1) Pirates.
Stop it, just... stop. You dumb bastards are trying to tell me that a bunch of guys wearing earrings and brightly colored silk shirts that spend way too much time on a boat alone together is badass? Fuck you.
There's a reason sailors are called seamen, and I think we all know why.
2) Nerds that aren't really nerds.
Look, if you dig comics, role playing games or videogames, that's fine. Do your thing and nerd out to whatever you want to (just don't be around me unless you've showered...).
But if I see one more "hipster" with a Batman t-shirt, thick, fashionable glasses and plugging away on his apple iBook while listening to Tiger Army trying to debate with me the comic book medium as a whole with no real concept of the genre save a few issues of Spawn he once looked at and the one time he read Watchmen, I'm going to murder him.
3) People
There's just way too many of 'em.
4) Zombies.
What was once kind of cool has now been totally oversaturated.
Besides, they make absolutely no sense on any level at all. Let's look at the monster list...
Vampires - They need blood to survive, therefore they hunt for human blood.
Frankenstein - Big ass lug who has a retard brain. He just kicks all sorts of ass and can't be stopped because he's dead (sort of) but still eats regular food.
Werewolves - People that turn into huge wolves who eat people. Bitchin'.
Zombies - WTF?!?!?
If they're dead, and there's nothing they can do to stop decomposition, why are they out for brains? 'Cuz of the taste? I think not.
Zombies are stupid just like you.
5) Juno.
Five minutes into this movie and I pumped two rounds into my TV from the double-gage. It wasn't a movie about a teenage girl getting pregnant and evaluating her life through the eyes of a poignant, quirky young woman.
It was a “film” about a bitter thirty-something woman who wished she could go back in time a be a teenage girl so she can say all the bitter things she had no nerve (and none of the intelligence) to say when she WAS a teenage girl. Everything about that movie screamed "I'm a misunderstood, cool broad that every other woman really wants to be but can't because I'm really cooler than them all."
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Manonnaise
I got rejected at the sperm bank today. It wasn’t because my lil’ guys were bad or anything like that; it’s just that I attempted to barter with the nurse for a larger payment.
But let me start at the beginning. I was pondering what I could do to better serve humanity. Knowing me, I couldn’t do much, but then an idea hit me like a snow shovel.
There should be more me on this planet! I figured I was doing the world a disservice by hording my genetics. Something must be DONE!
Seeing as how no woman will come within 20 feet of my person, I came to the conclusion that I should hit up the local sperm bank and make a deposit.
Once there, I was shocked at the mere $75 dollars they were going to give me.
“My knuckle babies are in high demand!” I exclaimed. “I’m the peak of human development!”
I ordered that they shell out at least $50,000 (not including the time spent procuring my “manonnaise“).
That didn’t go over to well with the broad, so I wanted to see the doctor in charge. He told me that that’s not how it worked. There was a price cap, and that cap was $75 dollars.
I told him not to think of this as a donation, but to think of this as an investment.
$50,000 was steep, yes, but with a possibility of creating an army of people with my staggering intelligence, my rugged good looks and the strength of ten men, the world could be saved in under twenty years.
He said no.
Bastard was low-balling me, so I dropped my price to $30,000. It was at that point that he warned me he would call security.
“$15,000?”
I was promptly thrown out.
Fine. If humankind doesn’t want to be saved, then fuck them.
But let me start at the beginning. I was pondering what I could do to better serve humanity. Knowing me, I couldn’t do much, but then an idea hit me like a snow shovel.
There should be more me on this planet! I figured I was doing the world a disservice by hording my genetics. Something must be DONE!
Seeing as how no woman will come within 20 feet of my person, I came to the conclusion that I should hit up the local sperm bank and make a deposit.
Once there, I was shocked at the mere $75 dollars they were going to give me.
“My knuckle babies are in high demand!” I exclaimed. “I’m the peak of human development!”
I ordered that they shell out at least $50,000 (not including the time spent procuring my “manonnaise“).
That didn’t go over to well with the broad, so I wanted to see the doctor in charge. He told me that that’s not how it worked. There was a price cap, and that cap was $75 dollars.
I told him not to think of this as a donation, but to think of this as an investment.
$50,000 was steep, yes, but with a possibility of creating an army of people with my staggering intelligence, my rugged good looks and the strength of ten men, the world could be saved in under twenty years.
He said no.
Bastard was low-balling me, so I dropped my price to $30,000. It was at that point that he warned me he would call security.
“$15,000?”
I was promptly thrown out.
Fine. If humankind doesn’t want to be saved, then fuck them.
What I Want to Do With My Life
I have a dream
Most people in my line of work aspire to do something great. Write an Academy Award winning film, a legendary Pulitzer Prize winning novel; something that will inspire generations to come.
I want to make the worlds greatest porno.
I’m not talking about some low-budget Vivid feature, or even something that will win an AVN award. I want to create a two-hundred-million dollar epic the likes of which will never be done again by humankind.
First off, it will be financed by large production companies like FOX or Universal. I want to get a big budget director like Ridley Scott with John Williams doing the score. I want stars like Brad Pitt and Scarlett Johansson. Yeah, they’ll use body-doubles when we get to the nitty-gritty, but that where Industrial Light and Magic comes in. If they can make it look like Keanu Reeves is flying, they could make Megan Fox look like she’s getting the ol’ “Chinese finger trap” action.
I want colossal explosions, earth-shattering wars, magnificent CGI fight scenes, lasers, aliens, monsters, spaceships, gods, and a lesbo scene with Angelina Jolie, Jessica Biel, Keira Knightly and Jessica Alba on a floating space station as it crashes onto the surface of Pluto.
People with watch the screen and weep with joy at the incredible motion picture before them. It will win scores of awards, a huge amount of praise and an unstoppable fan following.
And I will look upon you all and smile from my golden throne; rubbing my nude body with hundred dollar bills.
I mean, seriously, it couldn’t be any worse than the shit coming out now, can it?
Most people in my line of work aspire to do something great. Write an Academy Award winning film, a legendary Pulitzer Prize winning novel; something that will inspire generations to come.
I want to make the worlds greatest porno.
I’m not talking about some low-budget Vivid feature, or even something that will win an AVN award. I want to create a two-hundred-million dollar epic the likes of which will never be done again by humankind.
First off, it will be financed by large production companies like FOX or Universal. I want to get a big budget director like Ridley Scott with John Williams doing the score. I want stars like Brad Pitt and Scarlett Johansson. Yeah, they’ll use body-doubles when we get to the nitty-gritty, but that where Industrial Light and Magic comes in. If they can make it look like Keanu Reeves is flying, they could make Megan Fox look like she’s getting the ol’ “Chinese finger trap” action.
I want colossal explosions, earth-shattering wars, magnificent CGI fight scenes, lasers, aliens, monsters, spaceships, gods, and a lesbo scene with Angelina Jolie, Jessica Biel, Keira Knightly and Jessica Alba on a floating space station as it crashes onto the surface of Pluto.
People with watch the screen and weep with joy at the incredible motion picture before them. It will win scores of awards, a huge amount of praise and an unstoppable fan following.
And I will look upon you all and smile from my golden throne; rubbing my nude body with hundred dollar bills.
I mean, seriously, it couldn’t be any worse than the shit coming out now, can it?
Fuckin-A
I’m driving on the freeway after a particularly pleasant evening, when I hit a mad build-up of traffic. Now, keep in mind that it’s 11:15 pm. I should have a clear shot home.
But no. That’s not how life works.
At first, I assumed that it was some dumbass accident. You all know, some cum-stain driving his civic like it was a motherfuckin’ 1.6 million dollar Bugatti and he was Vin Diesel.
But, no… I started seeing traffic cones. I started seeing spotlights. I started seeing lighted direction lights. That could only mean ONE thing…
Goddamn Caltrans.
So I drove at a snails pace--wait, no. I saw a snail on the side of the rode BEATING me (he was laughing and flipping me off as I ate his dust).
The worst part, THE FUCKING WORST PART, was that they decided to cut down the 5 freeway (for those of you out-of-towners, that is the damn “main-vain” of the west coast. It travels from the Mexican border to the border of Canada.) to two lanes!
TWO FUCKING LANES!!!
There were two things keeping me from bursting my carotid artery popping and spraying a jet of blood from my neck into the number two lane. One, I had my daily dose of alcohol to ride me through my rage and the assumption that those bastards were working on the road. It’s feasible; 11 pm on a Thursday night…
Well fuck me silly with a bent hanger! No work. These ass-tards blocked off a HUGE chunk of the road for no reason at all. NOTHING WAS GOING ON! It turned a twenty-five minute ride (tops) into something more like a forty-five minute voyage into slow torment.
Sometimes, I think Caltrans is just trying to fuck with me. Blocking off roads. Having “detours” that start on the coast and spill out somewhere on the ass-end of the valley. It’s like they’re herding me into the center of the hedge maze.
What I want to do is paint my face with the blood of a few emo‘s that I took out earlier, kick the fucking door off my tiny car, drop a cinder block on the gas, strap my belt on my steering wheel to steady my steed and tip the sumbitch on two wheels. I could then climb on the side facing into the heavens and pull my HUGE blazing Zweihänder from the rear seat (my white hot rage being the fuel that lights the blade on fire).
I would roar at the top of my lungs and swing the flaming sword over my head like that badass St. Michel, hurdling through the construction zone and cleaving heads. “I M THE WAR GOD OF CALIFORNIA! I AM MARS! I AM MURUGAN! I AM TYR! ” I would howl. “You DARE impede my journey!”
“DIE WHERE YOU STAND, FOUL CREATURES OF REFLECTION TAPE AND DAY GLOW ORANGE VESTS!”
What I’ll probably do is write some pathetic, angry blog…
But no. That’s not how life works.
At first, I assumed that it was some dumbass accident. You all know, some cum-stain driving his civic like it was a motherfuckin’ 1.6 million dollar Bugatti and he was Vin Diesel.
But, no… I started seeing traffic cones. I started seeing spotlights. I started seeing lighted direction lights. That could only mean ONE thing…
Goddamn Caltrans.
So I drove at a snails pace--wait, no. I saw a snail on the side of the rode BEATING me (he was laughing and flipping me off as I ate his dust).
The worst part, THE FUCKING WORST PART, was that they decided to cut down the 5 freeway (for those of you out-of-towners, that is the damn “main-vain” of the west coast. It travels from the Mexican border to the border of Canada.) to two lanes!
TWO FUCKING LANES!!!
There were two things keeping me from bursting my carotid artery popping and spraying a jet of blood from my neck into the number two lane. One, I had my daily dose of alcohol to ride me through my rage and the assumption that those bastards were working on the road. It’s feasible; 11 pm on a Thursday night…
Well fuck me silly with a bent hanger! No work. These ass-tards blocked off a HUGE chunk of the road for no reason at all. NOTHING WAS GOING ON! It turned a twenty-five minute ride (tops) into something more like a forty-five minute voyage into slow torment.
Sometimes, I think Caltrans is just trying to fuck with me. Blocking off roads. Having “detours” that start on the coast and spill out somewhere on the ass-end of the valley. It’s like they’re herding me into the center of the hedge maze.
What I want to do is paint my face with the blood of a few emo‘s that I took out earlier, kick the fucking door off my tiny car, drop a cinder block on the gas, strap my belt on my steering wheel to steady my steed and tip the sumbitch on two wheels. I could then climb on the side facing into the heavens and pull my HUGE blazing Zweihänder from the rear seat (my white hot rage being the fuel that lights the blade on fire).
I would roar at the top of my lungs and swing the flaming sword over my head like that badass St. Michel, hurdling through the construction zone and cleaving heads. “I M THE WAR GOD OF CALIFORNIA! I AM MARS! I AM MURUGAN! I AM TYR! ” I would howl. “You DARE impede my journey!”
“DIE WHERE YOU STAND, FOUL CREATURES OF REFLECTION TAPE AND DAY GLOW ORANGE VESTS!”
What I’ll probably do is write some pathetic, angry blog…
The Charlie Method #3
I’m going to teach you kids a thing or two about handling yourself in a good ol’ fashioned bar fight. For the sake of this blog, I’ll call it “The Charlie Method #2” (the Charlie Method #1 is a difficult sexual position that I am currently trying to patent, and if you’re a broad then I may one day teach it to you and Charlie’s Method #3 is a recipe for making cookies).
Before you read on, grasshopper, there are a few rules that you must follow. The first is that you need to know the guy across from you WILL do anything to beat the living cheese out of you. DON‘T HOLD BACK! This is a warrior battle between two titans, not a goddamn pillow fight.
The second is that there are no rules. Use whatever means necessary to teach your opponent a lesson. In the olden days you would fight to the death, but in our time some bureaucratic ass-sniffer deemed murder a capital offence. BAH!
Third is that you didn’t hear anything from me. If you get arrested, chances are that I’m already going to be in the cell next to yours and I WILL romp on your spleen if I hear that you blaming me…
“Charlie’s Method #2”
1) Use whatever object that is lying around you as a weapon. Personally, I like glass bottles (the bigger the better) to smash on your opponent’s head, neck or shoulder (but don‘t exclude heavy drinking glasses or chairs). A good thing to do is scope out the room when you arrive and zoom in on possible armaments like the Terminator. Better safe than sorry.
No one ever won a war by using their hands (except for maybe cavemen or nancy-boys, but they don’t count.)
2) If you are backed into a corner and cannot gather a weapon, you can go for the cock punch. Most men disagree about this move, but then again most men who disagree with me usually end up on the ground clutching their swollen sacks. The upwards swinging motion usually works best, because you hit the intended target without fail and thrust the testicles into the lower-abdomen causing nausea and headaches.
3) Never underestimate the power of a well placed sucker punch. This usually works best if your opponent is an especially smug bastard. With his head turned away to gain recognition with his friends, wind your fist up and fire that piston when he turns back to you. Or, with his chest thrust in front of him and his arms pulled out to his side like a great ape claiming his domain, swing a heavy uppercut into his abdomen and lay him out like a Thai school girl.
Note: If you’re unsure of your opponent’s intentions, remember the famous words of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, “Shoot first, ask questions later.”
4) Look for things on his body to grab onto. I LOVE it when I see a piercing; it’s like a handle from god. Just grab and pull! Same goes for hair or ridiculous clothes. Dreadlocks? Grab and pull! Baggy shirt/pants? Grab and pull! Cowboy hat? Grab and pull!
5) Whoever said to never kick a man when he’s down is a true asshole. ALWAYS kick a man when he’s down! You need to teach this person a lesson that he will remember for the rest of his life: “Never FUCK with (INSERT NAME HERE).” He’s not going to learn that lesson if you have the kid gloves on.
It’s also usually good to spit on ‘im when you’re done.
6) If for whatever reason these things don’t work, remember to RUN LIKE FUCK. If your opponent can take all of that, then he’s one tough bastard and you shouldn’t have fucked with him in the first place.
Just run like fuck and never return…
Before you read on, grasshopper, there are a few rules that you must follow. The first is that you need to know the guy across from you WILL do anything to beat the living cheese out of you. DON‘T HOLD BACK! This is a warrior battle between two titans, not a goddamn pillow fight.
The second is that there are no rules. Use whatever means necessary to teach your opponent a lesson. In the olden days you would fight to the death, but in our time some bureaucratic ass-sniffer deemed murder a capital offence. BAH!
Third is that you didn’t hear anything from me. If you get arrested, chances are that I’m already going to be in the cell next to yours and I WILL romp on your spleen if I hear that you blaming me…
“Charlie’s Method #2”
1) Use whatever object that is lying around you as a weapon. Personally, I like glass bottles (the bigger the better) to smash on your opponent’s head, neck or shoulder (but don‘t exclude heavy drinking glasses or chairs). A good thing to do is scope out the room when you arrive and zoom in on possible armaments like the Terminator. Better safe than sorry.
No one ever won a war by using their hands (except for maybe cavemen or nancy-boys, but they don’t count.)
2) If you are backed into a corner and cannot gather a weapon, you can go for the cock punch. Most men disagree about this move, but then again most men who disagree with me usually end up on the ground clutching their swollen sacks. The upwards swinging motion usually works best, because you hit the intended target without fail and thrust the testicles into the lower-abdomen causing nausea and headaches.
3) Never underestimate the power of a well placed sucker punch. This usually works best if your opponent is an especially smug bastard. With his head turned away to gain recognition with his friends, wind your fist up and fire that piston when he turns back to you. Or, with his chest thrust in front of him and his arms pulled out to his side like a great ape claiming his domain, swing a heavy uppercut into his abdomen and lay him out like a Thai school girl.
Note: If you’re unsure of your opponent’s intentions, remember the famous words of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, “Shoot first, ask questions later.”
4) Look for things on his body to grab onto. I LOVE it when I see a piercing; it’s like a handle from god. Just grab and pull! Same goes for hair or ridiculous clothes. Dreadlocks? Grab and pull! Baggy shirt/pants? Grab and pull! Cowboy hat? Grab and pull!
5) Whoever said to never kick a man when he’s down is a true asshole. ALWAYS kick a man when he’s down! You need to teach this person a lesson that he will remember for the rest of his life: “Never FUCK with (INSERT NAME HERE).” He’s not going to learn that lesson if you have the kid gloves on.
It’s also usually good to spit on ‘im when you’re done.
6) If for whatever reason these things don’t work, remember to RUN LIKE FUCK. If your opponent can take all of that, then he’s one tough bastard and you shouldn’t have fucked with him in the first place.
Just run like fuck and never return…
Huh.
I sit on the beach on a shitty chair with a shitty beer on a shitty day.
It’s not raining, but the storm system looks like a short-hair away.
I take a swig, remembering my life as entirely as I can. The good and the bad.
It gets me thinking, what do I have to look forward to? When I die, will the pearly gates open themselves to me or will I cross the fiery threshold into Beelzebub’s unspeakable realm.
Frankly, I don’t give a damn. For all I know, I’ll simply cease to exist.
I take another swig. Then what’s the point?
Greater (and far less drunk) men than myself have asked that question but fuck it, I’m having an existential debate.
I think that it’s kind of simple. Do the best you can, help your fellow man and experience what you can with the short, insignificant time you have in this world.
Because what it amounts to is this, we all die.
I kill my beer and toss the empty with the rest of his fallen brothers.
The only road to everlasting life is how you are remembered by the people you once touched. Stories of what you did and things that you accomplished. For all I know, my name will be remembered forever (and it probably will with what I did to the Bob’s Big Boy sign in New Mexico, but that’s a story for another time…).
I can see it. The monkey-men in our Planet of the Apes-like future will sing lullabies about Charlie to their fuzzy little children.
I watch the water crash on the coast, the salty mist gently caressing my face, and think “Hell, I made mistakes and goddamn I’ll make a heap of more.”
But, hopefully, not the same ones twice.
That’s when I notice a guy standing next to me, looking down at utter disdain.
“Hey, man! You better think about picking those cans up…”
I rock myself up onto my feet, and stare at the guy from behind my shades.
“What are you, the beach patrol?”
“Nah, I’m the guy that’s gonna’ shove his foot up your ass if you don’t pick that shit up!”
I swivel my head to the trash pile, then back to him. The air around us is still. The wind stops.
That’s when it hits me. Shit, I’m pretty tossed…
Then I hit him with something he obviously didn’t expect.
I vomit all over his Art Center sweatshirt.
He gazes down at his shirt than at me with utter shock.
I smile, bow my head in bravado, turn around and exit, leaving him speechless in my wake.
I guess tomorrow I’ll strive to be the best I can. Today, I take a nap…
It’s not raining, but the storm system looks like a short-hair away.
I take a swig, remembering my life as entirely as I can. The good and the bad.
It gets me thinking, what do I have to look forward to? When I die, will the pearly gates open themselves to me or will I cross the fiery threshold into Beelzebub’s unspeakable realm.
Frankly, I don’t give a damn. For all I know, I’ll simply cease to exist.
I take another swig. Then what’s the point?
Greater (and far less drunk) men than myself have asked that question but fuck it, I’m having an existential debate.
I think that it’s kind of simple. Do the best you can, help your fellow man and experience what you can with the short, insignificant time you have in this world.
Because what it amounts to is this, we all die.
I kill my beer and toss the empty with the rest of his fallen brothers.
The only road to everlasting life is how you are remembered by the people you once touched. Stories of what you did and things that you accomplished. For all I know, my name will be remembered forever (and it probably will with what I did to the Bob’s Big Boy sign in New Mexico, but that’s a story for another time…).
I can see it. The monkey-men in our Planet of the Apes-like future will sing lullabies about Charlie to their fuzzy little children.
I watch the water crash on the coast, the salty mist gently caressing my face, and think “Hell, I made mistakes and goddamn I’ll make a heap of more.”
But, hopefully, not the same ones twice.
That’s when I notice a guy standing next to me, looking down at utter disdain.
“Hey, man! You better think about picking those cans up…”
I rock myself up onto my feet, and stare at the guy from behind my shades.
“What are you, the beach patrol?”
“Nah, I’m the guy that’s gonna’ shove his foot up your ass if you don’t pick that shit up!”
I swivel my head to the trash pile, then back to him. The air around us is still. The wind stops.
That’s when it hits me. Shit, I’m pretty tossed…
Then I hit him with something he obviously didn’t expect.
I vomit all over his Art Center sweatshirt.
He gazes down at his shirt than at me with utter shock.
I smile, bow my head in bravado, turn around and exit, leaving him speechless in my wake.
I guess tomorrow I’ll strive to be the best I can. Today, I take a nap…
Mortal Enemy
I take a swig from my glass of J&C and squint at what I see in front of me.
A monkey. A goddamn monkey.
He returns my thousand yard stare, clutching the little hotel bottle of Jack Daniel’s I thought I hid for emergencies.
It’s my buddy Willie’s damn monkey. I owe him five large and he tells me that if I watch his “chim-chim” for a week while he’s in Tomsk visiting his ailing grandfather, were square.
He leaves me a cage for the thing, but that’s no use. Chim-chim’s smart as hell and figured out how to jimmy the lock on the first day he stayed there. Then he proceeds to whip his dirty diaper off and swing it around the room. I come home from the bar and find my joint spackled with doo-doo.
The only time he calms the hell down is when I let him drink and watch old reruns of The Andy Griffith Show.
(I donno. Get Opie turns ‘im on or something. Kid did look like a chimp…)
So here we are. Last day. He’s looking at me and I looking and him. I’m sauced and he’s plastered.
“Make a move, you hairy little ass-clown,” I say aloud.
Then the little bastard shoves his grimy paw into the back of his diaper, pulls out a hunk of poo and tosses it into my drink.
The sumbitch smiles like it was funny or something.
So this is what it’s like to have a mortal enemy…
A monkey. A goddamn monkey.
He returns my thousand yard stare, clutching the little hotel bottle of Jack Daniel’s I thought I hid for emergencies.
It’s my buddy Willie’s damn monkey. I owe him five large and he tells me that if I watch his “chim-chim” for a week while he’s in Tomsk visiting his ailing grandfather, were square.
He leaves me a cage for the thing, but that’s no use. Chim-chim’s smart as hell and figured out how to jimmy the lock on the first day he stayed there. Then he proceeds to whip his dirty diaper off and swing it around the room. I come home from the bar and find my joint spackled with doo-doo.
The only time he calms the hell down is when I let him drink and watch old reruns of The Andy Griffith Show.
(I donno. Get Opie turns ‘im on or something. Kid did look like a chimp…)
So here we are. Last day. He’s looking at me and I looking and him. I’m sauced and he’s plastered.
“Make a move, you hairy little ass-clown,” I say aloud.
Then the little bastard shoves his grimy paw into the back of his diaper, pulls out a hunk of poo and tosses it into my drink.
The sumbitch smiles like it was funny or something.
So this is what it’s like to have a mortal enemy…
My Brush with Death
My brush with death.
I’m enjoying my beer, sitting around in my fuzzy bunny slippers and terrycloth robe, when I her a knock at the door.
When I open it I find a skeletal man in a crappy, off the rack JC Penny suit holding an umbrella. He looks at me underneath thinning hair, one eyebrow raised, and says,
“It’s your time to go.”
“Wait, what?”
“I’m death.”
“Who?”
“Muerte? La mort? The Ferry Man?”
“You’re death? The death.”
He rolls his eyes sarcastically, “Well, a death. There‘s a bunch of us running around, collecting souls. One person couldn’t do this job.”
I scan him for a moment, “You wanna come inside? Take a load off?”
He (or rather it) looks down at his Blackberry, “Well, I am ahead of schedule and I do need to use your restroom…”
After soiling my toilet, he takes a seat and starts to fiddle with my stereo. “What are you listening to?”
“Otis Rush.”
“Ooo. I like him. Real depressing, you know.”
I pour him a drink. He takes a sip and looks at me inquisitively, “Liquor? It’s ten in the morning.”
“I’m going to die in a few minutes anyway, right?”
“See, this is what I’m talking about. You smoke and drink all the time and when I come, all you folks complain about not having enough time…”
I squint at him, “Did I say anything, slappy?”
“No, no you didn’t. Sorry, it’s been a hard few centuries.”
“How does your job work, anyway?”
He stretches out on my couch and yawns, “ Well, like any government organization. We all work throughout the year, taking into account sick and vacation days--”
“Ha! Death takes a holiday…”
He sneers, “Like I don’t get that one all the time.”
“Anyway, we go around where needed and guide the recently deceased to wherever they ought to go. I heard the whole thing runs kind of like the DMV.”
“That place blows.”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t drive.”
“Heaven? Hell? Nirvana?”
“Not my department,” he says after sipping on his drink. “I’m just the middleman.”
We sit for a while, he tells me all about how rough his life is. Blah blah blah. For the grim reaper, he sure bellyaches like your average government type.
“We may end up striking in May…”
“What happens when you strike?”
“One word. Scabs. Last time that happened we got the back plague.”
He looks at his crappy Timex.
“Well, it’s time for us to go, Mr. Fenwright.”
“Mr. Fenwright? He moved out a couple of months ago. I still get his mail sometimes…”
He jumps up, “What?! This isn’t where he lives?! Why haven’t you sent his mail back?!”
“Um, ‘cuz I haven’t had time? Here. It‘s in this box, I haven‘t touched it”
“What the hell? Goddamn Shelly in processing, she always screws this up.”
“Told you the DMV blows.”
He peers at me cynically “Let me see some ID.”
He checks out my license and old student identification card.
“This is just perfect! I’m late, it’s going to rain and to top it off, I have to go all the way down to the main office and update some information.”
He leaves my place in a huff.
After a few minutes of head-scratching, I feel the need to empty my pipe and head to the bathroom.
The smell hits me first, then I look down and see that not only did Death not flush, but this hunk was hanging in the bowl like a goddamn iceberg. Fucking thing made me gag.
What did I learn today?
Death is a terrible, terrible thing to invite into your house.
I’m enjoying my beer, sitting around in my fuzzy bunny slippers and terrycloth robe, when I her a knock at the door.
When I open it I find a skeletal man in a crappy, off the rack JC Penny suit holding an umbrella. He looks at me underneath thinning hair, one eyebrow raised, and says,
“It’s your time to go.”
“Wait, what?”
“I’m death.”
“Who?”
“Muerte? La mort? The Ferry Man?”
“You’re death? The death.”
He rolls his eyes sarcastically, “Well, a death. There‘s a bunch of us running around, collecting souls. One person couldn’t do this job.”
I scan him for a moment, “You wanna come inside? Take a load off?”
He (or rather it) looks down at his Blackberry, “Well, I am ahead of schedule and I do need to use your restroom…”
After soiling my toilet, he takes a seat and starts to fiddle with my stereo. “What are you listening to?”
“Otis Rush.”
“Ooo. I like him. Real depressing, you know.”
I pour him a drink. He takes a sip and looks at me inquisitively, “Liquor? It’s ten in the morning.”
“I’m going to die in a few minutes anyway, right?”
“See, this is what I’m talking about. You smoke and drink all the time and when I come, all you folks complain about not having enough time…”
I squint at him, “Did I say anything, slappy?”
“No, no you didn’t. Sorry, it’s been a hard few centuries.”
“How does your job work, anyway?”
He stretches out on my couch and yawns, “ Well, like any government organization. We all work throughout the year, taking into account sick and vacation days--”
“Ha! Death takes a holiday…”
He sneers, “Like I don’t get that one all the time.”
“Anyway, we go around where needed and guide the recently deceased to wherever they ought to go. I heard the whole thing runs kind of like the DMV.”
“That place blows.”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t drive.”
“Heaven? Hell? Nirvana?”
“Not my department,” he says after sipping on his drink. “I’m just the middleman.”
We sit for a while, he tells me all about how rough his life is. Blah blah blah. For the grim reaper, he sure bellyaches like your average government type.
“We may end up striking in May…”
“What happens when you strike?”
“One word. Scabs. Last time that happened we got the back plague.”
He looks at his crappy Timex.
“Well, it’s time for us to go, Mr. Fenwright.”
“Mr. Fenwright? He moved out a couple of months ago. I still get his mail sometimes…”
He jumps up, “What?! This isn’t where he lives?! Why haven’t you sent his mail back?!”
“Um, ‘cuz I haven’t had time? Here. It‘s in this box, I haven‘t touched it”
“What the hell? Goddamn Shelly in processing, she always screws this up.”
“Told you the DMV blows.”
He peers at me cynically “Let me see some ID.”
He checks out my license and old student identification card.
“This is just perfect! I’m late, it’s going to rain and to top it off, I have to go all the way down to the main office and update some information.”
He leaves my place in a huff.
After a few minutes of head-scratching, I feel the need to empty my pipe and head to the bathroom.
The smell hits me first, then I look down and see that not only did Death not flush, but this hunk was hanging in the bowl like a goddamn iceberg. Fucking thing made me gag.
What did I learn today?
Death is a terrible, terrible thing to invite into your house.
I Love People
I’m sitting in my favorite bar (honestly, any bar is my favorite bar if the drinks are under five bucks) when a guy shoves me hard on the shoulder.
“Hey mother fucker. I wanna talk to you.”
I squint over my shoulder and respond, “Do I know you?”
He goes, “Just step outside. I wanna talk to you.”
I knock back the last of my drink, slowly stand up and follow him into the back parking lot. (Taking my glasses off just in case he tried anything)
Upon exiting the fine establishment, a cross between a truck stop and an old man’s putrid ass, I light one up.
“Do I know you, buddy, or are you just gonna try and rob me?”
He swings with a hard right, catching me off guard. (Fuck, I shoulda’ seen that one coming…)
I hold my hands out, “Hey, hey man. Settle down. What the fuck are you doin’?”
He looks up at me with his beady little eyes, “You fucked my Debbie and now I’m gonna’ lay you out!”
I look at him close and say, “Bud, I didn’t fuck no one. Who the fuck do you think I am?”
“Fuck you! I know it’s you!”
I rub my jaw as I pick up my cigarette, “Look, Mac. I don’t know you from a hole in the wall. I don’t know who your girlfriend is. I haven’t fucked anyone named Debbie.”
He takes a minute to cool down. “Jerry?”
“No.”
That’s when I hear him sniffle. I lean down, shocked, to find the poor slob crying. “I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry. I thought you were…”
I wrap my arm around him. “It looks like you could use a drink, bud. You wanna’ come back inside and talk about it?”
Robbie (the guy who punched me) lets the floodgates open over a couple of J&Cs. Apparently, this broad “Debbie” was his one and only. They met when he was nineteen and stayed a couple for the seven years. She left him not two days ago and now he hears that she’s been sleeping around with a big guy who fits my description.
The guy’s a mess. He can’t eat. He can’t sleep. He wanted to get married to this woman but she broke his heart.
(I guess that’s what I get for tryin’ to get some peace and quiet at a north Hollywood “townie” bar)
I buy him another and explain to him that it’s not the end of the world. That sometimes love just doesn’t work out. The best thing for him to do is look for a support system through family and friends. Take some time off to think about things. And when he feels a little better, to try out something new like fishing or golfing. Something he’s good at that he knows he can feel like a winner as he does it.
You know… I was a regular Dr. Phil.
Anyway, we connect like a couple of buddies and I offer him a ride home. I say, “I don’t want you driving in a condition like you are now, friend.”
I drive a few blocks and he shows me where he lives . I hold him up with my shoulder as we get to his threshold.
He opens his door and turns to me, “Thanks a lot, man. I really needed a friend--.”
As he turns I deck him as hard as I can in his stupid face with a roll of quarters in my palm. He doubles over and I kick him a few times in the gut.
He whimpers as I light up another smoke and kick him one more time for good measure. “Debbie was terrible in the sack.”
I never slept with his lady, really. First time I laid eyes on the sumbitch was at that bar. Had no idea who he was going on about. Kicking the shit out of him was for sucker-punching me.
The comment about his broad was just icing on the cake…
“Hey mother fucker. I wanna talk to you.”
I squint over my shoulder and respond, “Do I know you?”
He goes, “Just step outside. I wanna talk to you.”
I knock back the last of my drink, slowly stand up and follow him into the back parking lot. (Taking my glasses off just in case he tried anything)
Upon exiting the fine establishment, a cross between a truck stop and an old man’s putrid ass, I light one up.
“Do I know you, buddy, or are you just gonna try and rob me?”
He swings with a hard right, catching me off guard. (Fuck, I shoulda’ seen that one coming…)
I hold my hands out, “Hey, hey man. Settle down. What the fuck are you doin’?”
He looks up at me with his beady little eyes, “You fucked my Debbie and now I’m gonna’ lay you out!”
I look at him close and say, “Bud, I didn’t fuck no one. Who the fuck do you think I am?”
“Fuck you! I know it’s you!”
I rub my jaw as I pick up my cigarette, “Look, Mac. I don’t know you from a hole in the wall. I don’t know who your girlfriend is. I haven’t fucked anyone named Debbie.”
He takes a minute to cool down. “Jerry?”
“No.”
That’s when I hear him sniffle. I lean down, shocked, to find the poor slob crying. “I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry. I thought you were…”
I wrap my arm around him. “It looks like you could use a drink, bud. You wanna’ come back inside and talk about it?”
Robbie (the guy who punched me) lets the floodgates open over a couple of J&Cs. Apparently, this broad “Debbie” was his one and only. They met when he was nineteen and stayed a couple for the seven years. She left him not two days ago and now he hears that she’s been sleeping around with a big guy who fits my description.
The guy’s a mess. He can’t eat. He can’t sleep. He wanted to get married to this woman but she broke his heart.
(I guess that’s what I get for tryin’ to get some peace and quiet at a north Hollywood “townie” bar)
I buy him another and explain to him that it’s not the end of the world. That sometimes love just doesn’t work out. The best thing for him to do is look for a support system through family and friends. Take some time off to think about things. And when he feels a little better, to try out something new like fishing or golfing. Something he’s good at that he knows he can feel like a winner as he does it.
You know… I was a regular Dr. Phil.
Anyway, we connect like a couple of buddies and I offer him a ride home. I say, “I don’t want you driving in a condition like you are now, friend.”
I drive a few blocks and he shows me where he lives . I hold him up with my shoulder as we get to his threshold.
He opens his door and turns to me, “Thanks a lot, man. I really needed a friend--.”
As he turns I deck him as hard as I can in his stupid face with a roll of quarters in my palm. He doubles over and I kick him a few times in the gut.
He whimpers as I light up another smoke and kick him one more time for good measure. “Debbie was terrible in the sack.”
I never slept with his lady, really. First time I laid eyes on the sumbitch was at that bar. Had no idea who he was going on about. Kicking the shit out of him was for sucker-punching me.
The comment about his broad was just icing on the cake…
Sailin-Motherfuckin'-MAN
I’m out with Mack, hittin’ golf balls into the Salton Sea. The place reeks of old, dead fish, (which is fine by me since Mack’s putrid cigar is much, much worse) but it’s a nice place if you want to get away and drink.
I take a drag off of my smoke and hit a sweet shot into the sunset when Mack turns to me and asks, “Hey Chaz,” he’s the only one that can call me that, seein’ as how his ex-girlfriend was stolen by a fucker named Charlie, “ you ever think about Popeye?”
I plop down next to the guy in an extra lawn chair and snatch the half empty bottle of Jack.
“Popeye?”
“Yeah, you know, the sailor man…”
I take a swig and give him the squint-eye.
“I know who the fuck Popeye is, cock-sucker. What about ‘em?”
He looks at the sky for a minute and continues. “Like, I wonder what war the guy fought in…”
I sit back and join in, “I guess something like World War Two. Maybe One.”
“Yeah. Those were tough wars. You think he ever killed anyone?”
I think for a second. “Guess he had to. Guys back then, even Navy guys, were storming the beaches bayoneting the enemy. Probably lost his eye from Japanese shrapnel. Pretty grizzly stuff”
He takes a swig. “Yeah. Think he knew Bluto back then?”
“Yeah. That’s why Popeye has such a hard-on for the guy.”
Mack throws the empty bottle into the soupy water. “Bet you he caught Bluto doin’ something bad, like raping a Japanese woman on leave or something. He looked like the kind of asshole that would rough up a broad.”
I open a fresh one. “Sure he does. But where does that leave Olive Oil? Bluto’s always pawin’ on her. Why doesn’t Popeye just tell her the truth?”
“’Cuz, he’s the kind of guy that settles things with his fist. ‘Sides, she had Popeye’s kid. He doesn’t need to prove anything…”
“I guess so.”
As we finish our “Popeye Back story,” An old ‘67 Lincoln pulls up behind us. Out slides a mountain of a man dressed in a black suit, walkin‘ towards us looking‘ like Satan himself. Sleeve tattoos barely poke out of the cuffs and if I didn’t know any better, he was pakin’ a cannon under his left arm.
He takes a moment to survey the landscape, then look down at us through aviators.
“Seems as if I’m lost. You guys know how to get to the 10 from here?” he says in a voice like gravel.
We tell him where to go and he obliges us with a ride back to our car.
I’m sitting in the front seat of his fine automobile when I notice on his right hand he has a tat’ of Popeye, smokin’ away on his little corncob pipe.
I point it out.
He takes a drink from our bottle, and without taking his eyes off the road, he mutters, “Toughest mother fucker I ever knew about…”
So here’s to Popeye, you old sailin’ bastard. Keep chompin’ on that spinach and kickin‘ ass.
I take a drag off of my smoke and hit a sweet shot into the sunset when Mack turns to me and asks, “Hey Chaz,” he’s the only one that can call me that, seein’ as how his ex-girlfriend was stolen by a fucker named Charlie, “ you ever think about Popeye?”
I plop down next to the guy in an extra lawn chair and snatch the half empty bottle of Jack.
“Popeye?”
“Yeah, you know, the sailor man…”
I take a swig and give him the squint-eye.
“I know who the fuck Popeye is, cock-sucker. What about ‘em?”
He looks at the sky for a minute and continues. “Like, I wonder what war the guy fought in…”
I sit back and join in, “I guess something like World War Two. Maybe One.”
“Yeah. Those were tough wars. You think he ever killed anyone?”
I think for a second. “Guess he had to. Guys back then, even Navy guys, were storming the beaches bayoneting the enemy. Probably lost his eye from Japanese shrapnel. Pretty grizzly stuff”
He takes a swig. “Yeah. Think he knew Bluto back then?”
“Yeah. That’s why Popeye has such a hard-on for the guy.”
Mack throws the empty bottle into the soupy water. “Bet you he caught Bluto doin’ something bad, like raping a Japanese woman on leave or something. He looked like the kind of asshole that would rough up a broad.”
I open a fresh one. “Sure he does. But where does that leave Olive Oil? Bluto’s always pawin’ on her. Why doesn’t Popeye just tell her the truth?”
“’Cuz, he’s the kind of guy that settles things with his fist. ‘Sides, she had Popeye’s kid. He doesn’t need to prove anything…”
“I guess so.”
As we finish our “Popeye Back story,” An old ‘67 Lincoln pulls up behind us. Out slides a mountain of a man dressed in a black suit, walkin‘ towards us looking‘ like Satan himself. Sleeve tattoos barely poke out of the cuffs and if I didn’t know any better, he was pakin’ a cannon under his left arm.
He takes a moment to survey the landscape, then look down at us through aviators.
“Seems as if I’m lost. You guys know how to get to the 10 from here?” he says in a voice like gravel.
We tell him where to go and he obliges us with a ride back to our car.
I’m sitting in the front seat of his fine automobile when I notice on his right hand he has a tat’ of Popeye, smokin’ away on his little corncob pipe.
I point it out.
He takes a drink from our bottle, and without taking his eyes off the road, he mutters, “Toughest mother fucker I ever knew about…”
So here’s to Popeye, you old sailin’ bastard. Keep chompin’ on that spinach and kickin‘ ass.
Good Day to You, Sir.
There’s a moment, early in the morning, where everything is perfect.
The birds are hushed. There are no cars on the road. No people in the streets.
Time stops.
You look up at the sky and see pins of light long dead to humanity. You wonder how far the darkness goes. What else is out there. Is everything planned by some great deity? Or are we all shattering abnormalities spinning without purpose into oblivion?
That’s when the soft light creeps in from the west.
Like some great magician playing the ultimate slight-of-hand, the sun drapes over the night with a fine fabric. For a few minutes you turn your head in its direction, forgetting your inquiries, and watch the dawn of a new day. New troubles, new hopes, new challenges, births and deaths. The world wakes and we start it all over again, for better or worse.
At that split second time continues.
I don’t know how long this period really lasts. Maybe fifteen minutes. Maybe fifteen millennia. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that you took the time to notice a miracle.
Unfortunately, this is also the time that most homeowners turn on their sprinklers.
I get off of some stranger’s lawn, soaked to the bone, rub the stubble under my chin and grab my pants out of the street.
I need a pack of smokes and some coffee.
Jesus, maybe the clerk at that 7-11 can tell me where the hell I am…
The birds are hushed. There are no cars on the road. No people in the streets.
Time stops.
You look up at the sky and see pins of light long dead to humanity. You wonder how far the darkness goes. What else is out there. Is everything planned by some great deity? Or are we all shattering abnormalities spinning without purpose into oblivion?
That’s when the soft light creeps in from the west.
Like some great magician playing the ultimate slight-of-hand, the sun drapes over the night with a fine fabric. For a few minutes you turn your head in its direction, forgetting your inquiries, and watch the dawn of a new day. New troubles, new hopes, new challenges, births and deaths. The world wakes and we start it all over again, for better or worse.
At that split second time continues.
I don’t know how long this period really lasts. Maybe fifteen minutes. Maybe fifteen millennia. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that you took the time to notice a miracle.
Unfortunately, this is also the time that most homeowners turn on their sprinklers.
I get off of some stranger’s lawn, soaked to the bone, rub the stubble under my chin and grab my pants out of the street.
I need a pack of smokes and some coffee.
Jesus, maybe the clerk at that 7-11 can tell me where the hell I am…
Yay! TV!
So I’m up late, drinking my sorrows away, when I come across the greatest show ever produced in the history of television.
A bright light shone upon my screen from heaven above as if God himself opened his hand to endowed me with a magnificent gift. Angels played their horns. Cherubs threw rose petals. A choir sung an adagio so sweet that flowers bloomed. My eyes rippled with joyous tears when I was presented with a television show almost indescribable to any mortal being. Breakup
The church… “Cheaters.” unicorn galloping instant gratification
It’s pope… Mr. Joey Greco. Bloodthirsty
I know, I know. You‘re all saying, “But Charlie, why are you lowering your television viewing experience by watching this trash?”
That’s when I put down my bottle of malt liquor, hang a cigarette between my lips, carefully place a white velvet glove on my hand and slap you across the face.
Here’s the deal you gaggle of dried turds. When I’m depressed about things, especially “love,” I turn into a real bastard. I like… nay, I love seeing other people miserable. If I can’t hold hands on the beach at sunset, then I want to nuke that beach. If I can’t pick flowers in a sunny, green field with “Juliet,” then I say damn the fuzzy little bunnies and napalm the whole fuckin’ place.
I tried changing my ways through a series of Clockwork Orange-type psychological manipulation but nothing seems worked.
This is where “Cheaters” comes in. Some fuck-ass stumbles into the studio doubtful that the significant other’s “late nights” with the friends and overnight business trips could be (shocker) nothing but lies.
That’s when Mr. Greco swoops in with his team of blood thirsty, take-no-prisoner velociraptors that some may call an investigation team. They shoot video of every dirty encounter, record audio of every lie.
You cannot hide your cheating ways from “Joey’s lil’ bastards!”
Now comes the reveal. I know it’s sick, but watching the poor bastard gaze, slack jawed, at a video of their beau having dirty, raunchy sex with another is the icing on the cake. If you pay close, careful attention to their face, you can actually see where their soul is shattered! It’s a .5 second instant in time where one can observe a total stranger’s life get vaporized into nothing.
Then there’s the confrontation where, you guessed it, the faithful confronts the two-timer. This is just a bunch of yelling and fighting. It’s nothing you can’t see on your average Saturday night in the parking lot at Jumbo’s Clown Room, but who wants to waste their time driving to some dive bar just to watch two fat couples fight.
So vaya con dios, Joey Greco! Vaya con dios !
A bright light shone upon my screen from heaven above as if God himself opened his hand to endowed me with a magnificent gift. Angels played their horns. Cherubs threw rose petals. A choir sung an adagio so sweet that flowers bloomed. My eyes rippled with joyous tears when I was presented with a television show almost indescribable to any mortal being. Breakup
The church… “Cheaters.” unicorn galloping instant gratification
It’s pope… Mr. Joey Greco. Bloodthirsty
I know, I know. You‘re all saying, “But Charlie, why are you lowering your television viewing experience by watching this trash?”
That’s when I put down my bottle of malt liquor, hang a cigarette between my lips, carefully place a white velvet glove on my hand and slap you across the face.
Here’s the deal you gaggle of dried turds. When I’m depressed about things, especially “love,” I turn into a real bastard. I like… nay, I love seeing other people miserable. If I can’t hold hands on the beach at sunset, then I want to nuke that beach. If I can’t pick flowers in a sunny, green field with “Juliet,” then I say damn the fuzzy little bunnies and napalm the whole fuckin’ place.
I tried changing my ways through a series of Clockwork Orange-type psychological manipulation but nothing seems worked.
This is where “Cheaters” comes in. Some fuck-ass stumbles into the studio doubtful that the significant other’s “late nights” with the friends and overnight business trips could be (shocker) nothing but lies.
That’s when Mr. Greco swoops in with his team of blood thirsty, take-no-prisoner velociraptors that some may call an investigation team. They shoot video of every dirty encounter, record audio of every lie.
You cannot hide your cheating ways from “Joey’s lil’ bastards!”
Now comes the reveal. I know it’s sick, but watching the poor bastard gaze, slack jawed, at a video of their beau having dirty, raunchy sex with another is the icing on the cake. If you pay close, careful attention to their face, you can actually see where their soul is shattered! It’s a .5 second instant in time where one can observe a total stranger’s life get vaporized into nothing.
Then there’s the confrontation where, you guessed it, the faithful confronts the two-timer. This is just a bunch of yelling and fighting. It’s nothing you can’t see on your average Saturday night in the parking lot at Jumbo’s Clown Room, but who wants to waste their time driving to some dive bar just to watch two fat couples fight.
So vaya con dios, Joey Greco! Vaya con dios !
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