! Nothing about this bar would give me any clue that it was a bar for women, aside from it saying it on the front of the package. And what kind of sexist nonsense is this anyway? Why is it only for women? I enjoy their White Chocolate bar quite a bit, and judging by the feeble protrusion from my groin I am 85% sure I am a man! Why isn't it a nutrtion bar for everyone?

This is when I got to thinking, which people usually tell me is a bad thing, but you can get the hell out of my way now! There are many products out there that are sexist towards men, and I am not going to sit down for it any more. No one bats an eye if a girl uses a regular old razor, but the second I use some purple razor to shave my legs for a photoshoot, people give me all kinds of crap. Maybe I would like some extra padding and support in my shoulder region. And what exactly are you trying to hide Secret? Is it that this PH balance mumbo jumbo is sexist propaganda? I'm done with it all! I may even start using tampons just to prove a point.

So there it is. I'm a regular Susan B. Manthony. Remember this moment, for future generations will.

How I Became Grossly Overweight

2009-07-20T11:25:00.002-04:00

I have a terrible new hobby.

Baking,

I was browsing the internet at work and came upon a book that piqued my interest. That book is Ratio: The Simple Codes Behind the Craft of Everyday Cooking, by Michael Ruhlman. Now you might think it is odd for me to be interested in any kind of cooking, since I really only enjoy meat, pasta, candy and any combination of those three things, especially if you melt mozzerella cheese on top of it.

While the idea behind the book is interesting for sure (learning the basic formulas of food and then experiment and expand on them with no need for recipes), what stopped me in my web surfing tracks was this.

A sweet ass Bread Wheel!

Countless times I, and many other philosophers, have wondered what exactly the difference between pancake batter and crepe batter is. What makes muffins sort of cake, but not really? Now the mystery is solved. My mind was blown when I saw that all that seperates a Fritter from a Popover is one extra part of flour. This is real life magic.

After obtaining the book, I did what I do with any instructional material. I skimmed through half of it and then went of half-cocked and attempted to create something.

Cookies were picked as my starting point. For the past three weekends I have made them. I started of baking with the very basic ration in the book which is 1 Sugar, 2 Fat, 3 Flour. This cookie is on the crunchy side and obviously doesn't have much in the way of interesting taste, but hey, it was an actual cookie, and I didn't chip a tooth or give birth to a colony of intelligent parasites in my gut.

With the attempts that followed I experimented with the ingredients and ratio of each. My goal was to figure out how to make a cookie that was chewy, and this weekend I achieved it! Go me.

Now the question is, what kind junk do I want to throw in there. I did the whole chocolate/peanut butter chip thing. It seems odd that I've spent large portions of my week conjuring up different flavor ideas in my head when normally I would looking at strange women and wondering what they'd look like nude and in my house.

I've mainly just been thinking about what are in my cabinets and then combining them together. This has led me to amazing flavors such as maple syrup/cashew and Cap'n Crunch/bourbon. I have also decided at some point I would like to make scotch and sodabread, but that is much farther down the road of my doughy journey.

I would also like some help in switching my wardrobe over to mostly items with an elastic wasitband. What cookies do you like that I should eat? What never before seen cookies from myth and fantasy would you like to see made?

Goose Egg

2009-07-10T14:13:00.003-04:00

After a disappointing journey across the globe attempting to have sex with all of the people I am allowed to, I have returned with an 0 fer. I came relatively close to intercourse a time or two. Once when I watched Kevin Bacon fuck in a hammock for 2 and a half hours. Also, Betty White taught me what an "Macedonian Tongue Shovel" is. I learned by doing.

Now that my quest is abandoned I am free to enjoy the rest of the summer in the usual fashion. This includes deluding myself into thinking I will actually go to the beach and take off my shirt and cutting 65 percent of the legs off of my jeans.

I also plan to spend much time strolling around neighborhoods with a boombox on my shoulder that is blasting the ice cream truck music. When the children run outside, I will laugh at their disappointed faces. Then I shall ease on down the road.

A List of People I Can Have Sex With

2009-04-21T15:23:00.001-04:00

The following list has been submitted by my girlfriend in response to my previous post:

(Links instead of pictures because they don't get me frustrated to the point of pissing blood)

Rebbie, Jackie, Tito, Jermaine or Marlon Jackson

Cate Blanchett

Jennifer Aniston if you promised not to break her heart

Alanis Morrisette

Kevin Bacon

Lynne Spears

Any of the Real Housewives of New York, except the countess (Find it yourselves.)

And any of the people on my list, except for Padma Lakshmi

After reviewing this submission I have decided to consider it as a "To Do List."

Cate Blanchett better watch her white ass because I am comin' for it.

7 People My Girlfriend Can Have Sex With

2009-04-16T15:27:00.000-04:00

Intercourse with any of the following people will not result in our relationship ending, provided she doesn't leave me for them.

1. Any openly gay celebrity

2. Anderson Cooper

3. Rusty Staub

4. Padma Lakshmi

5. Henrik Lundqvist

6. Ron from The Biggest Loser

7. Famous Amos

I may start a list of the people i would least want her to pork. The number one spot would definitely be held by Ed begley Jr. due to his massive cock. I'll update you as it forms.

If you have an question regarding the reasons for including any of these people on my list, please feel free to ask.

If You Would Be So Kind

2009-04-14T15:32:00.002-04:00

To name three people you find interesting, something you consider to be valuable and a terrible problem.

Thank you!

Where the hell am I?

2009-04-09T10:51:00.000-04:00

I don't have the foggiest.

That is to say, I am physically still in the same exact place I was 2 months ago when I was semi-regularly dropping a steaming pile onto this thing called a blog. Mentally it seems this is not the case.

There have been plenty of occassions since my previous entry where I have thought of or blurted out something I thought would be worth typing out for 6 other people to enjoy and get a laugh out of, but I fail to make note of them and they quickly fade from my brain as they are replaced by masturbatory fantasies involving members of the WPIX Morning News Team. Oh Tiffany McElroy, you always keep me up between 5 and 6 AM.

So yeah, it has been difficult to find the elusive combination of motivation and material that fuels me to stop playing browser games at my desk for an hour. In the past it may have manifested itself as the tag team of my never-ending lust for attention and a story of how I ruined a chance at having sex by sucking on a girl's nipple for 10 minutes too long. Currently I only seem to have one or the other. I may feel the unrelenting need for approval from strangers overtake me, but I lack a subject. On another day I may encounter a strange subway derelict who seems to get his jollies by farting on the bare legs of other passengers, but at the same time have coma-like brain patterns. I got no chemistry.

My girlfriend has been very encouraging in trying to get me to post more often, and I appreciate that very much. However she refuses to allow me to start dating which I believe would definitely bring me a wealth of self-embarrassment that i would gleefully share with all y'all. Actually she said I could start dating as long as she could also. I refused this offer based on it's obvious high levels of unfairness. If I go on a date I will wind up wearing pants with a hole in the crotch or casually mention how I used to show my dick on the internet all the time back in the day. If my girlfriend were to go on a date she would probably meet someone very mature who doesn't find everlasting discomfort from tucking in a shirt and will unhook her bra quickly and without self-congratulatory cheering.

That's all I got.

Isn't it Romancive?

2009-02-11T00:19:00.001-05:00

At the suggestion of Diane, who I will from now on assume has the last name Chambers, I will lay out my plan for Valentines Day. She, for some reason, assumed I will need assistance with it. I doubt this very much.

Before the day of Valentines even begins, some preparation must be done. This will mainly take the form of a full Friday night worth of personal private region grooming and upkeep. For what better way to show you care than to present your genitalia to her all streamlined and slick. No I will not consider any kind of pubic topiary as it has caused me to be dumped multiple times.

I have rented a hotel room for the evening in bustling Manhattan where love flourishes amongst the towers of concrete and might. This is always a solid move for Valentine's Day because a lady feels very special when you mount her in a foreign setting. For any of you who would still like to do this for your lady, I suggest you expand your search to hotels with shared bathrooms, for their deals can not be beat, and your girlfriend will appreciate your thoughtfulness during our economic crisis.

Now of course, before we get to the hotel room, we must engage in other activities to help set the mood for romance. I figured it never hurts to go with the old classics, so I will be taking my lady friend to dinner and a show. I will tell her to meet me at the restaurant at 6 PM sharp on Saturday night. The restaurant is a personal favorite of mine, and I will dine on my preferred dish there, a huge chicken parmigiana hero. I think they have salads there, so she can have that. I would do this normally, but that night I will definitely make a point to be a gentleman and carry her tray to our table for her.

After eating at this place we will probably be stuffed to the gills, so going to a theater and being able to sit down will be muy beneficial. There are a large number of shows out right now, so it is difficult to pick which one is the best to take my girlfriend to on this most special of evenings. I am honestly still undecided, but I will admit to leaning towards Paul Blart: Mall Cop because Taken may be a bit too depressing for Valentine's Day.

After the movie we will hopefully be in good spirits and make our way back to our hotel room. I plan on surprising her with a bouquet of flowers in the room, and possibly an array of colorful cupcakes which I will of course offer to feed her as she lays in bed. This is when I will bring out her Valentine's Day gift.

My girlfriend has been talking about wanting a puppy for almost an entire friggin year now. I'm pretty sure if she gets one, she will love it more than me, but I am OK with that because it just takes some of the pressure off me. Unfortunately, due to our schedules, neither of us have enough free time these days that you would need to devote to a new dog. So in lieu of a puppy I decided to purchase my girlfriend a puppy shirt instead. It is a lovely shade of pink and there is an adorable drawing of a golden retriever puppy ironed on to the front of it. There is also a sparkly flower.

Our evening will end with vigorous lovemaking which, thanks to my man-kegels I've recently started during my commute, will end in time to lay in bed, watch SNL and discuss how shitty it is these days.

I hope she doesn't read this and ruin the surprise.

An Inspirational Message

2009-02-10T09:53:00.002-05:00

For all the ladies braving Valentines Day without a man...

Courtesy of time-displaced vandals near my office.

And this other time...

2009-02-09T10:32:00.002-05:00

I met an overweight homeless man.

I was skipping along the sidewalk on my way to purchase a tasty lunch of soup AND sandwich, when an enormous mass came into my field of vision.

It was a human man.

He sat on the ground with his back against the display window of a discount hat store called "Edgar Allen Chapeau," but all that adorned his head was a tattered crown of sadness, which in most parts of the country is called a Chicago Cubs hat. The gentleman also had on a filth encrusted, yet forever stylish, t-shirt and sweatpants combo that was stretched beyond any conceivable tension limits. On this day I learned that fabric can feel pain.

Pedestrian's gazes turned from the grown man who had moments ago been skipping down the street to this spherical vagrant who was changing the flow of foot traffic. Never in my life have I seen such a large domicile-impaired individual. I wanted to inspect him visually, so I could make a solid guesstimate on his weight, but as I made my way to the opposite side, I became winded and gave up.

The man seemed to be completely unconscious. He just sat there motionless, like a massive bean bag that hadcome into some tough times. Just as I was about to leave after a good 15 minutes of observing, his once restful eyes exploded open.

Startled, I and the others jumped back. Our startlization levels intensified even further when the homeless fellow sprang to his feet with the agility of a Lynx pouncing on a snow hare. We took another step back and were almost sent backpedaling into traffic with what happened next.

He looked around wide-eyed and confused as if he had no idea where he was. Then his mouth opened and words sprang forth. Words mortal men are not used to hearing.

"NO! THE ROOTS ARE GONE! IT'S ALL COMING DOWN! MAKE FOR THE RIVER"'

The words blasted out of him with such force and conviction, that when he turned turned the corner and bolted towards the Hudson, no less than four people were following. I have never seen any of them again in my travels.

With my composure regained, I returned to thoughts of my sandwich, and skipped on.

Poetry in Motion?

2009-02-04T10:27:00.001-05:00

My Tits Shake When I Brush My Teeth

Jiggle Jiggle Jiggle

Definitely not Jam

Hidden shame of Dental Care

Bad breath or Self- Hate

Diet and Push Ups?

T-shirts and Avoidance

Name that Buffoon

2009-02-02T10:36:00.000-05:00

I am in the market for a new nickname. I don't currently have one, unless you consider "Oh my God you are dumb" a nickname.

So I am asking for some help. What nickname should I adopt?

It can not be any of the following, as they have already been used:

Ry, Ry Ry, Rye Bread, Rye Toast, Breadman, Toastman, Toastmaster General, Beanie Boy, Mr. D, Ryceratops, Rylenol, Ryranosaurus Rex, Ryacin, Ryboflavin, Ryclops, Rypet Pupkin, Rychard Simmons, Rydiculous, The Rude Dog, The Schnauzer Whisperer, The Anchor, The Defensive Window, The White Nick Nolte, The Pride of San Juan, Lady Fingers, Listerine, Doofy, Chief Junior, Light Bulb Head, Beverly Landau, Thurston Howell IV and Baby Nips.

It must be cool or extremely lame. I thank you ahead of time for your help.

What kind of Afterlife is this?

2009-01-26T10:09:00.000-05:00

Let's assume when we die, we turn into a ghost. If we have lived a decent life, a giant beam of life hits us from above , and we can float off to a better place, or we can hang around and solve our own murder cases. You know, like that movie where Patrick Swayze was a ghost. I forget the name of it. No one better leave a comment saying the name of the movie is "Any Day Now."

Anyway, if we believe all this to be what happens when we die then there is a scientific hypothesis we can make that must be absolutely true.

Ghosts can not masturbate.

It's widely accepted that the best thing about being a ghost is seeing people naked that you never could when you were alive. At first this seems like a brilliant thing to hang around for, but let's face it, after 4 or 5 years of naked, it would start to get old.

Now if you could experience this forbidden nudity while retaining the self pleasuring skills you had while living, there would really be no reason to follow that light into heaven. In fact if jerking off was possible in the astral plane Heaven would be a place on Earth, which would make Belinda Carlisle some kind of Nostradamus like figure.

There would be a very small crowd in Heaven and the people who were there would walk around wondering when everyone else is going to show up, much like the time I went to that Air Supply reunion concert. Then when word got out on the shenanigans happening on Earth, they would all feel like idiots and wish they had stayed home and masturbated all over the place, much like the time I went to that Air Supply reunion concert.

The point is, the whole afterlife system would fall apart if ghosts could jerk off, not to mention the overcrowding that would be going on in the bedroom of my 7th grade Social Studies teacher. It would be a disturbing world drenched in shame and ectoplasm. The universe would be thrown into chaos.

So you can stop wondering now. Enjoy it while you can.

Amateur German Couple Fucks in Office

2009-01-15T12:36:00.001-05:00

I was sitting at my desk today playing tower defense games like usual, when my ears took notice of some unpleasant words coming from down the hall.

"Let's get Ryan to do this."

Instinctively my body shuddered, and I released a grunt of disgust that could apparently be heard down the hallway. Laughing, one of my co-workers came over to me and said they had a new project for me to work on. Luckily, it was not actual work.

I have the unenviable position in my office of "The guy that knows something about computers." I am not a computer expert by any means, but the knowledge that I do have makes most other people in my office seem like a bunch of baboons rubbing their slick red hindquarters over their keyboards. Gross! This knowledge includes: how to change a desktop wallpaper, where a file went after it was downloaded, how to get open "one of these youtubes my cousin sent me,"and that turning something off and then on again fixes most problems even if I have no clue what's wrong.

As a result of my superior technological saavy, I was asked to figure out how we can all watch the Inaguration of Barak Obama next week. This didn't take very long as we have laptops, a wireless connection and a projector. I decide to do a nice test run and make sure everything works and runs smoothly.

I bring all the necessary equipment into the conference room with the assistance of my work chef and novice stalker, Pancakes. The laptop goes on, the wireless seems to work, the projector throws it up onto the wall and my job appears to be just about done. I head on over to CNN's website and pull up a live feed of Hillary saying goodbye to the Senate. The connection works well for a few seconds, but then begins to freeze.

Pancakes tells me he will test it out on another site. As he steps to the computer he tells me to go keep a lookout. Being the dullard I am, I don't realize what is going on until I see the giant words YOU PORN plastered up across the conference room wall.

Before my brain can stop spinning, Pancakes has pulled up a video of young german couple engaging in intercourse. Now maybe some of you filthy degenerates have watched porn at work before, but I doubt you have experienced it on such a large scale. It is a bit overhwelming to see gonads swinging around on that scale. My head turned down the hallway, and then back to the giant penis and vagina on the screen and then back down the hallway again where it remained for a good 10 seconds beofre Pancakes yelled "He's putting it in her coolie!"

The disgust I was feeling at this point was really only due to a middle aged man using the word "coolie." I don't even know if I am spelling that right. The last time I heard it I didn't know how to spell. He turned it off after a few more seconds and said "See? everything works fine."

My soul hurts.

Invention : The Hamlin Scale

2009-01-14T10:35:00.000-05:00

If there is one thing I enjoy, it's getting so sick of something that I vomit . Then afterwards I pick through the half chewed bits and create something new and magical.

There are only a few ways we humons have to quantify our like, or dislike, of things. There are those who use stars, and other may use thumbs. Early man used a series of grunts ranging from "Ugh" to "Unf." Once numbers were invented, we came up with the most common system of rating we have, the assigning of numbers between 1 and 10. For example, "This was a nice phone call. I give it a 7," and "You didn't confuse my thighs with my vagina this time, so you eked out a 4."

It is time to abandon this old stand by and make the evolutionary leap to something more flexible and modern.

Enter The Hamlin Scale.

With the current old fogey way of doing things, one would say, "On a scale of 1 to 10, how good does this frock look on me?" 1 being completely atrocious and 10 being frocking amazing.

Now, with my new system we will say "How was the roast pork on a scale of 1 - Harry Hamlin?" 1 of course being complete fail pork, and Harry Hamlin being the most delectable thing I have ever tasted.

Simple enough so far, yes? Now, the real beauty of the Hamlin Scale, aside from Harry Hamlin, is the flexibility and personalization it allows. For in between the two extremes of the scale are a number of possible values determined only by how extensive your knowledge of random celebrities is. Confused? Me too. So here a few examples.

If someone were to ask me to rate chicken parmigiana on a scale of 1 - Harry Hamlin, I would say that it is a Tom Berenger because chicken parm is fucking delicious, but nothing is a Harry Hamlin. And if you inquired how my first season of little league went, I would tell you that it was an unfortunate C.Thomas Howell, for I got zero hits and peed my pants 3 times.

I will now share with you a condensed Hamlin Scale in descending order. Condensed because I don't think anyone would read the 5 pages of names I came up with while thinking about this project. I have included links in the likely event of, "Who the fuck?"

Donatello (the Ninja Turtle)

I'd be surprised if someone knew all of these people without looking them up, but if you happened to have such amazing knowledge go seek some fucking mental help.

Whittling down my list to these 30 levels of rating goodness was difficult. Consider it a base for you to add in, or remove, any names you feel can quantify your level of like. You can take them all out and put in fictional characters or types of sandwiches for all I care, but there must remain a 1 and there must remain a Harry Hamlin, two universal truths that can not be denied. Spread the word. Tell your friends. The time of the Hamlin Scale has begun.

If you are kind enough to leave a comment, feel free to debate any placing on the scale and suggest a name that should be included, and what position it should appear.

I need a hobby.

Why Do I have a Mirror Anyway?

2009-01-12T09:41:00.004-05:00

The other day I was parading around in a state of moderate naked as I am known to do from time to time, when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Now, I haven't ever considered myself what scientists refer to as "physically attractive," but ho-lee fuck! This experience has given me some helpful knowledge as well as a smattering of PTSD. I will now share to show how much I care.

There is nothing more ridiculous looking than a grown man wearing only a t-shirt.

Picture it right now. I will wait.

...

See what I mean?

It doesn't even matter how in shape your physical form is. You can have a chronic need for scotch tape because you are so fucking ripped, but if you are wearing a t-shirt and no pants you will always look like a 3 year old searching for his mother to brag about using the potty by himself.

Socks probably make it worse.

Things get flipped turned upside down when this situation is applied to women. Pants are the enemy in this case.

This was lame, but I had to write it so I wasn't the only one thinking about bottomless men. You're welcome Diane.

PSA

2009-01-07T11:13:00.004-05:00

There was a girl who I had a a full on sexual adult relationship with some time ago. One time, during a particularly raunchy encounter, this girl cleared her breathing passage and asked me to give her what she called a "Corbin Bernsen."

Being the eager to please, young go-getter I was, I naturally complied, but I fully regret taking part in such a heinous act. It damaged my soul. I advise you to not make the same mistake I did.

This doesn't look like North Haverbrook

2009-01-05T10:04:00.002-05:00

I apologize for the foul nature of this post.

2009 is off to a rip roaring start. Work has turned back to actual work instead of the oddly furnished lounge it had been the last last 3 weeks or so. You can imagine my excitement.

A scant few minutes ago I got a call of nature and got up from my desk and made my way to the lavatory. it is usual for me to pass water around this time due to the one and a half liters of grape soda I enjoy as part of my balanced breakfast. I turn the corner and begin to pass through the doorway of the john when I run into a wall of horror.

I may have mentioned this before, but I avoid taking a dump at work like I avoid ex-girlfriend's facebook profiles. Many people in my office do not share this quality though. And one of these many people decided that today was a day to smear their shit all over the toilet. Someone who seemed to be on a strict diet of mushy peas and paste.

It's not as if it some inconsiderate bastard Jackson Pollocked the inside of the bowl and failed to clean it up with a handy toilet brush. Oh no. The seat was up and there was human dung all over the rim of said toilet. It honestly looked like some maniac had sat his buttcrack down on the rim on the toilet and then slide along it like some kind of Ass Monorail.

Naturally I turned around and ran down the hallway to make it back to my desk fast enough that no one would think I had time to commit what I can only describe right now as an act of terrorism. I will update as events unfold.

I can't believe you made it to the end of this.

Treinta

2008-12-23T11:02:00.003-05:00

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

2008-12-19T15:02:00.005-05:00

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

2008-12-17T09:28:00.001-05:00

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

"You never listen!"

2008-12-01T10:53:00.000-05:00

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?

2008-12-01T10:36:00.001-05:00

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!

2008-11-26T11:15:00.004-05:00

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

2008-11-25T10:13:00.002-05:00

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

2008-11-24T10:07:00.004-05:00

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

2008-11-20T10:00:00.002-05:00

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

2008-11-18T10:57:00.001-05:00

I have a few more of these to do.

Jay - "Of Hot Dogs and Love"

I hate myself.

WISWIM

2008-11-17T09:57:00.001-05:00

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

2008-11-14T09:44:00.001-05:00

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.

2008-11-13T10:12:00.001-05:00

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...

2008-11-12T06:00:00.001-05:00

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?

2008-11-11T11:14:00.002-05:00

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.

2008-11-10T09:43:00.005-05:00

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

2008-11-07T11:00:00.000-05:00

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

2008-11-06T11:15:00.005-05:00

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

2008-11-04T14:31:00.002-05:00

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'

2008-11-03T09:08:00.002-05:00

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

2008-10-30T20:00:00.002-04:00

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"

2008-10-29T09:11:00.002-04:00

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?

2008-10-28T10:09:00.001-04:00

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

2008-10-27T11:00:00.001-04:00

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?

2008-10-24T09:16:00.003-04:00

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

2008-10-23T09:15:00.003-04:00

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

2008-10-22T09:18:00.004-04:00

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

2008-10-20T09:27:00.004-04:00

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

2008-10-17T09:19:00.002-04:00

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

2008-10-16T07:00:00.001-04:00

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

2008-10-14T11:05:00.001-04:00

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?

2008-10-10T11:25:00.002-04:00

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

2008-10-08T10:17:00.000-04:00

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?

2008-10-07T09:30:00.002-04:00

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

2008-10-05T00:36:00.000-04:00

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!

2008-10-03T11:10:00.002-04:00

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

2008-10-02T10:27:00.004-04:00

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

2008-10-01T10:00:00.003-04:00

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

2008-09-29T09:03:00.000-04:00

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

2008-09-26T12:04:00.003-04:00

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.

Poll Season, Am I a Dick?

2008-09-24T09:54:00.001-04:00

In a vote full of misinformation, lies, flat out meanness and other McCain Campaign Strategies, it seems that it has been decided that I do not have a messenger bag, but a much more feminine man bag. In fact, many claimed that it is actually a damn purse. I am not quite sure how to handle this aside from inventing a man bag cover with an extremely verile image on it. Something like Ricardo Montalban working on a transmission. I don't know. The voting will remain open in a desperate attempt to retain some testosterone, so feel free to weigh in.

Since voting seems to be the in thing right now, we are going to have ourselves another one.

Over the weekend I attended the wedding of my cousin. It was a lavish affair where assloads of fun was had. Many amazing and hilarious things happened including one of my cousins riding up and down in the hotel elevator at 3 AM cleaning the floor with a vacuum he found in a closet. But, these are tales for another time because today we vote on what level of a dick I am.

As you may have realized, I am clueless about everything. My brother isn't much better. Since I am aware of our mental deficiencies, I often consult my parents just to be sure I am not being a complete moron. So before the wedding I had asked, with my brother present, how much money would be an appropriate gift. Their answer was around what I had figured.

Now shortly before leaving for the festivities, I began to think that, due to a recent influx of cash, I should give more because this was a very big event for my cousin and the entire family. Additional money was placed into the card. I told no one of this.

It only just occured to me yesterday that this generous increase in my gift may have caused a problem. In my haze of sentimentality and benevolence I failed to realize that I may have just pulled an incredible dick move on my brother (I hope that sentence doesn't show up in a keyowrd search).

Here are some painful facts to consider before you vote. My brother and I make approximately the same amount of money. I don't really have a closer relationship with my cousin than he does, but I have had more recent contact with him. What I gave as a gift was 50% more than my brother did. A full $37.50.

That's about it. I'm not feeling very confident. Remember I was doing it for good reasons! I'm just very dumb.

Vote On

Messenger Bag or Man Bag?

2008-09-19T10:29:00.000-04:00

This is the question I am putting forth to you.

During the summer, the girlfriend and I went on a minor trip. During this trip some shopping took place. During this shopping experience she found this bag she thought was nice looking, and showed it to me. I agreed that the bag looked nice and proceeded to fully model it in a mirror, complete with pouty lips and disinterested looks. I grabbed various other items around and put them in the bag to see how it would look on me when filled with belongings. A security guard approached me, and after 10 minutes, decided I wasn't trying to shoplift using a bag I did not own.

I had been considering purchasing a messenger bag for a while now because it is handy during my long commute where I often enjoy reading book and, and the girlfriend pointed out, it is very useful for concealing my frequent subway boners. For those reasons I handed over my money and legally took possession of the bag.

Now at the time, I had zero doubt in my mind that this was anything other than a messenger bag. The kind of bag that all the manliest men carry their masculine things in, like after shave lotion and a deer carcass. Recently however, this belief has been wavering due to my paranoia, teasing and insistence of others that this is not a messenger bag, but in fact a "man bag."

And now the facts.

Pro Messenger Bag

1. It has a classic messenger bag flap.

2. It has a long carrying strap which can only be comfortably placed over the shoulder on the opposite side the main carrying zone is on in a classic messenger bag style.

3. Most of it is made out of what I can only assume is some form of canvas that is rough and manly enough to prevent me from using the bag whilst in the naked.

Pro Man Bag

1. My girlfriend liked it.

2. It was purchased in Montreal.

3. Sometimes with the flap down, it looks like the bag is taller than it is wide. This is a warning sign of a man bag.

And finally the bag itself.

What say you?

Semi?

2008-09-16T13:00:00.000-04:00

My cousin is getting married on Saturday. I am looking forward to it because large family gatherings are often great fun on that side of the family. It's a bit of a party family. You mix my Irish side with some alcoholic beverages, throw in some fun time party music and enough room for my aunts and uncles to do dances that were last seen on American Bandstand, and we'll be like the Flinstones. Having a gay ol' time.

Last Friday there was sort of a post Vegas Bachelor Party man dinner at a very nice steakhouse in Manhattan. Being that I, unfortunately, was not able to attend the festivities out west, this was my first opportunity to meet some of the bride's family. They are an extremely friendly and welcoming bunch of fellas. One of them seemed to conveniently start talking about blow jobs anytime the waitress showed up, but that is considered charming in some cultures (e.g. New Jersey).

Prior to dinner, our group was sitting in the bar zone having beverages and conversing. One of the bride's uncles, who shall be known now as Uncle Professor, had the ears of myself and my brother. Uncle Professor is a man in his mid to late 60s, short in stature but big in talking and experience. According to him, he has been all over the world and seen all kinds of things. Uncle Professor was in mid-lecture regarding a neighborhood on Long Island and how it fell from being a cultural center, to kind of a dump when he hit us with a puzzling, but promising question.

"You don't mind if I am semi-vulgar, do you?"

No of course not Uncle Professor! Please do go on!

"Are you familiar with Judaism?"

This question confuses me after his previous one and makes me worry some, but I tell him that I am mildly familiar with the tenets of Judaism. The following is as verbatim as I can remember.

"Now as you may know, the Hacsdic Jews are not as bad as the Orthodox in regards to the amount and strictness of rules they must follow. The Orthodox Jews are only allowed to have sex with their wives for the purpose of procreation, unlike us catholics who, once married, are allowed to engage in sex with our spouse whenever we feel like it."

Where the hell is this going Uncle Professor, and why do I feel like I need a flak jacket for when we get there?

"Now, back in the day, if you went to any whorehouse, or cathouse as they used to say then, if you were to go to a cathouse, you would see a number of Hasidic men in line waiting to be tended to. All of them would be carrying with them a brown paper bag. The Hasidic men would only want to be with the black prostitutes. The black prostitutes would refuse to sleep with the Hasidic men because they smelled bad due to poor hygiene, so the men had to take showers and wash first."

"Once the Hasidic men washed, the women had no problem and would bring them into their bed. Now, after eating the black pussy, the men would take out of the bag the kosher wine and proceed to drink it"

I apologize because I don't really remember the entire kosher ritual Uncle Professor went on to describe here for my head had fucking exploded when he blurted out "after eating the black pussy" ever so nonchalantly. There was no chalant in his voice at all. Zero chalant!

If that was "semi-vulgar" I would hate to hear what full on obscene is to him. I'm sure it has to involve 3 tubs of chicken grease and a shaved lemur.

I can not wait for the wedding reception.

Conshirto in D minor

2008-09-14T19:50:00.003-04:00

On the way home from work one day my brother and I had a humorous experience.

I met him on the Manhattan side of the Staten Island Ferry terminal and purchased some Starburst(original flavor, of course) for the ride back to our island paradise.

Recently, in said terminal, there have been different musical performers each day, helping to make the wait between boats a bit more enjoyable and artsy. On this particular day there was a man playing the violin very well. When he played my mind drifted to a far off land where I flew amongst the clouds in a basket strapped to a giant seagull.

I was brought back to Earth by the announcement that the boat was now loading through door number 2. As we passed by the violinist, my brother noticed that he was wearing a shirt that can best be described as "completely ridiculous." It looked like the kind of shirt a 12 year old would wear to a Junior High dance in 1977. Being the solid brother that he is, he quickly turned to me and said "Ry. Check out that guy's shirt. It is the ugliest thing I've ever seen."

Now my brother has spent many many hours with an mp3 player plugged into his head at high volume, so this comment was not said with as much stealth as he thought. He quickly realized this when the violinist stopped in the middle of a song and yelled toward us

"VIVALDI WORE THIS SHIRT!"

This bizarre retort stunned the two of us long enough to delay our fleeing onto the ferry at high speeds for a good 5 seconds.

Being the dolt I am, I Google image searched Vivaldi when I got home and in no portrait did I ever see him wearing anything resembling a leftover from the wardrobe of Eight is Enough.

And just because I am obsessed, here are some recent keyword searches that led to this location.
"ted danson...you make me feel like..."
"movie machines brimley"
"what does it feel like to mug someone"
"why does my pussy smell"

How Can She Slap?

2008-09-09T16:27:00.001-04:00

I saw the following video recently. It's been getting big apparently. It is form some Indian reality/game show where contestants are supposed to be reliving their first year at college by getting insulted. I don't get it either. You really need to see only the first minute.

So this poor bastard yelling "How can She slap? How can she slap me?" over and over got me thinking. The slap from the woman was not supposed to happen. She apparently had gotten angry at their lack of reaction which resulted in the initial slap. That being said, the return bitch slap was his immediate reflex response to being hit. You can tell his brain wasn't in control because of the "Oooohh shit" look on his face after he smacks her.

This got me thinking. Are there any times where I would hit a woman?

Now we're going to push aside the obvious here. Situations where a woman is putting my life or my dick in mortal danger are not included here. My penis is to Me what Israel is to an Israeli. What I have may not be impressive compared to others, but it means a lot to me and if anyone messes with it I will come at them with deadly force.

These are the situations I came up with, where feel I would hit a woman and be ok with it.

1. Lady Cat Burglar - I imagine that if some woman in a skin tight cat suit came climbing through a window of my home, and I just happened to wake up and find her, things would get violent. First I imagine a tussle would ensue. Lamps would break. Books would fall off the shelves as we wrestled each other. Eventually when I over powered her and pinned her down she would try to seduce me. This is a very smart move by her because all Lady Cat Burglars are super hot. I think it somehow lends to their stealth. So I would fall for her trick at first, but as soon as I saw she was holding a candlestick behind her back to whack me in the noggin with, I would give her the ol' 1-2 combination, and make a citizens arrest without feeling very bad about it.

2. Lady Ninja - This is very similar to Lady Cat Burglar except there would be a longer, more karate filled fight. Also lady ninja would be equally hot, but more exotic and probably have some kind of crazy scar on her face from her ninja work. After a long display of skill I would eventually defeat her with a deadly palm strike followed by a spinning wheel kick. I would feel pretty OK about it too.

3.The Buttonhole - Sometimes during the course of...intercourse, a woman may get an idea. She may think it is a good idea, and that her man will be glad she had it. She will think, "I've read on the Internet that guys love this and have incredible orgasms." This is the kind of thinking that may lead to a fist fight. I do not wish to feel like I am being probed. I do not care how many of your friends have told you that guys love it. I have told my girlfriend as much. I think what I said was, "If I feel a finger wandering into a neighborhood where he doesn't belong, I will stand up and slug you in the gut." I would probably feel bad about this afterward, but still justified.

That's all I can think of. What's even more ridiculous about this whole post, is that if I was ever in any situation where a woman started hitting me, I would probably curl up into a defensive ball and try to roll towards a downward slope so I could escape.

I feel like this post may come back to haunt me one day.

What the hell kind of place is this?

2008-09-05T11:30:00.001-04:00

Before I start, I know what I am about to discuss is very common and about as unoriginal as it gets, but it made me laugh, so who cares.

I recently made it possible to check out the keyword searches that cause some unfortunate people to find this blog. The collected data has made me question a variety of things about my blogging and my personality.

It is very close as to what most commonly brings people here. Here are the most popular searches.

1. "there's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do" - this, and many other variations of it, come in first place and I have no issue with this. Toto by Africa is great.
2. "how to mug someone" - this is when I start to worry about people. I will confess to checking out the geographical location of the people who made these searches, so I can avoid any of these aspiring thugs.
3. "scott baio penis" - I think we have all wondered, but still...
4. "big vagina jokes" - I would be lying if I didn't admit that while I am a bit ashamed I pop up when this is searched for, I am also mildly proud to be somewhat of a big vagina joke resource.
5. "ted danson hair" - Pretty self explanatory. There were other Danson related searches such as "ted danson weird face" and the scary "Danson and Steenburgen figurines"

There are some that have not been searched for as much, but are somewhat interesting and far more troubling.

"my deflowering story"
"Sinbad + jokes" - I'm guessing they eventually found out the rest was "= genius"
"blue jean shorts picture man"
"death of tyrell brown"
"Mean Gene Okerlund"
"huggable milfs"
"why does Morgan freeman have freckles"
"my shoulders smell funny"

And finally, my favorite, all searches that fall under the category of "Nipple"
"he makes my nipple hard"
"strange hard thing in my nipples"
"i play with my nipples"
"i can't get my nipples hard"
"my nipples been hard three days why"
"picture of my hard nipples in cold office"
"my wife nipples vacation"

Now I'm sure your immediate response may be set fire to your computer and scream at me to not continue this blog. That was my initial reaction as well. But as I type to you on these melted keys, I must confess that I have decided to not only continue with this nonsense, but completely embrace it. That is why I say to you, "There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do to keep Scott Baio's penis out of Ted Danson's hair."

nipple
nipple
hard
nipple
Sarah Palin

He Tells It Like It Is

2008-09-02T09:47:00.014-04:00

There aren't many of these guys out there, but most of us know one. Sometimes known as "Straight Shooters," these are people who will always "tell it like it is."

If, for some unthinkable reason, you wanted an actual honest opinion, this would be the person you'd go to because you know they won't try to soften the blow if your new haircut makes you look like a poorly groomed pubis. This guy will tell you to your face that you should not be wearing a bikini that small when, from the neck down, you could be confused with Al Sharpton. And this no nonsense kind of person would tell you, even if he shares your political party, that you made a "we're OK without a condom this one time" kind of error in judgement s with your Vice Presidential candidate selection.

I hate these bastards. I try to keep myself in as much of a delusional state as possible in regards to how ridiculous I look, dress, dance, and eat in public. I don't need some jerk ruining the house of cards that is my self-esteem by telling me, "You know if I can see the outline of your bellybutton, the shirt is too small for you." I actually have a friend who is like this, and lord knows I need one. It is useful at times for someone as clueless as myself, but any appreciation for it goes out the window when I am told things like, "Yeah things have changed a lot for us in the past few years. You're definitely balder now." Thanks. Thanks a lot.

The other reason I hate these truth tellers is that I am completely jealous. It seems much easier and kind of fun, but I can never be one. Unless you're already one of these people, you can't be one either. It's impossible to make the switch from normal, polite guy, to no censors between brain and mouth guy. If you've been wise enough to have started being brutally honest with people early on in your life, they will expect it and even thank you for it. But if today I started being completely honest with people they would just think I turned into a huge asshole.

I've considered conducting an experiment where I attempt to become "that guy" but I've decided it's pointless. This is how the results would differ.

Control Group - Len has always told it like it is.
Friends: So what did you think of our band?
Len: You need to practice for a few more years.
Friends: Ha Ha. You're probably right Len. Thanks for telling it like it is as usual.

Experimental Group - Ryan has been telling it like it is for a week
Friends: So what did you think of our band?
Ryan: I don't know if the world is ready for an O-Town tribute band right now.
Friends: You know, you've been acting like a total jerkoff lately

You know as I write this I am realizing that I also could never be that guy because I am scared shitless that someone would throw a truth counter punch back in my direction. I can't handle such a constant threat of having to face reality. The possible comments on this blog alone is enough to scare me away from even considering this again.

So I am stuck. Stuck never hearing, "Relax man. Ryan isn't trying to be mean, he just tells it like it is." Stuck being nice. A nice liar. At least I am good at it.

*Note - Even stright shooters do not tell it like it is when it comes to their girlfriend/wife.

And she cooks, too.

2008-08-21T21:40:00.002-04:00

My girlfriend's roommate moved out a week and a half ago. She recently returned to help clean up the not so thin layer of filth she left there. This conversation occurred soon after.

Girlfriend: She took the fucking dish rack. I have to run to get another.
Me: She is a bastard woman.
Girlfriend: I know. I am so over her, so I stole all her tampons.

I Have Diabetes

2008-08-20T18:32:00.005-04:00

So I'm not dead. That's good?

Those of you that read my post from yesterday that I made before going to the doctor will know that I began suffering from a bout with dizziness since late Monday afternoon. In response to this post, my internet friend Jay of Genius...Pending made a very astute guess as to what was causing my dizziness. He suggest it could be a sign of Diabetes.

Immediately this clicked in my head as a correct diagnosis for two reasons. The first, as Jay mentioned, is my atrocious diet. My diet consists mainly of meat, bread and candy. Many times all at once. The only vegetables I will eat are corn and potatoes, and every time I tell this to someone who is preparing to verbally bludgeon me for my eating habits, I am told that these two don't even really count as vegetables. I can only imagine this is because they taste good. Shortly before I felt the first woozy feeling on Monday, I had partaken in a bag of Gummi Bears. They really are silent killers.

The second, and bigger, reason I have diabetes is my unrelenting verbal hammering of Wilford Brimley. And yes, I added in the word "verbal" after rereading that sentence. For about 3 or 4 years now I have used the actor turned spokesman to garner countless laughs from friends and strangers alike. I have done dead on impressions of him saying foul and ungodly things in the voice mails of friends. I have tapped the Brimley well here on this blog ages ago (2005? Holy Crap). So now after all this, Karma has reared it's ugly head and bit me right in the... organ that produces insulin... I bet that low life oatmeal pusher is laughing his soup strainer off right now.

So it was a rough visit to the doctor yesterday. As if the bad news wasn't enough the guy was kind of an asshole. Whenever I would ask him about what steps I need to take to change my life to live with my disease he would look at me in a very condescending manner and tell me that I don't have diabetes, and my dizziness is being caused by fluid in my head. Telling me that I am just congested.

Obviously this made me quite upset. Not only was he ignoring everything I was telling him about MY body, but "fluid in my head?" As in Water on the brain? As in the guy was calling me mentally challenged? I won't stand for this kind of treatment, so I squatted down and ambled out of there proclaiming, "I HAVE DIABETES BUT I AM STILL A HUMAN BEING!"

Discriminating against a person because they have a disease is sick and wrong. Don't do it people.

By the time you read this, I might be dead.

2008-08-19T15:02:00.003-04:00

It's true. Here's why.

As anyone who has known me for more then 5 seconds knows, I fall under the classification of "Worrier." I worry about any and every thing you could imagine, such as the fact that my fingers are the size of a 12 year-old's or that the shirt I am wearing makes it look like I have A-Cups.

Strangely enough, the things I never really work myself up over are medical related issues. I have to feel seriously out of or be in a great deal of pain for me to give up the "It will be better after I sleep a while" treatment plan I subscribe to.

Now it isn't one of those situations where I don't want to go to the doctor because I am afraid I will find out I have something horrible. I would be upset if this happened, but I'm sick and think I would enjoy the free sympathy and excuse to not work and be a complete bum.

But yeah, I usually try to tough it out and trust my immune system to repair any damage I have done by eating a donut I dropped on the floor of the Port Authority Bus Terminal, or lifting heavy objects whilst trying to build myself a fort.

There is something that is threatening to ruin my toughness in the medical zone though. Something evil and very powerful that is snaking it's way into my brain. Something called... WebMD.

As I am sure most of you know, if you feel like crap and go to www.webmd.com, you can enter in your symptoms and in seconds you will find out that you could have one of possibly hundreds of horrible diseases and conditions.

So today I decided to visit WebMD because since 5PM yesterday I have had this really strange dizzy feeling that I can't seem to shake. Usually standing up and physically shaking until I feel better works, but it only exacerbates my current problem.

I entered in my symptoms and found out that I could possibly be suffering from some of the following conditions:

Brain Tumor
Leukemia
Pulmonary Adema
Cerebral Thrombosis
Acute Aural Hydroplosion
Swimmer's Ear
Posterior Cerebral Tightness
A Sprained Skull
Jeff's Syndrome
Prolonged Transformation into Robot

With millions of people using this website to self diagnose themselves, it's no fucking wonder I can't get a god damn doctor's appointment today. There are probably legions of people flocking to doctor's offices every day because they saw on the Internet that their tummy hurts because their body is rejecting a liver transplant they never had.

I won't even get into the fact that every time I call a doctor's office they won't give me an appointment today because I am a new patient, and then before they tell me when I can be seen, they have to find out what my insurance is. It's enough to make Canada look attractive (The buckets of free sex they give out up there doesn't hurt either).

So yeah. I'm dizzy and slowly dying of a variety of horrible things. How are you doing?

Help?

2008-08-12T11:51:00.003-04:00

I normally wouldn't post so soon after a previous one, but I just sneezed very hard and a muscle over my ribs spazzed the fuck out on me.

Now it's cramping up! How the hell do I walk off a rib muscle cramp? Are there even such things as rib muscles?

I'm obviously in tip top shape.

Could it beee.....

2008-08-07T10:51:00.006-04:00

I have no recollection of mentioning this little tidbit in the past, but occasionally when I am in the need of a little extra cash and have free time after work or on the weekends, I have another job. I know you are all very funny and thinking , "Ha Ha. Probably a gay hooker." Well I am flattered that you think my buttocks look durable enough for such a demanding occupation, but this is an incorrect guess.

The job of which I speak is that of professional usher at a Broadway theater(re). At this job my responsibilities include handing out Playbills, escorting or sometimes merely pointing people to their seats, and also wanting to make love in dis club.

I have been doing this pretty irregularly for about a year and a half now, but about a month ago while trying not to fall asleep during the show, I opened my eyes long enough to notice something strange on the carpet. You tell me what you see.

That's right. You see a Carpet Satan, or at the very least a carpet demon. If you can't quite feel my Rorschach here, I will help you out.

See what I mean now, non-believers? Notice the Lucifery face and horn region. Also take note of the classic oddly bending devil goat legs and hooves. He is well defined abs like all standard depictions of Beelzebub do. A crown is affixed atop his dome to signify he is the King of Hell/Prince of Darkness. I'm not so sure about the wings though. I'm sure the devil could have wings if he wanted, but they make me think this could also be a tribute to Sardo Numspa.

If you can make out anything different, please share it with us. or you know, just tell me I am right and devote your eternal soul to Satan.

I hope to be posting more often. I'll do it until I run out of things to say.

The kind with the feet?

2008-08-05T10:05:00.013-04:00

Recently I have learned that at a very young age I was quite advanced with regards to my knowledge of topics in the sexual realm. This discovery was made as a result of three related tales my mother told me.

Before I get into them, I will introduce you to the cast of characters.

Young Ryan - a precocious little youth who fought and clawed his way into the world approximately 6 or 7 years before these stories took place. Over 20 years later he still has no idea what precocious means.

Young Steven - A 6 or 7 year old boy who lives directly across the street from Young Ryan, and many times left his childhood compatriot to journey off to day camp alone due to getting nervous and having to take a shit every time the bus arrived to pick them up. An avid Billy Joel fan.

Young Bernadette - younger sister of Young Steven at the age of 5 or 6. Umm...she was a girl. Listen, all I can remember about her is that at the age of 16, 8 years after their family had moved out, she scratched the hell out of my friend Johnny's back while swimming in his pool during a visit to their old neighborhood. The main thing to remember here is that she is a girl.

Mother Fran - Giver of life to Young Ryan.

Mother Eileen - Giver of life to Young Steven.

OK here goes.

PART 1 - The Home of Young Ryan- Interior - Living Room
Young Ryan and Young Steven are sitting on the floor watching the 1986 film classic "Little Shop of Horrors". During one scene, Steve Martin, playing the sadist Dentist, turns to his girlfriend Audrey, played by Ellen Greene, and says, "You got the handcuffs?"

Young Ryan - What do they need handcuffs for?
Young Steven - People use them when they have sex.

Upon hearing this, Mother Fran runs to the kitchen while trying to stifle a laugh and quickly calls across the street. Mother Eileen picks up the phone on the other end.

Mother Fran - (while losing control of her stifled laughter) - What the hell goes on at your house?

aaaaaaand SCENE!

PART 2 - Exterior - Day Camp -an open field on a sunny day.
Young Ryan and Young Steven sit in the brilliantly green grass and talk about something I can't remember. Probably Transformers or dinosaurs or Macho man Randy Savage. I can't remember. Creepy Weird Girl Who I Don't Remember approaches the dynamic duo.

CWGWIDR - Do you guys know what a Blow Job is?
Young Ryan - It's when a girl sucks on a boy's penis. Duh!

Cut to later in the day, as Young Steven returns home from camp and immediately tells his mother that he now knows what a blow job is, and who he learned it from. Mother Eileen darts to the phone and dials the number for the home across the street. Mother Fran answers on the other end.

Mother Eileen - What the hell is going on at YOUR house?

aaaaaand SCENE!!

Do you guys need an intermission? I can wait. Go get yourself a cool beverage. Perhaps a tall cool glass of Orange Drink before we go on. It's damn refreshing.

PART 3 -Interior - The home of Young Ryan- Front Porch

Young Ryan, Young Steven and Young Bernadette sit in various places on the porch. I have no clue what was going on, or what started this brief, albeit legendary, conversation, so lets just say a giant comet had just narrowly missed crashing into the earth, and Ronald Reagan had just agreed to a Greco-roman wrestling match with the Ayatollah Khomeni. An eerie calm had set in across the Earth.

Young Ryan - I have a penis.
Young Bernadette - I have a vagina.
Young Steven - I have pajamas.

aaaand SCENE.

There could be no word more perfect in that sentence than pajamas.

I hope you've learned three things from these three brief tales. The first is that while I was very well educated in sex at a young age, my knowledge over the years has barely increased. In fact, I still don't quite understand the whole handcuffs deal. I dated a girl a few years ago who said she wanted me to use handcuffs on her, so I put her hands behind her back, slapped the cuffs onto her wrists, threw her down face first on the hood of a car and recited her Miranda Rights. You see my point.

The second thing is that I will use every opportunity I can to include a picture of "Macho Man" Ranch Savage in a post.

The third thing you should have learned is that I am really bored today.

*EDIT* I've learned a fourth thing. Blogger still sucks motherfucking ass whenever I add pictures.

Heinz

2008-07-02T11:12:00.004-04:00

A great number of things have occurred this year. All of which I failed to write about despite their importance, gravity, and extremely high levels of "Oh that's fascinating."

My goal today is to pick one of these events and share it with the two people who will randomly check my blog, the three I will force to read it through incessant badgering, and the guy who goes to Google and searches for " saucy underpants wench. "

I could share with you stories of my new girlfriend, and how we came to be joined together as one, as frequently and with and much grunting as possible. Another option is to discuss how there has been a great upheaval at my place of work, and how I will both benefit and be hurt as a result. I have travelled to foreign lands with new and bustling cities I have never before seen. Maybe I could get all cerebral on your ass and discuss the numerous books I have devoured since deciding I need to read more again (I of course am using devoured metaphorically, except in one case where I ate 2 whole stories from a David Sedaris book while stuck on the subway in a power outage).

The choice is difficult, but I shall choose this:

Over the past few years, 2007 especially, I have been prone to severe and unexpected bouts of exercise. It always manifests itself initially in the form of running. It is also called jogging, but I have not heard this term used for quite a while. In many cases, the exercise will stay at this point until it fades off after or month or so. Other times it continues to spread, taking the form of push ups, sit ups and crunches, and in a worst case scenario causes me to pay money so I can visit a place full of bulky men who scream while wearing fruity tank tops.

So last night I decided I need to go for a run because I had just returned from a week long vacation where my diet consisted mainly of ice cream and various Italian cheeses. I prepared myself by putting on my sneakers and running socks, and finding a crappy t-shirt I wouldn't wear anymore unless I am moving quickly in the dark. I have a surprising number of these shirts despite never having bought one for this specific purpose.

When I slipped on my black mesh pair of shorts I noticed they felt a little tight in the area known as the caboose. This caused me to continue to think like a 13 year old girl and get upset about how fat I am and quickly run out the door and hit the streets.

The run was brief and slightly uncomfortable due to my apparent new girth, but not bad considering I hadn't had one for 2 weeks. No more than 8 seconds after stopping I look down towards the ground, for my neck gets very limp during cardiac arrest, and notice the pockets on my shorts were weird, and also the front of my shorts were embarrassingly loose and baggy. As I stood there panting heavily and staring at my lack of frontal bulge and feeling the mesh holes expanding around the curve of my buttocks, it hit me.

I put my shorts on backwards.

I felt incredibly stupid yet relieved my penis wasn't being sucked into my body, forcing my ass to expand. I also didn't feel completely moronic because a few weeks ago while I was at work I went to the bathroom to urinate and discovered I had put my boxers on backwards. At that moment I felt exceedingly dumb because I had actually felt a hole, which was the fly, on the part covering my ass, but figured it was just a rip and if anything would be convenient for a visit to the toilet.

I Better Consult a Physician

2008-02-04T11:32:00.000-05:00

Because I have had this erection for way more than 4 hours!!!!

Por Que?

2007-12-10T11:05:00.000-05:00

I just finished shaving at the office. This is the first time I have ever done it. I am really lazy with shaving because it irritates me and I'm lazy about everything in general. There is a big lunch event today and I was told I am to participate in it in a greater capacity than walking in every 10 minutes to take free food, so I had to make myself look presentable.

My question is, Why didn't anyone tell me it was Take a Dump at Work Day today? I swear right before I go in there no less than 3 people commit what I can only describe as a crime against nature in the bathroom, leaving me woozy from the fumes as I try not to butcher myself. Iran should be recruiting from my office. I failed to get out of there unscathed of course. I did a Sweeney Todd number on myself and am currently three-quarters of the way to mummification with all thepaper on my face holding back what little blood I have left.

Just thought I'd update everyone.

What the?

2007-12-07T09:32:00.000-05:00

During my hiatus from this dump a few noteworthy happenings and doings transpired. I mean to go over them in great detail at some point for your viewing pleasure, but for now I will discuss something that affected me deeply. It was a life altering event and I won't ever be the same person again after experiencing it.

On an unseasonably warm day back in the month many people refer to as October, I exited my abode and set out for the local delicatessan to procure myself a pound of roast beef crammed between two pieces of Italian bread.

I squinted as the bright sun smothered my face, and I thought about how much I was enjoying Jocktober. I was calling it Jocktober because I decided that every day I would wake up and listen to a different Jock Jams CD. Seeing as how I had Volumes 1 through 7, I put myself on a weekly rotation. My theory was that this music would get me pumped up and energized, making myself a happier and more productive person who would be a beast on the raquetball courts.

Anyway, as Gary glittered in my head, the most amazing/bizarre thing ever came into view.

You are not seeing things, and I did not do this in photoshop. That is a giant Merman on the hood of someone's car. I know it looks like a topless Mermaid, but trust me, those are just very shapely pecs. It is very sparkly, very big and probably the gayest thing I have ever seen.

I apologize for the less than stellar photo, but my mind was reelign from the sheer wonder of this discovery and alsothe fear that the owner of the car would catch me taking pictures and beat me sensless with a bag of pixie dust. They'd have to be mental. And gay, and probably a keebler elf. Part of me wishes I staked out the area to see who would show up to drive off in this masterpiece because you don't often get a chance to see a unicorn drive.

I manage to slowly begin to walk away from the hood. There was a leopard print line running along the side doors of the car to the back.

The back didn't disappoint either.

Not only is that an american flag on the trunk, it is an American flag made entirely out of painted seashells glued on to the car!!! Fucking staggering.

I'm just now realizing I can see the license plate number in this picture. My uncle is a cop. I'm going to have him run the plates on this bastard and find out who owns it. I am worried they might arrest the guy and charge him with several counts of Criminal Bad Taste or Indecent Exposure of an Androgenous Mystical Creature. An IEAMC can get you 7 years.

Yugenius

2007-12-05T22:03:00.000-05:00

Yesterday my dear friend THE HOR, was kind enough to propose another travel destination for me and invited me to join her in the ghetto.

She paints a picture of a magical realm populated by colorful little folk (Mexicans) where danger lurks behind one corner and adventure peeks out from the next. While the idea of calling myself Frodo Trash Baggins and gathering a fellowship of diverse and gangsta friends to venture off with discover our destinies sounds beyond appealing, I am going to have to pass due to a strong allergic reaction I have to being knifed in the gut. Also, if I got mugged i would start to get homesick.

Can I take a rain check?

OK, story time.

The other day I mentioned having taken in a Japanese exchange student while in 8th grade. His name was Yuji Yabushita and he spoke maybe 3 words of English. Hungry, tired and bathroom. They are probably the three best words to know when you are in a foreign land, but it didn't exactly lead to us having a rich exchange of culture. It was difficult to get a sense of his personality because of the language barrier. However I did get a glimpse into the mind of Yuji during math class one day.

For 8th Grade math I had a teacher named Mrs. P. Her husband, Mr. P also taught math at the same school. They were one of those couples who weren't what you'd call attractive in any way, but they were cute together. Now before you go off wondering what nationality a last name like P is, I will tell you it was short for a long name I can't be bothered to remember.

Yuji was sitting at a desk with me to my right as Mrs. P was teaching us the wonders of algebra. I noticed he was jumping around in his Japanese to English dictionary with a sense of purpose. He would briskly flip forward or backwards through the pages and then jot something down on the top of his paper. He did this a few times it seemed. I wasn't paying all that much attention to it.

When he was apparently done, he tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to the top of his loose leaf paper with this weird grin on his face. I figured he wanted to know if he could leave to go to the bathroom or if he had to pee in a bucket under the desk, you know, like they do all the time in Japan. Look it up. Wikipedia Japan. It's in the first 2 paragraphs I'm sure. So, I look over at what he wrote down and it said

"This teacher look like a gorilla."

Well I completely lost it. It had never occurred to me before that Mrs P looked like an ape, but she totally did. This revelation by Yuji, along with the little gorilla face he drew next to it, made me wish I was in japan because I laughed so hard I needed a piss bucket under the desk. I'm telling you it's true. Ask any Japanese person.

I'll wait.

My Nipples are Hard Already

2007-12-03T13:52:00.000-05:00

I got nothin' today, but I need to make this a habit again. I'd like to mention that someone in my office brought in cookies his wife made and they are so good that I want to have an affair with her now.

If you read my previous post, then you know that I was looking for an exotic locale to bounce off to now that I have a passport. Over the weekend I researched some of my ideas and came up with a whole mess of bad news.

Italy is not an option for me due to an incident involving some inappropriate letters I may or may not have sent to Food Network personality Giada DeLaurentis. Had I known she possessed the power to ban me from Italy, I would have aimed my lust at Paula Dean.

I am choosing not to go to South Africa because I remembered that 20 years ago I said I ain't gonna play Sun City and I meant it.

Unfortunately I have to avoid Japan due to having a small but rabid cult following in the land of the rising sun as a result of a video of a 3rd grade play I starred in becoming a cultural phenomenon there. It was Peter Pan and I was Indian # 4. When it came time for me to speak my lines, I started to weep and then unfortunately urinated all over myself. In Japan this clip is used in a variety of commercials, including one for Joy Joy brand Seaweed cakes. "Yellow Boy pants cries when he doesn't have Joy Joy Seaweed cakes. Don't be like Yellow Boy Pants! JOY JOY!"

I thought I could handle the Galapagos, but even after over a decade of therapy I can't get past being viciously assaulted by a Giant Tortoise while at the Staten Island Zoo. The nightmares never end.

Most of the places with funny names don't have airports. I'd have to fly in to a neighboring country, then ride over the border on some kind of pack animal. My supple buttocks can not handle the rigors of a long journey on the back of an alpaca.

So there you have it. All these things combined with the fact that my vacation time starts in 9 days leaves me with really only one unfortunate option...

Oh Canada.

I know. I know. I like maple syrup though, and ummm maybe I'll get to see Rick Moranis. He was in Ghostbusters you know, and that was a great movie.

One time my aunt met Bill Murray on the street and he gave her noogies.

...

You went to Bulwhereia?

2007-11-30T11:35:00.000-05:00

Today, after much production, I will finally be in possession of a U.S. Passport. I know have my ticket to the world, and also a reason to use amazing words like traverse, circumnavigate and gallivant.

Now I just have to figure out where I will sail off to. I have a few places in mind. Let's discuss, shall we?

Italy - This is a pretty obvious choice, but a good one none the less. I love all that history crap and would stand in the Colosseum and pantomime a life and death, bare handed battle with a christian hungry lion. Also, my excessive body hair wouldn't be completely appalling to the local women. I also imagine Italy has to have one of the highest levels of cleavage per capita. They are definitely top 3 in GNC (Gross National Cleavage).

South Africa - Among the numerous other childhood traits I have managed to hold on to with a death grip lies a love for animals. In my head, venturing to South Africa would be like watching a National Geographic special except with the possibility that my TV could take my arm off. I'm pretty sure they have big wildlife reserves one could tool around in with a jeep and a guide. I can't be bothered to look it up right now. The highlight though would be going to see those Great White sharks that jump out of the water when they attack seals. The idea that a monster shark has decided it wasn't satisfied with scaring the crap out of everything in the water, and now wants to try his hand in the atmosphere is both awesome and terrifying. It's like a machine gun that can not only wound you with it's bullets, but also a cruel and biting remark about how your one true love left you for a man with a nicer lawn. SO yeah. That would rock.

Galapagos Islands - I would choose to go here because it is very remote, exotic, historically significant, and if I chickened out of South Africa and wanted to see amazing wildlife that wouldn't wind up with my femur lodged between their teeth..

Japan - The cultural difference between Japan and the U.S. would be a big reason for me to circumnavigate the earth and wind up there. It's something I would love to get waist deep in. I would go to a sumo match, attend a zany Japanese game show that involves any of the following: infliction of bodily harm for prizes, a hedgehog, or Bob Sapp. I had a Japanese exchange student at my house when I was in 8th grade, so maybe I would look him up. I'm comin for you Yuji! I would try to bone up on my Japanese beforehand so I could tell jokes to their tiny women and get them to put their hand over their mouth and giggle.

Lichtenstein - So I could have people say "Huh?" when they asked where I was going. This also applies to Azerbaijan, Chad, The Faroe Islands, Swaziland and of course, Djibouti.

I'm not married to any of these, so feel free to select an international destination I should be gallivanting off to. No loser places like Canada please.

She Fell Down the Stairs

2007-11-28T12:00:00.000-05:00

During a recent excavation of my living quarters I unearthed a magnificent treasure. This priceless item is what kick started me to post here again, because I had to share it with as many people as I could. So that will be about 12 or so I guess.

What I found was this folded piece of yellowed paper. Was it a lost copy of the Declaration of Independence?! Was I about to cash in? Yeah right. If it had been I wouldn't be here talking to you chumps.

I opened it and discovered it was a letter I wrote while in 2nd Grade. That's Grade 2 for you Canadians out there. I was first completely elated by this find because this letter is famous in my family for reasons you shall soon see. Then a mild wave of depression hit me when I realized something I wrote could possibly be mistaken for a historical document. I'm old.

So, please join me in a jaunt in my time machine as we crank it up to 88 mph (that's 141.62 kph for you Canadians out there) as we blast back to a magical time known as 1986. It was a simpler time, a more innocent time. A time when the President couldn't be bothered to acknowledge or even mention that silly blip on the radar known as AIDS. A time when nobody thought Tom Cruise and Val Kilmer wanted to make out in their flight suits. A time when Eddie Murphy told the world that his girl can't stop attending celebrations. And we will never forget 1986 as the greatest year ever for the Amazin' Mets triumph in the World Series against the, then, loser Red Sox. God I miss you, Darryl Strawberry.

As phenomenal as the year was, there was some tragedy that took place early on. On January 28th the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded shortly after takeoff. As many will remember, on board the shuttle was the woman who was going to be the first teacher in space, Christa McAullife.

Flash over to Staten Island, NY. In a second grade classroom is P.S. 54 an assignment is given out. Each student must write a letter to a member of Christa McAuliffe's family expressing our sympathies. A young boy who looked particularly dashing because he didn't have glasses that yea chose her son Scott to write his letter to. This is exactly what was written.

Dear Scott,

I'm very sorry for what happened to your mother. Did you hear they found the capsil with bones in it? These dumb people on the news were taking pieces of the space shuttle and N.A.S.A. told them not to. One time my mother and father were fighting and my father threw a plate at my mother and I thought she was going to die.

Sincerely,
Ryan

You can see that even back that, empathy was one of my greatest qualities.

I only spelled capsule wrong, so I am proud of that. You can laugh all you want, but the bottom line is I got a mark of "Very Good" on it.

It did lead to a very awkward and embarrassing Parent Teacher Conference shortly after though.

Second Coming

2007-11-26T12:30:00.000-05:00

I know. I know. I still love you though. That hasn't changed one bit.

So what better way to try and jump back on that blog swing than with a tale of me being completely clueless and lost, stumbling around in the strange land known as The Ladies.

Picture it, Sicily, 1941. I had performed a minor miracle. Not only did I manage to meet a smokin' hot female (a real one) without accidentally insulting her or referring to her as some kind of cut of meat, but I somehow charmed her with my spaceman looks and involuntary Christopher Walken impression.

Oh she was quite the fetching lass. A stone cold fox, if you will. An intoxicating mix of slender beauty and coquettish charm.Oh yeah and a sweet set of tits. I mean that cleavage was speaking to me. It was saying "Hey Ryan. What's goin' on? Oh yeah? No I didn't know you sky dive and hunt Elk. At the same time? Wow that's amazing. You should put your nose in me."

At some point we wound up on a bed, making the fuck out. Clothes started to be discarded. Hands started to roam, and as I didn't notice any wincing or gagging at the sight of my lush body hair, my confidence rose along with my wang. It was even more rad than it sounds.

Now in a situation like this my hands always gravitate towards the buttocks. Asses are the best. You all know this. A brilliant man once said,

"When God made the arse, he didn't say, 'Hey, it's just your basic hinge, let's knock off early.' He said, 'Behold ye angels, I have created the arse. Throughout the ages to come, men and women shall grab hold of these, and shout my name.'"

And grab that arse I did, voraciously and with great aplomb.

During my grabbings though I felt something. On one of her excellent buttocks I felt some kind of plastic. I believe it was in a squarish shape. What on earth? Oh dear. This poor girl had bought some new clothing obviously and one of the stickers from it unknowingly attached itself to her cheek. I better tell her so she doesn't get too embarrassed.

Me - "You have a sticker on your ass."
Her - "What?"
Me - "There's a sticker on your butt."
Her - "Um, that's my birth control, genius."

I probably should have realized that no clothes really have small stickers on them really, and even if they did, it would take quite an amazing journey by the sticker to wind up planted on someones ass cheek. Whatever. There was a naked girl touching me. I can't be expected to think or use reason at a time like that.

So there it is. I'm glad I can still stretch out a 15 second story into a long and meandering blog post. I know I have one more in me for this week.

Kenny Rogers is Hot

2007-10-22T23:00:00.000-04:00

Now before I get started, I'd like to preface this by saying that I do not refer to present day Kenny Rogers, or "Hollywood" as I like to call him. He completely sold out and feminined it up with his bizarre facial surgery. I won't even post a picture of the monstrosity.This is not my Kenny. This just a disfigured and depressing husk of sadness that has been twisted by science. When will we finally wise up and burn these scientists!

Now this is the Kenny Rogers we all have a vision of in our minds, the man's man with both the flowing mane and steely gaze of an African lion stalking a wildebeest. I dare any of you lady person's reading this right now to deny the fact that if this rugged bastard looked at you like this and laid a "Howdy Ma'am" on you that your knees would shake like an electric toothbrush. You wouldn't get butterflies in your stomach, you'd get dragons! Huge ones flapping around in excitement over the presence of this legend. Just one glance you and you'd know that this man will know when to hold you and when to fold you...over a rustic dining room table.

As if being that physically arousing wasn't enough, this Western Beef can simultaneously melt your heart and set your loins ablaze with his sensitive and soulful voice and songs. Just take a gander at this gem known as "Lady"

"Lady, I'm your knight in shining armor and I love you
You have made me what I am and I am yours
My love, there's so many ways I want to say I love you
Let me hold you in my arms forever more"

Oh man I just swooned so hard I may have pulled my hammy.

You also have to realize he has what is probably the coolest and most bad ass nickname ever. THE GAMBLER. I would kill for a nickname that cool. Any nickname I have had isn't anywhere even in the same multiverse as The Gambler. The closest one I had was probably "Hamsteak." If you met this mountain of man and asked what his name was and he looked at you and said, "Me? They call me, The Gambler" You would forsake whatever bastard religion you follow and starting pinching your nipples and saying things so dirty and foul that 17 baby rabbits would explode.

And I know I can't be the only one who stays up late at night sweating profusely and softly humming "Islands in the Stream" into my pillow while thinking about what it must have been like when Kenny and Dolly Parton first made sweet country love. His scratchy, snow white beards rubbing against her neck as her hands race back and forth across his wide farm work muscled back. Oh how she must have moaned with delight knowing that only he, Kenny Rogers, had hands strong enough and skilled enough to handle her heavy, corn-fed bossoms.

Fuck I need a smoke.

Arf Wiedersehen

2007-09-05T10:05:00.000-04:00

I am so disgusted at the awful pun that is the title to this post.

So this Labor Day weekend wasn't exactly the festive end of summer party good time fun fest that it is supposed to be, but for once it wasn't because I'm a loser who does nothing. Okay, maybe that was still part of it. However there was a much bigger reason for the complete and total suckage of the past few days. My dog had to be put to sleep.

Fifteen and a half years ago my family went to a pet store out in Point Pleasant, New Jersey and wound up coming home with a tiny grey ball of fur. We named him Max because we always liked the obscure names in our family. At the time he was so small and so cute that we could never have imagined that we were ushering in a decade and a half of terror and urine.

There are many things I could talk about regarding Max right now, his love of tomato sauce, how he would get completely shocked any time he farted and stare at his ass for 20 seconds, his growth from a puppy into a child hating territorial maniac, how he once bit a hole through the bridge of my father's nose,or even how at his advanced age he would still get a creepy dog erection anytime he rolled around on his back. But I think I will choose to discuss one of the many scuffles my dog got himself into.

Max, for some reason, became extremely protective of his home turf. At the first hint of someone passing by our property, he would bolt across the yard and hurl himself towards the fence barking like a crazy person and often scaring the crap out of whoever happened to be walking by. This is if we were lucky enough to have remembered to close the gate and repair any holes in the fence.

One day my father, who always insisted he had more control over the dog than he actually did, had Max running in the yard. As the two of them were frolicking about in the green green grass, one of my neighbors was walking her dog by our house.

Her name is Mrs. McKee. I'm not sure why it was a Mrs. because I never saw a man around nor could I ever imagine anyone wanting to marry that little salty waddling sour faced tubby demon. Can you tell I still hold a grudge from her accusing me of running around, trampling her flowers "like some kind of crazed monkey child." Anyway! She had this big gross Chow dog she would waddle with around the block without a leash. I will tell you right now, that dog was a dirty jackass.

As soon as Max noticed the two beasts were walking by, he took off towards the fence. My dad didn't react really because he didn't notice the board missing at the bottom. Whoops.

The noises that came next were pretty disturbing. It was something like, "BARK BARK SNARL AAAAAAHHH AIEEEE SNARL GRRRR YIPE YIPE YIPE SOMEONE HELP"

Max had darted through the hole in the fence, knocked over Mrs McKee and started attacking her fat ass Chow. I seem to have forgotten to mention this, but Max was a miniature schnauzer, not exactly the most foreboding of all the beasts int he animal kingdom. However, despite his lack of girth, he was able to send the Chow yelping down the block back to his house while staying in hot pursuit.

My father ran out of the yard and helped up the old bat who unfortunately had not broken her hip. He then passed a number of confused neighbors on his way to find the dogs. When he turned the corner he found the Chow cowering in it's driveway against the garage as Max darted back and forth in front of him growling and being a general bad ass. Dad managed to grab hold of the terror and haul him back home.

I don't remember us punishing him. If anything I would have cooked him a steak for knocking over that wrinkled pig midget.

So yeah. This was therapeutic. Also I had no idea that was how you spell therapeutic. I'm sure later I will start sobbing quietly under my desk as I think about this and other things like how he would sleep under my covers and I would get paranoid about rolling over on Max in my sleep and then him biting my nuts off.

Cha Ching

2007-08-28T11:00:00.000-04:00

I got nothing today so let's see where this goes

I know everyone has been waiting with baited breath to hear what happened with my flower delivery situation. After 5 phone calls to them, 3 of which involved me losing my cool and cursing at the poor women on the line, and one of which involved me accusing them of being part of an elaborate plot involving the gardening industry, The Atlanta Braves, the frozen head of Vladimir Lenin, and 6 former members of the Mickey Mouse Club to deliberately try to make me look like an asshole in the eyes of my special lady person. When all was said and done she finally received her living flowers only 8 days after her birthday. Now that's some fine quality service for ya.

There is a large Mega Millions drawing tonight. I believe the prize money is up to 250 million dollars. Since I have already convinced myself that I have won, I have been thinking about what I would do with all that money once it is stuffed under my mattress.

Travel - I would be jumpin and jivin all over the planet with that kind of cash. Places I would visit include Italy, Japan, Ireland and Nature Valley because I just can't get enough of their Oat and Honey granola bars. I'd also like to go on an African safari and see how much money it would take to train a bunch of Zebras to hunt lions.

Charity - I would open up a Shelter/Modeling Agency for runaway teen girls. All proceeds will go towards improving living conditions and personal trainers. Also, Once a year I would visit a poverty stricken town and lecture it's residents on the value of hard work and eating healthy as I ride through the streets on a Galapagos Tortoise wearing a heavily jeweled crown and enough rings to make Tom Brady jealous.

Business - Having vast amounts of cash would enable me to finally invest in ideas that have been sitting in my brain for a while. My first move would be to bring the duffle bag back into prominence. Not enough people even say the word "duffle bag" any more which is a shame because it's fun to say and is hilarious as a euphamisn for a woman's private parts. Our slogan would be "Dont Muffle My Duffle".
My next move would be to start a professional Manhunt league. Manhunt, in case you don't know, is the cool name for hide and go seek with teams. All major cities would be represented and the matched would take place in various neighborhoods throughout these places without any kind of consent or permission from residents or government officials. The championship game would take place in an unknown and neutral location so as to even the playing field. To start off, only Hispanic males will be allowed to play. This way the league gets major press coverage for it's bigotry and then again once the color and gender barriers are broken. Our slogan would be "Christ. Where the hell is that guy?"
Other ventures would include a chain of Pizzerias where all the pies were shaped like Cameron Diaz' face and self cooking biscuits.

Purchases - A money bin like Scrooge McDuck had, A Zoo, an aquarium, Ted Danson's wig, a pool to be filled with the kool-aid of my choice, Michigan, 2 packs of Juicy Fruit, the bones of Liberace, the services of someone who can build a moped out of the bones of Liberace so I could call it a HoMoped, Will Ferrel, some nice letterhead, a chinplant, stirrups for my couch, a lemur, Swaziland, Lesotho, a decent cell phone plan, Jessica Biel's bathing suit, dignity, a presidential cabinet appointment, abs, a keyboard that doesn't have dried milk in it, a time machine for Teri Hatcher, the Neverending Story on DVD, the world's largest ice cream scoop, a small town police department, a degree, a list of things that are actually funny, bionic eyes, cyborg arms and a blanket fort large enough for me to live comfortably in.

Well that was weird.

1-800-FUCKERS

2007-08-23T13:09:00.000-04:00

1-800-FLOWERS can suck my hand grip shaped dick.

That was gross.

So I go to their website to order a fine bouquet of flowers that I wish to have sent to a lovely young lass whose birthday was approaching. I pick out what I think is a pretty dandy looking arrangement of orchids in a stylish trumpet vase. All is cool. I fork over my credit card numbers no realizing that I was paying them to make me look like an asshole.

She gets the "flowers" on her birthday. First off there aren't even any damn flowers. It looks like a bunch of sticks with buds on them. I thought that it would probably just take a few days before they bloomed, but after three days of nothing and a vase full of kindling, I call them up.

The venus fly twat on the other end tells me that the "flowers" are sent like this so they stay fresh and should bloom in four to five days. Ok cool. Thanks for the info, dandelion douchebag.

Skip ahead two days to a half hour ago. I get a phone call form the birthday girl who tells me some of the flowers that did bloom were just green, and that some of the buds had turned yellow and fallen off. She also said that she had been following the instructions on what to do so she didn't know why this happened.

Instructions?! All of a sudden I'm not sending her flowers. She's getting a fucking botany project.
I'm glad these dog cunts don't have a 1-800-JEWELRY number because they'd probably be sending out pick axes and mining hats. And one armed South African 8 year olds.

Now I get to sit here fuming until work is over and I can call these dog cunts and tell them how I wanted to send a woman a symbol of my feelings, and someone there basically shat into a vase and dropped it off on her doorstep.

Happy Birthday! Enjoy The Mulch! Love, Ryan.

I'd have been better off sending her a strange and exotic plant I bought from Seymour Krellbourn. So what if it eats her arm, at least it would bloom!

nso8fn33s;f38ffsohfsmsdp838pq3mq;d,poi

Scary Poppins

2007-08-22T11:23:00.000-04:00

Tis been an unpleasant few days here. Both the weather and my mood have taken a turn towards the twin cities of cold and dreary.

Have you ever had to run while holding an umbrella up? I did yesterday and it weirded me out, and it has nothing to do with my umbrella probably being the only completely white umbrella on the entire eastern seaboard.

It makes me nervous. I'm worried that me charging head on at amazing speeds into the wind will lead to the most embarrassing of umbrella mishaps. The dreaded inversion, where the umbrella is transformed into a rain gatherer and you feebly struggle to correct it's shape as people are staring at you and the rain is soaking you and you get nervous and agitated and wind up breaking at least 2 of the flimsy umbrella sticks that are made of tin foil and you have to walk around for the rest of the day with your limp umbrella shame dangling right in your face then you spin the umbrella around so you don't have to face your impotence anymore, but when you get to your destination you realize your ass is soaked because you didn't have full coverage and you've been doing a lot of lunges lately so your ass kind of sticks out now.

Hey. Hi. I blacked out for a minute. Anyway.

There was one thing that weirded me out more than running with the umbrella though. As I was sprinting towards my destination I came to a large puddle at the curb. "No puddle can stop me! No matter how large it is, my mighty legs shall guide me over it to safety," I thought. As I approached this small sea, something else entered my head. I began to think that if I jumped at this blistering speed while holding my umbrella, there is a chance I could catch a gust of wind and go airborne.

You may think this is ridiculous, but I know this guy who told me that his cousin's friend Bertram once got caught in an updraft while holding an umbrella and no one knew what happened to the kid until one day they got a call from him and he was in Costa Rica. So, yeah. Think about it.

By the time I stopped thinking about going on a fantastic voyage I was already waist deep in this Lake Huron of a puddle. I contemplated going limp and letting the current carry me off into the sewer where I could live in peace and become lord of the alligators, but I don't think there is anyone to steal wireless from down there.

Yikes. Obviously I only wrote this nonsense because I needed to get something up here this week. At least I made it through without making some stupid Rihanna reference.

Trash Pile

2007-08-17T17:39:00.000-04:00

I'm glad my deflowering story went over pretty well with you folks. Perhaps I shall share some more embarrassing sexual adventures with you again soon. However I will have to spread them out so as not to run out of them too soon. You see I may not get a chance to have too many others ever again. For I have been informed of a disturbing truth about myself.

I have a light bulb head.

Yes that is correct. While having dinner with my friend last night, she stared across the booth as I downed my milkshake and mozzarella sticks and said, "You got a light bulb head."

It's ok that she said this because I am very secure about the way I look and definitely won't obsess about this for 3 months staring at the mirror for hours on end seeing if I can push the sides of my head in and growing wolverine facial hair to make the bottom of my face look bigger. Nope! Not me! Who cares if I look like my neck has a really great idea all the time!

So now I am full of despair. How will I be able to get any woman to answer when I knock on the door of her vagina with a head that was invented by Thomas Edison.

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The poll I started last week has closed. The winner of this round of the Wonderdome is a Leopard with a Peg leg. He narrowly defeated my zombie grandfather by way of his supreme quickness and a very well aimed head shattering peg thrust. Stevie Wonder with a gun made a decent showing by winging the other combatants along with 17 members of the crowd. The Stapler Ninja failed to do any damage whatsoever in the arena due to an untimely staple jam that left him immobile allowing my zombie grandfather to bite his face off. More battles to come.
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I just received a large pizza at the door and the delivery guy called me sir. I hate being a sir now. I much preferred "kid" and even the demeaning "boy." The only thing worse than being a sir is being a ma'am. I don't know how you ladies deal with it.

Setting a Standard

2007-08-15T11:37:00.000-04:00

The first time I engaged in the beautifully awkward act known as fornication was a pretty bizarre experience. And I don't say that just because it's strange for a woman to take her clothes off around me when she knows I am in the room. The actual act of losing my virginity didn't take very long. I admit it. I was not the impressive 7 minute man I am today. The length of the act was debated later on but I'm going to go ahead and hit the middle zone and say it was around the 1:15 mark.

The poor girl who is involved in this story was very cute with luscious bosoms and a surprisingly strong ass. We had wound up in her bedroom making out whilst sitting on the bed. Naturally gravity became far too powerful and we both went horizontal. I clumsily groped and prodded her as we began to dry hump. At first that was wonderful until I started to get worried about possible chaffing from the intensity at which it was happening. Shirts started to fly to the other side of the room. Breast-induced vertigo began to set in. I think i recall her saying something about them. I'm not sure what it was but I got a mouthful...

Things progressed as they do in such heated and passionate situations, and I wound up almost completely naked (My socks were on) on top of a naked lady. My head was spinning from the wonderful bounty which God had brought before me and the fact she hadn't recoiled in horror upon seeing my genitalia. Neither of us had expected to be in this situation so we started setting boundaries on the fly. You know what I mean. It was one of those "We can just rub them against each other for a while that's all" situations that ended up leading to the always ridiculous "OK just put it in a little bit" that led to unprotected intercourse as it always does. I was inexperienced at the time and had no idea that "Just the Tip" was much like telling an Ethiopian to put a piece of steak in his mouth, but don't swallow!

I fumbled and misthrusted a few times before I hit my target, fully intending on just having sex with her a little bit. However once Tab A began to enter Slot B everything went white and a choir of angels descended from the heavens and started singing, "VAAAAGIIIIINAAAAAA vagina vagina vagina vagina omgitfeelsogoodcauseits VAAAAGIIIIINAAAA!"

So obviously now I'm on another planet. A planet where there is no war or poverty, where I for once don't think anything bad and I am just enjoying life as it is as dinosaurs dive around in their flying cars. The feeling of sex was so unlike anything that I have ever been involved with before. It was way better than embarrassment and totally killed rejection! It also was nothing like having my penis in my fist or between my couch cushions. I thrust away and enjoyed the good feelings.

Oh man this is great! The more I thrust the better it feels! Wow it's really starting to feel good now! I'm going to go faster! WOW THIS IS GR-Whoa! Wait! NO! HEY NOW! STOP!

Ohhhhh shit.

My vigorous movements had ceased. She looked at me puzzled as I was perched above her in a haze of confusion and sex and failing to have vacated the premises in time.

"Why'd you stop"
Uhhh
"What?"
I think I'm done
"What do you mean you think you're done?!"
I think I'm done
"You think?! Did you finish?!"
Uhhh. yeah.
"Oh my god"
Uhhhh yeah.

After being shoved off of her I made the genius move of suggesting we better go to the doctor in the morning to get one of them oh so convenient erasers known as the morning after pill. Because if there is one thing a woman wants to hear after she takes your virginity it's certainly something romantic like that. This obviously led to a naked fight. And by fight I mean me getting yelled at.

After about 20 minutes of crying and fully nude verbal abuse she finally yelled, "Why didn't you pull out?!" Pausing for a moment to come up with an excuse I responded with the most sensible answer I could think of.

"It got stuck"

Her eyes widened and she looked at me in disbelief. "It got stuck?!" She stared at me for what seemed like an eternity. In my head I was screaming at her "ITS NOT MY FAULT! YOU MUST HAVE QUICKSAND IN THAT THING!" Luckily it stayed in my skull until now.

Then came the laughter. Lots and lots of laughter. Thinking back I remember her looking down towards my nether region, then back up at my face and laughing even harder. That could just be something I imagined though. But probably not.

My bonehead answer did end the fight though. She calmed down, I stopped shaking in terror and we went on to have many many more instances of me disappointing her sexually. A Happy ending indeed.

It's so weird thinking back on it now because it seems like it was only yesterday it happened, and not at all like the 3 and a half months ago it was.

The 5th Stage of Grief

2007-08-14T00:34:00.000-04:00

I case you haven't noticed over there on the right, I have been honored with a very prestigious award. It was bestowed upon me, along with 4 other deserving artists, by my man at blog Portland for excellence in blogging or best blog performance by a mutant. I forget. Anyway I wanted to do a proper acceptance speech, so here goes.

Um. Wow. I totally wasn't expecting this. I wish i had worn something more appropriate than these sensible brown slacks and IZOD shirt. Phew. wow. Ok so first I have to thank Mister McFatty for this amazing honor. I had always figured the only people to ever recognize my work would be mental health professionals.

I want to also thank my mother. Without her insanely over-protective nature and constant worrying, I wouldn't be the complete social cripple that I am today. And of course I have to mention my father for allowing my mom to stunt my mental and emotional growth with very little protest.

I'd like to thank the FCC for restricting free speech on Television and radio. Due to their tireless and pointless efforts, my sexual vocabulary consists of mostly medical terminology which leads to odd looks and awkward situations, such as the time I told a woman in the heat of passion, "I enjoy feeling my testicles collide with your buttocks."

None of his would have been possible either without the Wrangler Jeans company. Thanks to their low quality denim products, and my idiocy, a defining tale was crafted that I will never be able to shake.

Women with low standards, those who encouraged me to post more, Zangief, the Cast of Oz, Eddie Money, the homeless, the homeful and of course Tom Selleck and Ted Danson. Thank you All.

To further show my gratitude I will be posting a story tomorrow that I have previously avoided sharing with the public. The epic tale of the loss of my virginity.

What The?

2007-08-10T10:32:00.000-04:00

I didn't plan on posting this morning but as I got off the subway at Times Square this morning I saw this old dude in front of me who had one of his ears completely covered in scotch tape.

At first I thought maybe it wasn't scotch tape, and it was some kind of medical adhesive that looked similar. So I yelled out, "Hey Scotch Tape Ear!" and he started looking around to see who had said it. Therefore it must be scotch tape! That's what we call science.

Help me figure this out. Why did he have his left ear encased in scotch tape?