the big fat rip off

My Papa Died

2007-03-02T21:52:00.000-08:00

On February 20, 2007 at 11:05AM Sty-a-chin died.

At 7AM the local DJ was assuring everyone that today’s sunrise would be a “ten pointer.”

I was reading the Drudgreport and nursing black coffee when the phone rang.

The Telephone’s Caller ID flashed “Scottsdale Medical Center.” Perhaps the liver transplant consult had been arranged for Papa. The woman on the phone asked, “Is this the son?”

“Yes.”

“You better come down. It’s happening.”

Six words but I knew exactly what she meant. I rousted Auntie S, Auntie J, and Cousin M by repeating those same six words. Though, they were still wrapped in their bed sheets, no clarification was necessary. In two minutes, Auntie S and I hopped in the Honda and sped down the 101.

The calm I felt was as big as the sky and scared me. I might be too calm. One phone call shattered the last-ditch hopes we had that Papa was going to “make it.” Shouldn’t I be crushed? Shouldn’t my body be a tangle of inoperative limbs with my gears slipping from grief? I must be gliding across the Plateaus of Denial and the cliff will soon come.

The 101 was jammed up at Cactus Blvd. Traffic was an inconsequential annoyance considering the circumstances; Auntie S and I took evasive measures. Through a series of illegal but carefully maneuvers we made it the Scottsdale Medical Center in minutes.

Auntie S, Auntie J, and I donned the all too familiar yellow smocks. These were the ceremonial garb of the Medical Religion. I eschewed the Laytex gloves. If my father really was dying, I was going to hold his hand with my hand.

My father’s lungs shoveled the air. The color in his face was rosy, like he’d just gotten off the slopes for a quick Irish Coffee in the lodge. His eyes were closed, and the lids were shiny like in the old-time cartoons. I could not believe he was dying.

With my head on his shoulder I cried. The sadness swam up from the dark like a giant manta ray. This was my Papa. A fantasy whispered that my love vibes might work their way into to his subconscious and wake him up, but his eyes did not open. I knew they wouldn’t. When my tears receded I held his hand.

The red splotches and broken capillaries in his wrist were too biomedical to look at. A trickle of blood leaked from where his IV entered his body. The crooked blood trail made his arm look cracked as if it had splintered. It seemed like the kind of thing nightmares were made of, but then I let go of the fear out of respect. I looked at him to know him and honor him. Pain and Death and Separation are the archangels of fear. I would not allow them to prevent me for witnessing the last few moments in the world of my beloved papa.

I wiped the tears from the stems of papa’s eyes and wiped his mouth. My presence and touch would be the last telegraphed messages of love to wherever he was inside. The room flooded with family.

I recounted the Lore of Joe Bowen and his Bountiful Adventures: the “close call” when a gray whale leaped out of the water a hair’s breadth from our boat, the “journey” across the badlands in a VW bus, the strange gravies he ladled over wild rice and forced everyone to eat, paddling a canoe across “S’Klallam Bay,” the great fireworks “debacle” when a box of fireworks fell on its side and pointed right at the house, the infamous wild Indian Ball he held on an island entitled, “Last Chance for Romance.” The laughter surprised me. Even in this grave moment, his adventure’s made others laugh.

The nurses returned and tweaked boxes and tubes like navigators. They were a team. A gay Cambodian named George and Meg was a pregnant tall White woman. They were perfect for their parts because they stayed out of the way and demonstrated the requisite deference. I asked them, “How do you do it? I can’t imagine going through this more than once?”

Meg looked at me and then said, “Well, most of the times the patients get better. And that’s the rewarding part. But it’s also an honor to be here during times like this.” A bright orange poker of Anger stoked my heart and hurtful things to say buzzed around like campfire sparks. The desire to unleash my rage on this nurse blossomed like a gasoline rose. But a deep breath reminded me that this wasn’t about the nurse, she did not kill papa. I set my energy to something more meaningful like memorizing his face.

Papa spoke of his pending death often to me, even when I was young. Even when he didn’t talk about it, his obesity was poignant reminder. He maxed his body out repeatedly and kept asking for more credit. It was just a matter of time before the bill came due. Even giants are made of flesh. We traveled a lot when I was a kid, and that’s when he told me stuff. He dictated to me what would happen to my mind when and if he died. “You’ll forget things. You’ll forget what my face looks like. And then eventually you’ll forget what my voice sounds like. You’ll try to remember but you won’t be able to.”

I was skeptical. At the time I did not know he spoke from his own experience. When he was 22 his mother died of cancer. He was not making predictions for me but telling me what had happened to him. In the hospital I burned his face into my memory:

He had a ruddy face, with long dark, straight, long eyelashes. He had a W.C. Fieldsian nose, or maybe a little Tip O’Neil-ish. It was a lawyer’s nose, rounded from drinking and thinking. The flat delta under his nose gave him a thin upper lip. His bottom lip was thicker. When he grew a moustache he darkened it with wax because his facial hair was lean. His round chin rested in a swath of healthy skin. His whiskers were usually clean shaven. Although, every once in awhile he’d go Rambo and let the iron stubble grow in. He had anti-gapped teeth. The front two were tight as stones in a Roman arch but he had gaps on either side of them. He’d always meant to get them filled. Once we went down to Rocky Point, Mexico together to investigate “affordable” dentistry. Sometimes he’d squirt a dual stream of pool water through the teeth while swimming. He dyed his hair with Just For Men hair product—Ash Brown. It was a good color for him because it was not overly dark. A ripple of gray was emanating from his head because coloring his hair was an impossibility at the hospital. The grisly fact that the hair continues to grow after death made an appearance in my mind. He had dark brown eyebrows over the crown jewels of his face—his eyes. They were stark blue like two glacier shards.

I rubbed my dad’s feet one last time. Growing up my dad made me rub his feet. I hated it. It was a loathsome and awful work. It would have been easier to wear stripes and break rocks than rub his feet. They were like petrified tree trunks. His callouses were like heat shields from the space shuttle. But I rubbed his feet for the long walk he was making.

The bright red numbers indicating blood pressure declined slowly. My father was slowly easing off the throttle to coast for awhile. He did not visibly wince or grimace. He slept as peaceful as a prince except for the labored breathing. I held his hand and told him that I would be happy in life and love my family.

The blood was leaving his face like a firing going out. His skin became the predawn. His eyes in rolled up into his head and I knew, I absolutely knew that we were made from things in the earth. He bit down on his nasal cannula. His neck thickened. The blood pressure sunk below 30. Legal regulations required Meg to ask us if we wanted to put a breathing tube in Papa’s mouth. It was out of the question.

The totality his absence brushed against me like sharks. I did not crumble, I carried forth, holding his hand, the cracked hand. The nurse turned off his monitors so we didn’t have to listen to the alarms and buzzers. I radiated as much love for him as I could. We said a prayer and then I sang the bear song for him. He took one last breath, his body tensed up and then relaxed forever.

He changed in front of me. He went from my papa into a woodpile. Without his spark I saw nothing in the body laying in the hospital bed. The clock said 11:05AM. I must remember this.

Everyone cried. Everyone took their turn to say goodbye to him.

Eventually the people made their way to the cafeteria, I waited alone with my dad’s body for the pastor and the doctor. I thought about the times when I was so little I could sleep on his back while he watched football. I snipped some of my dad’s hair of for myself. I felt a little morbid but I wanted a piece of him with me to keep me going, to keep me strong to keep me alive. To keep me from grinding myself between the Wall of Routine, the sort of thing my father fought against.

So I snipped his locks, enough for a little natural gray and the “coloring” and used medical tape to hold it together.

The doctor came in and put a stethoscope to his chest and formally pronounced that he was dead, and that she was sorry. That was the end to the best papa that ever lived on god’s green earth. He was excellent. Now I will be happy, love my family, and remember him.

New Blogs, Trips, Papa Bear

2007-02-15T10:01:00.001-08:00

My fellow Netizens, I can bear the pressure no longer. Clearly, this blog has been drifting for some time. I can feel the accusations growing out in the “no where.” Collectively your blame is rising up like a Swamp Thing in the Bayou to point its finger at the Medicine Bear and saying, “You. You are just like the others. A flash in the internet pan. You wrote, and wrote, and then just like every other pampered generation X’er you lost focus. You became bored. And moved on. This is why you’re no writer. You have the staying power of a 15 year old lad with a Brazilian Stripper. Go back now, and never call yourself a writer again!?”

To this I say HA! HA! You people, you mob, you digital posse. The Medicine Bear does not hibernate because he has MEDICINE…duh! This medicine keeps me awake, with red eyes and staring out my window at LA SWAT hiding in the trees...And don’t start with that “Ooooh, Law School has stolen his focus like a crackhead and a purse.” Not true. The bear’s appetite is never satisfied by one course of study, he is an omnivore. That means veggies and meats, people! No, I am working on a travel story. My adventures through Peru. This condensed multi-volumed treatise is jam packed with sumptuous blend of penis jokes and historical fact. It will be free of charge [except for the part of pretending to enjoy it when one is my presence] and will be delivered to you via email.

So other than that. My father has been ill. Yes, shame. Shame, on you. A pox, a pox on the accusers. Calling me lazy when the “Dancing Bear” is in the hospital. Yeah, my dad is ill and has been bed ridden for 3 months. It’s unsettling because he was such a lively, hearty man. His heartiness is great benefit to him during this time. Most regular mortals would have perished but my father hangs on. He contracted a virus in his adventures to Panama. Apparently a visit to a “local” eatery finally caught up to him. His infection's toxicity was multiplied by various other complications that family modesty prohibits me from disclosing. It does lead me to talk about my father though. A few points that the Mob ought to know about the man.

He was my only parent.

My father and mother’s marriage was short lived and sort of tragic. Much of the marriages in the “hippie” and “free love” period were neither “hip” nor “free.” Unfortunately they separated shortly after their union. My mother lived in Riverside. Apparently the mothering lessons taught in East Los Angeles were not so effective. As a result, my Aunt Sandy contacted my father to ask permission so that she could adopt me. I suppose she assumed that a young, male, bachelor lawyer would not have the time or patience [or maybe even that the lawyer heart is capable of love] to raise me. However, Aunt Sandy was mistaken. My father traveled from the Puyallup Indian Reservation and got me. This is one of the reasons why I love BOYZ IN THE HOOD, aside from the common generation X desire to be a black thug, I also appreciated seeing a Father take responsibility and raise his son.

My father raised me. True it was Father love, which is a more steely kind of affection, it was love none the less. And although, he was rough and tumble, I was never hungry [as my Husky-Sized clothing attest to] and I never felt unloved.

I had a pioneer Father

My dad had a lust for outdoor adventure and hunting. I think his generation was raised on Davey Crockett and Westerns and so they wanted to get outside and kill things. For Instance, when my father was in Law School he put on a head band, and was hunting deer along a creek near riverside. He was hunting with a bow. Of course, he was near Riverside where there were grocery stores and the like. I think he just wanted to be a pioneer-dude. It is highly unlikely that he would even encounter deer. However, while he was “stalking” a great calamity arose. My Father heard a large crowd whistling as shouting. He looked over and saw men pressed up against a chain link fence cheering him on. No, this was not a bathhouse…close, it was a prison. Apparently, the criminals in the yard spied my dad creeping around with a bow and arrow and the violent, “manly,” anti-civilization aspect of it captured their hearts.

Old Man Quick Shots
1. He used night hunt with my Uncle Tom Taylor by duct taping a flashlight to his rifle. A trick I employed when playing war with my buddies which led to chipping my best friend’s tooth.
He has been known to occupy his cabin wearing a giant Coyote “Babbooshka” with no shirt, only sweats stuffed into gortex boots while making Moose stew in a crock-pot and watching Hombre.
He affixed a target with bales of hay across his driveway so that he may sight his rifles in from the comfort of his deck.
2. Every home he lives in has a fire pit. Including installing a Franklin stove inside a house just because he loves the smell of wood smoke.
3. He once asked me if i thought god exists, and at the time I was an atheist and said in my best teen know-it-all voice, “obviously he does not.” Although my father was not a religious man he did say, “You shouldn’t say its so obvious he does not. There is no evidence that he does or does not exist, and if you say he does not, it sounds kind of stupid.” This conversation made a great impression on me.
4. He wore flip flops anywhere and everywhere. He would meet the president of the United States in flip flops.
5. He pioneered Indian Gaming – a huge accomplishment. Essentially he brought welfare to poor White and Asian Americans. Although these ethnic groups do not believe in the state provideing free money to the udner privileged, they do believe in putting up a tiny fee for the chance to win a huge chunk of Free money. Interesting.

Anyways, these are just a few things. This is just to point out how hard it is to see my father struggling in a hospital because he enjoys life. Also, this enjoyment is the reason he is fighting to stay here. He and I are planning to build a smokehouse up in Washington so we can smoke our own salmon this Summer. Also, I wish to share some of the things that I love about my father and have obviously shaped me. Some of my friends wonder what kind of mind can give life to such bizarre and lively inventions, and I say, the kind of mind that was forced to peppermint cod liver oil.

Sincerely MB,
Grateful Son of Dancing Bear

ps. In regards to my father’s name, people ask “Can your dad really dance?” Of course, nothing I have seen really confirms his skill, but my Father assures me that he can. Of course, I usually rely on the judgment of women in these matters and I have never heard them comment on his dancing skill either. I pray that he gets well enough to get up and show me that he is the Dancing Bear.

Peru and Bitches and Snakes

2007-01-17T19:12:00.001-08:00

What a break. What A break. I went to Peru with my family.

Peru = crazy, Peru + Family = fucking looney tunes on blotter acid.

Before I left, my girl’s best friend called me up to wish me a bon voyage.

“…Oh, you don’t have to bring me back anything. Have fun, just relax, lucky dog, you get to go to Peru,” then her voice iced up and she said, “Cheat on my friend and I’ll rip your fucking balls off.”

“Uhm…gotcha, bye, thanks.”

Can I get a “WTF?”

Where did that come from? I’m not exactly what one would call a “Lady’s Man.” I’m not Don Juan material so to speak. I have the lust equal to a frustrated raccoon dog, but I’m not rich and not super-handsome.

Besides, I don’t get into the cheating racket for a couple of reasons.

1) I love my girl and wouldn’t want to be THAT guy.

2) My Girl has a lot of friends, a lot of hot friends. If I started buttering more than one piece of toast she would put out the "girlfriend APB" and I’d be done in Los Angeles. I’d have to move to some weather station in Antartica and shtoop Penguin broads that hadn’t heard the news that I’m a jerk.

3) I’m a pussy. I’d crack under pressure. I mean, there’s men who think nothing of it. They go to Thai “Massage” parlors to get their “poison” extracted out. You know guys from back East and stuff, with hair on their shoulders and aggressive toupee’s. Guys that gobble surf & Turf. Guys named Vic and Tony who still use “aftershave” and shit. They probably don’t think of it as cheating, “What’s the difference, it’s boom-o bang-o, I’m out of there. It ain’t my wife, it’s a piece of strange. You can’t love strange, it’s exercise. You think too much.”

4) I’m not married. That could also be another reason I don’t cheat. People develop callouses when they get married. Big, fat, hard married callouses. After seven years of marriage your wife doesn’t discover you’re an asshole, she knows you’re an asshole. She’ll tell you that too. Then maybe one day, you’re in Chicago for some lame corporate seminar. The ones with team building exercises. You swing down to the hotel bar for a nightcap. And you’re sitting there making schlep talk with the noodnick bartender, just burning down the clock until the “buzz” kicks in. And then some local hussy with rich talk sidles up and listens to your schtick. You’re in the Midwest, the double whiskey sour makes its presence known, and you tell the hussy what you do for a living. What have you got to lose? Unlike the old lady, the hussy actually doesn’t roll her eyes when you say you’re the “Manager of Client Services.” A couple of more drinks, a little calamari, and boom: you’re sitting at the edge of the bed in your undershirt and nothing else. She’s in the bathroom moving shit around and you’re cursing your dick and male pride. Damn. How the hell did I get here?

No really, how did I get here? What a bizarre fantasy. I’m not even married. Anyways, after two weeks on the road, a guy gets a little backed up. I was in Peru for 16 days & it’s impossible to gawk at chicks when you’re two Feminist Aunts are around. It’s like being in prison. Me and My Cuz had to develop code signals and “eye talk.” He was in double jeopardy because his pregnant wife was on the trip.

Now I know some of you broads are going to ballyhoo this with extreme prejudice. You Estrogen Powered Vehicles are probably laying a thick portion of the old How Could He’s. How could a devoted husband of 5 years look at other women in the midst of his Prego-better half?

Survey Says: EASY!

Damn Easy. It ain’t a choice. The proof of devotion and respect is that he ain’t obvious about it or making any in-roads with the chippies. We're window shopping to use the favored parlance of women. We'll always look. Even married, even when the bloody soldier can no longer march, all the time, the eyes are on recon. That’s just the way it is. Besides, I’m sure “Old Prego” ain’t averting her eyes when man meat comes a-walking. Sheeeeeeit.

Anyways, we had various moves. One was stoking an invisible beard like Pai-Mei from Kill Bill Vol. 2. When you stroked the beard, you were in deep vulva contemplation. Another was the “Wall Eye.” A very wide, side glance, that makes you look sort of like the “Wall Eye Pike.” Or a third was twisting and invisible moustache like a villain.

The famous Pai-Mei

Anyways, after two weeks of Girlfriend famine we got to see some native dances. Now, all white people know that native dances are sexy. That’s why native dances were preserved by the whites, because it was fucking hot. Imagine all those scurvy sailors buggering each other, and then they land in the Amazon to these chicks with grass skirts? I mean I new there was going to be skin. As soon as the MC announced “Native Dances” I got on the edge of my seat and my entire head morphed into a wolf head. I was like, “bring on the skin.” And they didn’t disappoint.

Ah here she is. After two weeks of a "traffic jam" my car was ready to go. Mmmmm. native sweaty girl. Mmmm she's holding an anaconda. Just the right smattering of kink. I was sort of marinating in a filthy mind when the ICY VOICE CUT THROUGH:

CHEAT ON MY FRIEND AND I'LL RIP YOUR FUCKING BALLS

OFF OFF OFF off off o..

And so down came the drawbridge for Medicine Bear and tried to forget about the dancer. I could sense My Cuz's tension a table away.

My Cuz staring at semi-naked women, trying to applaud as if he was only interested in the cultural aspects of the dance, lest he gets bitch slapped by his prego-wife. Notice the "taught" face and neck wrinkles, straining to hide the surging inner sexual tension? Is there any resemblance between him and the Walleye Pike?

Anyways I stayed the course on the trip and my balls are intact. Unless, you consider being reigned in by My Girl's best friend actually means I've already had my balls ripped off.

Over and Out,

OUT ON PAROLE

2006-12-17T15:49:00.000-08:00

Guess who’s off house arrest? That’s right. Friday was the last final. I had 5 finals. Contracts, Property, Criminal Law, Civil Procedure, and Torts. Each of these bad boys was 3 hours long. 2 essay questions and one hellishly ambiguous multiple choice. It’s the burauecatic version of the Indian gauntlets or Abu Graib. Purely self-induced post-traumatic stress disorder. All my senses were frayed and on alert. My nerves were hot and smoky like the scorched remains of a the Lockerby crash. Everytime I heard a chopper fly over, I was plagued with visions of Xerox machines and laser printers. My tongue recoiled from the acrid taste of toner in the air. My girl snuck up behind and me, and i snapped: all i saw was this giant scantron answer sheet, so I marked questions. My Girl’s screams yanked me out of the hallucination. I was standing over her with a sharpened number two penci a ¼ inch from her eye screaming “C, C, C, C!” Sometimes I hang around the VA Hospital, just see some of the Law School vets. Drinking. Shooting “H”. Chasing the dragon. It’s sad. See these guys, in there 3-piece suits, or worse “Dockers.” Just a shell of a human being they once were. Wrists bruised and scarred from scrawling out billable hours. Man, they went away to Law School heroes and returned home to be called villains. Damn.

Anyways, finals gets hairy. The campus is like Darfour if it was also a leper colony. Your entire semester grade IS what goes down on that finals test. It’s Licensed to Drive pressure. Remember when Corey Haim sits down and his Driving Examiner is a bitter fat black man. He picks up the clipboard and says “We won’t be needed this.” And he whips the clipboard out the window. He warns Corey, there is only one test. He sets a piping hot cup of coffee on the dash, and Corey’s success hangs on not boiling an angry black man’s balls. That is the law school final. “Don’t singe deez nuts bitch, or it’s going to be your piddly nuts, now drive fool.”

The Christian school stresses being of service to each other, and brotherly love. Hah. That baby goes out with the bathwater during finals. The students get “crocodile” eyes and hover over their “outlines.” They look like hyenas greedily feeding over a gazelle. I asked this girl in my class if we should quiz each other, and she said “Why should I help you?” That shits Verabatim My N*gga. I was surprised because she got into the school for winning a humanitarian award.

Before each Final while my bretheren were asking for Jesus to help the destroy their classmates I prayed to the true law school god, KROM. Krom is the “Mountain God” that Conan prayed to. Krom calls us after we die and we have to tell him the riddle of steel. I raised my fist up, and said “KROM!.” Some nitwit behind me said, “My God is the God of all gods, he’s the only true god.” I told him that Jesus doesn’t like tattletales or kissasses. Why do you think he jacked up Jim Baker, Jimmy Swaggart, Mel Gibson, and Rush Limbaugh? He gulped and went back to his own damn beez wax. Besides, Jesus probably hates law school. The mother-effers who did well in law school were the ones who changing money in the temple in the old days, and we know what Jesus did to them. No, the god of law school is Krom! A barbarian’s god. I looked up just like Arnold did, all scared and superstitious and said, “No one will remember today except that two stood against many. I ask you, Father Krom, grant me victory, grant me revenge. And if you will not grant them to me; then the hell with you!”

The Law School final is interesting creature. The test is a little story, an evil fairy tale where anything that can go wrong does go wrong, always tragic. Maybe they should have Fiona Apple come in and sing the Law School Final. The professor writes up this little dittie about some person named “Jed” who gets into a huge accident, or has to steal a car to rescue a baby from a parking lot, or a contract gone sour because the acceptance letter contains additional terms, or Timothy who tied a rope around Zeke’s neck for a joke resulting in accidental death. I don’t know why the professor’s use stupid names on the test. Maybe to train us to stay focused on the issues while representing total idiots? I don’t know, but it’s a weird thing.

We’re supposed to spot all the issues in the story, all applicable law, and all the defenses. If they didn’t sprinkle competition on it, it’d actually be fun. But is’s a race. You’re brain racing. Like your mind is the bike from TRON, slicing 90 degree angles, diving into narrow canyons, trying to cut off the guy next to you, so that his mind shatters into a cloud of translucent pixels. You look over your elbow and stare at your competitor, and though there’s no wind, and no one’s moving, you can feel the vibrations of the race track, surging across the silent racers. The ritual is too powerful and weird to dismiss. Like those turquoise-encusted blood thirsty fools in Apacolypto.

One question keeps bouncing around my mind like bingo balls “what will this do to you?” “What is happening to your mind in here?” It’s a good question, because education is a lot like drugs. It’s a total mind fuck without a usuer’s manual to tell you how to handle it. From all the published material out there, they try to make law school seem like secret asshole training. One day you’re reading the constitution and the next you’re evicting Mexican People from low rent housing. But maybe law school doesn’t manufacture assholes, maybe law schools attract assholes. I dunno, I know a lot of asshole mechanics, and a lot of asshole teachers, and a lot of asshole cops. So I don’t think law school can be blamed for assholeness.

But something does happen. My dad’s friend’s son went to Pepperdine too. I heard him and my dad talking about law school. And the kid says, “It changes you, and it’s not for the better.” My dad knowingly chuckled. This sounded ominous. It sounded poisonous. Oh sweet Mary, is law school a slice of Eve’s Apple Pie?

I know attorneys would love to think so. Of course, this is a lot of deluded self-abosrbed thinking. Like a magician who pretends to call on the favor of the undead to help him saw a woman in half. A bunch of scary noise, but in the end, the whole thing hinges on a practical, obvious principle. The only evil thing about law school is the amount of work and the competetiveness of the place. However, life is competitive whether you go to law school or not. The real danger of law school is to think it was a really big deal, and rely to heavily on rational thinking. Logical Ideas are the sandals of the mind, the mind goes places by stepping on them, not the other way around. Once the mind allows logic to ride on top, freedom and happiness are like birds on the horizon.

It seems to me Law School is like drugs in that, whatever you bring to the Iron Maiden she gives back to you. Maybe it wasn’t that these guys changed for the worse, but the training in logic doesn’t allow them to lie to themselves anymore. Maybe it’s what they thought they were, that changed.

Of course the Medicine Bear knows that he’s only been here for a semester and therefore many of this is precocious prediction. What will I say when I’ve been released from law school’s kiss? I don’t know. But we will be here together to hear it.

Happy Kawanza everyone.
Sincerely, MB

Too Long Bey-Otches

2006-12-10T22:03:00.000-08:00

oh my god, oh my ever loving lord. i am wrecked. it’s been a minute since i’ve been able to send smoke signals to my Web Tribal members. Fucking law school. Jesus. It ain’t so bad until finals. Finals is the infernal wench of law school. It’s the time the Rumplestiltskin shows up and demands his money for spinning straw into gold. “Quid pro quo, agent starling, quid pro quo.” It’s like a great night of passion with a glistening hot Brazilian maiden followed by a hot burning sensation in your pee-pee hole. It’s like suckling the most wonderful tit and getting straight vinegar.

I shouldn’t be writing this now. Not at the zero hour. i’ve been staring at my property outline for so long that the ability to “give a shit” melted away faster than george bush’s “political capitol.” This is bad bubbee. I should be inhaling focus-enhancing drugs and writing my Property notes backwards in Sanskrit. But F it. Everyman has a “Fuck It” dwelling inside of him and Property has just found mind.

Anyways, there’s sooooo much to talk about. Everyday in the car on my way to Malibu great things to write bubble up and then by the time i’m back and let george the dog make poopy, the sweet whore of lies named “tomorrow” says we’ll get to the blog tomorrow. I want to write about James Bond. I saw it. Loved it. But very disturbing. I realized that James Bond is our version of a suicide bomber. For Christmas my family and I are going to Peru, there’s a whole thing there. Dog sitting, cigars, Britney Spears’s bare vag, flat-chested women cleavage, I mean Christ, it just goes on.

Anyways, yesterday I overate. I hit up three doughnuts for breakfast. I had a maple bar, a chocolate chocolate frosted, and some buttermilk deal. Later I had 2 sausage extreme sandwiches from Jack in the box. Ok I also had their hashbrowns. But I drank a diet coke, so i was reasonable. Then, I studied all day. 14 hours. I mean shit. It’s ok to eat high calorie food, as long as that’s all I eat for the day, right? Right. When I got home, that night ate a turkey breast because it was healthy, and decided to have a few corn chips. Ten minutes later the bag was polished off. Shit. I guess I should run to burn off all that food. Threw on the jogging gear and went to go running. It was raining. Part of me was pissed because the “Love Handle” fairy was going to spray insulation foam over my abs, the other part of me was glad that I had a “legit” reason not to run.

Sometimes I think I’m a total pussy for getting bummed out about when I overeat. I mean my dad doesn’t seem to worry too much about it, then again he is overweight. I’m not a metrosexual or anything, it’s just I see it as a lack of will power. My Aunt says you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself when you’re going through stressful times, but she’s overweight too. I just want to be disciplined and healthy. I think that shit is masculine. Like 50 cents and shit. Male power is eroded by too many “sweet buns.” I think A lot of dudes think being fat is Manly, like “husky.” Kind of like Dan on ROSEANNE, but, it ain’t manly to have tits. That’s the damned truth. A man should be lean, strong, and be able to deny himself shit. I think that’s why it makes me pissed at myself when I overeat. Although, these days I do much better then in the old ones. I just know, that being to soft on yourself is bullshitting yourself. Then again, I was a fat kid, so my views might be screwed up. Anyways…

I went to sleep wondering how the hell I had gotten out of control so fast. This starship was on a course straight into the sun. When My Girl said goodnight, I said, “Good night.” I didn’t say one word about the disaster. Then she said, “Are you going to miss me over the Christmas break?”

What is the female preoccupation with feelings? It’s bizarre. I don’t get it. I’m not against feelings, I’m just against talking about them. I mean Christ. Women want to talk about feelings, but they hardly even know what they’re feeling. If there was some accuracy in the discussion I’d be cool, but women just want to talk about feelings they WANT YOU TO BELIEVE they’re having. And the future? Broads always want to know what you’re going to feel in the future. “Are you going to miss me over the break?”

What answer is she expecting at 12AM during my Law School finals? Even sociopaths know to say, “Of course baby, I’m going to miss you.” Why can’t she just say, “Medicine Bear, I’m going to miss you over the Christmas break.” The most loving thing a woman can do, is break her own balls instead of her boyfriend’s.

Anyways, tomorrow’s the final. Peace.

Oh by the way, after the Christmas holiday I am going to make the blog more interactive. I’ve received a lot of mail that people want to post things and get into the discussion and stuff, and I’ve got some sheckles, so I’m going to put some gas in the tank, and get of the free service teet, so we can talk top each other. So you know, all three of us can share our ideas more readily, since know one else cares what the hell we think.

Ok,

Over and out,

Medicine Bear.
PS. THE WIRE and BATTLESTAR GALACTICA are truly the best shows on television.

A Saturday in the Dude's Life

2006-11-22T12:11:00.000-08:00

Saturday November, 2006.

6: 15AM.
Woke up. Cursing because the gods forbade me to sleep in today. Peed in the shower because morning wood barred a good angle into the toilet. I don’t want “rim splatter” because then my girl yaps in my ear. Me and my damn ears don’t need that.

9ish AM
Walked George the Dog. Past Urth Café. The café is a pain in my ass at the end of our block. Women and Gay men love it for its “organic” salads. Hetero’s hate it because the food is tasteless. All the Nicole Richie’s of the world are there, still oozing from yester night. They got their little zipper dogs. Tiny and out of control. They carry the mint curs like second purses. A hung over lady jammed her Chihuahua into her purse and the little bugger ripped into “mommy’s nose candy.” There was this “Never Cry Wolf” little howl and then her purse started jumping all around. Like someone lit a brick of fireworks in her bag. Like a giant Infernal Gucci jumping bean delivered from Satan’s poncho. She started screaming, and some freak-sack with sensitive hair tried to yank the bag from her to let the mutt out. George and I are thinking the same thing “Freaks.” He pissed on the LA Weekly dispenser.

9:45AM
Pulled on the leash to keep George the Dog from stepping in his own shit which wound up pulling him into his own shit. Figures.

10:00AM
Took a wet warm wash cloth to the dog’s shitty paws. Picking poo from between a dog’s toes ain’t easy. They got webbing in there. Doesn’t seem to bother him one iota. Maybe these four-legged jaggoff’s like the attention. Cleaning George’s feet, it dawns on me that I am only a “Boardwalk Ave.” away from cleaning poopy diapers.

10:45AM
Making coffee cake. The internet told me how. Except I used French Pressed Sumatra Coffee instead of Milk. And I put real coffee grounds in the crumbly part to give the cake some pelvic thrust. I mean why not right? Don’t these swanky Euro-types got chocolate covered espresso beans?

11:00AM
Quadruple checked when coffee cake will be ready. Me like carbs, uhg!

11:30AM
After extensive self-congratulations on successful coffee cake, studied Civil Procedure.

1:30PM
Met with Ronnie Love and Black Mike White to work on an African American Film project. The project not cleared for Blog Purposes due to the sensitive nature of Race Relations and we don’t want some other rat eating our cheese, know what I’m sayin?

3:30PM
Researched my memo on Westlaw. How the hell did MF’ers research crap before the internet?

4:30PM
Took a break playing Puzzle Pirates. Check it out here. Not really a blood and guts game, but it is free. Basically, you play various knock-off’s of common internet games to earn points and buy pirate accessories to outfit your pirate with. These are non-threatening Fischer Price style pirates. But, still, it’s not Law School.

Check Out Game here
http://www.puzzlepirates.com

5:45PM
Did Laundry.

7:00PM
Realized that I drank 6 Coke Zero’s today. Hey, why am I growing a thumb in the middle of my back?

8:00PM
Talked to my Auntie Sherry. She’s visiting my pops, who’s recovering from an illness at home. [I visited him in the hospital, a subject to return to later] Anyways, she brought with her my great-grandfather’s diaries. He was Louie Bowen. No kiddin’. She read them to my dad while he was laid up in bed. A pretty loving thing to do really.

I might return to Great-Grandpa Louie’s diaries and diary-ing. [Not Diarrhea, which some might consider Diaries to be] But there might be a marked difference between making a diary in 1917 and 2006. A Blog vs. a book maybe.

9:00PM
Star Trek the Next Generation. Man do I love Counselor Troy. She is hot. She’s an Empath [she can sense other's feelings. like the one growing in my shorts] with thick black hair, nice healthy breasts. Mmmmmm. I hate Number One. Incompetent and bland. Such a loser. He’s basically Jean Luc Picard’s “Al Gore.” I have yet come to terms with the fact that I’m a Sci-Fi geek. My dad thinks it’s a waste of time because none of this crap can help a man earn a living in the real world. To him Sci-Fi is basically cartoons with real people. I suppose he has a point, but then again, I don’t see how reading the Arizona Republic is any “More” based in reality. Isn’t the news escapism too? Most of the facts are colored by spin doctors, then filtered through corporate agendas. It’s a bigger lie than Sci-Fi because at least Sci-Fi doesn’t claim to be based on fact like the News. Anyways…Star Trek the Next Generation doesn’t hold up, but the soundtrack does.

10:00PM
Learned Japanese style of Folding T-shirts off of youTUBE. Shirt-Origami.
Video Link Below
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xOHHQMQBd5s

Mams-san

2006-11-11T22:56:00.000-08:00

My girl’s mother stayed with us for a week. Essentially, I slept on the couch for the week. I’m an old couch vet. I rode out a lot of tours of duty on the couch. If it has three cushions and change under it, I sleep like a baby. This is the legacy of growing up in a Bachelor pad with my pops. It was just me and George The Dog in the front room.

My Girl’s mother is a very sweet and funny lady. She’s from British Guyana which is my girl’s heritage. British Guyana is located in North East South America. This is the WIKI on British Guyana.

The Famous living torso, Prince Randion, hailed from British Guyana. He was featured in the awesome 30’s film FREAKS. He can roll a cigarette, strike a match and light the cigarette with just his lips and chin. Pretty out there. Follow up reading here.

Anyways, her mother whipped up a huge batch of Roti and Curry. I’ve been shitting sideways for a week now, but is damn good. Even George the Dog likes it.

Sunday, I took them up to Ol’ Pepp to have a gander at the law school. The Savage View of the Pacific Ocean obliterated her mother’s breath, like that little Wall Troll in Cat’s Eye, except faster.

We were supposed to go home and cook and spend time together, the whole quality time routine. Casually I mentioned that “next time we should take you up to the Outlet Malls up in Camarillo.” Her mother squeezed my face a Gordita, she tilted my face up to the cab light and said, “What did you say?”

“Uh, I love and honor your daughter?”

She twisted my ear, “I’m not playing games schmuck.”

“Uh, there are Outlet Malls in Camarillo?”

Her mom commandeered my vehicle and burned up the freeways getting to the Outlets.

My legs can withstand the stress of jogging 18 miles without stopping, but they cannot endure 3 hours of the Outlet Mall Gauntlet with My Girl and Her Mom. Ann Taylor. Shoe stores. The first thing they looked for were blouses. The first thing I looked for was a chair. Oh sweet chair. Let me sit, while Clan of the Estrogen brows the god forsaken racks. Let me fold my arms, let me nod off, let me play the demo version of Bejeweled on my cell phone.

Going to the outlet malls with girlfriend’s mother is a special burden of pain. The cheap prices and “Two’fers” attract a large pod of women. They mill about with their Treasures in tow like giant Ant Columns. Their segmented “Feelers” vibrate in the Commercial Currents that only they can see. All this Female Motion transforms a man. His head spins and reels until His EYES become big and bulbous, like giant BUG eyes, giant compound lenses trying to see every chick at once.

BUT

then you’re there with the Mama. Mama commands respect. Mama can put the Big Squeeze on you. Straighten up, and fly right son, Mama-san is in town. Getting caught looking at another woman by your girl is one thing. Getting caught by her mother is quite another.

Luckily when I my Opium Junk was shipwrecked off the coast of Shang Hai, I stayed with Shaolin Monks and they taught me the Sacred Dharma of “Shadow Oggle.” These are techniques you can employ so you don’t get caught looking at other women.

The Stony Stare Through

This is when you find yourself staring at a Latina in tight white pants and you feel the mother’s presence. You must harness your CHI and relax the pupils so to appear staring at something behind the girl. When she passes do not turn your head (a secret art in itself) and you’ll be looking at something forty feet away. Thus, when the Mama-san tracts your gaze you’ll be looking very interested in a Chrysler LeBaron or a Tree.

The Screen of Yawn.

Yawning is an excellent way to sneak a peek at a pretty lady or mask/obscure being caught mid-oggle. It’s goof cover for sneak peaking because most people do not expect you to control your eyes while you yawn. That if you did look at a woman, it was part of a “reflex” in yawning. There’s a lot of involuntary movement. [Which for a man, looking at T&A can be considered mostly involuntary]. Also, if in mid-stare, yawning can “distract” through noise, weird facial contortion and possible arm movement. Also, the yawn allows you to bring your hand over your face to hide it or even wipe sweat from a “close call.”

Whip Eyes

This is the most basic technique. When Mama-san and GF turn away to look at something else, you “Whip your Eyes” at your targets. The monks call it Whip because it’s supposed to be fast. However, the inherent danger here is losing command of the eyes. Sometimes a tight a low V-Neck can imbue your eyes with enough strength to disregard the “Return to Position” command. Then Mama-San and GF gnaw on your neck until your head falls off.

Golden Arc

This is when you turn around, or sweep your neck responding to a question. you may use your body to shield, or movement to steal a quick look of body parts in the natural flight path of your “eyes.” This is important. Do not look in the opposite direction, or turn in an unnatural way. Or your balls will be burned like a White Trash Toast.

False Agreement

This is extremely subtle and may only be used once if self-initiated or as many times as initiated by the Mother and GF. This is where the Mother and GF criticize what a woman is wearing. In this instant you may participate and agree with the conversation, while also taking in her body. You may even ask questions which allow the woman to answer by directing your eyes to various areas on the woman’s body. This provides excellent cover for ogling. A woman can be blinded by her own criticisms that she doesn’t realize she is giving Carte Blanche for a man to look at another woman. Interestingly, Cheesy Women and Sluts are the favorite fodder of upstanding ladies, which by good fortune is generally what men want to look at.

Reflection

Not the kind done in the Lotus position, the kind done through mirrors and windows. Highly effective, especially when window shopping. However, the danger here is complacency. You may linger too long under the cover of safety. Women have known about the reflection trick ever since the 1950’s when some fool put mirrors on his shoes and ruined it for everyone else.

The Zen of Sunglasses

Sunglasses are a highly effective tool but also over-used. They become a liability the longer you spend in doors as well. After a while the Mama-San may ask why you’re wearing them inside. Or, even more devious, she may say nothing, just quietly take notes. Also, remember, sunglasses are only effective in a pure lateral position to the Mama-San or behind her. Walking ahead, can leave you weak against the 45o angle defense. Women can pierce your shaded armor to see what you’re really looking at.

Practice this game by clicking here
http://www.flashgamegiant.com/content/10122.html

Sincerely,

Medicine Bear-san

Halloween Party

2006-11-01T13:40:00.000-08:00

A fellow law student invited me to his Halloween party in Calabasas. For those of you out of the loop, Calabasas is East of Malibu. It’s the main hideout for rich whites in Los Angeles to seek refuge from the Urban Bizzarnival : The Smell Trapeze of Poor People, People of Color Exploding Bullwhips, Man Dykes, Wild Horses, Drug Charmers, Crime peddlers, the Misshapen Siamese Twins “Filth and Grime,” Police Brutality Sheiks and of course the rising tide of Hollywood Bullshit. Hence the portmanteau, “Cala-blackless.” Ha, ha. But it’s true though, homie. In Spanish Calabasas means “Pumpkins,” but most people consider the Mexican claim to this land long since gone. See Adverse Possession and War Booty.

My buddy’s dad is a surgeon who does a little plastic surgery on the side. So the scuttlebutt around the school is that this dude’s set up might be “pretty sweet.”

Or course it was.

When I showed up at the security gate I knew I was near money. First, the security gate actually had a live body manning the booth. Some people live in a gated community and all they have is box to enter a code, which every pizza hut delivery schmuck knows. This is known as a “gated community.” But when someone has an actual guard, in a uniform, that speaks English, and has a clipboard, this is a “Gated community,” that is, with a capital “G.” (W is trying to achieve this Gated community thing across the Southern Border. Hmmmm. Maybe we should nail one up North to keep the Canadians out so they can’t send their Schleppy Emissaries like Celine Dion.)

If he has a live body guarding the gate, then you have a rich friend. If your car offends the guard’s sensibilities then you’re poor as Wesley Snipes. Never mind that this slagheap probably drove to this booth in a Mothballed Hyundai, he raised his eyebrows at my Nissan Sentra. So what that it’s a ’97? So what I got Buddhist crap hanging from my mirror? So what I have to reinflate my driverside rear tire? So what my side mirro has been MIA for two years? Bastard. The only people more snobby than really rich people, are the people who work for really rich people.

He made me “flash my ID.” Which I hate doing because my photo was taken during dark times when I served in the Filipino Navy. It’s bad when your ID actually makes people MORE suspicious of you. BTW, my buddy lives across the street from Marcia Clark. Don’t bother, I already ran down the list of questions. According to them she knew when she got the case that she would lose because that’s what her bosses told her. She did not throw back any margaritas with us.

I don’t know why I thought my George Bush costume would go over well with my Pepperdine Peeps. Perhaps I thought that W had been such and abysmal failure that Republicans have already divorced themselves from Bush. But, to no avail. There was a very angry little Italian Chap who proclaimed that he started the young republicans club at his University. He asked someone if they were Christian, and she said yes, and he said, “Good for you sweetie.” I had my mask on, and when I said, “The only person who loves white women more the George W Bush, is Condi Rice.” He didn’t laugh. In fact none of the partiers really laughed when I asked them if they knew “Where the president could score tonight,” or “Call Karl Rove, the president needs his Doctor’s Bag.” The only people who seemed to enjoy were a few Jewish friends and the foreign exchange students. Everyone else treated me like an elephant in the room. Like an alcoholic, drug-addled father. Like an unfulfilled romantic relationship. It was a great costume.

But the Calabasas types love to party. A man dressed like Merlin played Beer Pong against a man dressed as a Shower (Homage to Karate Kid for those not in the know).

Beer Pong:
Get a table. Get two alcoholics. Get two ping pong balls. Set up 10 red party cups at each end. Align them as if they were pool balls that were just “Racked.” Pour beer into those cups boys. The players stand at each end and captain sky hook a pong ball into the other side’s cup. If a basket is made then its “Drink Motherfucker.” When the ball lands on the floor, they wash the ball in a separate beer cup, or the pool as was the case this night. The winner is the one who makes the other guy drink all his beer first. But isn’t the winner also the guy who drinks all the beer? I say yea.

Alas, the shower was overcome in a deluge of belligerence. He unilaterally made up rules, and blocked the pong ball form landing in his cup, Merlin protested and the shower whipped the pong ball at him. Then shower belched and started downing his beer in forfeit and asked the wizard “Isn’t the point to get fucked up?” Later the shower would zigzag around the party like a dredle with a flag of puke clearly visible through the transparent rubber ducky shower curtain. Later that night Merlin’s would abandon talking and shouted everything. He was wrecked. He wouldn’t believe me or Ali G that Ian McKellan was gay. At one point, a skeleton was arguing with the Italian Young Republican about the merits of a Lieberman McCain tricket. (I know, disgusting) and I would see Merlin grab She-Devil’s trident and WHIP the skeleton in the dick. No shit. According to reports, Merlin woke up in the backyard, face down in a wizard’s robe, his arm around a pumpkin at 7AM the next morning wondering how he got there, and where everyone was.

Sincerely,

Medicine Bear

Roasting BUSH

2006-10-26T12:10:00.000-07:00

I’m sick of Mea Culpa Watch. The papers and news media peep W’s talk and walk to see when he’ll Fess up that Iraq isn’t going well. If he admits that he made a mistake attacking Iraq, we'll fess up and admit it was a mistake re-electing him.

This is a real drag man, because instead of scheming up an exit, we’re hanginging back for the Prez to break down to jsut state the obvious.

I hope the White Haired jerk-off’s in the Pentagon have a plan ready to go so that the split second W says, “My Bad” we can get our boys out. Media Fools are waiting for the Prez to catch up to what the people already know. This is known as a “Duh.” or as Homer Simpson said, “D’oh!” Which is a defeated, self-aware version of DUH. (Prez Bush does have Matt Groening style lips)

Waiting for the president to say D’OH could take a long assed time. Waiting for a Texan to admit they made a mistake is like waiting for the last episode of the Price Is Right, it may never happen. Texans don't like to admit defeat, remember David Koresh? He turned his cult into cherries flambe before saying I give up to that Cross-Dressing Attorney General. BUT waiting for a Connecticut Yale graduate blue-blood mothereffer to admit he made a mistake could take longer. Strange shit waiting for the Prez to break off knowledge that everyone already knows.

Other obvious revelations:

Vietnam
George Michael is gay
Rosie O’Donnel is gay
Arnold Swarzeneggar took steroids
Most Hollywood movies suck owl dicks
Paul MCartney should have had a prenup
T.R. Knight is gay
Cops use racial profiling
Paris Hilton drinks and drives
Anna Nicole Smith is on some kind of medication
Rush Limbaugh is a drug addict (duh, why is his name Rush?)
Hillary wants to be the first female president
Condoleezza is the first female president (it’s surprising that MS Spellcheck recognizes her name)
Baseball cards were bad investments
WWE is fake
Jerry Springer show is fake
Pluto is not a planet (just kidding)
Mel Gibson is an anti-Semite
The earth is round
Working for Amway is not a job
LAPD is corrupt
Michael Jackson is a pedophile

As I was thinking of this I was listening to the Howard Stern Show (which you can listen to on the internet free today) and they were roasting his producer. I thought we should roast the president, so here it is.

BUSH ROAST

Good evening ladies and gentlemen, [looking at the president] and chimpanzees, welcome to the Roast of President Bush. Roasts can be tough and brutal. You have to have thick skin. That’s thick SKIN George, not a thick HEAD. [Hillary snorts into her drink] What are you laughing at Hillary? George may have a thick head but you have thick ANKLES.

George W. What’s the W stand for? Wanker? You’re the only president who became a lame duck president the moment you took the presidential oath. That was right after your Daddy’s friends, I mean, the Supreme Court made you president. [Al Sharpton laughs] What are you laughing at Al? Aren’t you supposed to be serving drinks? Get back to work. Don’t steal any hubcaps off of W’s limo.

Back to you George W. What do you get when you cross a wimp and a hunk of Crisco? You get what Laura Bush wakes up to every morning. George W, you are one chimpanzee looking motherfucker. You look so much like a chimp Jane Goodall does her research from the Oval Office. You look so much like a chimp, you carry around Darwin’s evolutionary chart as your personal ID. [Clinton Laughs] Don’t laugh Bill, W may look like a chimp, but you sleep with PIGS. Bill when will you shut the fuck up? I have news for you: you’re no longer the president. [Bush Sr and Jr laugh] [Clinton waves a cigar at Hillary. She pops him in the shoulder]

Bush looks so much like a Chimpanzee that when he visited Reagan in the old folk’s home, Reagan thought he was doing a sequel to Bed Time for Bonzo. And Bush Sr? I know Barbara is ugly, but did you really have to resort to fucking primates? Animal Planet just became a member of the White House Press Corps.

Scientist claim that Chimpanzees are nearly 99% genetically identical to humans, which means that our President is…well, close enough. Close enough is the phrase the defines W’s life. Elected president? CLOSE ENOUGH. Reading the teleprompter? CLOSE ENOUGH. Pronouncing English? CLOSE ENOUGH. Graduated College? CLOSE ENOUGH. Real Texas accent? CLOSE ENOUGH. [Powell laughs and makes the gesture of a gun and pretends to shoot Bush JR. The Secret Service tackle Powell and hogtie him] Hey, hey, don’t arrest that guy. He’s the reason we went to war with Iraq. You know what? Second thought, haul his ass to jail. Don’t let him mix with the blacks, the blacks in Jail hate white people.

W, you really are a loser. You’re the first loser to become president. Our president has inspired more losers than the Missouri State Lottery. Great now Paris Hilton thinks she can be president. Thank God your father was powerful or you would have been a waterbed salesman. The only person who lives off her father cache more then W is Lisa Marie Presley. He makes Nicole Richie seem like a self starter. You’re like a bad Xerox, faded, white, and sketchy. [Bush Daughter’s laugh] Don’t laugh girls, you’re bad Xeroxes of a bad Xerox, which makes you faded, white and skanky.

But W, you’re not just a loser. You’re a bad decision maker. The only decision worse than the Bush’s decision to go to war with Iraq was when Laura said “I do.” I haven’t seen a bad decision like that since, Clinton decided to stick cigars inside a fat white woman in a beret. At least you never did that. President Bush has killed more troops than military scientists. The real enemy isn’t a brown-skinned insurgent in a turban, it’s the White guy in the suit driving around the ranch. Bush has wasted more taxpayer money than welfare. [Kerry laughs] What are you laughing at John? You lost to this clown. You’re beneath a chimp.

[Condoleezza laughs]
Condi? What’s so funny cherry tits? Morgan Freeman just called, he wants his weird facial skintags back. Jesus. What is that? Did you do a face plant into the Cocoa Crispy’s? Powell, please tell Condi she doesn’t have to bend and scrape to White people anymore. No wait, you sold out too. Jessie Jackson get in here and tell her “don’t trust whitey.” Condi, I need to tell you something, this is the White House, not Uncle Tom’s Cabin. You don’t have to take all W’s shit. Condi, the first female secretary of state. [Round of applause] Great honey, quite an achievement, you single-handedly propelled women forward and undid all the gains that Martin Luther King made. Maya Angelou called, the Blacks want their Black back.

Ok, W, back to you. President Bush is proof that a trustfund is a terrible thing to waste. President Bush’s father claimed to have hated broccoli which explains why he married a huge head of cauliflower. President Bush’s mother is so ugly they should turn her skin inside out. People don’t say to Bush “You kiss your mother with THAT mouth?” They say, “You kiss THAT mother with your mouth?” George W is such a terrible president, has caused so much turmoil in the world, that the UN classified his father’s semen as a weapon of mass destruction. [Applause, Koffi Anan laughs] What the hell’s so funny Koffi? At least Bush Sr’s son is an idiot and NOT a criminal. At least W is a president of a real country.

Ok Georgie Jr, Our president is the only president that makes all our illegal immigrants seem fluent in English. I haven’t seen someone act being a Texan this badly since Victoria Principal was on the Dallas. The only thing Rugged about George W is his mother. W is such a sissy, the last time I saw a homosexual pretend to be a rugged cowboy I was watching Broke Back Mountain. In fact, Jake Gyllanhaal prepared for his role by visiting the White House for a week. [Jake laughs] Jake, what’s so funny? At least George is acting, you were being yourself in that movie. The only thing faker than W’s Texas routine is that moustache you wore in the movie.

Back to you George W, he disappeared during his Texas Air National Guard. He disappears while in office in the president. You’re almost as unreliable as Clinton’s real father. Every President had a drug addicted, drunk, flunky loser for a brother. Carter had Billy, Clinton had Roger, and George Bush has himself. The reason George Bush Sr. named his son George Bush was so that people wouldn’t think his real dad was Alfred E. Newman [Cheney’s face shatters as he cracks a smile]

Dick Cheney’s in the audience. How you doing sir? You bald prick. Cheney has a shotgun, quick duck. Cheney put the gun down, the pheasant they’re serving tonight is already dead. Cheney is so bald and evil, he looks like a white Darth Vader. Cheney looks like a pissed off scoop of ice cream.

Finally, let me return to the president. Whenever Airforce One lands they play, “Hail to the Loser.” W has ruined more companies than inflation. King Midas had the golden touch, but W Bush has the “down the crapper” touch. When will Donald Trump finally tell Bush, “You’re Fired!” W might be a bad business man, but he did great in oil. W was such an amazing oil man. He went to Texas, dug deep and struck Daddy’s money.

Bush says that Racial quotas aren’t right because we shouldn’t give people preferential treatment because of their biology…well...the punch line here is obvious. Good night foljks. Don’t eat the fish.

[Secret service arrests me as I leave the dais. Where I am tucked away into a tiny corner of Guantanamo.]

Medicine Bear

The Kraken RIP

2006-10-19T21:45:00.000-07:00

My girl’s cat passed away at 10:30 AM. His name was Big Man and he was a black cat.

I called my girl right after my CivPro Midterm and she was crying.
Big man had just died in her arms. We’re not sure what cause of death was, except probably old age. He was seventeen which is like 900 years-old in cat time.

SHAVING THE CAT

Big man lived his final years naked, except for furry black socks, and facial hair. My girl asked if she could use my electric razor to shave her “cat.” Through a misinterpretation between the slang meaning of “cat” and the literal “cat” I thought my girl was getting “freaky.” Later when I saw that her slang “cat” was not shaved, I asked, “Yo, what the hell? I thought you were going to shave it.” My girl laughed and said, “Not that cat, my CAT cat.” She pointed at the floor. There was Big Man, preening his SKIN because he had no fur, except about the face and legs.

My girl has never sufficiently explained why she shaved her cat. Apparently her friend “Latina MILF,” shaved her cat and my girl thought the idea was a ringer. Or wanted to be like her. My girl felt that was keeping Big Man “cool” in hot Los Angeles, save him from the hot blustery Santa Ana winds. My feeling is: my girl was the little girl who fucked Barbie’s hair up just because, and then she was stuck with a platoon of Evil Haircut Barbie Dolls.

BIG MAN’S BIG ADDICTION

Big Man was perpetually hungry. The monkey on his back was food. A mean little Beadie-smoking monkey, wearing a Fez and crashing cymbals. The cat was always hungry. (don’t know what Beadies are, click here)

It was by this monstrous appetite that he came to be known as “The Kraken,” the famed oceanic beast who devoured whole ships. [it made an appearance in Pirates 2]

The Kraken circled underfoot like a hammerhead shark, “bumping” against your ankle for something good to eat.
TYPCAL SCENE
You huff up the steps returning from the store. You kick the door open as groceries rip your arms from the sockets, from your peripheral vision you see your foot coming directly down on the underfoot-Kraken’s head. You waffle-stomp to avoid him smack your head against the lamp, and the bags would rip. As blood drooled into your eye, you see the Kraken’s pink tongue gently licking the package boneless chicken breasts. Even though he was de-clawed, I saw him rip open a bag of tortilla chips. He was also known to eat George The Dog’s food, when he wasn’t yet satisfied. If My Girl and I ever died in a freak Bo-Flex accident, the authorities would find two half-eaten corpses and The Kraken, fat, licking his lips in the corner.

The Kraken was at times was incontinent and thus we put diapers on him for awhile. You would come home and find his diaper, highlighter yellow and the same weight as a ten pound shotput. We donned him in Newborn Huggies with a hole cut in the back to thread his tail through. If you failed to put Diapers on him then his favorite place to pee was the bathmat. That’s right partner, “squish.”

Final Days of The Kraken Speedwagon

The thinness of his hips signaled the end of The Kraken’s days, though he never ceased eating. My girl and I knew the dirt nap was coming, but we didn’t say anything. Probably because The Kraken was such a weird fucker that he might pull through in a freak miracle. But none of us escapes.

He curled up on the “Big Chair” The Night before. Hours were what he had left. I was barbecuing pork (b/c I’m perpetually hungry too). He hadn’t moved for a long time to conserve vital life force. After three days of straining, he couldn’t shit. He was constipated. He was exhausted. But when I placed a succulent piece of pork under his nose, he came alive in an explosion of sniffing, like a crack head, determined to have his juicy morsel even on his death bed.

THE END

His final night my girl put him under the covers. Unlike most cats who can’t stand affection, The Kraken was comfortable tucked against her arm. The next morning my girl told me, “I’m taking the day off.” She knew. I knew. I grabbed my crap for law school and kissed Big Man’s nose. This was the last time I would see him and I knew it. Life is a bitch and then you die, or as The Bodhi Sattva says: Birth is suffering, age is suffering, death is suffering. Right on the money there ‘ol boy. I nodded to the old black cat, laying on a queen sized bed with comforter and a human woman looking after him in his twilight zone.

My girl held him when he died, and I guess he did a real death rattle too. It really touched me to think that my girl cared that much for another living thingy. She was there for him. Usually, the pet dies while the family is on a trip, or at school, in a Chinese Restaurant, or alone in the street. Not Big Man. He wasn’t alone. He had the best that an evolved opposable-thumbed biped could offer, and that’s something for a cat. She wrapped him in a white towel, and tied him with ribbons. She put her Rosary Beads on him and said a prayer. Then she cleaned the apartment and took him down to the vet, where he’ll be turned to ash. After that she cleaned the apartment and went to work. Birth is Suffering, Age is Suffering, Death is Suffering.

[10062006]

2006-10-08T21:00:00.000-07:00

I slept in until 6:30 am this morning. I usually get up at 5 but there’s no school today. I don’t know why but face always feels bloated when I sleep in a little. Puffy Face Article Here.

I zipped the dog around and talked to naz real fast so I could meet my friends for coffee. I like to roost at the tables and peck around with the usual chicken heads. We commune at Starbucks deep in the prostate of west Hollywood. The one where men will open the door for other men and make you feel weird deep down inside.

I sat next to black nikki. she’s a terminator black broad and shit. she’s got a fanny pack and glasses and dreds. She looks like one of scary opponents from The Running Man.

My buddy calls her the predator. she’s attracted heroin-thin junky type white guys, which is shocking because she looks like she needs more dick than that. the kind of dick that white dudes can’t provide. She’s a rare black person in that, she doesn’t have a bubble ass.

we were talking about the difference between white and black strippers. white strippers get naked like ballet, they move slow and light.

Some white chicks considering stripping a form of exercise. Leave it to chicks to turn something that horny men value into some form of exercise.

black strippers like pump their shit. they shake their ass and make their cheeks clap. sometimes they even look over their shoulder to watch their own ass shake. they slam their boxes down on the ground in a move that my buddy Ronnie calls the “bootie womp.” they’re the only strippers that actually make most men feel inadequate when they strip. A regular dude's dick is like a hot dog stand and a black stripper's vagina is like the perfect storm.

while we were talking smack I heard this popping noise and looked up in the sky. a palm tree’s fronds were touching power lines. the palm frond was dried, so it was sparking and smoking and crap. Nikki was like, “shit how did you see that? You really are Indian.” Sheeeeit Indians can see smoke and casino lights from miles away.

I called the west Hollywood fire department. What am I supposed to do? it wasn’t an outright fire but, damn, maybe the restaurant underneath it, fat fish would burn down. Another friend who looks like Johnny Depp, except he isn’t rich said, “good, I hope that pretentious piece of shit restaurant does burn down.” Isn't strange when you uncover some non-sequetor hate in people you thought you knew? Why was Bizarro Johnny Depp angry at that restaurant?

The fire fighters showed up and didn’t do shit. Of course, it’s one giant gay fire department, going around and putting out gay fires. They've probably exhausted every double penis entendre firfighting has to offer. The must have a lot fun sliding down the pole, wheeeeee. Anyways they had major attitude. I could see the damn thing smoking and the Firefighter flounced out and was like:

FF: Where’s the fire sailor?
Me: Up there. See those palm fronds?
FF: [grimacing in disbelief] That’s it?
Me: Yeah, well, I mean, it’s smoking and sparking.
FF: Branches fall on wires all the time honey.
Me: You just leave it?
FF: We’re not going to put water on it. Water conducts electricity and makes it worse.
Me: [wtf? Did I interrupt them watching Queer Eye?] No one cuts down a branch that’s smoking on the wires? What about the wind?
FF: That’s the city’s job.
Me: Whatever, I told you guys about it, so if you don’t cut it down and the city burns it’s on you. I did my job. You knew about it. [I looked at my watch] it’s 9:33 AM. recorded. If the city burns down at 10:30, I’ll have to say I warned you fellas at 9:33AM.
FF: [he looked at me like he wanted to kill me, aren’t these the jerks that are supposed to get kittens out of a tree?]
Me: Listen, it was a single cow that burned down all of Chicago, so, I do what you want? You obviously know your stuff.

As I left, they were stretching the ladder out. lazy bastards. my buddy Mike White said, “Public workers are usually assholes anyways.” I guess Mike was right, gay or straight, government workers are afflicted by bureaucratic bullshit.

Mike & beagled over to Norms to tie on a couple Chicken Fried Steak breakfasts.

I studied Civil Procedures the rest of the day.

The Handbasket Lands in Hell

2006-10-04T10:55:00.000-07:00

yo. I said yo bitches. I say big ups from the hallowed ragweeds of the So-Cal sickness. This week in rock: nothing. just like last week and the one before that. This week in Rap: the same. Everything sucks. The only thing I like is the pussycat dolls because they’re freak bitches.

Check them out here.

Hakuna-Matata has been on loop in my mind man, ever since we started freaking George the Dog out with the stuffed animal. Fools roll up to me and ask me about the definition of a Life Estate and my mind goes, “It means no worries, for the rest of your life, it’s our problem free, phil-os-ophy, Hakuna Matata…” Yeesh. Who wrote that catchy shit.

[hold on]

Figures, sir Elton John wrote the music and sir Tim Rice wrote the lyrics. Gay dudes can really write catchy crap (YMCA) . It cracks me up that they're knighted. To big gay knights. Jousting...heheheheh.

George has shredded Simba into a handicapped orphan. Simba's head doesn't even move anymore, it just twitches like Kathernine Hepburn's neck while that stupid song rings out.

Elton John is turning into a big gay Lion King.

Mark Foley

Anyways, the whole world is madness again. The world became a gargantuan pulsing brain, swollen and glossy like a ravenous tick and like, along come celestial hoodlums to drizzle LSD along the crevices.

Who’d ever thought that anyone would be creepier than John Mark Karr, but will the other creepy Mark please step forward, toes one the line, face forward, look left, all the way, Mark Foley, woah...

You know you screwed up when the Republicans disown you. They won't even disown Nixon for Watergate, or even disown Lincoln for reeing the slaves. Look at that, FOX trying to claim Mark Foley is a Dem. What bastards.

I mean, jesus Christ man, when will these pedophiles stop being so blatant? can’t they at least try to not get caught. who the hell instant messages underage boys anymore. haven’t they been watching Dateline's To Catch a Predator with Stone Phillips?

wow. what a total rip-off man. what does it feel like to be that hypocritical? what was he doing all these years? lying. knowing that he was lying. secretly seething in public, at himself. perhaps he thought god was cruel to make him a pedophile and a conservative. I just imagine him praying for god to melt his balls off while he slept so he won’t have those evil hungers anymore. man-o-man, he is in Hell. Even Boy George is better off than him.

what about now? is he sitting in a beach house in Florida, in the kitchen, tons of food in front of him, but not really hungry, the feeling that “this isn’t really happening” probably washes over him and then re realizes…nope, it really is happening, shit, they know now. Throwing back some fuzzy navels, and fantasizing about stealing someone’s identity, maybe driving into oncoming traffic and engaging a gigantic fat coma in a waltz, or better yet suicide?

where does this shit happen? how do priests and politicians know how to find these vulnerable young men? I mean, shit, it’s hard enough to get laid the normal way, but how do they find the hairless young men who can be coerced into saying, yes? I mean the guys at Fife High School would have kicked the living shit out of Mark Foley. The 16 year olds at Fife wore “No Fear” shirts and would cut a man as soon as look at him. well maybe most of them. Maybe there were some odd fluffers, who could have crumbled to the pressure of a law maker. Weird. I mean if some son of bitch started IM-ing me about my “rod” and crap, I would have crushed him. I would got some of my black and chinese friends and fried his ass. I knew enough even at 16. Shit, hell, I knew enough at like 10 years old.

When I was ten I was staying the night at a family friend’s house. And like they had a teenage son. he was like 17 and crap. he was way into the Scorpions and Metallica. I ain’t going to name names for obvious reasons, but this silly bastard tried to get me to suck his dick. No lie. I was shocked. I was like “fuck you.” We were sleeping in sleeping bags on the ground and stuff, it was ll dark and crap, and he was all, “Hey”
ME: Yeah?
SB: You know what me and my friend do?
Me: [already my creep meter is going off.] uh no.
SB: We suck each other’s dicks.
Me: [total silence, my head is reeling, did he just say what I thought he said?]
SB: Yeah, we just, you know, we ain’t gay, we’re just horny.
Me: That sounds gay to me.
SB: It’s not, it’s like sucking a finger.
Me: The Hell it is. A finger is a finger, and a dick is a dick.
SB: It’s no biggie man, just you suck mine and I’ll suck yours, c’mon.
Me: Nope.
SB: It’s not gay.
Me: I gotta go.

I got up and left the room and slept out in the living room. That was definitely gay. I have never said a word about this until now. When I think about it now, I wonder if that guy really thought he wasn’t gay. I saw him once later, when we went skiing with a bunch of people. That bastard didn’t say shit. I knew why he didn’t say shit, he knew that I knew that he was a bonafide cocksucker. Bastard. So what’s up with these 16 year olds? I mean shit, the minute some old dude tries some hanky panky, I draw a clear line in the sand and say not on my watch dude. Not on my watch.

my girl says it’s wrong for an older man to email 16 year olds about their packages and crap, and I agree, but damn. you’d think these 16 year olds would have done something, I mean even little girls know how to say "NO!"

Law School Games

2006-09-25T20:20:00.000-07:00

Wow. A Ford Explorer pulled a Thelma & Louise off the The Virgens road leading to the Law School.

Apparently, the poor bastard flew off the edge of the road and plunged down into the canyon around 2:31 PM. The Rescue Chopper found him at the bottom complaining of “back pain.” He’s being put back together by the “Healers” at UCLA.

Imagine the serrated shock arcing between your balls and throat as you and 3 tons of Detroit Steel do the triple lindee into a Malibu Canyon.

Check the story via KTLA

Law schools cool fools.

I devour cases like sour poptarts. Pretty damn interesting. Little bit, little bit. I drove my woman mad by recounting cases. Strange cases. The case where a woman was paralyzed from a hug. The case where a kid tried to claim a Harrier Jet with Pepsi Points. The case where UCLA Medical Team pilfered a man’s spleen to make designer drugs and enrich themselves. Fascinating, nefarious, dark corner stories about greed and sex hatched in the minds without sanctity.

In Criminal Law we finally got down and dirty to Murder. I don’t know why, but I hope the murder stuff will make all the CSI-tards feel the cold, steely sting of inadequacy. Just because you “love” CSI does not make you a cop, a scientist, a lawyer, smart, or even interesting for that matter. It’s a TV show. Its Perry Mason in color BEYOTCHES!

How do Law Students waste time in class?

THru their laptops. You're allowed to have them up for taking notes in class. Except everybody Instant Messages each other instead. The Piedmonts have a nasty little game. A little game of Sexual Innuendo:

Basically, everyone gets on the IM Wire and then wait for the Professor to inadvertently talk about cock, balls, and Pussy and humping. The fingers are off to the races tacking out a way to pervert the Prof’s remarks.

Phraseology uttered by professor and fully vulnerable to Sexual Twisting:

A long row to hoe
Valid Instrument
Explicitly Raised
The defendant was unable to gain relief from the motion
Enjoinder of additional parties
Claims for relief
Special Damage
Motion to strike
Oral presentation
Duty of Care
Interference with advantageous relationships
Compensation
Enforced Special Performance

We even have a professor with the tawdry last name of GASH. He’s actually a dean. Dean Gash.

There’s this kid that sits in front of me in Torts. His name is Taylor. He is as white as a Confederate Vampire. This milky bastard plays this game called RAGDOLL every friggin’ day. The game is black and white. You manipulate a stick figure in a black and white world. The Figure’s arms dangle, like a rag doll, as you use the arrow keys to move him left or right. You animate this helpless creature to dodge the falling daggers. In this universe there are daggers falling from the heavens with pointing down. This disturbing little game’s core objective is to keep ragdoll alive. But alas, there are two many knives and inevitably the ragdoll is stabbed repeatedly. The violence is heightened by the fact that blood is red, and the hacked off body parts bounce, and you can continue to make ragdoll move, even though he’s missing body parts. The funny thing is, that Milky Bastard told all of us that the reason he decided to go to law school is that his friends trust him to resolve all their disputes. And here he was, existing in the fantasy world of Maimery. It supports my contention that all mediators are sadists at heart.

Click here to play the game a'la Milky Bastard

Adios,

MB Esq.

Animal Cruelty

2006-09-19T08:23:00.000-07:00

Last night my girl went to hang out with her friend who owns a soul food restaurant. It's called M&M's. Shit is addictive. Yeah, I date a black chick, which means I pretty much eat soul food now. I love it when she hangs out with that dude. He's gay and he worked as a prison guard for awhile. I imagine prison is like a gay free-for-all. Total anal madness. Guys probably just hang their strips of beef through the bars while this "guard" milked them. He must have had a field day when they did anal inspections. It must have been Homosexual Heaven. Anyways, now he owns a soul food restaurant.

My girl always comes back with a tone of food. A grip. It's like the UN just food-bombed our shit. At 5 AM this morning, I was walking the dog and gobbling corn bread muffins. Other fools were jogging, but I was chugging juice, washing down all that "mess" carrying a greasy paper sack full of cornbread and HAPPY! I WAS HAPPY Damn it!

But last night my girl started freaking George (Her Dog) out. She bought this stuffed animal. It was Simba, you know that lil' bitch from the Lion King. Simba was a Disney Ex Machina--it could sing and move and respond to voice commands.

The Dog went Ape Shit. Total Section-8. My Girl pushed play and Simba sang "I can't wait to be king" and danced. Her dog started howling, moaning, biting the thing in the face. It growled all wierd, like that chick off the exorcist. The toy really got to the dog. George attacked the thing in the neck, but that made Simba say more shit. Which unnerved the dog, then he started barking at it. Like in his dog language saying, "Get the fuck out of here you adopted freak. That's right they love me and not you!" Then Simba asked George if he wanted to go play by the Elephant Graveyard. George grabbed Simba by the eye and shook him like a rag doll. To really get under the George's skin I petted Simba and said, "Good Dog, good dog." George walked up to Simba and started humping it's head. Just like a man, if I can't kill it, I hump it.

The shit was so funny and my girl loved it. She loves terrorizing the things she loves. I can only imagine one day she's going bring home a stuffed boyfriend that talks and moves and I'm going to have to kick its ass.

Why do me and my girl get so much pleasure out of torturing a quadra-ped? I mean, we love George. We take him out, we bathe him, we feed him. But then everyone once in a while we like to make him trip out. I think there's a seed of evil in everybody that needs to be watered every so often. Just pure, unbridled meanness. I know other people like to make dog's nuts. Just watch America's Funniest Pets and crap. You see people doing mean shit to the pets they love all the time.

Other examples of animal cruelty:

Zoos. Zoos suck, do you really think a wolf is fooled by paintings of trees on his cement cage? You know that wolf is like, "Great. Two-dimensional forests. Just like home."
FRAT DOG - Every Frat has a dog, that is permanantly hungover and a ticking time bomb
I had a friend who peed on his dog once, "Just to see what happened." I asked him what happened and he said, "Nothing."
Dog shows. 'nuff said
Hamster wheels are sort of sadistic. Don't believe me? Ask yourself how your career feels?
When I was like two, my dad gave me a hamster inside a little plastic ball. The little critter would run around the floor. Well I picked up and threw it sidearm into the wall. Hamster go bye-bye.
What about those pony rides? Where they just walk in a circle ass-to-mouth while screaming kids pee on their backs? That's hateful.

Anyways, the bear rolls on,

MB

Fool On the Hill

2006-09-15T11:08:00.000-07:00

Saddam is at again. The Satanic Goat is making a mockery of the trial in Iraq. Why the Hell are we trying to prosecute him through the law? That’s like trying to give a rabid pitbull a “timeout.” Sometimes America can be so dopey. The longer he’s alive and turns the trial into a stoogefest, the more dissidents in the Middle East think he has real power. They should have Judge Judy go down to the Middle East and slap him around. Tell him to shut up and crap. Maybe her bailiff can take him in the back and take photos of Saddam getting nipped by German Sheppards. Article Here

The maddening thing about reading articles about Saddam Hussein is that everyone is named Hussein. Victims are named Hussein, the Judge is named Hussein. I can never figure out what the hell is going on. They should give Saddam a vato-loco name, like El Viejo, or Oso Verga. Something or a CB handle, like Black Jack, or the Snow Man. Some other name, so articles won’t be confusing.

Screw John Kerry. Now he wants to kick the Swift Boats Ass in 08? Too little too late Stretchy. You did way too much pussy-footing in 2004 and we got left holding the Bush Jr. bag. Dope. Now he wants to fight? What, did he take Karate lessons during the last 4 years? Was he painting Miyagi’s deck and waxing cars? Bastard. I hate Kerry almost as much as I hate Bush. Hillary has bigger bollocks than that long-faced mule turd. Article Here

Researcher John Phillipe Rushton concluded a study which revealed men are smarter than women. Apparently after studying 100,000 aptitude tests, men’s IQ’s or on average 3.63 points hirer. I agree with this obviously. It’s true, men are smarter, it seems natural. We need those extra points to figure out how to wrestle the vagina away from women. We might be smarter, but woman still have the pussy. And everyone knows, as Paris Hilton, Carmen Electra, have proven, pussy beats smarts any day of the week. That’s why hot chicks don’t ever need proper identification. They go to clubs, drive around, without any ID and if they’re cute enough no one gives a shit. If Al Qaida really wanted fuck up America, all they need to do is make hot terrorist chicks. They could get all the way inside the oval office, with fuck-me pumps and a library card. It’s crazy. Article Here

Anyways, up at the Christ College. Briefing cases and crap. It’s 8:45 and I have Property with Dean Saxer. We’re learning about Adverse Possession. Basically, how you can gank someone else’s property by squatting on it. It’s funny to me how these kids don’t think it’s fair. Some freckle-faced punk from Indiana was all, “But, you own the land. Just because someone’s on it for 15 years, doesn’t make it theirs. It flies in the face of all our laws.”Ain’t that some white people shit? Motherfuckers steal shit and then they want everyone to play by the rules.

I raised my hand and said, “Look, if there was no adverse possession then there would be no United States. Most of the pioneers stole land from Indians through Adverse Possession. The rationale goes like this: Brown people were too dumb to improve the land, and White people knew how to work the soil and pollute. Therefore, since they “improved” this piece of property, it belongs to them. Imagine if the Indians were able to say, “Hey wait a minute jock-o. We owned Los Angeles, To Hell with your Walmarts and Bestbuys, we owned this crap. It belongs to us. No one disputes that we owned it first. People would trip.” This kid’s eyes were afire. I dared him to say, “Yeah, but that’s different.” If he would have, I would have shoved his ass down a black-powder gauntlet.

Oh, and By the way, I'm against the ban on skinny models.
(Skinny Batches article here)

This unfairly discriminates against all the strung out ladies in fashion. Now where will the coke-addicted models like Kate Moss work? At 24 hour laundromats? I don't need coked out models on the streets teaching the trannies how to catwalk.

Sincerely,

MB

Cellar Part 2

2006-09-13T09:59:00.000-07:00

This is in response to Old AYBEE’s comment that Part 2 of The Cellar was shut down because of censorship from old co-workers. Nope. Not likely. I bailed on the Cellar, all of a sudden I started thinking so what? Ahhhh who cares about some ex-co-workers and crap? Then Law school shit got a little thick, and then the Croc Hunter was killed, and then…I was like, do I really want to write Part 2?

But since old Fart Lighting Ex-Hippie’s are interested, let me throw together a condensed version for simmering:

Word through the grapevine was that Kenya was miffed that I had put a spotlight on her ass. However, everyone agreed that Kenya gets a lot mileage out of her ass and enjoys the attention. In fact, Kenya’s ass is her American Express Card, she don’t leave home without.

No one told Gay Danielle that I had written anything about him.

Ok, so my ex-boss showed up later. Her name is Anna. She has huge mammary glands. I think they’re like Hostile D Cups. They’re even bigger because of her petite Filipino frame. She showed up and started inhaling Lemon Drops. She says she wasn’t drunk, but she was squeezing Tracy’s biceps and apparently getting lap dances from the woman who ran Karaoke. Between Anna’s Ta-ta’s and Kenya’s booty, my eyes were constantly doing push-ups.
Karen and Gloria showed up. These are two drinking fools. They are party girls. Half-way through the evening Karen was completely sprawled out, laughing maniacally and assaulting the nachos. Gloria has a different move, the drunker she gets the more prominent her ass becomes. In every picture her ass keeps getting higher. She HUGGED the Karaoke Mama. She chose to sing, “Say You, Say Me,” by Lionel Richie. I love Lionel Richie. Yes, I’m old.
My Karaoke move was “Lose Yourself” by Eminem. The crowd went nuts and I succinctly rocked the mike. Why anyone denies that I am the best is beyond me. At your next block party, you might want to invite me because I will turn that mother out.
My other co-worker Talal (yes, most people I hang with have exotic names) sang that sappy chick's song, "Words can't bring you down." Although he was terrible, he had a lot of heart. Talal is like the black Gomer Pyle.
There was a Corporate Skank slinging her hash all around the bar. You know the one, Crayola lipstick, spackled eye-shadow, haggard face, retrofitted breasts, and a flat ass. She was shaking her pancakes all around the bar looking for a sucker. Well after she was rebuffed by the hard-ass alkies at the bar her radar picked up Talal. I guess she was hoping that a youthful injection of African American love might remove some of her wrinkles. Anyways, she was trying to hypnotize Talal, when one of girls from our table signaled to Talal that the skank had “crabs.” He looked right at the skank and said, “I can’t dance with you no more.”
I left at about 10 PM b/c the drinking took a serious turn.

Anyways, that’s the recap. Any coworkers who feel insulted, you shouldn’t be. You know me well enough, and besides, most people don’t know who you or I are. And if they do know who I am, then they might end up in the blog too.

Sincerely,

Medicated Bear

Crocodile Hunter vs. Grizzly Man

2006-09-11T11:43:00.000-07:00

PUT A FEW BLOKES ON A STINGRAY’S BARBIE MATE

The Aussie use of “mate” is stupid. It’s somewhere between gay-speak and pirate talk. Who in the Hell wants to refer to strangers as a Mate? Isn’t mate something that two animals of the opposite sex do to make babies? Weird shit dude.

Crikey! The Crocodile Hunter is dead. For like a week now.
The news has been on the shelf so long it has brown spots on its yellow skin. His heartsack was lanced by a Stingray’s Barb.

The Sting Ray is still at large. Still living. He is probably wearing a disguise, a fake moustache, assumed the identity of a Sperm Whale. Sipping Mojitos down in Aruba. Becoming an oceanic legend. Perhaps collecting his “exterminator fee” from the crocodiles, who pooled their money together in a Reptilian Tong Association to pay for the hit on the most-annoying-fucker-on-the-planet.

What is a Stingray Barb you ask?

The barb on a stingray can be hidden in sheath, like an uncircumscized pee-pee. If it’s broken off, it can grow back, unlike a pee-pee (see Bobbit case; and Ken Doll). Apparently it’s a modified SCALE, scale as in fish scale, not a tool for measuring Dank weed. This Barb is armored with recurved serrations, sharp as razors. Barb is the perfect name for a device that casuse pain. Barb is bitch’s name. I know many men are being stabbed in the heart by venomous, recurved wives named Barb right now.

Stingrays can whip that tail up and strike a fool…say in the CHEST Cavity. But how do treat a wound from a stingray? Scalding water. They should have boiled up some mole and plunged that into his chest.

What do stingrays eat? Clams, snails, and tiny crabs. Apparently they bury themselves in the sand, they have eyes on the top of their heads. Just like the crack-reinforced Trannies on Santa Monica Blvd. What an anti-climatic death. At least the Grizzly Man was eaten alive by a Grizzly. The Croc Hunter didn’t get that right.

(Being a Medicine Bear, I take special joy in one of my bretheren taking out a Southern California Hippie-Come-Lately)

WHAT NOW?

The Crocodile Hunter is dead. The Grizzly Man is dead. Yet, the guys from Jackass are still alive. I always assumed the Jackass jackasses would die BEFORE the nutty Tarzan-Wannabe’s. I figured shooting your balls up with staples and electrodes was far more dangerous then hanging out with wild animals. I guess not. I guess being an environmentalist is more dangerous than being an idiot skater.

What now? Where do we go from here? Where? I’ll tell you where, resurrection. Yep. Not the Easter, “Oh my god, who stole Jesus’s body” kind of resurrection. I mean Serpent of the Rainbow shit. I’m going to make them fight in a battle royale of the Undead Animal Fools.

First I have to sew Grizzly Man’s body parts back together. I actually have to borrow the arm from his girlfriend. A little cross-stitching, a little duct tape. There, corpse is as good as new. Well, almost.

To make a Zombie you need a witch doctor. Being Indian I have plenty of Witch Doctors laying around. Ok, Here we go.

Now, let me stuff some of this Datura paste (Jimsin Weed) into their rigamortis mouths. Work it around their rotten teeth. Ok, and now just a little BAM! Seasoning from Emeril…and…Oh shit, Grizzly Man’s fingers are twitching. Is someone breathing on my neck? The Crocodile Hunter is sitting up. Ow! He’s jabbed a snake stick in my face. Looks like they’re in a state of semi-permanent induced psychotic delirium.

Great. Now, let me face them towards each other and LET’S GET IT ON!

Crocodile Hunter VS. Grizzly Man

Hmmmmm. Zombie Crocodile Hunter and Zombie Grizzly Man circle each other, their decaying feet shuffling, dropping toes like ashes, staring at each other with lightless eyes, waiting for someone to make a mistake. They seem evenly matched:

Both have Heroic Titles and Metrosexual names:

Crocodile Hunter = Steve Irwin
Grizzly Man = Timothy Dexter

Both criticized for putting themselves in danger by being up close to wild animals.
Both responded by claiming special powers of control over wild animals.
Both killed by wild animals.

GM was a commitment-phobe whose girlfriend died with him, CH was married for 14 years and his wife survived him.

SLAM. Crocodile Hunter draws first blood…or first fermented ooze. He twists GM’s bottom lip off. GM’s upper lip stretches back in a grim smile, while millipedes slither through GM’s exposed chin.

Both made films:

GM film directed by Noted Filmmaker Werner Herzog, CH film directed by a nobody named John Stainton

Rotten Tomatoes gave GM’s Film 92% Approval
Rotten Tomatoes gave CH’s Film 53% Approval

GM punches CH in the Larynx and rips out CH’s voice box. He grinds the yellow voice box between his teeth and says “CRIKEY” in a phlegm-encrusted, crypt-like gasp. When GM swallows, the chewed remains fall to the ground through a hole in his cheek.

CH’s film made 28.4 M
GM made 3.1 M

GM aligned with Discovery Channel
CH aligned with Animal Planet

GM shot most of his own footage
CH footage shot by Tony Politis

CH used his catchphrase Crikey
GM Catch phrase “Hello Mr. Chocolate!”

The Crocodile Hunter plunges the snake stick into GM’s chest in a cloud of coffin-dust. He pulls out a shriveled black heart.

GM auditioned to play Woody in cheers
When CH gets a woody he usually shouts “Cheers, Mate!”

CH famous before death
GM famous after death

CH given live Scrub Boa at age 12
GM given Teddy Bear at age 12 and kept his whole adult life

CH jams his rotten fingers into the green eye sockets of GM. He plucks out the two withered orbs and lays them on his grey tongue.

CH dangled his baby near a Crocodile while he fed it Chicken, baby was not eaten.

GM girl friend eaten by Grizzly Bear, even though he didn’t dangle her in front of Grizzly.

CH trained in Gaidojutzu
GM Man fought like a girl

CH had a fear of parrots
GM had a fear of Park Rangers

GM was recovering Alcoholic
CH was full-blown Australian

GM grabs a chair and whacks CH across the face. CH’s head rolls off his shoulders and splashes into a fish tank. The goldfish nibble on the rotting corpse crumbs floating on the surface. CH’s head rests on top of the toy diver. A string of silver bubbles escapes through his nose.

World mourned CH at time of death
At time of GM’s death, world was busy watching reruns of Woody Harrelson on Cheers.

GM was on Letterman and CH was on Jay Leno: both talk show hosts are still alive.

Both were hated by Sport Hunters

GM born in Long Island,
CH born in Australia which is a really long island

GM was eaten by animal he loved
CM was stabbed by animal he was above

Both have death recorded on video camera
Both won’t have their deaths broadcast

Then GM makes a sniffing sound. He turns around and looks at me. He smells living fresh. Both Zombies stretch their arms towards me, teetering forward for nourishment. I step backward and trip over the XBOX. My head slams down on the glass coffee table. I sense the warm sensation of blood pooling around my neck as I watch the CH Zombie pull my foot towards his mouth.

Sincerely,
Half-Eaten Medicine Bear

The Cellar Part One

2006-08-31T07:59:00.000-07:00

The Cellar Part One

Ahhhhhhh yeah. How’s it going out there in Turdsville? Are you reading this at work? Hoping the boss doesn’t have some program that can track the hours you spend on the internet each day? Or are you at home, maybe just basting in the after-glow of internet porn? Maybe guzzling some diesel-fuled coffee? Maybe there’s some peppermint Schnapps in that coffee? Are you a geek? Are you a loser? Are you a loser geek? Well, I am…cheers mother-effer.

This is being transmitted from the top of “The Virgins Road.” Heeeee. It’s 7:08AM my time. The other night my ex co-workers had a party for me. A sort of “Bon Voyage” party for leaving the beehive and entering Law School. That’s something to celebrate, I graduated from a drone to a cannibal.

I tried not to burn any bridges until I was sure that I could make it in Law School. If law school kicks me out, I might need to go back to the beehive and make nice with the Queen. Sheeeit. Law School ain’t shit, so let us pour some gasoline on this bad boy right here. Yeah, toss some over there. Strike a match and watch these bridges burn.

The celebration was held at a place aptly named “The Cellar.” Even though we were downtown Century City (Next to fox studios, Century City…twentieth century fox...get it? Get it? I hate rich people). The Cellar is pub that is tucked away underneath the ground like a buried, calcified womb. Like some mummy snatch. True to the name it is dark and moist, just like my....nevermind. The whole thing was retrofitted and designed for heavy alcoholism. It was invokes some Irish/Scottish/English pubs of drunkery. The chairs are plaid. All the pictures on the wall are of old English Fox hunts and crap like that. Men on horseback surfing on a wave of beagles chasing one, scrawny crack-addicted fox. Nothing tickles the Brittish more than an unfair fight. Fake brick was shellacked on the walls. It was Karaoke night.

I got there early so I could brief some cases and get my shit out of the way before the rest of the bloodhound gang showed up. The place had a mosquito problem so they had put giant green liquid bug traps right on the bar. I had images of blurry nights with lemon drops waking up with a titanic hangover and mosquito welts all over my body. eeeeek.

Some nasty waitress, a little trash-skirt who was hungover was talking about she was worried about her friend because, “She not a good drinker. She’s not really a bad drinker, just when she drinks, sometimes she gets saucy. Last night she said she remembered driving home, and hitting something, she wasn’t sure what, and then she like woke up in her bed. She also talks a lot of shit, when she drinks. Like she just runs up on some guys and starts screaming you’re full of shit, yadda-yadda-yadda.” What she described sounded pretty normal to me.

Some old shit-kicker named Zack, came in. This wrinkly sonofabitch looked a stewed prune. There wasn’t one part of his body that wasn’t wrinkled. He looked like a wadded up newspaper. Everyone at the bar knew him. He had parked in the Red Zone he said because he didn’t want park underground. He had been doing it for 20 years and they could kiss his liver-spotted ass he said. He didn’t order a drink, but the bartender was already mixing it. I guess he’s a regular.

The first person to show up was Danielle. He has short buttery hair. It was a little tense because we weren’t real close at work, on account that he bitched and stole my corner office. When I first came to the company, they gave me corner office. He complained. Seeing as how I had only been there for a few months and he had been there for years, why should the punk get a corner office? Well, I lost the showdown. He got the office. I was real pissed, but this guy was entrenched, and he had been there longer.

When he walked into the bar I just reminded myself, that yes, his office does have a view of the ocean, but I am actually in Malibu. Heheheheheheheheheheheheheh. However, Danielle is very civil and fair. We have never had a cross word, and have kept the passive aggressive karate to a minimum. What I have written just now, might be a little of a shock.

So Danielle and I bullshited up a storm. He ordered a white wine….hmmmmmm…white wine = gay, and yes Danielle is gay. Nothing wrong with that. That night someone mentioned a black hip-hop singer Ne-Yo had come out of the closet and he started clapping and pumping his fists and screaming “Alright, Alright!” Like his team had just scored a touchdown

Kenya showed up. She was decked out in a purple dress. Clearly she had dressed up to say goodbye to me. Kenya will never admit it because we were coworkers, but she has a soft spot in her chest cavity for me. In fact, she’s probably reading this thinking, “That Mother-Effer, keep dreaming, keep dreaming fool ass.” I don’t think its romantic, but I think it’s genuine friendship. I would even say she misses me. Yes you do Kenya. Don’t lie. That’s why you left before I left, so you wouldn’t have say goodbye to me, and get emotional. Kenya…it’s ok, it’s ok, remember the color purple girl. (She probably hates me right now…it is true, I am an ass.)

Kenya was another person Danielle had pushed out of the corner office. Kenya was black, I am Indian, we’re used to the white man taking our shit. Hahahahahahaha…..grrrrrr. (take it easy Danielle, we know it wasn’t like that…too much).

Now the thing about Kenya is she has a huge ass. She’s got like an old school, African-American, ass, it’s like a Cadillac: grand, shapely, and full of Detroit Steel. The thing looks like somebody chopped Saturn in half. This isn’t a normal conversation topic, but it is so obvious. It’s not saggy or anything, it’s in good shape, it’s just big. Every security guard in the building is on Kenya Ass Watch. When she walks by they start sweating bullets, their hands squeeze their walkie-talkies, I saw one guy go into convulsions. Shit’s hilarious. To my knowledge Kenya has never had to buy anything in that building. Free coffee, man the lives chicks lead.

So we all sat there looking dumb.
This is the end of side one. Please flip the tape over to side 2. There you will find the REST of the story, and night’s events. Don’t worry, no one will escape

Hurricanes are like Drunk Uncles

2006-08-30T09:31:00.000-07:00

Will the real slim shady please stand up!

John Mark Karr:

What’s up with Dr. McCreepy? He might not have killed Jon Benet but that MOFO guilty. He guilty of somthin’. Put him under the jail.

What did the Thai Customs officers think he was going to Thailand for? To teach English? Yeah, maybe phrases like, “Only society says it’s wrong.” “Don’t cry, you’re making uncle Mark feel bad. “Drink this, it’s got fairy magic in it.” What a sick-o!

I think Mel Gibson is behind it. He hired Creep-o creep man to come out and take the spotlight off of his anti-Semitic entitled drunk-rage.

By the way, forget the pedophile, get a load of those creepy pants. Ewwwwwww.

Hurricanes

I’m sick and tired of Hurricanes. I have Hurricane Desensitization Disorder. New Orleans and the Tsunami used up all my Weather-Death Sympathy. They should dig up all of Saddam's Palace Bunkers and bury them in Weather Disaster Prone areas as shelters.

Besides, I can never read those damn weather maps—way too much going on.

Can we also stop naming them? It sounds like the Drunk Uncle is coming to visit. Alright kids, Uncle Ernesto is coming in a couple of days, lock the doors and hide under the bed. Most of these hurricanes are illegal immigrants anyways, “Ernesto?” We should get the border guards to deport these Hurricanes, or at least give them a temporary ID.

Iranian President VS American President

Scene from Iranian President doing Jesus Christ Superstar

Ok, ok, if the Iranian President wants to challenge our president to a debate, can he at least wait until the next election? Dang.

Scene from Prez Bush's portrayal of "Clyde" in Every Which Way but Loose

LIVE TELECAST DEBATE:

Iranian President finishes speaking, there is applause. The crowd looks at President Bush, awaiting a response.

President Bush: When will the interpreter translate the Iranian President’s questions?

Moderator: Uhm…Mr. Bush, the Iranian President was speaking English.

President Bush: He was…Oh…Of course he was…Heh heheheheh, well, that’s humor for you. In Texas we call dumb mistakes God’s little jokes. Heheheheh. But now you understand why illegal immigration is an important topic. Whew! Karl I dodged one! Say, where can a fella get a Dos Equis around here, the hillbilly heroin is giving me cotton mouth…

Emmys

The Emmys suck. Who cares? The Emmy’s are the orphan Annies of the award shows. Frizzy, loud, sappy and basically boring. Just like the Grammys, people win and you didn’t even know they were competing. Can we please get back to some real TV like Maximum Extreme Challenge. Little Asian people fall down go boom! Hahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaa

Medicine Bear

1st Day Law School

2006-08-22T19:02:00.000-07:00

My first day of law school:

If this is it,
please, let me know,
my life is a skid against the toilet bowl,
if this it,
please let me know…

Huey Lewis and the News – 1984

Trimmings from the cannibal banquet:

Speeding down the coiled road to Malibu, I listened to Wendy ordering pizza. I noted ironically the road was called Los Virgenes. Whatever virgins had ever been in my life had long since become extinct. Wendy was a retard—the hard way. She gave Pizza Hut a hellish run for their money. She’s one of my favorites from the Howard Stern show…and yeah she’s really retarded.

That’s when I see the Giant Cross stabbed into the hills like the sword in the stone. Pepperdine Law School. Goddamn, it’s a Christian university. Those places hate guys like me. My grades are good, but my mouth is as dirty as the prison “clean-up” sock. Some things I say aren’t very funny to these types.

The Orientation Mailer looked like a bill for a big tent revival, it stated: “Finding Your Purpose in Law.”

The schedule of events had disappeared into the Middle Earth inside my desk. I recollected that it started at about 9. Was it 9:30? I have a photographic memory, if the camera is held by a blonde down-syndrome child.

In the parking lot some 2L’s were snickering. 2L’s are 2nd year law students. What the hell was so funny? They were the whitest people I ever saw. They were skin-graft children from Donny Osmond’s sunless shins. I asked them where orientation was.

“Are you a first year?” They heckled.
“Yeah”
They giggled like satyrs and bounded off. They wore blue jerseys that said Pepperdine Law school on the front. The whole thing had a reek like summer camp. YMCA summer camp.

Colossal paintings of white men with eagle hair stared at me in the halls. They knew I was an imposter. Big Mucky-mucks from the ice age when Pepperdine was still a wee pipe dream by a guy selling car parts. Pepperdine used to be in Compton until the blacks went ape shit and starting ripping shit down. They moved to Orange county and then to Malibu. Maybe that’s why they painted the pictures of those white dudes. Maybe it was their idea to get the hell out of dodge. Malibu? Good Decision.

The pacific hummed at me through the conference room window. The Angel Jimi Hendrix smashed an E Chord and God sprinkled the residual distortion across the waves.

The goslings were panicked. They had been injected with Starbucks ice-blendeds and an old-fashion self-doubt.

Theories about the dreaded FIRST YEAR were exploding everywhere. Lies. All of them lies. No one knows how to really lie like scared rich kids. They’re the best liars. The more entitled, the bigger the lie. The first years whined like malnourished pups.

Some black dude named Terrence told me his girl cried every other day in her first year. I asked him if she was going through menopause. He didn’t get it.

Some freaky Asian chick wouldn’t stop jabbering. She was like C3PO from Taiwan. Come to think of it, R2D2 and C3PO were probably made in Taiwan.

The school divided the classes into sections A, B, C. Taiwan Android was in section C, she wanted to know what it meant.

“It means you’re in the remedial course.”
“What?”
“Yeah, C’s are already on academic probation. Watch out.”

She collapsed and said, “I knew it.”

Then she told me she was 23. Shit! I forgot. I’m 31 and they’re 23. It’s confirmed. I am a loser. God damn it.

Make no mistake these kids were sick. They were infected. Most of them contracted the money-disease from their parents.

We all got Mentors. Mentors are 2L’s who already know the ropes and will shepherd us, should we develop split personalities from the pressure of the Socratic method. Of course, I am older then my mentor by 6 years.

Some of the male mentors, grabbed up all the hot first years and took them “under their wing.” They got their contact numbers in case they needed any help. Help with what? Help loading their kielbasas into their tuna hatch?

I found myself already separating myself from them. The brain took over and started cutting. It read the atmosphere searching for breathable air. It gauged which life forms I was smarter than. Which ones I’d have to nail with a photon torpedo. The brain calculated a large idiot population. It whispered that I could really shine here.

BRAIN: [whispering] Look at these Nigels. Losers. You have life experience. What do they got? Nothing. You’ve survived victories and failures. They’re just kids. You got a good head on your shoulders. Look at them. Sycophants, all of them. They need approval. They wait for their letters to light up, like…Vanna White. Just well-dressed stooges.

And that’s when I realized, I was the scumbag with a moleskin journal, isolating and writing things about them in my precious little black book. Boy am I delusional. I must remember not to mention this blog to anyone at the Law School.

ROOTS Part 3

2006-08-11T09:57:00.000-07:00

Part 3: Roots – visiting my family at our Cabin
(Toby, put the white baby down...)

The wretched souls awoke early. The bunkhouse where the partiers slept off the booze had no curtains. The sun rises eye-crust early on our side of the mountain. They appeared in the kitchen with the hangover sours bubbling all over their faces. I felt awfully sorry for them. Alcohol Dehydration had their cerebellums in a death grip and they had a three hour drive ahead of them. Nothing nice Mis Amis. Nothing nice.

The old man lined us up join a tribal canoe. Our Tribe, the Jamestown S’Klallam, take week long canoe journeys from time to time. There’s all kinds of food, games, dogs, and camping involved. The tribe practices for weeks before hand because dragging a giant cedar dug-out canoe through icy cold Puget Sound with a four foot wooden paddle can be a bitch. Can I get an Amen?

The canoe was set to start at 12PM. Which means nobody shows up until 1:30PM. As with Blacks, Mexicans, and Irish, there is such a thing as “Indian Time.” In fact, it seems like every group of people who have been savagely raped by dominant European Countries are never on time to anything. Why the hell is that? A racial pride in "being late" develops. Being late gets a name, “Oh shit man, I’m on Indian time.” Is Tardiness a protest against “Western control of time and space” or just pure laziness? The trouble with protesting against “The Man” is that the protest always looks like crime or unwilliness to work. “I’m not late to work motherfucker, I’m a freedom fighter!” “I’m not stealing a VCR, I’m a Zapatista!” (Click here if you don’t know what a Zapatista is.)

What’s weird is that celebrities are late too. Those bastards are the ones pillaging and raping pre-parties at the Oscars, so why the hell are they late? It’s something called, “Celebrity Time.” When I worked for Davis Entertainment (stories to come later) actors were notoriously late. For instance, Selma Hayek was hours late to our meeting. Was she on Celebrity Time? She is Mexican, so she could also be on Mexican time. Anyways…

The Canoe arrived on a trailer by a Diesel Truck with Chrome Sideboards and Dualies.

S’klallams are a financially flush lot. Yeah, we got a casino. “Ha-yah yah yah, Ka-Ching!” Link Here.

The spirit of the Great White Boy always appears when I return to my people. I’m lighter skinned then most my brethren and also better educated. On the reservation, this made everyone call me White Boy. It’s embarrassing. It’s like being Polish in a way. You’re light-skinned and technically part of the group, but somehow everyone treats you like you stepped in shit.

I went to school at Chief Leschi Elementary, but afterwards my dad moved me to Public School because he felt I’d get a better education. He was right on the money. Later, in high school I ran into Luck-a-bait-soot, my cousin (everyone on the reservation under 18 is a “cousin” anyone over 18 is an “uncle” especially if they aren’t related to you, for reference see Mexicans and Filipinos).

Luck-a-bait-soot looked fried. He had been dancing to the songs that are broadcast from syringes and needles. His braids were thin and stringy. I was the ASB Vice President. He looked at me and said, “Damn, you’re a white boy now.”

That shit really pissed me off. I was already pissed for being light-skinned and raised on the REZ, but after a lot of hard work I get this crap? Grown folks used to tell me, “They’re just jealous.” It still hurt. When you’re an idiot kid, all the good words from grown folks never heal self-absorbed childhood trauma.

Later, Luck-a-bait-soot was shipped off to Hawaii because he was raising too much Hell in Tacoma. Why the fuck do people send screw-ups to Hawaii? That’s probably the worse place to send a screw-up. I guess people think that because it’s an island, it’s safe and contained. Less land equals less trouble.

But damn, look what happens to rats when you overpopulate their cage. And if the screw-up has a drug problem, and most screw-ups do, don’t send them to a tropical island. They grow big weed out there. It’s like Andre the Giant Weed. And of course, the meth, and of course the crack. Anyways, they found Luck-a-bait-soot with a bullet in the back of his head and all of his larger bones broken. He was a smart ass. And we all know that real serious drug types don’t have a sense of humor about shit.

When you’re light-skinned you have to hang around White People just to feel Indian. Sinbad knows what I’m talking about. Anyways, the spirit of the Great White Boy was flying all around my head. I kept swatting at him and crap, but he wouldn’t stop hovering:

All this drama flashes through my hard drive when we walk down the dock. Pops backed the canoe in the water. I sweated bullets because I didn’t want pop to ram the canoe into the dock or do something stupid. Great, I’m the lightskinned kid with a dad who doesn’t know how to launch a canoe into the water. But pops laid it in there. He’s pretty damn compitenent when he needs to be.

So then we stand on the dock with the other Indians. I don’t recognize anybody. I know exactly what they’re thinking…"Who let the Mexican ride with us.” Bastards. But I don’t say anything. Everyone is real nice. There were zero hot chicks.

We got our orders on entering the canoe from a heavy set Sklallam woman:

“Enter one at a time. And announce that you are getting in or getting out.”

My dad came down the dock. At first it as supposed to be me and my lil sis hitting the canoe…(never call a canoe a boat. Big Mistake. The penalty of which is purchasing a large pizza. Leave it S’klallams to accept payment in food. Every story I’ve ever read about them involves eating. Pops owes the tribe 4 pizza’s…heheheheheh)

Then some dude asked my dad if wanted to go. My pops is 300 lbs. Not exactly canoe physique. My dad said, “I don’t want to take anyone’s spot.” The tribal guy said, “You don’t want to take anyone’s spot, or you just don’t want to go?”

The old man shrugged and put on a life jacket that wouldn’t have even come close to saving him form drowning.

So we all yelled and got into the canoe.

Addendum:

How did S’Kllallams get their name and a little history…also note, the story involves food.

The Klallam people are traditionally known as "the strong people." In the 1930s tribal elder Sam Ulmer related the story that explains how this name came to be used. It is retold by Beatrice Charles:

One day there was a big gathering at the Elwha. The people ate salmon, clams, wild berries, and lots of good things from nature. At the time a longhouse was being built and they decided to see who could get the big log to the roof. "Who can lift this big log?" the speaker asked. All of the other tribes tried to lift it, with no success. Then it was time for the mighty Klallams. Knowing that logs float, they rolled the log into the water. Then their strongest men walked out into the water and they let the log float onto their shoulders. When they walked out of the water they were carrying the log on their shoulders. Upon reaching the longhouse, everyone shouted at the same time, "Shashume, Shashume, Shashume" and on the third Shashume they all lifted the log to the top. The other tribes thought that the mighty Klallams must be very strong to put the log up so high and also so smart to use the water to first get the log onto their shoulders. They all shouted, "Klallam, Klallam!" which means "Strong People!" That was how our tribe recieved its name so long ago.

So you see, our people are famous for lifting logs. (I'm famous for dropping them.)

Sincerely,

Medicine Bear

Link to Some Tribal Info

****EXCLUSIVE*** Cameo appearance from My Pop's

My pops read the blogs and posted a comment. Since he is My dad, I respectfully give him center stage:

If I have to read one more of your"fishing w/ tenny" stories I'm gonna puke all over his raincoat and the toilet you had to shine on the boat! You've gotton more mileage out of that story than I have out of my 88 dodge!

I don't drink glenfiddich drizzle..the other bottle was laPhroigue. I've backed more boats into the water than wayne newton has freckles.

You can post this on your blog if you dare. That damn blog wouldn't let me post a comment fm my bb

---Papa

Part 2

2006-07-26T15:12:00.000-07:00

Part 2

SAT JULY 15, 3 PM:

Pops and I are on our way to intercept our squad at the Lavender Festival in Sequim.

En Route, my Cousin Tenny calls on our cell phone. His connection is static charged, no doubt he’s calling from the Bering Strait.

Cousin Tenny is an Alaskan Fisherman. A Crab fisherman. He has the Charisma of Bill Clinton and the pain receptors of a Stegosaurus. If he feels pain in his body I do not believe the messages make it to his brain.

Fade in FLASHBACK:

Tenny and I were on a boat together (yeah I fished once—only once.) He was locked into a grinding thirty-six hour high-stakes poker game at in some sea salt’s trailer. His eyes were super glued open from some white powder from an Eskimo named Joo-joo.

When the Fishery Chief shot the opening flare, the boats pulled from the dock. They left whether your on board or not. It was a death race to the good fishing spots, and no Fat-livered Captain was about to lose money waiting for a hungover fisherman. As our boat hit full throttle, Tenny sprinted down the docks and lunged into our boat with a fist full of forty eight hundred clams and a jagged cut above his right eye. He punched me in the chest and said, “Good Morning pussy!”

It was stormy. Monolithic swells, grey and determined. Sea spray smacked our faces like a fist fulls of gravel. The Kraken was writhing below. My gills had turned green. I looked over at Cousin Tenny. He was still drunk from the night before, but he was swinging on the nets, with a manic Viking Smirk screaming “woo-hoooo!” Puke flopped down the front of his rain gear, but he just laughed.

Fade Out:

Anyways, he was calling to bullshit. Tenny’s bullshit is premo! It’s swisher-house bullshit. He could sell bibles to Muslims. He could convince Latino’s to be vegetarian. Given enough time, he could convince Cheney’s hunting buddy to apologize for standing in front of the gun.

The American Media machine finally taps his industry for a reality show. THE DEADLIEST CATCH:

Tenny is finally on TV. Thirty years of surviving the cruelest of professions and what does he get? Our whole family waits for hours in front of the TV to catch a glimpse of our own flesh and blood become famous. The show is almost over and he still isn’t on camera. Then in the final seconds, we see Tenny. He bends down and picks up a life preserver. The title scrawl says his name is “TERRY.” And then that’s it. Lame.

OPEN AIR MARKETS:

The Lavender Festival is like any other open air thing—white tents and kettle corn. Globalization has so successfully swallowed the world that street fairs all look the same. Individuality and authenticity are no longer a real phenomena, but mere phantasms of regional marketing executives.

Open Air Market Roll Call:

1) The Wild Honey Hippie

2) Local Wine Dude who also sells that god damn wooden “puzzle” blocking an alcoholic from getting to the good shit. This device always makes its way into an aging golfer’s timeshare condo.

3) The guy who sells those pointless windsocks.
4) The “silver jewelry lesbian.”

5) Chain saw art guy. How does he survive? Who likes that shit?

6) The bi-curious pottery freak
7) The balsamic vinegar pusher.
8) Pewter Dragon Man

Shit you should never buy.

SAT JULY 15, 5 PM:

My dad and I meet up with the gang of five. Someone announces that they’re only having one glass of white wine because they are the designated driver:

SAT JUL 15, 9 PM:

The designated driver is shit faced. My Dad and his friends have lit into the scotch. They brandish Long Morn and Glenfiddich.

One of my dad’s friends has just fallen over the bench. He fell only the way a drunk could—in slow motion. Gravity stopped working in the 2X2 foot space where he stood. He just floated up and floated back down on his head. He looked like a ship run aground.

Party Talk arrived around 10 PM. Party Talk brought with it, its friends: Sincere Discussion, Future Plans, and of course Obscene Admission. There were cries in the night of, “Ok, ok, ok, ok, just, let me say this, let me say this and then you can talk…”

But the fire and Morgelloned eyes could not drown out the view from my dad’s deck:

The sun melts into a lilac pashmina over the evergreen shoulders of Victoria, B.C..

SUN JUL 16 9 AM:

Ugly Hangovers…to be continued

Tripping Balls

2006-07-20T10:06:00.000-07:00

My TRIP:

The smoldering hour of 12:39AM found my plane slamming down on the smarmy tarmac at LAX. The Mexican couple next to me cradling their bundle of joy was on their way to Guadalajara. It was hard to tell if they were from LA or Mexico. I guess it doesn’t really matter, I was home.

I finished reading WIRED and realized I hate that magazine. I always think I’m going to like the MAG but when I read it I always come to the same conclusion: this sucks. It’s like Dominoe’s. Good in theory, sucky in practice. I read it at airports and doctor’s offices. Basically I eyeball their “gadgets” page, secretly lying to myself about which time-waster I’m going to buy next. I never do, mainly ‘cuz I never need the over-priced Sharper-Image shit they hawk.

Wired articles are about as interesting as watching scotch tape go bad. The lead article was, “Two types of Genius. Which type are you?” I thumbed directly to the report to see if they listed my brand of lazy, cantankerous acrimony there. I didn’t see myself. The Professor’s lifetime of research culminated in an idea: there are two types of genius: the kind that burn red hot and blow up like Orson Welles, and the kind that stick around so long that they finally wear everyone down like Mark Twain. A sort of genius by water-torture. Well blow me down Olive Oil. What a discovery, like no one thought of that before. Was he smoking weed and playing Sim City when he came up with that? What about the underdiscovered geniuses? Most of the poor sand dabs reading this article, including the KingUnderPin writing it.

There was also an article about how Rupert Murdoch had bought out My Space. Great. The old salamander mucked around in the dark with NEO Cons and Swillary Clinton long enough to buy more teenage crap. Have another picture taken. Needless to say, I didn’t want to read it. WIRED sucks. It’s for geek-wannabe’s. The type of idiot who confuses metrosexuality with Geekiness. Just because you’re a dork, doesn’t mean you’re a geek, Mr. Bojangles. These guys think they’re techno-savvy because they use a Mac. I hate it. Every time I hear some yokel launch into the MAC bullshit, I just think, “There goes another one. The shit’s expensive so he figures it must be good.” Go buy a Saab you pretentious flounder fucker. Very few of the sexually-frustrated drones called people actually know anything about computers. Yours truly included.

Anyways, I was on a return flight from a stay (of execution) with my family. The itinerary follows:

FRI night: 11PM

My friends and I assaulted a Korean BBQ restaurant off of Western. I had traveled there with My Girl and her very hot Girlfriend. Both black. Both loud. Both indescribably sexy. Tiny shirts and big cans and singing trashy seventies-sex-disco. By the time I got to the BBQ joint, my guts felt like they’d been sitting on the grill for hours. I don’t drink, so I had to lose my mind on the meat. I ate marinated everything. In fistfuls, sputtering curse words in between kim-chi gulps and dirty jokes. AT 12AM I realized that I had to get up at 4 AM to make the flight. I’m not even drunk but early morning regret has set in.

SAT: 3:48 AM

My scorched eyes crack open before the alarm goes off. My belly feels like a slave ship trying to make the middle passage: full of hot sweaty meat and entrails slowly turning in cramped compartments.

I get up because that’s what I do. I get up. Morning, noon, and night, the first order of business is always getting up. If you can’t get up, then you might as well flick it in and watch the Price is Right reruns until neutered dogs come down from the Holy Whiteness and swoop you up in a vanilla chariot.

(I hope the shower can trick my eyes into thinking I’ve had 8 hours.)

I walk my girl’s dog in the dark. As awful as I feel, I hate pissing in the house even more. If I smoked, I’d be smoking right about now. At this time in the morning, I walk aggressively. The Drag Queens and Spitfires are just leaving the clubs and they love strangers in the dark. I don’t go that way and I want them to know it before they get close. I hope the dog will scare the homosexuals away: ironically My Girl’s dog is gay too. Just as I picked up the dog’s shit in a plastic home depot bag (becoming acquainted once again with its moist heat) I almost racked my face on the biggest blackest spider I have ever seen. GOD was looking out for me because I just happened to see the spider web right before I hit it. It had caught the crystalline glare of the indifferent street light—I was saved. The hard-backed motherfucker was spinning the damn thing in front of me. He looked like a poison bubble with legs. The web stretched across the entire side walk. I left him alone to let some other MoJo-Potato Biter make it his business. I hate spiders.

On the way to the airport I snag a coke zero and my Sirius radio.

I slide through the airport like one of them little wood-elves in a Swiss clock. Perfect timing all the way. I am the Baryshnikov of airport ballet. I have a few minutes before I board the flying tube, but by now guts already have momentum and sleep is out of the question. Even the Starbucks slab-sticks aren’t here yet, so I have to go over to the generic stand called Java-Java. Sometimes repetition is an expression of art, sometimes it’s a lack of creativity. In the case of their coffee, it was the latter.

The plane was jammed to the gills. Crying kids and confused old people. Both ends of the spectrum were represented.

I arrived at Sea-Tac and the wet, green, grass told me it was cold. That’s when I realized I had forgotten a jacket. Fuck it. Too late now. I’m heading to Sequim which is supposedly warmer than anywhere else in Western Washington. They call it the Banana Belt. Although, it seems to rain just as much in Sequim as it does in Seattle. Sequim is the town near the area of my ancestors: the Jamestown S’Klallam. I’m here to visit my Dad, my step mom, and my sister…only, my dad’s lawyer buddies are in town and they got bottles of scotch to burn. I’m supposed to hang with them at the Lavender Festival. This mixture of scotch, blistering ego, and gay ass lavender creates an unstable compound. Things go awry. Mayhem lurks below. Ugliness is the order of the day and while the sun sets, treachery bares his grizzly fangs….to be continued…

Kate Hawn...er Hudson

2006-07-12T14:44:00.000-07:00

Here’s an article that made me want to slam my computer into a dirty bomb. Of all the things I could care less about. Of all the rancid trimmings dropped from the demonic buffet tables of our corporate slag-off world, Reuters presents this article:

"Kate Hudson finds success fun, but hard earned"

(Well Gollee Gee. How do you like them apples? Success if fun, but hard earned. What a nice little nugget of wisdom from Kate HAWN. Sheeeit. Success is hard earned? What about failure bitch??? There’s a lot of hard-earned, UN-fun failure in the world. Most of the hard-earned failure rocks a steam-wand as a barista at Starbucks to serve you your mocha-decaf fat-free frappacino beyotch.)

LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - Actress Kate Hudson is lucky, and she knows it. But the 27-year-old's success in her relatively short Hollywood career has been hard earned, even for the daughter of a popular Hollywood star.

(Success? How much success has she had? She was in one movie as far as I know. The one where she played that groupie-floozie. Ironically, she went on to marry a lead singer. As far as I know, the greatest acting role she ever played was pretending to be attracted to the lead singer of the Black Crows. Man is he fugly)

She appears onscreen again on Friday in romantic comedy, "You, Me and Dupree," starring opposite Owen Wilson and Matt Dillon. Hudson is the daughter of "Private Benjamin" Goldie Hawn who raised her with long-time companion Kurt Russell, a veteran of more than 40 years in show biz.

(You, Me and Dupree? Are you serious.? Even the title sucks. I like Owen Wilson and Matt Dillon, but this looks dreadful. I smell the acrid smoke of executives being fired right now.)

She also earned an Oscar nomination for best supporting actress in her first big role in a major film, playing rock 'n' roll groupie Penny Lane in "Almost Famous."

(That was also her last big role…yeah, that was in 2000. I’m sure she’ll get another nomination for You, Me and Dupree)

If it all sounds like it came too easy, it didn't.

(Uh…easy isn’t the word. How about Nepotism? I am so sure things would have worked out the same if she had to start by slinging hash and bopping the night manager at Johnny Rockets like everyone else.)

"I didn't want to be associated with my parents, didn't want the perception that I rode on somebody's coattails, and I had to be very conscious of that," she said. "I feel pretty lucky. I feel pretty blessed, but I'm a real hard worker.

(Translation: I can’t trick people into thinking I did this all by myself when I have the same last name as my famous parents. I don’t want people to think I had help, because then they’ll judge my career against the success of my parents, which right now, is well…less than awesome. If my career goes down the crap hole, even with the help of dual-hollywood stars, then that means I must be a really bad actor. Maybe even worse than…oh god, not worse than daddy…ulp…)

So this is the news item that studio is trying pump the movie up with? What about doing an in-depth report on the Butterscotch Stallion’s (Owen Wilson) ass-licking technique. According to The Superficial http://www.thesuperficial.com/archives/001097.html the star brought a girl back to his apartment and licked her ass for two hours.

Her ass? Two hours? Everyone dips a digit in the mud flats everyone once in a while, but a 2-hour Ass lick? Sounds like someone was on ecstasy. Either that, or the Butterscotch Stallion might prefer to be with the Italian Stallion. (throws a new twist on the name BUTTerscotch Stallion. )

Sincerely,

MB

SUPER MAN will eventually kill us.

2006-06-21T12:16:00.000-07:00

Yo yo yo…I’m rollin’, they’re hatin’, that’s why they’re trying to catch me ridin’ dirty.

My buddy says that Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians are coming out with a new album. Great. I thought we got rid of that hack. That’s all we need, more fat chicks dancing around in Birkenstocks smelling like Patchouli Oil. What’s next? The reunion of Phish?

But anyways:

I want to dispel some treacherous propaganda surrounding this fictional character, the so-called Superman. Ok, now a lot of mother-effers are going around, telling their little lies about the Man of Steel and spreading hearsay and poppycock.

Big Dummy’s contend that Superman is an immigrant. The idea is that he immigrated from the planet Krypton to earth. In his new home he gets superpowers and lives the American way of life. See, in Krypton, there was a red sun and there, Superman was just a regular person, but then when he shows up on earth with the YELLOW sun he gets all his powers. So he must be an immigrant right? Wrong!

Any real immigrant will tell you, that Superman claiming to be an immigrant is just like Linda Rontsadt claiming to be Latino. Great jump on the ethnic bandwagon when it’s cool, but where was your punk-ass during the real struggle?

See, the real immigrant experience is just the opposite than Superman’s story: in El Salvador, you were a doctor, then you come to the US and now you are a Bellhop at the Raddison. This immigrant theory crap is Super Ca-ca.

Superman traveled in a cozy spaceship to earth.
Immigrants traveled underneath four hundred pounds of tires in a storage container
Superman crashed in a small Midwestern town and was adopted by conservative parents.
Immigrants crash into a Hick in a truck and were deported by conservative officials.
Superman can fly without Proper Identification.
If Immigrants have dual identities they are sent to Abu Graib.
Superman is impervious to bullets.
Immigrants are gunned down reaching for a wallet.
Superman doesn’t catch crap from dating White Women.

The next piece of Jerky that’s a real crock a crap is that Superman is Jewish. I don’t think sooooo.

Evidence 1: Superman is Jewish because his creators were Jewish. However, that theory does not hold water. Sammy Davis Jr. was Jewish but his creators weren’t—they were black.

Evidence 2: Superman’s real name Kal-el which sounds like Hebrew. What? Kal-el? That’s not Hebrew, it’s African. Everybody knows that. Everyone’s loveable black nerd Irkle’s real name is Jaleel white. Jaleel sounds like a name from Krypton. It’s Black it ain’t Hebrew. Besides, names don’t mean shit. My friend is dating a dude named Kimani, which you would expect to be Japanese, but it’s Swahili. So you can’t judge race by how a name sounds.

Evidence 3: Superman’s origin is oddly like Moses. He was put in a basket/(rocket ship) and sent down the river (space). Actually Superman is nothing like Moses:

Superman left his planet because it was being destroyed, Moses was sent down the river b/c the Pharoh was killing male children.
Moses came from enslaved people, Superman came from advanced aliens.
Moses freed the Jews from slavery, Superman puts people in prison.
Moses got his power from a Jewish God. Superman got his powers from the yellow sun (which was worshipped by Egyptians).

Evidence against Superman’s Jewish-ness:

Superman can’t be Jewish because no known material can circumsize his super-pee-pee. His foreskin would destroy those tiny scissors.
Superman is not a lawyer or a doctor.
Superman does not live with his mother.
Superman's vacation home is a cold climate: the Artic circle instead of Miami.

Now then who is Superman?

He’s an evil colonist. He’s a conqueror from in the tradition of England, Spain, and France. Superman is the first emissary to be sent to conquer new lands and people.

Superman comes from a land of an “advanced civilization, with people of great intelligence and physical perfection.” That’s what Europeans thought of themselves.
Superman is impervious to Native Weaponry. Arrows didn’t stop the settlers, and bullets don’t stop Superman.
In Superman's home land he was nothing, but in our primitive culture he is like a God.
Much like the Aztecs when the horsebacked Cortez arrived, we are thrown for a loop by this
advanced stranger.
Superman left his home because overcrowding and age was destroying it, just like 16th Century England.
Superman, just like settlers, has a thing for our Native women.
The Settlers were powerful because of their increased mobility, they had trains, ships, and horses. Superman has increased mobility—he can fly.
Just like the pilgrims Superman originally survived on the kindness of the Natives.
Superman is white. (Do you think things would have gone differently if Ma an Pa Kent found a black baby wrapped in a towel in a ditch?)
Just like the colonists who were only interested in making money, so too Superman has a weakness for green stones.
Superman is the Man of Steel, and it was steel (guns/bullets/railroads) that helped the settlers conquer the Natives.
When you hear black people talking about “The Man,” what the hell do you think they’re saying? What we got here is not just “The Man,” but “The SUPER Man.” We’re in for a rude awakening.

So don’t be fooled. Just like Settlers who claimed to have Christian values and then basically pillaged North America in the name of manifest destiny, so too Superman will conquer us. Let’s learn a lesson form our Indian Brethren—don’t trust strangers from another land. Powerful strangers from far away spell disaster. Run for the hills. He probably has small pox in his cape.

Sincerely,

Medicine Bear

Gay Pride Parade

2006-06-16T18:42:00.000-07:00

What people say to each other at gay pride parade is "Happy Pride!" Now that's gay.

Goddamn. I went to the gay pride parade WITH MY GIRLFRIEND so no mf’ers would step to your boy. Soooooooo gay. Way gay. There were new levels of gayness that I didn’t know was possible. There was a gay clown making gay balloon animals.

I kid you not. i saw the biggest, blackest, penis in my life. This dude was dancing on a firetruck gyrating in nothing but red hot pants. It was E-normous. It was like someone jammed a baby in his pants. I thought he had a hernia. I was like, "Look baby, a Gay Siamese Twin! Oh wait, that's his dick!" The vein was visible from the curb.

I turned to my girl and was like “holy shit.” For the first time in our relationship my girl was silent. She took her hat off said, “Shhhh. Have some respect for the Gigant-o-Rod.” I pointed at it and said, “that thing ain’t real!” And like the dude whipped it out. And when I say, “whipped it out,” that’s what he did. The thing CRACKED in the air. All the pigeons took flight and children started crying. The beast was so huge, it would have made the anti-christ crawl back up in the Satan-mother and just chill. ON the second coming of Christ, Jesus made a U-Turn back into heaven and said, “Now that was one big black dick.”

Gay pride parade in west Hollywood is like the Easter Parade in Puerto Rico. Those’ MF’ers take that shit for real. Man, my grandpa would be freaking out if he was still alive. He was a dyed in the wool homo-phobe. He came from the “greatest generation” which means the “greatest intolerance of alternate lifestyles.”

In middle school my Grandpa (bless his heart) would drive us down to “Youth Group” in his white Cutlass Sierra. The ride over was Grandpa’s time to help mold out minds. One of his favorite topics was “Homosexual Perverts.”

Grandpa: Quiet now boys, I want to talk to you.

[My Cousin and I would look at each other like, “Aw Hell.”]

G: Now, I want you to stay away from homosexual perverts…do you know what they do? They go to bath houses and they…

Holy Smokes Grandpa. It wasn’t like me and my cousin were hanging down at the YMCA in muscle shirts or something. We were waaaay into chicks. I think Jerry Falwell or someone sent my Grandpa a video on Homosexuals. It was a tape of the Gay Pride Parade in San Francisco [gay mecca] and it kind of freaked him out. Grandpa also warned us constantly to be with good, clean, Christian women: Fifteen years later I’m at the Gay Pride Parade with my Black Girlfriend.

Anyways West Hollywood is the Southern Californian San Francisco. There’s a working Male Porn Theater called the TomKat—don’t eat the buttered popcorn. They have shown titles like SWEET HOMO ALBAMA, SWORD FIGHT, ASSPHEMY, and JUGGERNUT. No lie. It’s so famous that it’s an LA Icebreaker now.

Angeleno 1: Hi.
Angeleno 2: [silent, sizing up whether or not this person can be of use to me]
Angeleno 1: Guess what’s playing at the Tomkat?
Angeleno 2: What?
Angeleno 1: Mr. and Mr. Smith and Muscle and Blow.
Angeleno 2: Oh for heaven’s sake…

The Parade:

Dykes on bikes made a showing. Rough trade, Rough trade. They were topless with huge, weathered, boda bag tits. The only milk those breasts would produce was aged and mellowed whisky from Lynchburg Tennessee. Their eyes manhandled my girl. I muttered, “Look honey, if one of these here bull dykes decides to throw one in ya, I’m just gonna have to move to the side, ‘cuz these greaser bitches could probably hand me my sack lunch no problemo. You should probably just relax and take it. Don’t tighten up, so nothing tears. Meet me by the car in an hour or so.”

Then like the Gay Men’s Choir glided through singing “It’s in his Kiss.” That was soooooooooooo powerfully gay that even Liberaci’s corpse was like, “Someone shut those queers up!” Their float was a pink chiffon doused tractor with a man swinging on a pink swing.

I didn’t trust one Asian Woman at that parade. I was like, no way jose! I know you! You are not sexy girl, no! You man! You man! You have tits like woman but balls like man! That’s Doctor Jones to you Lady!

As much as I feel secure about my heterosexuality, I held my woman close. She was my garlic against the gay vampires. I was squeezing her and hugging her. I kept my hetero-defense-shield powered up through straight displays of public affection.

Some dude came bouncing down the parade route cracking a giant bullwhip. I don’t think he was part of the festivities. He was just filled with the holy gay spirit. There was a guy in assless chaps and fruits of all shapes and sizes were spanking his big white ass cheeks.

I left with an astonishing thought: these dudes like to suck pud and invade man-ass. wow.

Sincerely,

MB

WHOOPS! Looks like somebody got cut off from the honey pot!

2006-06-11T17:58:00.000-07:00

Extra! Extra! This is in reponse to the previous post.

This is the friend who gave me the firsthand account of his rendevouz with his gastric bypassionate love affair.

this is the panicked email i got from my buddy:

DUDE!! PLEASE TAKE OUT [bleep] AND [bleep]!!!!!

THAT'S NOT ANONYMOUS! HE ONLY HAS ONE [bleep]!!!!!

OH MY GOD, NO WONDER SHE HATES ME SHE PROBABLY KNOWS SOMEONE ON YOUR LIST!!!!

PLEASE DELETE THAT STUFFTHANK YOU!!!!

WITH LOVE,MB

...with love? hehehehehehahaha. ooooops! oooopsee!

Wowie Zarqawi

2006-06-09T14:31:00.000-07:00

They killed Jesus! Oh my god…wait…nevermind, whoops! False alarm, my bad.

I can’t say his name, but that dude is dead. They dropped two 500 pound bombs on that guy’s slumber party and he got moted. Except, he wasn’t dead, which means they must have missed his house. They probably blew up a 7-11 at the end of the block and he was injured by falling debris. When they got to him, he was still alive:

"We did in fact see him alive," he said. "There was some sort of movement he had on the stretcher, and he did die a short time later." Article Here

“Short time later?” Yeah right. You can bet your ass there was some hanky-panky in that ambulance ride. You know that guy got all the wrong kind of medical attention. The EMT’s probably put a pillow over his face. Instead of hooking up to oxygen they “accidentally” hooked him up to the ambulance’s exhaust pipe.

When I heard Nick Berg’s father being interviewed last night I was kind of blown away. Nick Berg was the dude who got his head sawed off by Zarqawi wielding a Rambo knife. The father was sad that Zarqawi was killed. Partly because revenge leads to more violence, and partly because they’ll be others promoted into his spot. Woah. Shouldn’t the FCC be censoring that kind of common sense and grace from the public air waves? I bet the flesh melted off Novak’s skull when he heard that. Tucker Carlson’s bow tie probably exploded.

According to articles it was Task Force 145 who gets the credit for nabbing Zarqawi. Who is Task Force 145? Is it the elite force of speech therapists to help Bush Junior speak properly? Or perhaps guerrilla voice coaches to teach Bush Junior to fake a really authentic Texan accent. Is it Turk 182? No, it’s some bad ass mamma-jammas:

The job of hunting Zarqawi and rolling up his al-Qaida in Iraq network falls to Task Force 145, which is made up of the most elite U.S. and British special operations forces, and whose headquarters is in Balad.

The U.S. forces are drawn from units under Joint Special Operations Command at Pope Air Force Base, N.C. These include the military’s two “direct action” special mission units — the Army’s 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, known as Delta Force, and the Navy’s SEAL Team 6, sometimes known by its cover name, Naval Special Warfare Development Group; the Army’s 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment and 75th Ranger Regiment; and the Air Force’s 24th Special Tactics Squadron.

Article 2 Here

But now let us shift gears to the real meat and potatoes of why we’re gathered here. Last week a friend in distress got me on the horn. He was in Dire Straits, no, not the blue-collar rock band, but between a rock and a hard place. The tale he recounted was so eerie and full of soul sickness that I contemplated forgetting it. I didn’t want hoist it up the flag pole for fear that it would cast an evil spell on all those who read it. But My Girl forced my hand, “You can’t NOT write something for fear offending a few fat people. Fat people know they’re fat.” True enough my little lady, true enough.

So here it goes. I left the salt, irony, and disgust in raw form. Let the meat hang I say, let the ugliness swing from the yard arm so all might see and know true foulness:

Phone rings.

My Buddy: hey
Me: what’s up?
MB: Nothing.
Me: How’s the 48 hour Hollywood diet coming?
MB: Man, that shit doesn’t work.
Me: You’re kidding.
MB: If people ask you about it, tell them “Don’t do it.”
Me: It didn’t work?
MB: If anything it DID the opposite. I drank 48 ounces of the shit and nothing. I gained 10 lbs on the Hollywood diet. Nothing came out. I didn’t start shitting until I started eating again.
Me: Fad diet’s never work.
MB: I just got Ripped Fuel, that’s the shit that works. I’m on this fruit diet. All I have this one good lunch and then eat fruit at night.
Me: What do you consider a “good lunch?”
MB: Combination plate. Rice, beans, meat. But I just eat the meat…and the beans…and the salad. I don’t eat the rice…well, maybe a couple bites of rice.
Me: That sounds healthy.
MB: It’s hard to lose weight. I’ve been thinking crazy. Maybe I should smoke crack because I need to lose weight.
Me: the only thing about crack is that it always leads to sucking dick.
MB: I figure meats good, I don’t eat no tortillas, no Manteca, none of the shit. I just go to the meat and salsa.
Me: Where do you go?
MB: Oh my god. A real roach coach. It’s the best. Write it up in the blog. No taco plate, no hamburgers, the real shit. Right behind Gower and Santa Monica. They screwed the counters into the wall of the truck, the place is a goldmine, ribs, menudo, whatever you want.
Me: What’s it called?
MB: I don’t know. It’s got a giant sportsfish on the side and says “coctales.” I just get double on the meat portion, cuz I figure, Atkins.
Me: Why are you dieting? Are you trying to get laid?
MB: That’s the thing. I am getting laid. I’m dating a girl: she’s a lawyer, music attorney for [bleep]. The largest fucking Mexican network in the world right? Her bro is [bleep]'s sound [bleep]. She’s 5’1’ and pure Columbian, and you know how I like pure Columbian, 120 lbs, cute…but…I’m not into it.
Me: What’s your problem? You’re never happy.
MB: It’s not a good fit. She used to be 215 pounds but she had gastric bypass. She looks like a deflated balloon. Keep her clothes on she looks good. She had Laser removal down there, smooth as a baby’s bottom.
Me: Gastric bypass? Did she tell you ahead time?
MB: She told me, “I had the surgery,” but I didn’t realize. When I got there I was like ewww. She’s got tits right? But you gotta squeeze and lift up to make it feel like a tit.
Me: This is my next blog mother-effer.
MB: Hey don’t use my name bitch.
Me: Spill your guts.
MB: I reached down her pants, when it came down to it, I reached down, it felt beautiful, not a hair in sight. She said, “I had laser hair removal.” Wow, I thought. She grooms well, I figured the rest of it’s gotta be good.
Me: And?
MB: When I took off her bra, it was flat. She was straddling me, all her skin was saggy, her stomach, her tits, looked like an old, old, lady. So fuck dude, it feels good, but I can’t get that visual. I’ve been keeping her shirt on because I can’t see it, or from behind, but generally, it’s not gonna work dude, even though she’s nice.
Me: Wow.
MB: Here’s the clincher: she thinks she’s normal. I tried to tell her. You know, go to the gym, but she doesn’t go to a real gym. She goes to Curves, that ain’t a real gym, my grandma doesn’t even break a sweat at Curves. I asked her when she was going to the gym and she said, “June.” I said, “June? Fuck, it’s June 5th already.”
Me: What about implants? She’s a lawyer. She’s got the scratch.
MB: Here’s the thing: A fat girl’s gotta a big fat pussy. You give her gastric surgery, she still has a big ol fat pussy. It feels squishy, yeah it gets, wet but it just…just doesn’t feel right. She does give good head, but she looks like a deflated Mickey Mouse Balloon.
Me: Damn.
MB: Put this in the blog for all the young people. It doesn’t matter what a girl does. She could be a lawyer, she could be rich, she could have a pretty face but if the pussy doesn’t feel tight, then it ain’t worth it. Whoevers, got the tightest pussy wins. Bottom Line.

I know it ain’t right. I know it ain’t pretty…but this is how guys really talk. And I ain’t never come across no mo-fo’s who actually seen a gastric bypass up close like this.

Word to the wise: Stay fat or work out.

Sincerely,

Medicine Bear

The Break Up and My Girl's Banana

2006-06-05T13:08:00.000-07:00

Is it me or does the President of Iran look like Corporal Klinger from MASH? Either that of Jamie Farr is the President of a Mulim Fundaemntalist Country.

Anyways

I was sold a Bill of Goods on Aniston’s new movie The Break Up. She’s not naked. My girl said she got totally nude and I believed her. There are blurry shots of her where you can’t see crap and then you see her ass as she walks away. But that ass isn’t her ass. I know about Movie Magic. That was body-double ass…

Not that Aniston is all that hot, it’s just…well, it’s weird being a dude. Dudes want nudity. We need nudity. The way a farmer needs the soil. Sesame Street stresses the importance of imagination, but men have been imagining women naked since we figured out how to draw in the dirt. When God made our brains she designated a large portion of it to wondering what chicks look like naked. That’s how you know God is a woman. Only a woman could create a devious trick like that. Only a Female God would know to implant a desire for nudity so powerful, it would enable men to withstand the trials of female conversation. This was the Woman God’s way of protecting women from loneliness.

We wonder what the teacher looks like naked. We wonder what the girls in class look like naked. In some marriages, the husband is still wondering what his wife looks like naked. Yes, its true, we even wonder what Hillary Clinton, Laura Bush, Betty White, Dr. Ruth, Kathy Griffin, Martha Stewart, Lois from family guy, Blondie, Helen Keller. You name her, we’ve imagined it. Even inanimate things like, mannequins. No man can ever say that he never imagined what a “clothed” mannequin looked like naked, even though he already knows. In fact, every hetero-male has wondered what the Statue of Liberty looks like naked. We know, it’s a statue, we know that there is nothing “under” the robe, it’s a sculpture, nothing but steel girders, BUT, it is French and we do wonder what she looks like naked.

When I was a kid, I was real messed up. There was a period of time in the 3rd Grade, where I wondered if people were naked all the time. For some reason, the strange thought occurred to me that maybe clothes were an illusion. Perhaps some sorcerer or god and put clothes on everyone and they only appeared when I was looking. Perhaps we were all really naked and this WAS the Garden of Eden. So what did I do? I’d whip my head around real fast and try to catch people being naked before there magic clothes would appear. It’s amazing I survived youth at all. What made me think that I could turn my head faster than magic clothes could appear?

I could go on about nudity for years. Dr. Who could get in his time machine, travel one thousand years into the future and dig up my grave, rip my dusty skeleton out of the coffin and my skull would still be chattering about nudity.

However, The Break Up was pretty good.

By the way, my girl is the most defiant girl in the world. She will do anything in the world if you ASK her, but TELL her to do something and it’ll never get done. She would suffocate if you told her she ought to breathe.

Point in Case:

The other day, My Girl slapped me twice with an unpeeled banana. I don’t remember what I said, but she hit me on one side with the yellow fruit and on then on the other. She recounted over, and over how she assaulted with a banana:

My Girl: Baby, that shit was funny. I went like this (swings banana) and your face was like (shakes her head). Should have videotaped that shit. What does it feel like to be with such a funny ass woman? (long sigh as she looks out the window) You should have seen your face. Funny. Shit.

I let her have her fun. “Laugh it up,” I thought, “We’ll see who the jokester is when I slap your face with my banana tonight.”

Anyways, after the mall, when we got back in the car I noticed the strong smell of bananas.

I was like, “What the Hell?” My darling angel left the banana peel on the floor of the car. We were at a mall, with tons of trash cans but she just left the banana peel there.

Then I dropped her off and she sprang out of the car without grabbing the banana peel. So I threw it out the window and said, “Throw away your banana peel.”

You would have thought I had just told the Sovereign Queen of England to wipe my lily-white ass. I didn’t know there were that many different facial expressions. She said, “I know you did not just throw that banana peel at me to pick up off the ground like some dog.”

“Aw shit,” my mind threw up its hands, “Here it comes.” I said, “Baby, I wasn’t throwing it AT you, just pick up YOUR banana peel.”

When my girl is in her Righteous Oprah Anger, she always repeats herself, “I know you did not just throw that banana peel at me to pick up off the ground like some dog.”

At that moment I did the only thing I could think of—I stepped on the gas and left her there with her banana peel. Even though her head got smaller in the back window, the size of her indignation remained the same. But it was worth it. Oh my god it was sooooo worth it. I felt like a man. I felt strong. I showed her. They say a Snickers really satisfies, but not as much as leaving your girlfriend next to a banana peel she SHOULD have picked up in the first place. It was totally worth it, even when I went back and picked the banana up and threw it away.

Sincerely,

MB

Pretentious Assness and Starbucks Line Syndrome

2006-05-31T14:06:00.000-07:00

"Obviously, my tastes and my priorities have changed. But I am still asking the question 'Why?' Just because I'm a mother doesn't mean I'm not still a rebel and that I don't want to go in the face of convention and challenge the system."
Madonna

Pretension. I’ve been guilty of it. That’s for sure:

Flight to the Bahamas. British Airways. Age 11. Fat...

I had eaten one of the best airplane meals ever: pot roast. I was so moved by the food that I pushed the “Call Stewardess” button. The middle-aged woman came and asked me if I needed anything, “No, no. I just wanted to say. That was the best airplane meal I ever had. And I’ve flown a lot. Good stuff.” The stewardess didn’t say anything and left. I remember thinking, “what the Hell’s her problem? You try to compliment someone and they shit all over you. Jeez.” It wasn’t until years later, when I was slicing spicy salami at a deli that I realized what an ass I had been. A total pretentious ass.

Pretension is a specious allegation; a pretext. An ostentatious display; pretentiousness, according to dictionary.com. I’m not looking up “specious” or “Ostentatious.”

The scariest thing about being pretentious is that it’s mostly unconscious. Until someone else points it out or upon reflection you will not know. Then one day your skin erupts into gooseflesh from the scalding knowledge that you had been a pretentious ass.

"I'm from Iowa, we don't know what cool is!"

Ashton Kutcher

Signs that you are pretentious:

1. You call second-hand shirts “vintage.”
2. You grew up in a wealthy suburb but you call your white friends “dog.”
3. You smoke cigars like it was high-grade weed.
4. You really believe that a strip club is a “gentleman’s club.”
5. You tell people how to eat properly even though you’re fat.
6. you tell people how to eat properly but you're a skinny fat person.

7. You buy turntables and records to start DJ’ing but its 2006.
8. You buy a CD mixer so it sounds like you’re DJ’ing with real turntables.
9. You tell someone hw much you loved a book even though you only read 1/3 of it.
10. You strip for a living but you call yourself a “dancer.”
12. The reason you don’t keep up on current events is because the “world is too depressing.”
13. Halle Berry
14. You try to invent a new way to say goodbye as in, “Be comfy, cozy, cool.”
15. You start phrases with, “I’m the type of person that…”
16. You walk around telling people Greenday is NOT punk rock.
17. You tell people that Ozzy jumped the shark when he got on MTV.
18. You get steamed by the fair-weather fans claiming X-Men, but they weren’t with you in the trenches when it was just a comic book for 7th grade losers.

19. Your designer jeans have splattered paint on them but you don’t paint.
20. You wear a T-Shirt that says, “Slut” or “Porn Star.”
21. You’re a young republican.
22. You are a guitar player in a band and you give yourself a nickname with an article in it, as in THE Edge. In fact, all of U2 is pretentious.
23. On you’re my Space account you post things like, “I don’t like fake people,” or “No Drama.”

Starbucks Line Syndrome

The great hall of pretentious chatter can be heard in a Starbucks line. When people speak to each other in the Starbucks line they know other’s are listening. The Caffeine Pushers create a captive audience of twitchy-zombies waiting for their drug. So people speak in that “I know you’re listening to how ___________ I am by my conversation.”

Insert these words: Smart, Interesting, Funny, Original, and of course Awesome

Starbucks Line Syndrome, or SLS can contaminate dialogue very subtly. One minute you’re telling your friend about the hamburger you just ate, the next minute you can hear yourself slip into an ironic anecdote about “grilling animal flesh.” The only thing I hate more than Starbucks Line Syndrome is those who look around for crowd reaction to their latest zany zinger. I wish it socially-appropriate to slap people with a raw meat in public. Just WHAM! T-Bone to the dome mother-effer!

"I think white people are allowed to say 'bling'. They are allowed to say old-school black slang, like 'hottie' and 'homie'. Actually, I do not think that (white people) are allowed to use slang until it is at least a year old. If you say a slang word too early, it's like you're trying to be black. So as long as the slang is a little played out, you're all good."

Kanye West

SLS IN ACTION:

Today I got in line down at the corporate ant hill where I sit on my ass. I stood behind this short woman with a huge badunkadunk (according to Kanye, I can use after-market black slang). I’m definitely a gawker. I saw this ass from around the corner. Something about little women with big asses really froths my milk. Anyways, I was wondering what it’s be like to grab her cheeks and just pull, when the guy next her announced:

Guy Next To Her: Did I tell you I’m getting a billiard room?
Big Assed Short Lady: No.

[what an ass…no not her, the guy. Did I tell you I’m getting a billiard room? Any phrase that begins with “Did I tell you…” is bound to be pretentious. What kind of butt-loafed clown gets billiards? That’s some fucking Clue-board game shit. This is America Colonel Mustard. What’s he going to do, play snooker? Ass.]

GNTH: Yeah, you know where the room downstairs where we store my vintage wine?

The Woman does the “I-don’t-know-what-the-hell-you’re-talking-about-but-I-do-not-want-to-get-into-it-because-this-is-already-wearing-me-out” nod.

GNTH: Yeah, well I’m turning it into a billiard room.
BASL: I saw that movie hustle and flow.
GNTH:…(at this point he’s looking around to see who knows that he’s getting a Billiards room.)
BASL: I thought it was good. Did you see that movie?
GNTH: I fell asleep. (SLAM! In your face! You don’t think billiards are interesting? Well I don’t think Hustle&Flow is interesting. You’d rather succumb to the low class rap/pimp pop legends than elevate yourself with a refreshing billiards discussion, my billiards, my balls? How dare you! Now I say, you’re topic is stupid!)
BASL: I saw Da Vinci Code.
GNTH: I can’t remember when I saw a good movie. You know that? I can’t remember the last time I saw a good movie.

(Repetition of a statement is a dead give-away for Starbucks Line Syndrome)

Although bad movies are abundant, for some reason the way he proclaimed it in that Starbucks Line Bravado made him very dickish. I mean, so the fuck what? No one has seen a good movie lately. You think you’re the only one. If you think that what is happening to you is somehow unique to you, chances are you’re pretentious.

Then with a theatrical turn, kind of like when Matlock realizes that the witness has walked into on his down-home cross-examination traps, the dude says, “Except maybe March of the Penguins. March of the Penguins was the last good movie I saw.” By now he was as loud as the town crier.

Jesus Christ. What an insufferable turd. Ok we get, you’re really intellectual and boring. You play Billiards and watch documentaries about male birds who act like women. That’s probably why you fall asleep in movies, you bore yourself. Anyways, it’s right about now in this diatribe that’s its starting to dawn on me how pretentious it is to have a blog and email it to people and expect them to read my rants, and then put a counter on the bottom that only reads: 187. Yep. I’m an ass.

Sincerely,

Medicine Ass

"I've always had a great voice. You either have it or you don't. It's something you're born with. I'm a brand, a model, an artiste, an actress, a designer. I write books."
Paris Hilton

The Da Vinci Load in my pants

2006-05-30T12:58:00.000-07:00

So I saw The Da Vinci Load. Woah, that was one crazy, dark, twisted, slick piece of material…on top of Tom Hank’s Head. Wow. What’s up with the hair dude? Damn, they should have used CGI on that shit, King Kong was more believable.

I don’t know. Since the reviews are so bad my low expectations made me not hate the movie so much. It was really long, like waaaaay too long. The thing I hate is that all of my annoying friends all act like they have PhD’s in religious studies now. This Da Vinci crap has replaced the Masonic and Illuminati conspiracy crap. Great. Who cares that a hoax has been perpetuated for hundreds of years, I’m still pissed that Clay Aiken was gay all this time. That silly little freak!

Anyways, I am a big fan of Tom Hanks. He’s usually pretty good. Witness:

1) Bachelor Party
2) Splash
3) Forrest Gump
4) Bosom Buddies
5) Money Pit
6) Turner & Hooch (guilty pleasure)

But anyways, in the protection of the darkened theater

I found a pimple on my neck. Right below my ear. It was one of those subterranean dwellers. You know, buried beneath the outer epidermis like pirate treasure. For some reason my fingers are magically drawn to those. Like those divining rods, my fingers can find a zit in early gestation anywhere. Even without the assistance of a mirror. It’s almost like there are radio signals emitted from the recess of the zit, radioing in its coordinates.

While Tom Hanks searched for the secret of the Catholic Church I played flight of the bumble bee on my zit fiddle. I rubbed it, squeezed it, and pushed on it, trying to coax the puss to the surface. I was engaged in the ground work that precedes a successful popping. It’s a lot like massaging oranges to make it easier to juice them.

When the movie was over, I walked back out into the lights. My girl looked at my neck and jammed her finger right on my growing neck barnacle and said, “Damn baby, did you get in a fight with a vampire in there?”

That’s my girl’s main directive: Zero right in where it’s painful and jab.

Zits

are a bizarre phenomenon of human life. What kind of god, what kind of benevolent spirit of the universe created red, painful little puss bubbles bobbing up to the surface of the skin that beg to be squeezed. How come birds and antelope don’t get zits? I don’t see gorillas popping crap on each other’s backs. But if god did invented zits, why would that sadistic bastard have them emerge on the face and paint them red? That’s shit's cold-blooded.

Engineering staff: Sir, where do you want the bright, red pustules to emerge?
God: Everywhere, I said.
Engineering staff: Even where the attraction and communication grill is?
God: What the Hell don’t you understand about everywhere? Jesus!
Jesus: For Christ sakes dad, I’m watching Big Love.
God: Don’t take your own name in vain.

There is a critical tension built into the hard, shiny red apple glare of zits:

Pop the bad boy or let it ride. If I pop it now, I relieve the pain but, they’ll be red and oozy and people will know I was in here playing mirror yahtzee. I've seen a few jokers that thought they were safe in a veil of secrecy under their shirt, only to have their cover blown by a spot of blood spreading on the back of their No Fear T-shirt announcing "Zit here! Red Hot Zit was Here! He was squeezing! He was squeezing!"

Yoda: A delicate art popping a zit is.
Luke Skywalker: But it’s ready now.
Yoda: Hah! Ready? What know you of ready? Whole lot of pain you will be in, when squeezing pimple when ready it is not.
Luke Skywalker: But it is ready. Ben, tell him. Here look (bitch ass Luke Skywalker squeezes) owwwwww shit. Shit. Shit.

If you squeeze a juvenile pimple you’re in for a whole lot of pain--the kind of searing lightening bolt that leaves your eyes watery. And it’s totally maddening. You could be getting audited by the IRS and losing a fortune, but you will be thinking about the zit on your shoulder blade smoldering and wondering, “When Goddman it? When?”

I can really get fixated on a zit too.

Constantly fucking with it like a dog bothering a skunk. I won’t learn my lesson no matter the punishment. I’ll pinch a zit that ain’t ready and lock up in seizures from pain. Then I’ll go for it again because maybe my squeeze-base was of center and “it’ll be different this time.” It’s like baking a cake: you wander all around with one question stamped in my brain: “Is it ready yet?”

Location, location, location:

Where a zit grows can determine its pain factor:

Anywhere on a nostril is instant death.
Right on the border of the lip and the face is a killer.
I’ve gotten a cramp before reaching for a little fucker in the middle of my back.
How about a temple zit? Want a little headache with that squeeze?
What about a zit on your ass that you find on a wipe-discover?

Cleaing up Acne:

There are many myths about what causes acne. Greasy foods and chocolate are often blamed, but foods have little effect on the development and course of acne in people. Another common misconception is that dirty skin causes acne; however, blackheads and other acne lesions are not caused by dirt. Stress does not directly cause acne either. It is true, though, that anger and stress affect hormone levels and thus bodily oil production, which can cause acne. People of all ages and races can get acne. It is most common in adolescents and some young adults. 85% of people between the ages of 12 and 24 develop acne. For most people, acne tends to go away around the time they reach their thirties; however, some people in their forties and fifties continue to have this skin problem. (excerpt from wikipedia...so...you know)

I have a dream

that they’ll invent a laser. You know, like a little handheld device that will fit on a key chain. I could just microwave the zits. Just cook the little puss core in a puff of smoke. But it’s just a pipe dream. Maybe in the future, probably when I’m dead.

Sincerely,

Medicine Bear

Ken Lay is going to be Somebody's Prison Bitch

2006-05-26T15:14:00.000-07:00

I love the headline: “ENRON Founder Lay 'Shocked' at Conviction”

"Certainly we're surprised," a shaken Lay said Thursday after a jury capped a four-month-long fraud and conspiracy trial and in its sixth day of deliberations returned guilty verdicts against him and Skilling. "I think it's more appropriate to say we're shocked. This is not the outcome we expected."

Kenneth Lay went on to say, “It shocked the hell out of us. Rich executives never go to jail.”

Skilling added, “Yeah, I mean we figured, worst case scenario a couple of months at one of those country club minimum security deals and some house arrest. But this, this is crazy.”

I wonder how “shaken” Ken Lay is going to be when the Road Dog of Cell Block 6 forces him to twist his shirt into a prison bikini and toss his salad. The only person I feel less sorry for is Michael Jackson. Throw away the key I say.

Speaking of the sexually-ambigious, I’ve decided that Homosexuals are more manly than Metrosexuals. At least Homosexuals have the balls to admit they ass. You know where Homosexuals stand. A homosexual won’t pretend to like pussy. At least a homosexual will admit to hanging around book clubs and public restrooms.

You can’t get a straight answer out of Metrosexuals. Sometimes when I see a Metrosexual putting “hair product” on his head I want to shake him real hard and say, “Pick a side mother-effer!” Get with Vagineration or hit the Cockenshpiel but quit this middle of the road crap. I want to pistol whip Metrosexuals, like when the Godfather slapped Johnny Fontaine around and told him to, “Be a man!”

Too many guys in my generation are Metro. Maybe it's all the time spent indoor with artificial light. Jesus Christ. It’s an epidemic. My Grandfather would be sick to his stomach. Look at our action heroes: Tom Cruise, Matt Damon, Josh Hartnet? They’re all Metro’s. No one believes that any of these guys could actually kick anyone’s ass. Josh Hartnet should be renamed Josh Vagina-net. Mission Impossible 3? The Mission is impossible because a short Metro White guy is killing terrorist while the Big Strong Black Dude is on the computer. Impossible. It should be the other way around. Toby McGuire? Oh my Christ. The only thing worse than being Metro is being Ghetto Metro like the Wayans brothers. Damn.

You know who started this trend? Patrick Swayze in DIRTY DANCING. It was after all that stripper dancing tight pants crap that made guys think being feminine was ok. I also blame the frizzy-white haird guy in the "boy band" Color me Badd. Let's see...don't blame Boy George 'cuz he was actaully gay. I blame Michael Jackson. He helped start the Metro-avalanche. Let's see, Hollywood from Mannequin, Richard Simmons, Screech from saved by the bell (yes he was a geek, but he was a metro geek), Kirk Cameron, Will Smith, the Power Rangers, and Sponge Bob. (I also blame the movie SINGLES).

I also blame women for trying to get men to be sensitive and get in touch with our feelings. You all tried to turn us into “girlfriends.” Sometimes when my girl asks me why I don’t tell I miss her I tell her because I have a cock and balls for Christ sake. Only a woman would miss her man just because he went to work. Men don't miss people unitl they actually leave the country for an extended amount of time. As in, "I've been in Iraq for a year, man do I miss McDonald's."

Women pressure men into acting like chicks. They want us to talk and listen, they want us "cry," they want us to say "bless you" when they sneeze. No wonder male impotence is on the rise. And now hear this: once a boyfriend has successfully morphed into a girlfriend, the woman no longer feels protected and she dumps his ass.

Your faithful servant,

Medicine Bear

Return of the Medicine

2006-05-24T13:37:00.000-07:00

I’ve been on break for awhile. During the time I was away, I started a new screenplay (I know I said I quit, but what the Hell), a guy at my job got fired for total incompitance, I started Thai Kickboxing, I decided to move in with my girlfriend and I talked to Shaq. No lie, Shaq is interested in Indian Gaming, since you know that a Casino can strike anyone P-Diddy Rich in a nano-second. So he was doing business with my pops and they called me together.

Shaq’s voice is deep. He makes Barry White sound like Mickey Mouse. I said, “You were awesome in STEEL.” And then it was real silent on the other end. Actually, I pussed-out on that. It was an Actual Puss-Out. Instead of being a wise guy I was real nice. He asked me to send over some of my scripts to his agent. I told him I would if he came back to play basketball in Los Angeles.

Which is dumb, because I don’t even watch basketball. But I mean, what do you talk to Shaq about besides basketball? What I really wanted to ask was, “Do you use really huge toilet paper?”

However, some people take watching sports seriously. A lot of dudes got ESPN Fever. I know guys, people at my work, that get all-chested up over the LA Lakers and the LA Clippers. USC vs. UCLA. To me that’s just one giant BLAH, BLAH, BLAH. I can understand getting stressed out if I actually played on the team that was winning or losing. Or maybe if I owned the teams, or supplying them with steroids. But, I don’t know, I’d rather hone my Microwave Popcorn skills.

The art of Microwave popcorn is to get the most corn without torching kernels. Perfect Microwave Popcorn is tricky. Just like dealing with women, microwave popcorn requires good listening skills. Once the pops slow down you better sprint to the microwave, or instead of popcorn, you’ll have a smoking replica of Al Sharpton’s hair.

What happened to Al Sharpton anyways? He was loud and running for president and now he just disappeared. Maybe he’s gotten heavy into LOST and American Idol.

I hate politics. Especially Republicans. Republicans are the biggest whiners in the world. They go around making issues out of crap that’s already in existence. For instance, look at this same-sex marriage thing. It’s been around and legal for years. The Clintons have been in a same-sex marriage since 1979. Now they want the shit outlawed?

I love Bill and tolerate Hillary, but honestly, does anyone care whether or not they’re still in love? Almost 8 years after his presidency, 9 years after his tobacco-fat-chick-beret incident, the media is still worried about whether they’re really in love or it’s a marriage of political convenience. The question isn’t whether or not they’re still in love, the question is when was the last time Bill hit it? Are they still having sex? I mean come on. Does Bill have to suck it up, close his eyes and deliver the mail once a month? You know, hit her torpid vulva with that female-arousal spray and just jam it in there and think about Jessica Simpson?

Or does Hillary avoid him? She’s a smart woman, she might not want the cornucopia of diseases dancing on his magic stick. With all the chicks Bill’s been with, he’s probably got Asian Bird Flu living in his pee-pee hole. Safe sex for Hillary may actually mean NOT sleeping with her husband. She probably has one of those Rattle Snake Rods, the metal ones with a loop at the end. So when he comes at her with his fly down, she can pin his Ti-Ti (Filipino for dick…just learned it) down on the ground.

Sincerely,

Medicine Bear

Tom Cruise Eats Placenta

2006-04-18T14:41:00.000-07:00

I just quit my job and maxed my credit cards out because Jesus is coming. How do I know Jesus is coming? Because Tom Cruise has just admitted that he’s going to eat his wife’s placenta and umbilical cord. What? What fool? I said…WHAT FOOL?!?!? Are you crazy? Are you out of your ever-loving mind? Birth sack?

What the hell is he talking about? Is he really that hungry? See that’s proof that white people need to eat. It just doesn’t make sense. Tom Cruise is on a diet that doesn’t permit white flour and sugar, but he can eat a salty blood sack from his wife’s uterus. Disgusting. Nonsense.

My Message to TOM:

Please, please, please tell me you are not going to eat the sack, but if you are, please tell me you are NOT going to eat it raw. Please cook it. Put it on the Foreman griller. Call Wolfgang Puck in there to make a placenta margarita’ pizza. Throw some pesto on it, throw some oregano on it, anything, just cover that flavor up, because you know it’s gross. Placenta cannot taste good. That baby is pooping and peeing in that bag, dog. What’s a matter with you?!?! You’re rich, already. You’ve won, man. Call it a day. Go home while you’re still ahead. Take a powder fool. Relax. There’s nothing left to do. Play video games. Play video games! Just don’t eat the sack! If you’re that crazy, then give me some money, damn!

Sincerely,

Medicine Bear

Believe this…you never hear of Mexican, Blacks, or Indians eating a placenta. It just doesn’t happen. Indians might eat the heart of a freshly killed buffalo, but we aren’t crazy. Shit. Wow. It’s only April and already the news year is blowing up.

Stars should not be allowed to raise children. If you need a trainer, a manager, an agent, a lawyer, a therapist, a psychiatrist, a newly-created religion, and a publicist then you obviously can’t run your own life, how are you can raise another person. Shit. If you need a driver, then you shouldn’t be a parent.

If your next door neighbor told you that he was going to eat his wife’s birth sack, you would call the police. The LA County Sheriff’s need to break down Tom’s door, rip down all those “silence” posters and arrest his ass. Just drag him out on COPS in tighty-whitey’s like the rest of them fools on crack.

The state should take away the stars of children because they’re unfit to be parents:

1) Britney spears dropped her baby.
2) Michael Jackson waved his off a balcony and his baby too.
3) Nicole Richie looks like she was raised in a concentration camp.
4) Marlon Brando’s kid was convicted for killing somebody.
5) Tom Cruise is eating the birth sack.
6) Courtney Love is being raised by Francis Bean
7) Brad and Angelina are sacrificing their kid to Namibian Sheep Cults

To shed some light on the placenta craze, I excerpted this article from birth-eating animals (http://www.birthrites.org/placent.html)

“All species of mammal eat their placentae - but not all individual members.1 For example, some chimpanzees in captivity have been observed to eat the placenta while others leave it. Primates, in general, do consume the placenta. 2 Among other groups of mammal, for example the carnivores, the practice is universal and important to their parturition.”
So basically, Tom Cruise is a chimpanzee in captivity. This notion makes sense when you consider the “insulated” environment of a blockbuster star. Tom Cruise is officially crazy. Not just because he wants to gnaw on the afterbirth, but because he doesn’t know enough to shut up about it. Even serial killers know to keep their mouth shut.

Now the article goes on to explain that their may be a benefit to eating the birth sack—for the WOMAN! Apparently, there’s a school of thought that suggests eating the placenta will keep hormone levels in the woman up so she doesn’t experience post-partum depression. However, if the rumors are true then Tom Cruise should eat the birth sack since he is probably the female in that relationship. In fact, perhaps this is a way for Tom Cruise to ingest female hormones, since he cannot produce any on his own.

I don’t spellcheck or eat birth sacks. Shit, I’m not even going into the operating room when my wife drops her kid. Hell no. I’m smoking cigars in the waiting room.

Mickey Mouse is Metro...

2006-04-17T12:01:00.000-07:00

Disneyland:

My Aunt gave me 2 free passes to Disneyland/California (mis)Adventure so I took my girl along on a little Easter stroll through “lose your money” land.

Disneyland Parking Lot

The furry creature who sold us parking was too old to be riding the parking booth at Disneyland. She must have been like 45 or something. How much does a parking attendant at Disneyland make? It can’t be jack shit. It’s gotta be like 10 bucks an hour MAX. She works at Disneyland but can barely afford their stuffed animals. It’s so weird. Maybe the old broad lived in a studio apartment with like 15 boat people from Vietnam. Man, I don’t know how people do it.

Speed is important at the Disneyland Parking lot. No, I don’t mean the kind being crushed on your CD cases right now (although, when I listen to Mickey’s hi-pitched voice, sometimes I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin). No SPEED. As in Greased Lightening. As in hurry up! When I hit the parking lot I want to jump out of the car while it’s still moving.

And action:

EXT. Disney Parking Lot – Day

A skanky silver Nissan Sentra screeches to a stop on top of the parking attendant’s foot.

INT. SKANY SENTRA—DAY

The driver, a gap-toothed Indian, presses his balloon lips against the windshield while the black girl next to him applies the 80th coat of lip gloss.

Gap-Toothed Indian: We’re here! [Oh my god. Look at the people. All those legs. Vericose veins, corns, cankels, feet, shoes. All getting in line before me. Son of a bitch, that Mexican family has 18 kids. We’ve got to go now damn it! Fire in the hole!]

Lip Gloss Junkie: Wait. I need to finish putting on my face.

Gap-Toothed Indian: You don’t need to do that. You’re too pretty. Give the other girl’s in Disneyland a chance. [Vanity! It’s pure vanity! I’m not getting on rides because of your vanity. Pride is a sin. Don’t you see…these handicapped kids are getting to the rides before us…oh my god…my fun…my fun time is being eating alive by your vanity.]

Lip Gloss Junkie: What are you thinking?

Gap-Toothed Indian: Nothing. Ready?

The Gap-Toothed Indian bites the inside of his cheeks to prevent him from screaming.

The Gap-Toothed Indian jumps out of the car, runs over and opens Lip Gloss Junkie’s door. Not because he’s a gentleman, but to get this broad out of the car faster.

Lip Gloss Junkie: Can you put my purse in the trunk?

Gap-toothed Indian: [for the love of god woman, do I have to do everything? Jesus, want me to bail cotton and knit you a shirt too? Why don’t I just wait out in the parking lot until the fireworks go off over the magic castle and go home?] Sure.

Gap-Toothed Indian throws the purse in the trunk and the Handsome couple walks towards the amusement Park.

Gap-toothed Indian: Ok, I’ve got our coordinates laid out. Centcom did some reconnaissance and the Joint Chief of Staffs crunched the value of the targets. We must hit Twilight Zone of Terror first, en route we’ll buzz Muppet’s 3D and be in position to nail California Screamin.’ Which is in striking distance of Maliboomer. We don’t have time to deal with Anti-aircraft fire from Churro dudes and Lemon-ice ninjas. We can lunch in Disneyland at Base OP Blue Bayou. Afternoon in Disneyland is the optimal time for a surgical strike. The kids will be tired, full of carbs and fat, and ready for naps. If you force me into Parade Watching I’ll have to shoot you. Sorry, but it’s better that way. If we get separated, you’re on your own. Bit down hard on the cyanide tab and I’ll see you in hell baby! Gimmie the tickets.

Lip Gloss Junkie: Where’s the tickets?

Gap-toothed Indian: Excuse me?

Lip Gloss Junkie: Where’s the tickets?

Gap-toothed Indian: You had them.

Lip Gloss Junkie: I think I left them in my purse.

Gap-Toothed Indian: You mean the sack of crap I threw in the trunk? That was hours ago? I knew we should have started driving last night.

As the couple walk back to the skanky Sentra, capillaries burst like blooming carnations in the skull of the gap-toothed Indian as he wrenches down the dark desires boiling over in the cauldron of his soul, for if he was to kill his lover at this very moment, disposing of the body might make him miss some rides at Disneyland.

Jeff Bridges and Saddam Hussein

2006-04-07T17:53:00.000-07:00

Is it me or does the freaky-wax Burger King look like Jeff Bridges?

Saddam:

We should have killed Saddam when we had a chance. We should have shot him in the back when he was kissing dirt in that “spider hole” that they found him in. Either that or Pulp Fictioned his ass. Yanked him into the backseat of a humvee at gun point while arguing about the nature of divine intervention. And then when one of our techno-armed soldiers turned around to ask Saddam about it, humvee hits a pothole and SHLOOOP. Hussein brains all over the back seat. It should have went down like that.

Instead we got…

Some boondoggled trial. It’s weird. Why does he get to go on trial? We had no problem blowing his sons to smithereens when they were embedded in a “Reinforced Villa” in Mosul. They were in basically in a house and we leveled the son of a bitch with all the gasoline and fireworks Uncle Sam can bring to bear.

Witness exhibit A:

I mean daaaaaamn. Talk about punishing two very bad kids. Can you imagine playing XBOX and smacking burka’ed chicks around, top of the world, and then you look over the balcony and see all that fire power grinning in your face? And yet, we get Saddam and what to we do? Treat him to an American style trial.

Now I know what some so-called neo-conservative

thinkers would say, “We have to put him on trial to show the world how fair America is. We don’t want to stoop to his level.” Maaaan fuck that. Basically, the trial has turned into a reality show that allows Saddam to make America look stupid.

The way the trial is going, they must have imported the DA’s from California. Shit, don’t let America oversee a trial. We can’t prosecute shit here. We couldn’t prosecute a 40-year old sickly pale, skinny white-dude with splotchy balls for pedophilia even when he admits on TV to taking naps with little boys. We couldn’t put OJ away. The only reason we got Scott Petersen was because his wife’s corpse washed up into a town and said, “Scott killed me.”

The thing the US didn’t count on was

Saddam’s testicles. He has huge, wrinkly, giant, camel balls that shine his shoes when he walks. He is one tough mother’effer.

Even after the Uncle Sam caught him like a stuck pig,

looked for grenades in his mouth, and made him spread his cheeks, he’s back to good ‘ol Saddam. Part of the problem is that we make our criminals look too good. When they pulled him out of the hole, he looked like an Alcoholic Mexican Santa Claus. He looked wrecked. It would have been easy to prosecute him then. He looked so bad that death seemed like the next plausible option for him. It was like, “Who the hell is that ugly mother? Fuck it, fry his ass, next?” But now, he shows up in suits reciting poetry.

His balls are so big because

he is not sentimental. Make no mistake he is one hard mother’effer. when we turned his sons into cube steak, he didn’t bat a turban. He didn’t mention them once, like he never had sons. It almost seemed like he was hoping that would satisfy us. Maybe the US would figure, “Fuck this rat-infested desert with all it’s weird creepy insects and crap, we’ve been out here days and ain’t found shit. Fuck me, I need curly fries and a Red Bull right now. What? We killed his sons? Dude, good enough, let’s bail.”

Saddam is like the Middle Eastern Matlock

in court. His sons are burned up, his country is in a civil war, he’s in jail, US soldiers are throwin’ keggers in his palaces and Saddam whistles into court. His green, acidic liver must release some kind oily hormone that fuels his audacity. I mean, he still calls himself the president of Iraq and deems the court he facing “illegitimate.” He must be listening to Johnny Cochran on Tape in his cell and harnessing his legal mojo.

Prosecutor: You’ve committed genocide.

Saddam: No I didn’t. It was self-defense. Those people were trying to assassinate me. Isn’t it the duty of a leader to protect himself and his country?

Prosecutor:[Damn, think fast] An 11-year old boy? You were threatened by an 11-year old boy?

Saddam: I never killed an 11-year old boy (wink, wink).

Prosecutor: Here’s his ID card from the files. See, right here, it says he’s 11.

Saddam: What does that prove? ID cards are easy to forge. I could go to downtown Baghdad right now and buy one that says he’s 35.

Prosecutor:…[Didn’t see that coming, think real hard] Well did you sign this document ordering the execution of these people?

Saddam: Any document that has the name Saddam Hussein on it and can be PROVEN to have been signed by Saddam Hussein I take full responsibility for.

Prosecutor:…uh…[Did he answer the question?]…uh…[was that a yes?]…

The only person who could lie that good was Bill Clinton.

What strange shapes the teets of fate make when you twist them. In the end, George jr becomes another Bush who could not “rid” the world of Saddam when he had the chance. At least George sr can say he let Saddam slide by “choice.”

Bush is Disturbing

2006-03-21T16:48:00.000-08:00

The quotes attributed to Bush were taken from My Way.com’s coverage of Bush’s Presidential Press conference on 03/21/2006

Dubbya’s Disturbing Presidency

Because I don’t smoke, I take a ‘net break. For ten minutes (ten internet minutes = 30 actual minutes) I graze news sites. Normally I ignore headlines regarding Iraq and Bush because nothing changes. Iraq 101 works like this: 1) There were no WMD’s there. 2) Rumsfeld’s plan didn’t quite cut the mustard (big shock). 3) There has been less American Soldiers killed in this war than most previous ones, which buys Mr. Bush lots of tolerance from Americans. 4) Saddam really is evil so, good riddance. 5) Whoops, Saddam’s skill set as a dictator really aids him in prolonging his trial and therefore his life. 6) Bush’s two wars look like his college transcripts: two incomplete C-minuses. 7) Bush will never admit he’s wrong, probably because he’s always wrong. Nothing changes.

But this article mentions something has changed: Bush finally took a question from Helen Thomas. Mrs. Thomas is a seasoned gladiator of the Presidential Press Corps from the Days of Old. Her age, looks, and wit give the impression that she could deftly rap Mr. Bush’s knuckles. However, the headline was more smoldering net-jive. The article barely contained a squib of Mr. Bush’s volley with Helen Thomas, but since I was there I finished the article. Now I remember why I avoid these articles: Mr. Bush’s style of quasi-competent presidency is extremely disturbing, so much so that I think, “Why should I have to continue to work when this is our Commander In Chief?”

The most disturbing trait of Mr. Bush’s presidency is the desperate way he tries to get American People to have confidence in his decisions by trying to prove that HE has confidence in his own decisions. In regards to Iraq, Mr. Bush stated, “If I didn’t believe we could succeed, I wouldn’t be there. I wouldn’t put those kids there.” Mr. Bush’s equation works like this: If the troops are in Iraq, then you can be sure that I believe America will win. If I didn’t think we could win, then there would be no troops in Iraq. Because I believe we will win the Iraqi War, the American people should believe we will win the Iraqi War. This freshman logic only proves that Bush has convinced himself that we’ll win the war. Mr. Bush’s belief in the war’s success was seriously undermined in 2003, when he landed on an aircraft carrier in a jumpsuit under the famous banner “Mission Accomplished.” If Mr. Bush cannot recognize when a job is finished, then how can he be so sure that we will finish as winners?

In regards to Mr. Bush’s assertion that he believes we can still win the war, so what? Every American believes we can win the war. Americans know that given enough time, money, and lives, American power could steamroll Iraq into a Wal-Mart parking lot. That’s not the point. The point is: most American’s don’t feel the cost of the war is fair. The war in Iraq is overpriced for a couple of reasons: 1) It takes too long to deliver. 2) The product was poorly designed. 3) The product’s guarantee does not look like it’s backed up by the manufacturer. 4) Diverting resources to a second costlier war has compromised the quality of the Original War: Afghanistan. In short, American’s are not buying what Mr. Bush is selling because the price-point is too high.

Mr. Bush refuses to understand that American’s don’t care what he “believes” anymore because we now have evidence. Before, when the Iraq War was a theory, what Mr. Bush believed would happen was important because that’s all the info we had. Now we know “what would happen” because it’s happening. It’s happening in an ugly way. When Bush calls a Civil War “Sectarian Violence,” Americans see he’s no longer “in the loop” on reality. He has moved into the CYA phase of a bad decision: shoe horn the results into the wrong shoe and try to make it fit—no matter what. That’s the type of middle management that most Americans recognize and deplore. American’s loathe bosses who will not take responsibility for bad decisions. It is no wonder that Mr. Bush’s approval ratings are really low.

But when Mr. Bush defends Rumsfeld by saying, “I don’t believe he should resign. He’s doing a fine job. Every war plan looks good on paper until you meet the enemy,” the wind in my sails gets outsourced overseas and I drift in the very American Malaise. American Malaise is something Timothy Leary talked about when he said, “Turn on, Tune In, Drop Out.” But the drug of choice is American Idol where your voice matters. It is more fun to watch bad singers get rich than to watch bad decision-makers get rich. This is why I avoid the headlines.

Finally, I end with a Poem by President Bush:

Civil War is Sectarian Violence,
Public Disapproval is Certain Unease,
Complete Withdrawal From Iraq is a Timetable
No more questions.

By George W.

Account Manager

The Queer Smell

2006-03-16T09:55:00.000-08:00

The Smell…

A queer smell has got its grip on the corporate ant hill this morning. When the elevators opened, the odor seized my lungs. It’s a putrid smell, like a fouled Egg McMuffin. Or like an aging co-worker’s guts, which spoiled from digesting too many Krispy Kremes. Perhaps he finally died on the toilet and marinated overnight. I don’t know, but it makes me think I don’t have to work today. One of the “perks” of working in a hi-rise high-finance gig is that nothing is supposed to smell. There should be no smell in the cata-cubicle-combs. That’s the whole thing…sterile. If management fails at this, then I shall throttle down the motors and drift awhile.

Security please…

My building has security. Or I should say, my building has dudes in Men’s Warehouse suits who ogle women way out of their pay scale. All day, they stand there watching Ass come and go. If one of those fanatical demons wanted to make trouble, all he’d have to do is to pretend to deliver Baja Fresh and boom. Game over. It’s not comforting, considering that I work in buildings called the “Twin Towers,” which are exact miniature replicas of the ill-fated towers in New York. Great.

There’s an airport not too far from here too. The Santa Monica Airport. When jets zip in and out I mutter, “Stay away from here, weird fuckers. Shoo God damn it!” I hope those G4’s are full of Big Western oil-men in tailored suits and cowboy hats, inhaling shots of Patron and ravishing the landscape of their secretaries bodies. Guys like JR from Dallas. Guys like that don’t want to die. They want to live forever. They search for the Fountain of Youth in the Earth’s Crust under Texas. They pop pills like popcorn to artificially revive their sex-lives which should have been extinct eons ago. Guys like that do not want to fly a plane into ribs of a skyscraper. Nosiree bob.

A New Hire…

Anyways, a new pigeon was shoved into the corporate roost. She’s fresh of the boat from Glendale. They’ll clip her wings soon enough. She doesn’t smell anything in the halls. God I hate that. When someone doesn’t smell something weird when there’s obviously a stink, it drives me nuts. There can be only two possibilities. 1) The person is walking around in a personal fog. 2) There person is lying. Either possibility spells doom. Clearly she’s from Glendale. She’s got big Desperate Housewives hair and an EZ Cheese smile. She is a pod person who’s been injected with Nancy Reagan’s DNA.

What is the Nature of “Work” in the Modern Era?

The OFFICE is a bizarre diemension. I am conflicted about it. Part of me recognizes that we live in the Pleasant-ine Era. The air temperature is controlled. There is no heavy lifting. No one is sweating in the office. Long gone are the days of a foul overseer splitting your back with a pig-hide whip and demanding to meet your sister. Long gone are the days of getting the fetid “Phossy Jaw.” Phossy Jaw is a condition caused by working in Match Factories [yes, the ones you stick in your sleeping buddy’s toes and light on fire]. In the early industrial revolution in England, women would work in Match Factories with poisonous phosphorous and get “Phossy Jaw.” It’s bone cancer in the face that causes the flesh on your face to turn green, and ooze, and stink until you died. The 14-year old girls who carried the matches on their heads went bald. E V I L.

So I recognize things aren’t that bad. A co-worker complained that she had “chronic fatigue syndrome” and I slapped her and said, “Bitch be thankful you ain’t got Phossy Jaw!” It was hard to explain it all to the HR guy who wrote me up, because he wasn’t knowledgeable of early Matchstick Manufacturing.

BUT…

There are many annoying things in an office:

There is always somebody who leaves an empty water bottle on the water cooler. Some wet-brained slag is too lazy to switch the bottle. Who is it? They should make a Divining Rod that instead of finding water, finds the Ass Mole that leaves a bone-dry bottle on the cooler.

Then there’s the smegma-roller that through expert-laziness never lets the water bottle get dry. He’ll scan the water mark and makes sure that it is technically in the safe zone so that he never changes the bottle. Even if that means he only gets two drops of water. It is more important to him to never exert himself physically than to be hydrated.

Women never feel obligated to change water bottles but wonder why women shouldn’t be allowed to be firefighters.

Some Candy Ass bastard is always hogging the Microwave with smelly Weight Watchers macaroni and cheese. They leave it unattended and rotating. It explodes and solidifies into the brown crust that remains in the microwave for eternity.

The refrigerator is disgusting. Chicks always pretend that they’re dieting so they only eat half of their lunch. Then they lodge their Spanish Rice [or whatever] in the refrigerator for the next generation. When you open up the fridge there are bails of plastic lunch bags rotting gently.

There’s always some food bandito that rides in on a horse and gobbles someone lunch in the fridge. The victim walks around the office in a daze repeating, “I can’t believe it. Someone ate my lunch. Who would do that?” And this bandito will never confess. He has the discipline of a Ninja. He will go to his grave with his lips sealed. He will comfort the victim and nod sympathetically knowing full well that he’s the SAVAGE EATER. Strange, that in a day an age where our CIA Agents get their covers blown by the Whitehouse, no one can force a fridge raider to reveal himself.

I don’t spell check.

Wimpy Men Love the Maffia

2006-03-14T09:16:00.000-08:00

The security swipes in the corporate hive are on the blink today. But I have existed in the maze long enough that the right arm robotically swipes my ID anyway. The sky gods forbade hiking last weekend. Instead they hurled rain and wind to keep me indoors.

I’ve grazed these concrete pastures long enough to know that LA is too cold. February to April is the cocoon season of Los Angeles. The one-bedroom single beaver dams must be built to stave of the icy-toothed winter nights. It’s the silent season. The season no one talks about, the season in the back of the mind, hiding underneath the boxes of “spring break memories.” It’s damn cold and no one talks about it, like a molester uncle in the family. It’s not in any of the brochures about LA. Whenever I complain about how cold it is, there is always some recent transplant form Minnesota that says:

“Cold? You call this cold? This ain’t cold. I come from Minnesota. Now THAT’S cold. This is shorts weather. I’m used to thirty thousand degrees below zero.”

Is that right Zeek? Well, I don’t live in Minnesota for a reason, you bafoondish village idiot. I moved to Los Angeles for the weather and I expect it to never dip below 65 degrees, 70 if there’s a wind. Any opportunity a yokel gets to crow about how tough he is he will. “Cold? This ain’t cold…” “Spicy food? This ain’t spicy, why when I was on a sex-tour in Thailand…” “Hot? This ain’t hot, did I tell you about the time I started a fire in Phoenix…”

You always know a guy’s a real windsack when he’s bragging about surviving weather. It’s not Siberia; it’s the United States. Imagine some creep bleeting on about “really cold” New York weather, when some poor sand dabs in Bali are being swallowed by waves. Dope. Guys pretend to be like that dude from Kung Fu. Like we picked up an Iron Cauldron jammed with hot coals to sear dragon scars into our arms. The truth is that most of us are pussies. If you’re wondering whether or not your man is a pussy, just ask yourself a few questions:

1) Does my man think steaks grow on trees?
2) Does my man think he’s done something manly by taking his car to a Jiffy Lube to have someone else change his oil?
3) Does my man brag about past fights where he “wipes the floor” with a dudes face but he’s conveniently avoided confrontation since you’ve known him?
4) Does eating a lot of food make my man feel tough?
5) Does my man think he’s a bad ass because he beat someone up on a video game?
6) Does my man always talk about how lucky someone was that they didn’t push him over the edge because he was this close to killing them?
7) When my man’s angry does he agro-drive his car fast?
8) Does my man say he’s not afraid to die, even though no one’s asking?
9) Does my man write a blog?

Only a few men ever actually do anything tough like Navy Seals or confronting pissed-off wild life. Most of us are little hermit crabs waving pinchers at the bottom of the ocean, safe from the really big fish.

Another major blowhard pussy maneuver is the guy who pretends to be quasi-inducted in the mafia. Usually they are members by proxy through an abstract relative. Some slob’s always got a relative who’s “connected’ and crap. The lie is so thick that it makes Queen Latifah look like Erika Badu. I know this one cat who told me that he almost killed a guy when he called his “uncle” to have a guy “whacked.” No joke. This dude-ass pumpernickel motherfucker went so far down the bullshit highway as to tell me that after a weekend of thinking about it, he called his uncle to cancel the whacking. The lying scumbag said, “My uncle said, anything for you, you know that, but I’m glad you called it off. This thing, once you get started, forget about, it’s over.” And this guy’s the biggest pussy of them all. He’s one of those guys that you put your hand on his head while he swings at air.

Gangsta Rap gave a lot of pussies a whole brand new pack of lies to distribute. One time my cousin and I were chilling on a balcony In Maui. The balcony was attached to the Condominium my cousin’s grandparent’s owned: one of a set of two condos. We were drinking Carlos Rossi because we were big stupid white bread rich kids who were fans of E 40, a gangster rapper from the bay area which is where we lived. You know you gotta be down with the rapper from your area, even if he SUCKS and you gotta bust his drink of choice even if it SUCKS because you gotta have hometown pride even though your hometown SUCKS. Man is that stupid. It’s like being a member of Al Qaeda and trying to act like a dry-ass dessert is worth dying for.

Anyways, my cousin was trying to convince me that he could kill somebody if he had to. He was looking me in the eye and pointing his fingers and talking about “peeling someone’s cap.” IF HE HAD to. Of Course, we were in Maui, and he lived in a two story house and had an inheritance. His chances of “having to” were slim to none. But at the moment, he was glaring at me. Trying project his deadly sincerity into my skull through the “hardest” stare he could muster. This stare is known as a Mad Dog. I guess because a guy is trying to stare at you like a Mad Dog, or it’s also known as a Mean Mug. I guess ‘cuz a guy is trying to stare at you with a Mean Mug. Both of these terms can also be used as verb as in, “Did you see that? That dude totally Mean Mugged me…”

One of the biggest traits of a pussy is Mean Mugging. Driving a car around and broadcasting really “scary looks” from a moving car to let pedestrians know “not to fuck” with you. Basically it’s trying to assault someone with your face. Guys are stupid.

I don’t spell check.

Kids These Days

2006-03-03T07:40:00.000-08:00

Last weekend we went on a hike to Mount Verdugo. Mount Verdugo is named after Jose Maria Verdugo, who was given 38,000 acres of stolen Indian land so that he could fatten up his cattle. The newer white people have renamed this area Glendale.

But as far as the hike went...

Everyone was out of shape as these photo's demonstrate. We saw lots of coyote shit (you can tell because it's furry, apparently mouse fur doesn't digest). I found one menacing tick on my shoe which made everyone strip and pick over each other like howler monkeys.

The Hike was a normal hike except for...

This Mexican/Armenian (take your pick) kid runs up to us screaming. He was trying to tell something between gulps of air. His flushed face bore some peach fuzz on his lip. His face looked like the top of a baby’s head.

What happened?

When he calmed down he recounted his tale of woe about his girlfriend . She had busted up her knee pretty bad. He begged us to help help carry her down.

Aw Hell's no...

I asked, “Is she fat?” He swore a blood oath she wasn’t porky, so we trudged up. My overweight buddies grumpled about the additional physical output required be "being nice."

She didn't look that jacked up...

The girl was laying on the ground. She was crying and cursing her skinny boyfriend. Her knee was swollen like a pregnant alien belly. She wasn’t fat, but she was definitely too big for her boyfriend “the chicken wing” to carry down by himself. She said that she didn't know how she injured herself. I asked, "Were you climbing rocks?" Tearfully she said, "No, I was just walking, and then I hear like this sound, like KRRRRK!" Goddman it. Damn chicks. Always hurting themselves in like lame ways. And then like, forcing men to do work.

But My Girl goes into action

She went totally ER on the girl. “What’s your name honey,” and “You’re going to be okay,” My Girl screamd for scissors to cut the injured girl’s pant leg off. She screamed at me, "Do something!" At one point my girl was yelling at her, “Look at me, Look at ME! Stay with me chola, stay with me!” Then she started slapping her, “Stay awake, damn it!” I had to calm My Girl down, I was like, “Hey, she just sprained her knee, she doesn’t have the Bird Flu.”

Anyways, I was real impressed with my girl’s proto-natural nurse skills. She definitely calmed the kids down, even though I could tell she was making crap up on the fly, “You’re knee cap is still in place, that popping sound was probably just a tendon tear. Just let your aorta rest and you’ll be fine. It’s just filling up with fluid.”

Then what happened?

Me and the slobs carried her down the hill while her boyfriend kept dropping his cell phone.

Looking at the boyfriend really started to piss me off. He was radiating "young punk" vibes in buckest. He weare big, baggy basketball shorts. Like, Shaquille O’Neil size. You know he never touched a basketball in his life. He probably could have used his shorts as a car cover.

Then my brain went into overdrive...

What the Hell is wrong with kids man? They would never survive outside the United States. Damn fool-ass kids, big old shorts, don’t even play sports. Mom probably pays for cell phone bill that he’s dropping all over the ground. This kid don’t know about shit. When I was kid, there were videos on MTV. And there was only ONE MTV Channel. We had to wear pagers. When someone wanted to talk to us, we had to actually walk over to a pay phone and DIAL their shit back. And none of this stored number crap. We had to actually remember it and shit, or actually write it down. None of this “I lost my cell phone, so please leave your number, so I can call you back” crap. Jokers.

I was all cranky thinking about today’s slackers, and THEN...

I noticed my buddie’s hand. He was helping carry the chick, but he was definitely also copping a feel off her ass. His hand was quivering because it had been soooooo long since he's been that close to real female flesh. All the blood in his body had drained to that area. His hand turned into a bulging, giant, pomegranate meat hook. Great. Mr. Good Samaritan. The chick’s injured and he’s squeezing her buns. Now I know why he was so willing to help.

But at the boyfriend's car...

When we brought the girlfriend to the boyfriend’s car I noticed the pipe! A weeeed pipe! one of those swirly, hand-blown glass ans IT WAS LAYING IN PLAIN VIEW! AHAAAAAAAAAH! AH HAAAAH! Numbskull kids. When I was a kid, we had to HIDE our weed. We couldn’t just leave it out in the open. We had to buy clothes with special pockets. Back then weed was still a gateway drug to heroin and shit. There was no “Medical Marijuana” legal defense excuse. There was nothing! Just you, the weed and officer friendly!

Man, kids today are really something. They’re all going to be cashiers and customer service reps. They won’t know how do anything except microwave crap, watch TV, and sue people. I blame Velcro and calculator watches. That’s how it started. They should have bootcamp in highschool. Like serious, hard, physical training for 4 years, just to toughen kids up a little. Otherwise, we’ll turn into one giant cesspool of Wal Mart Greeters. God Damn it!

I don't spell check.

Internal Bleeding

2006-02-24T12:01:00.000-08:00

As I limp to the keyboard, there is a trail of blood behind me. One of the puddles is shaped like a crimson question mark. Something in my body is lost. I reach my hand down below my waist, I can't bear to let my eyes see what my fingers feel, I pull my hand up...oh my god, it's covered in blood...

My father is the supreme ball buster. No one can bust balls like he can. If your face drains of color and a sinking sensation spreads through your guts, you can bet your balls are in his gorilla fist getting crushed and popping nut bubbles between his knuckles. He is the Starbucks of ball busting. He is so successful, that it looks effortless. He breathes in oxygen and exhales ball busting.

The other day he called me up, reached his foot through the telephone cord and stomped on my nuts like he was putting out a campfire:

Me: Hello?
My Dad: Hey what’s happening?
Me: Nothing, what’s going on?
MD: Just waiting to hear from my son. I left four messages…[explicit silence].
Me: Didn’t I call and leave a message two days ago?
MD: That message was for your sister.
Me: Yeah, well I’ve been busy. I’m working, applying to Law School, working out, writing a sophomoric blog.
MD: It takes 4 seconds to email me back.
Me: Well, what’s going on?

MD: [launches into his curriculum vitae of the last week which is usually a 20 minute monologue, which includes work projects, house projects, what animals he’s shot recently, and what’s happening to his noodnick friends: one friend invited him to the Superbowl and then disinvited my dad because his wife guilted him into taking his daughter. My dad is still gripes about that. Another friend of his attends every lame correspondence trade school and then takes a job in that field and then quits because he hates it. He went to real estate school, became a realitor, and then quit because it was boring. He went to truck driving school, became licensed, drove pineapples to Scranton, OH once, and then quit because driving at night hurt his eyes. Now he just got a job as a security guard at our tribal casino. Which is funny because he isn’t Indian. He’s White. In fact, his great-great-grandfather was enslaved by our people. That’s no lie. You can’t get any lower than in the White world than being enslaved by the very people you conquered. This guy gets all-pissed when my dad and I call him slave-boy and stuff. Now his family is back working for our people. Ha-ha. His ancestors should be proud, at least we’re paying him this time.] finally my dad gets around to…”so how are you?”

Me: Well, I just finished my law school applications. I’m working out. I got a new job. My girlfriend bought me Sirius radio for Valentine’s day [stellar gift by the way].
MD: Well, someday you’ll do something...[one more explicit silence] Maybe when you’re forty.

[What's that on the ground? Did someone spill spaghetti. What the hell is that? Holy shit, that’s my left ball. God damn it, he just did it again. I better tape that back on…two can play at this game]

Me: Just like you pop, didn’t really do anything until I was 40.
MD: I just hope I’m still alive to see it.

[What the Hell is that on the window? My other nut. Shit!]

Me: you might still be around. I just hope you don’t get dementia like grandpa.
MD: Damn that’s cold. You shouldn’t say that.
Me: What are you talking about? I said I hope you DON’T get dementia [heh-heh].
MD: That’s terrible. Wait a minute. I forgot what I was talking about. Who are you?

Then we laughed and hung up the phone. But why does father ball breaking persist long after the conversation is over? The whole rest of the day I wondered why I haven’t done anything yet. It seems like no matter what I do, I will never fully please my father. He definitely tells me he’s proud of me and stuff, and introduces me to his friends so I know he’s not ashamed, but then when he says crap like that I walk around wondering. I try not to care because I know I'm just psyching myself out. He’s just kidding around, but I’m one of those guys who thinks there is truth in humor. I need Jedi training to make my mind impervious to my father's tricks. Either that, or like go to some monastery so that what he thinks about me won't matter. Damn, maybe I will be forty when I finally do something.

I don't spell check.

Fighting with My Girl and Freaky Names

2006-02-21T11:47:00.000-08:00

Yo, yo, yo. Fools. [how the hell did pirate jargon ever become hip-hop lingo?] let’s see, got into a fight with my girl over the three-day weekend, which really made it more like a 2-day weekend since one day was spent with my guts twisted up, playing telephone brinksmanship, teetering between calling her to apologize and or calling the UN to initiate trade sanctions against her. I won’t go into to the details because the big evil fight-genie has been smashed back into the bottle. Last thing I need is to reignite relationship woes. Damn. Recapping a boyfriend/girlfriend fight is like trying to circumcise and elephant. No matter which side you start on, you’re bound to piss off the beast and get trampled. Best to just leave it alone and be thankful you still got your balls [or thankful that she’s got your balls in safekeeping…just kidding, my sweetie, just kiddin…pudding pop…shhhhh…no more fighty...easy…no more pointy figure in face…easy].

Anyways, my boy and I (he’s got terrible woeful tales of chubbiness too) are about to embark on a food review. On the real too. No bullshit, no ass kissing, no bastard juggling. Straight up food reviews on the LA food scene. We’re going to lay the straight dope on you about the best pastrami in LA, the best tacos, where to go. We picked thru Oprah’s garbage to find out which little snackipoos the wildebeest is eating. I’ll keep you posted when the big roll out is finally announced. We’ve been doing research.

I don’t know what it is about a fight with my girl, but it like makes me kind of horny. It’s weird. Like, the zone of fighting makes her seem like a brand new chick when we make up. It’s almost as if her anger towards me resets my vagina meter or perhaps zaps my penile-memory so that it doesn’t recognize her kitty. Bizarre.

Over the weekend, I went to and Indian casino with my cousin and his wife. They are planning to have a baby at sometime in the future and they have been racking their brains over a good name. They finally came up with a name but when I asked them about it, they were more secretive than the Bush administration. Apparently they have discovered name gold.

I asked them what was the kid’s name and His Wife said: We’re not telling anyone.
Me: What? Why not?
HW: Because, we don’t want it out there in the universe.
Me: You don’t want it out in the universe?
HW: Yeah, it’s a good name, and we don’t want other couple’s stealing her name. If we put out there, then it’ll probably pop up in the minds of others.
Me [woah…what?] Isn’t it already in the universe if you two have already thought of it? [two could play these cosmic mindgames]
HW: Yeah, but it’s only US TWO who know. That’s not a lot of energy.
Me: yeah, but if you’re applying all that energy to contain it, the energy has probably created her double in the alternate universe.
Then my cousin piped up: That’s fine.

Apparently it was perfectly acceptable for My cousin, His Wife, and their Future Baby’s Alternate-Universe Double, to know their future baby’s name. This would not cause their precious name to be as common as Jennifer or Shaliqua.

I don’t know. For all this secrecy this name better be fucking good. Like when they say it, it better sound trumpets from heaven and Jesus better fly in on winged Hawaiian Tropic Models. That name better open secret walls in cliffs leading to crazy Pharoah gold and shit. Dude, that’s it. I’m going to name my kid, Open Sesame. That way when I yell at him, there’ll be a chance for me to come up on some treasure.

Anyways, when they’ve released the child’s name I shall post it here.

American-Name Thing

The whole name-thing is an annoying phenomenon. Back in the day, names were pretty normal crap. You were supposed to name your kid after a relative or something. But now, the shit’s wide open. American’s today think that they’re going to name their kid something original. They like add shit that ain't supposed to be there or conjoin two names that don't belong, or my favorite: every chick has some guy name that they think would be real cool to name their daughter. Woah, that's real origninal Alex.

Parents also think of naming as “staking out” their territory. Sort of like back in the land grab days when fool’s raced to get a plot of land and claim it for their families. Now people race to claim their child’s name before anyone else. That’s why dopey stars name their kids Scout, or Apple, or Francis Bean and shit. You actually might overhear people grumbling because they came up with a name that caught like wild fire. People lament that when they named their kid “Jade” it was not popular, but now, it’s everywhere. I’ve even heard of some people changing their kid’s name 12 years after their birth because the name became common.

How did the new style Aemrican Name Project get started?

I think it comes from three different sources: 1) Indians: let’s face it. Native American’s have some bad ass names. My name is medicine bear. Kids named Tim and Kenny must have hated their parents.

“Kenny”
“Here.”
“Tim”
“Here.”
“Medicine Bear?”
“What motherfucker?!?”

See how my name just brings power and poise? There's an intrinsic strength there. Indian names call into question the masculinity of regular American names. They make Western White names seem like metrosexual names. All of a sudden Steve, Wayne, Michael, all sound…well, gay. So I think Indians made Americans want to have some bad ass names [badd ass is an Indian name, as well as his cousins Good Dick, Freak-a-zoid, and Land-o-Lakes...keep laughing motherfucker, you won't laugh when I scalp your shit.].

2) Blacks: Black people after getting shipped, whooped, and beat down were like, “Fuck it, if I ain’t going to win the American Lottery, then I might as well make up my own names. Either that or pull out some motherland shit.” Malcolm X pointed it out. He was like, these aren’t “our” names. These are oppressive slave dude names. It’s kind of true. I mean, it’d be sort of like football. Imagine if after the Seattle Seahawks lost to the Pittsburgh Steelers the Seahawks had to call themselves the Seattle Steelers for the rest of the year. Crazy right? It’s pretty much the same, except football was fair, had referees, pads, and fools get paid. But other than that it’s the same. So Blacks rightfully started creating their own names and that too threw the American Naming system into jeopardy: It made people with names like Tom, Frank, Charlie seem like they had uncreative, conformist parents. Parents who lacked backbones and imagination. It’s almost as if their parents got lazy and were like, “Fuck it, we just got done humping, puking, nine months of pregnancy, and pushing this thing out a vagina, plus doctor’s bills, I can’t think of no cool names, let’s just call him Chris and call it a day.”

The final factor that has changed the American naming system: Corporations. Corporations go around trying to “brand” their product. Think of the Swoop and Nike. Think of Burger King and that freaky, plastic-faced, kill-mommy-and-daddy King. McDonald’s has their creepy clown. Mouse=Disneyland. Green Spooge=Nickelodeon. Klan hoods=Denny’s. Cheney=Bloody Chest. Angelina Jolie=Freaky Slut. You get the picture. I think that a lot of American parents are actually trying to “brand” their child by giving him/her a “special” name. This way their kid stands out in a crowd. Perhaps gets more attention from the teacher. This extra attention might spawn a creative personality and the snowball effect will create someone super successful. The strange name will cause them to become a superstar like “Condoleezza Rice.” Of course, oddly enough, people with strange names usually change them to something real normal once they’re in the public eye, like wayne brady or will smith, or prince, who went so far as to pretend he didn’t have a name.

The whole thing is crazy. It’s actually a nightmare for teachers who have to call roll. They should just put barcodes on a kid's forehead and name them after their social security numbers. Maybe then kids would stop looking at the differences between each other and work together. Or maybe they should just call everyone, “Hey You!” Anyways, I’m trying to stop the flood of creative name crap because it makes my name more ordinary. Jealous bastards. I use to be a freak with a name like Medicine Bear, now I’m just another asshole with weird parents. It must be a plot by those bitter ordinary name jerks. The Sean’s, Lesie’s, and Mary’s of the world are trying to create a country with weird named people so that their ordinary names become special again. They must be stopped.

I don’t Spell Check.

Annoyance Files

2006-02-16T13:25:00.000-08:00

Let’s see: Snapshot Bullshit Items from my Annoyance Files:

Today in the gym I saw a chubby naked guy trying to put his socks on. He had huge moles on his body, like someone rolled him in oats. I almost passed out.

I learned that a “Tabo” is a Filipino cup full of water that they wipe their ass with.

I got to use the handicap shower at my gym. It's bigger but then there's that weird bench. I was going to sit down and shower and then I started thinking about all the naked old-man ass that sat there, shampooing up their stretched out oyster bags. Or like some dude was scrubbing his mottled stump or club foot. Or maybe like down syndrome dudes were doing naked jumping jacks in there and peeing on the handles. Before you know it, I was frozen. Even though I was in the biggest shower stall, I was balanced on my big toe over one square inch, not touching a thing in the shower. Sometimes I look at the soap dispenser and wonder if any sick-perve jokester has deposited anything in there.

Thursday is so plum boring. It looks like some steaming, fatty, center cuts of current topics is being dished up.

The Big Dick:

1) Dick Cheney just surpassed Star Jones as the most hated man in America.
2) Could his approval rating go any lower?
3) See, that? You just can’t give rich white people guns.
4) Maybe Cheney had actually gone through boot camp he’d know how to aim.
5) What a bald Dick.
6) Everyone knows how easy is it is to mistake a quail for a human.
7) Snoop Dog offered Cheney a job riding shotgun in his H3.
8) You think that’s stupid, apparently Bush tried to break the guy’s neck, stuff him in a sack, defeather him, and roasted his breast with parsley and Emmeril’s BAM! Seasoning.

From an article on Slate:

Asked why the media wasn't told for 18 hours and only then by a private citizen on her own initiative, Cheney said it was respect for the process of informing the press that led him to not inform them. "We didn't know for sure what kind of shape Harry was in," said Cheney. "One of the things I'd learned over the years was first reports are often wrong and you need to really wait and nail it down."

Cheney went on to say, “It’s like hunting. You got to be careful because at first you think you see a quail, and pull the trigger real fast, and the next thing you know, you just blew off the chest of your hunting..uh…buddy…er”

Cheney probably hoped that blowing his buddy up might take some heat off of him for leaking information about the CIA and that whole “desert-thing” in Iraq. You know Bush is pumping his fists in the oval office screaming “Yes! Now who’s the idiot you Dick!”

The Grammy’s:

I illegally downloaded the Grammy’s off of Lime Wire because the actual show isn’t worth putting on my TV. I hate the Grammy’s. They have so many weird categories that everyone gets an award: This year’s Best Female vocal sung by a flat-chested Icelandic singer with an unpronounceable name whose music is considered unlisten-able by dogs and whales goes to...Bjork.

Dude what’s up with U2? They totally “Doobie-Brothered” the awards this year. Did they even put out an album last year? Did anyone hear it? Basically, Bono did a bunch a humanitarian work to Guilt Trip the world into giving him a Grammy. "I touched a leper in Uganda, you owe me a Grammy!" Everybody wanted to give the award to Willie Nelson for singing a cowboy song about queers (it’s true, btw, go back to my earlier blog about how everything is gay and see that I predicted Brokeback Mountain). I hate U2. All they do is live off the fumes of the Joshua Tree.

Most people call them the Grammy’s because it’s for over the hill stars like Madonna—as in Grandma. This little blurb I stole from E! today:

ON THE MEND: Madonna recuperating after undergoing hernia surgery following her performance at the Grammy Awards and doing "absolutely fine," according to her spokeswoman.

Dude is Madonna going to have one of those weird veiny bulges in her gut? One of my grandpa's had one of those. It was all blue and lumpy, like curdled milk in a sock.

Muslim Cartoons:

When are Radical Muslims going to learn to take a joke? Wow, they must be the unfunniest people in the world. Where’s their sense of humor? Damn, I guess I can understand that they don’t want their prophet mocked. But if they want the world to take them seriously, they should stop rioting over drawings. Christian Fundamentalists don’t get mad when Jesus is mocked. When Mel Gibson made that homo-erotic softcore porn film about Jesus, the Christian’s loved it. By the way, the Passion of Christ was gayer than Brokeback Mountain.

I don't spellcheck

Vagina Dentata

2006-02-15T12:47:00.000-08:00

No woman can be permanently satisfied. They know fulfillment for a few precious moments then their bottomless pits cry out for more. Their pits scream: must feed. Must eat. Their terrible maws always sniffs out morsels of male energy to devour. You know that giant Venus Fly Trap from that terrible movie Little Shop of Horrors? It’s living in my girlfriend’s chest. Worse yet, the constantly hungry spirit of Nel Carter lives inside my girl. What I do on Saturday does not count for what I do on Sunday, as if my girl has the memory of a gold fish.

Case in point:

Last Saturday I probably set an all-time Boy Friend Record. I racked up such a huge amount of boyfriend points that I reset the machine.

I took my girl hiking to Topanga State Park. True she got stung in the face by a bee, but I showed plenty of concern. I even waited to see if her head swelled up and offered to take her down to the fire station to get a bee shot.

On the hike, we walked arm-in-arm for at least thirty minutes atop a breathtaking view of the ocean and native fauna in the golden showers (not that kind sicko’s) of the setting sun and in SILENCE! Totally, undeniably romantic Johnny Depp shit.

That night, while my girl was sporadically doing her last-minute homework, I put on Merle Haggard and we did some country-western dancing. I mean, come on, spontaneous dancing is like a Female Heroin.

Believe me, everything was firing on all cylinders.

The very next day. The absolute next day, she played her favorite “I can’t come over” game. Let me show you how it works:

My girl: I can’t come over tonight baby.
(translation: beg me to come over tonight like a p-whipped mormon metrosexual)

Me: Okay.
(Translation: hahahahaha your mind tricks won’t work on me young jedi)

MG: That’s fucked up.

Me: What?
(Feigning ignorance only highlights her mind tricks)

MG: You never invite me over.

Me: I don’t have time to invite you over because I’m so busy hiking and dancing with you.

MG: …

Me: EXACTLY. Never satisfied. You won’t be satisfied until you drained my life force and I’m nothing but a shriveled leaf and even THEN your thirst won’t be quenched.

If you doubt the unrelenting hunger of the female below is further proof:

When the wolf in Red Riding Hood dressed up, he dressed up in “Grandma’s Clothing.” Red Riding Hood doesn’t even bat an eyelash when she sees a wolf wearing her grandma’s clothing. Why? Because her grandma was hungry like a wolf too. Basically the fairy tale is saying that grandma’s and wolves are interchangeable.

Or what about Jack Sprat could eat no fat, and his wife could eat no lean? She could eat no lean because she was fat from eating all the time. She sucked up her poor husband’s nutrients before he could get to them, thus leaving him skinny.

What about the black-eyed peas song, “My Humps?” The message of this song is that this woman with her "lady lumps" and "girl humps" will force a man to come out of pocket and do stuff for her. (by the way, where the hell did she come from?)

Jennifer Lopez’s luscious rump is actually a camel’s hump. She stored all her ex-husbands in butt cheeks to nourish through the lonely desert of post-menopausal diva life.

Is there any hungrier chick than Oprah?

They read books about how to marry a man. For instance, remember that book called The Rules, by those two Ethiopia-hungry looking chicks. They wrote this book to train women how not to “appear hungry” by not calling a man back. This shouldn’t be called the Rules of Dating, but she be considered a Cook Book entitled “How to Prepare a Man.”

All of this brings to mind the infamous Vagina Dentata, which is Latin for toothed vagina. Apparently anciennt Catholics worried that a woman’s private parts could swallow them whole. Our high school had a few cheerleaders that could accomplish that task as well as some very tiny ladies in South East Asia, but mainly, I thought the whole “mouth down there” thing was a myth. However, I did find this excerpt from an article. (yes, I probably should be working right now and not scouring the net for Vagina Dentata references).

NOW READ THIS:

In rare instances, teeth may actually be found in a vagina. Dermoid cysts are formed from the outer layers of embryonic skin cells. These cells are able to mature into teeth, bones, or hair, and these cysts are able to form anywhere the skin folds inwards to become another organ, such as in the ear or the vagina.

What?!?!? What dude? That’s kah-rayzee. If I saw a woman with some teeth growing out of her vagina I’d probably have a grande mal seizure and swallow my tongue.

American's Fascinated by their asses

2006-02-08T13:09:00.000-08:00

The other day a friend of mine informed me that she and her boyfriend take colon cleansing vitamins. What? This “endomorphic,” couple have absolutely no problem whoofing down a McRib or two or even taking a few beers to the neck. But their health consciousness has them take vitamins to ensure they have Olympic-conditioned shit sleeves.

What the hell is America’s fascination with colon cleansing? What a bizarre perversion. Someone can drift through polite society and overhear wealthy white women brazenly describe scooping things out of their ass as they nibble water crackers. These pearl-creamed bougiousie phenoms list the bugs and beezlebubs, and bogeymen, and worms hiding in their ca-ca. They’re so nonchalant about it that you’d think they were talking about croquet. But in an atomic burst of hypocrisy, these people won't discuss anal sex or look at the toilet paper after they wipe.

It is my personal belief that Colon Cleansing is the new "exorcism." The high-water mark for believing in ghosts was Poltergeist and that was in 1982. Since Poltergeist 2 and 3, ghosts have faded out of the collective conciousness and the remaining fragments were shot to shit by the Blair Witch Project. No one believes that a demon can posessess a body anymore (except for Pat Robertson), so what's the next best thing? My ass is posessed by a demon. Instead of having exorcisims, people are getting enema's. They strip-mine their asses hoping to wash away the invisible evils that their gluttonous mouths have swallowed. Instead of drowing people it a silt-infested river, John The Baptist should have given those desert-clingy-people an enema. He could have been called John the Colonic.

Somehow all this ass play made it to Hollywood. According to articles Damon Wayans (what?) is into it, Princess Di took it up the old dirt road, and MAE WEST!!!??!?!

Here's a sickening quote I excerpted from a ghastly article entitled THE BENEFITS OF AN ENEMA by Dr. Jensen:

"It is interesting to note that the famous beauty queen, whom I knew, Mae West, was a great believer in the benefits of the enema. She started every day with a morning enema. I’m sure that this simple practice greatly contributed to her unusual vitality, bright mindedness and long lasting attractiveness, as true beauty is but a reflection of the beauty within."

By the size of Mae West, that must have been a huge wall of brown water. It could have rivaled the one that swallowed the coast of Thailand.

I actually think some people in America are trying to "annihilate" their ass. They seem to hate their ass and wish they never had one. Perhaps it reminds them who they are, perhaps it leads to Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I don't know. Some people go so far as to bleach their anus. No shit. Pun intended. This magnified focus on getting rid of our asses only intensifies the fact that an ass is like an opinion: everyone has one. It makes us more "anal" about our anus. Myabe that's the problem. An ass makes someone "common." Perhaps these thin white women think that is they erase their bungholes (oh btw, a bunghole is a hole in a cask, keg, or barrel through which liquid is poured in or drained out. Makes sense right?) that they will become superhuman, like a god. Everyone knows gods and supermodels don't shit. After all, cleanliness is next to godliness. Someone should tell these people that only other animals focussed this much on feces are chimps and dogs.

Anyways here are some common ass myths that get sent around a lot:

1) John Wayne died with 40 pounds of undigested red meat in his colon:

No autopsy was performed on John Wayne when he succumbed to cancer in 1979. The medical examiner's office had no reason to hold an autopsy since Wayne had obviously died from natural causes, and hospital pathologists had little to learn by requesting the autopsy of a cancer patient who had already undergone several major surgeries (and Wayne's family would almost certainly have denied such a request).

2) Richard Gere let a gerbil suffocate in his ass for erotic pleasure:

Not a shred of evidence has ever been unearthed to prove it. And while Gere himself has never confirmed nor denied it — nor, indeed, spoken of it directly at all — neither has any credible witness come forward in the twenty-odd years this story has been in circulation offering firsthand testimony to back it up.

Finally the Mayo Clinic weighs in:

Doctors don't recommend colon cleansing for better health or to prevent disease. The only appropriate use for colon cleansing is in preparation for a medical examination of the colon.

Your colon normally eliminates waste material and bacteria and absorbs water and sodium to maintain your body's fluid and electrolyte balance. Some colon-cleansing programs disrupt this balance and can be harmful by causing dehydration and salt depletion.

To help prevent constipation, eat plenty of fiber.

No shit Sherlock.

I don't spellcheck, but I do use babywipes....aaahhhhh.

KING SODA

2006-02-05T11:16:00.000-08:00

DIET SODA

When the primitive peoples of the world spied the skies to imagine gods, their slow-burning diesel minds could not have ever conceived the wonder of diet soda. Nothing speaks to the spoiled nature of this American-Idol society than it’s tendency to over-look diet soda. The magic formula is so abundant that no one thinks to appreciate it. Think upon it: something with the caloric value of water…with flavor! In the olden days that were afflicted with “natural” candies like black licorice flavor was a highly prized commodity. Hell, there was a time when salt was as valuable as gold. Imagine it. The world was so flavorless that people crossed deadly deserts and buggered their camels just to bring a hard-baked lump of salt to kings. If you had told one of these salt-deprived slags that someday there would be flavorful juices in a rainbow of colors flowing like the fountains of the Alhambra they probably would have burned you at the stake for witchy-ness. Tastelessness was such a plague that Europe chopped down its trees and trained its guns on the rest of the world just for some curry and cinnamon. Yet, here we sit, on the palanquin of gods in the golden era of diet soda, as if it has always been thus.

We’ve become so spoiled that some Americans walk around claiming not to drink soda. What insolence. What treason. What shame. These saps are the same nitwits who claim to not watch TV. These are people who feel so “dissed” by American society because by definition of their classification they have yet to receive the American Dream. They are as follows: dorks, dweebs, blow-hards, pretentious housewives, cattle-rustlers, racketeers, talk show hosts, B+ intellectuals, jew-turned-rasta lost lambs, fat chicks, metrosexuals, Boy Scout Leaders, Amway salespersons, and finally, liars. NOW HEAR THIS: Carbonated flavored soda thirst quenchers are the lifeblood of America. Yes. You know you’re American when you find yourself downing a six-pack of soda a day. Or if you like, filling up a ten-gallon omega-mug with a notoriously hyperbolic name like “thirst buster” and “big gulp” and sucking down volumes of soda until your kidneys bleed and your liver looks like it’s been blasted at point blank range by a 12-guage shotgun. So, in honor of America’s juice I will list the best diet sodas. Yes, diet. I am a member of the legion of health-confused Americans who eat two mcgriddles, but the drink diet coke. yes, i am an idiot.

COKE ZERO:

Where have you been all my life? What a great soda. Fantastic. The greatest accomplishment has not been reaching the moon; it’s been making this drink. Whatever nerd mixed this in a beaker should be given a harem, a million quarters and a vibrating bed, and a black American Express Card.

PEPSI ONE:

Was good until Coke Zero came along. Now, I’m not an official member of the two party beverage system. I’m an independent and I don’t like partisan politics. Pepsi One just doesn’t have the same zip that Coke Zero has. (I agree, coke and Pepsi are probably owned by the same dudes)

DIET COKE:

This seems to be a white woman favorite. If you’re dry, pasty, angry woman with a halibut ass, you probably love diet coke. If you’re a guy with smooth skin and you own Aveda product s then you probably love Diet Coke too. Be careful, I think Diet Coke chokes your urethra. I used to work with this Asian dude who drank two cans of Diet Coke every 15 minutes. He went to the bathroom every 71/2 minutes. You could hear him at the urinal struggling with his urinary tract. He urinated through tortured little bursts, like some troll was under him pinching his dick every ten seconds. His prostrate was probably all red and distended like a bowl of spaghetti. Behind his back we called him “DR. DC.”

DIET PEPSI:

Better than diet coke.

DIET MOUNTAIN DEW: CODE RED

What a gyp. First you think, “Mountain Dew, that’s like mountain biking and active.” Then you see the “Code Red” and think, “That must really be special, it’s encoded.” In fact, CODE RED is a phrase that Covert Op’s would use, IT MUST BE ACTIVE. Then you taste is and you realize, “This is just carbonated Hawaiian Punch.”

DIET DR. PEPPER:

It’s great for a change. But after awhile it’s really annoying. You get sick of the sweet taste. You get irritated by the idiot who keeps telling you the “secret ingredient” is prune juice. Who the hell is Doctor Pepper anyway, is he the same guy as Mr. Pibb? Doctor Jeckyll, Mr. Hyde. Dr. Pepper, Mr. Pibb…hmmmmmm.

SHASTA:

Will do in a jiff, but drink it in three minutes or it goes as flat as Gwen Steffanie.

Hiking, Throwing Rocks at My Girl and her Gay Dog

2006-01-25T08:39:00.000-08:00

The Big Hike

Like one of these “burning-man” spirolina wheat-grass California Fruiters, I have engaged in the positive pursuit of hiking. Taking positive actions is not natural to me. Every cell in my body recoils in horror from Whole Foods, Yoga, and writing Thank You Notes. Through gritted teeth is how I behave like a normal person. People look away when I say “Please” and “Thank You” because my gums are bleeding from strain.

It is with this mammoth effort that I started Hiking. I even hate the word. A “Hike” sounds like an implement that Vlad the Impaler used to widen the orifices in his victims before kababbing their ass on his front lawn. If it was up to me I would never leave my apartment. I perform maniacal figure eights between the kitchen, the toilet, my computer and the TV. Enclosure does not bother my mental state. I have never been subject to “cabin fever.” In fact, I thrive on the fever. It’s like a friend that visits from the mountain to tell eerie tales with warped proportions. My apartment is my fortress of solitude. It isn’t until someone from the “outside” rings the bell that I realize I’ve slid off my rocker. The visitors see my halcyon eyes and keep the door in their sights in case they need to escape. That’s when I realize that I have not been normal: I’ve been using the cutting board as a plate, that I’m wearing soiled long johns and a fur cap, it isn’t Monday after all, it’s Thursday, I’ve guzzled the gallons of Coke Zero, it’s been so long that I’ve washed my coffee cup that there are fossils at the bottom of the mug, my teeth are smooth and clean, not because I brushed them, but because I’ve been ceaselessly grinding. So to keep me regular, I decided to hike.

Hiking is the next best thing to “not exercising.” Although it’s true that you have to go “up” hills, there is no “running” involved. And you can stop anywhere to “enjoy” the scenery. Last week I took my girl to Devil’s Canyon. It’s amazing to me that there are still pockets of nature around Los Angeles at all. I’m surprised that the asphalt barons and carpet baggers haven’t overrun every inch of this arid wilderness. It’s wild, one minute you’re exchanging gun fire on the Ronal Reagan freeway and then bam--you plunge into nature.

I let my girl bring her dog George on the trip. I felt kind of sorry for the poor bastard. Not only does he live in a studio apartment, but I steal his mother every night. All the way to Devils Canyon I was annoyed because George is one of those dogs that let’s his pink carrot slide out of the sheath constantly. As he sat in the back his organic meat whip was touching my back seat the whole way. It was pointed and glistening and throbbing and threatening all the way around. My girl happily claims that her dog is a virgin even though she is not. The whelp is 10 years old. I told her that his carrot trick is due to the fact that he’s “back up.” But My Girl does not want him to have sex. This matter is perplexing to me. But now that I think on it, I think her dog is Queer. Yep, her dog stayed a few nights on the ranch at Broke Back Mountain. He doesn’t hump legs and whimpers around other male dogs.

At the trailhead we met a large woman from the area. She was scowling at a sign that proclaimed that condominiums were going to be erected soon. Apparently the carpet baggers have found out about Devil’s Canyon. The woman was upset because the Yuppie Catacombs were going to block her view of the surrounding scenery. She huffed up the hill carrying her stomach like a wheelbarrow. She was the last of the “rural types” in this area. Los Angles is so human infested that its fat gut hangs over its belt and will smother out what little “cowboy” remnants are out there near Simi Valley.

On the hike we could see signature of last year’s fires on the charred bark of the trees. The soil is sandy because the whole area was submerged under the ocean 60 million years ago. Sage has overrun the place and there’s a sweet smell in the air. When we came to a stream, My Girl’s dog tried not to get wet. Her dog is definitely a bitch. My girl tried to stop him from drinking the water, and I shouted at her, “That’s why your dog’s queer. You mother him too much. God damn, he’s a dog. Dogs can eat pure plutonium and shit steel rivets. Nothing bothers them, that’s why they smell each other’s asses.” My girl carried him over the stream anyway.

After walking awhile my girl disappeared. I turned around and saw her trying to hide behind a bush. The effort was ludicrous because she’s as black as coal and wearing bright yellow clothes. There was no way for her to blend into the desert scenery. So I picked up rocks and threw them at her. I wasn’t trying to hit her, just letting the rocks land “near” her. She’s no Indian. Somehow we got lost. We found ourselves hopping fences and walking alongside the freeway. My Girl cursed me loud enough so I could hear her mean phrases over the Semi-trucks blowing past us. Then she slipped on the embankment and I thought, “Heh-heh, that was God punishing you woman.” Finally we made it back to the car. We ransacked a Seven Eleven and went home. That night, I checked every square inch of my body for ticks.

I don’t spellcheck.

Martin Luther King Day and Bacon Wrapped Hot Dogs

2006-01-19T21:55:00.000-08:00

I need a vacation from going on vacation. It’s like Vietnam trying to return to normal life again. During the whole trip I was worried that there were squatters in my apartment. That for three weeks they were wearing my clothes and listening to Mudhoney. Or that my Hyper-Middle-Eastern Land-dick would evict me. I thought for sure I’d get home and see the Sheriff’s tape plastered on my door. My luck, they’d find the mushrooms that my buddy left in my freezer 6 months ago. I’m sure they’d believe to when I told ‘em it wasn’t mine. They’d probably pistol whip me in the back of the squad car. They might even let their meth-fueled k-9 hounds chew on my neck while I try to convince them I haven’t touched drugs in over 3 years.
I got back and none of that happened. I still had my dopey little hovel. No squatters. I hadn’t even left the Foreman Griller plugged in. But damn, I thought for sure my new job was going to fire me. I was gone from work for three weeks, surely Larry Planskill the frozen-headed HR guy would have realized I was not essential. Or that my resume would have been riddled with mistakes, and half-truths that would have unraveled over three weeks. Nope. They kept me on. Which was a bummer because after the trip, I was on my last laundry leg. All my dress socks laid in hard balls around my bed like dead flies. Of course after Christmas and Europe I had zero cash until my next paycheck. So I had to turn my socks inside out. I know, totally ghetto, but it was either that or where white tube socks with black slacks…so…
Anyways, the payroll people lost my check in the mail. So the MLK weekend had turned into a COINSTAR Weekend. I lugged a pickle jar full of coins into the Ralph’s supermarket. I had a degree from Berkeley and UCLA. I was 30 and I was living off of couch change. As I was dumping a tsunami of pennies into the Coinstar machine, some ballsy jerk had the brass ones to ask me if I had any change. That son of a bitch. Clearly I had Change, but it wasn’t spare for christ’s sake. He was one of those Fanny Pack people with a Prairie Home Companion hat. Bastard. After paying Coinstar 8 cents on the dollar, it turned out that I had 22 dollars for the three day weekend. It was almost all gone after a couple coke zeroes. I had to buy 2 twelve packs of diet Shasta. I know, ghetto, but it was MLK weekend.
Speaking of, me and my girl decided to hit the parade. We went down to King Street and Grammercy. We were a hit at the parade because we are an interracial couple. Everyone on the floats waved to us and shouted Happy Kind Day! Some vato rolled by with a greasy cart full of bacon wrapped hot dogs that were so good my head almost exploded. I kept it together so I could eat another one. Something about salted-fatt strips wrapped around a pureed nitrate-soaked meet tube is damn good.

I don’t spellcheck.

Back From Europe

2006-01-12T07:42:00.000-08:00

“…rising up, back on the streets, took my time, took my chances...”

What up sacks and sackless? Your boy is states side again after a three week tour of France, Spain, and England. And yes the rumors are true, Europe is GAY!

Ok top things on my trip.

1) French food: It ain’t hype. Chocolate Crepes (which look like a dirty diaper), Fois Gras, which is fatty goose liver, and Baguettes which rhymes with Faggots (not an accident I think.) It’s all good, in the tum-tum.
2) Spanish weather: Definitely the most warm in those three countries.
3) French Circus: Nothing like Circ Du Soleil. We got the pirated version called “Circ Du Sol…(wink, wink).” It was one of those Russian jobs, where all the animal trainers look run over by a Schmirnoff truck, and the trapeze artists are escaped convicts. Clowns in any language are lame.
4) Saint Maries De La Mer: This is the town where like 10000 gypsies show up once a year. I did not know that Gypsies are Christian.
5) Eiffel Tower: Honestly, it really is pretty cool.
6) Westminster Abbey: This is where they crown the kings and queens of England, and where, the priest was happy to tell me, they laid Princess Diana to rest.

The US is by far a more superior country:

The US is by far a greater country than all of Europe. We got COSTCO. I’ll take 350 rolls of toilet paper for five bucks…thank you! We got big refrigerators. We got Free Ketchup! We have clean restrooms in restaurants. We got wide streets. Ice is no problem here. We got a little thing called Customer Service in the US. We’ve got decent water pressure. Americans have the best breakfasts in the world. Trust me, there ain't no chicken and waffels in Europe. One week in Europe and you’ll steal the teeth out of your grandma’s mouth for a pancake. We got lots of freeway with no tolls on it. We got plenty of good beef jerky.

And to all you romantics out there, Castles were not constructed so princesses could let down their hair. There is nothing romantic about castles. They are fortresses, designed for killing. Those nice little windows are for people with crossbows to shoot people in the eyes safely. Those nice walls are designed to make it easier to pour boiling oil on people.

True, there is a wealth of history in Europe, but it’s all about war:

First thing I learned: Europeans are the cause of the world’s problems. They started all the World Wars, no one asked them to visit their country and conquer them but they did anyways, and don’t forget all those summer camps where they killed Jews. The reason why Europeans don’t commit “crimes” is because what they do isn’t defined as a crime, it’s called “diplomacy,” or “ethnic cleansing.” All the crimes committed by people of color are zero compared to Europeans.

Anyways, I’m so glad to be back, that I spellchecked.

death of a writing career

2005-12-12T13:24:00.000-08:00

I don’t know if I actually quit “writing.” Obviously I have this blog, which sometimes feels like the bloody viscera a butchered writing career. It’s somewhat gross, and gamey, but there’s a lot of flavor. In terms of writing for Hollywood, I’ve turned a corner. As the nursery rhyme says, “the cheese stands alone.”

Things I accomplished in Hollywood: I did get an MFA in screenwriting from a prestigious screenwriting program at UCLA. However, that and some “Geri Curl,” will only get you a greasy neck. I did make a “short” that did win awards and did star: Ed Asner, Maynard Keenan, and the Drummer from Audioslave. I did meet those dudes, on the set. But then, that was that. Not really that big of deal. I did win an award for Best Screenplay of the year, at UCLA. Again, good, but not life changing. I’ve taken a ton of meetings with people from the Partridge Family to Ron Howard’s company, still no dice. Not even Andrew DICE, Clay. And then that’s the end. Kaput. There have been so many close calls, so many almost’s that you could change my name to Edward James Almost. But now, I have to go to Law School. Why am I going to Law School? Because I don’t want to be “That Guy.” That guy, with one good suit that’s ten years old, that has a corduroy sports jacket with patches on the elbow, that hasn’t started his family yet because he’s waiting for the big score. Chasing the big score. The Big One. There are those who would say that this is proof that I wasn’t really “passionate” about writing. A true writer would have stayed the course bad credit or not. Perhaps. Maybe this is true, if so, then it really is positive that I came to my senses. The only thing worse than an unpaid talented writer, is an unpaid untalented writer.

Some years ago a bizarre thing happened to me. When I first started at UCLA, I went to a fellow writer’s house for a party. His girlfriend was a real gypsy. No shit. She didn’t have a bandana on her head like that ass from the E Street band, but her parents probably did. She was also hot. Way too hot for her boyfriend. He was a total writer nerd, no style, just a grumpy attitude, but then he had this bazooka of girlfriend. He was a little sore about it too, kind of like one of those guys that was real sorry he got what he wished for. She was a lightening rod for Alpha-male attention, which only sent this throbbing current of weird tension in the room. Everyone knew this kid was in the deep end without water wings.

Anyways, of course, we mobbed his hot gypsy girlfriend to read our palms…guys are such vultures. Anyways, she looked at my palm and said, “You have improved a skill beyond your natural talent.” I laughed and said, “really?” and the rest of the night, I operated on automatic pilot, so that I could gnaw on her evil, little gypsy insight, in my isolation booth I call a brain. I felt that she knew that I had pushed my writing abilities further than they were meant to go. I was crushed. I even thought she had cursed me. After that, I’d lay awake at night telling myself that gypsies didn’t know shit, and that I was mentally weak to let some woman infect me with a thought. But she did. Was it a self-fulfilling prophecy or was it a prophecy? Don’t know. I guess it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other.

My dad says I never sold a script because my dark side is too dark. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe there’s a lot of dark fiction out there. Maybe that’s a fiction my dad made up because it’s too hard for a father to see his son surrender.

Does this mean I’ll never write? Time only knows.

I don’t spellcheck.

Friday Morning in my particular zip code in HELL

2005-12-02T14:09:00.000-08:00

this morning i woke up to NPR crowing about iraqi democracy, or the lack thereof. so i did what the president does, i hit snooze and slept a little longer, hoping it will all go away.

finally my eyes wouldn't let me go back to sleep. it was 6:27 AM. my eyes felt like they'd been rubbed with pine cones dipped in gerbil piss. i was tired. what does my girl do? she asks me to rub her back. she never asks me to rub her back when i got a lot of energy. it's always, "baby, rub my back." right when i'm going to sleep or waking up. She doesn't even lift her head off the pillow to say it. she just muffles her lips right into the "slobber" scab on the pillow.

sometimes i think when she asks for a back rub, it weakens my arms. my muscles shrink. i can barely lift them. so like i stick my arm out and "scrape" her back, kind of like those crackheads clean your window, only with less enthusiasm.

2 times and then i'm done. up down, twice, and then it's over. i'm talking about back rubs you sick-minded people. then my girl always says, "that's fucked up, I rubbed your feet."

What she considers rubbing my feet is basically kicking the bottom of my feet with her toes. half the time it hurts, i'm just too polite to say anything. i get massage crumbs. she wants massage cake, for massage crumbs. i'll tell you what, that dog just don't hunt.

then when i was ready to leave, my girl starts bothering me again. how come women only bother you when you're ready to walk out the door? i been standing in this room for going on 30 minutes, and my broad didn't say a peep. the minute i face the door to leave, it's bother her man time.

anyways, she wants me to go over and apologize to flower. that's right, this is no drug-induced hallucination. she wants me to apologize to a plant. my girl bought me a flower that she calls "dalilah." totally sappy estrogen laden poppycock. this is what drives men to mainline tequila and john the brotherhood aboard a pirate ship in the phillipines. anyways, she wants me to apologize to a plant, because the night before i threatened to snap the stem to get her to shut up. i can't remember the details, but her mouth was rolling like a FLorida Hurricane, and so like to shut her up, i took dililah hostage. I grabbed it's stem and promised to break the plant if she didn't pipe down and then she said this, "i can't believe you're bringing the children into this."

....

maybe this is the untold story between oj and nicole. maybe she treated plants like people and in a rage for sanity he cut her head off...

anyways, in order to leave the prison of my own apartment which my girl is now the warden of, I had to say, "sorry" to the plant. i got her back, because inside i wasn't even sorry. HAHAHA....ehhhh....i'm a sufferer of ovary fatigue.

but my day did brighten up. i stopped by jack in the crack for an extreme sausage sandwich, and when i opened it up i got a nice surprise. one of the latino fast food elves had accidentally left a piece of bacon on top of the bun and it was smeared with cheese. how in the holy heavens did i get so lucky? i ate it and was soooo satisfied. i don't know why, but i always eat the little accidents in the fast food bag. and extra curly fry here, a chicken nugget there. it never occurs to me that someone dropped it in there because they were jamming food into their mouths while they were making my order. maybe because if it did, i wouldn't eat it.

i don't spellcheck.

Michael Jackson vs. Saddam Hussein

2005-11-30T07:32:00.000-08:00

Ever since Michael Jackson bailed on the United States because we think it's weird to have slumber parties with young, cancer-laden boys, Michael decided the Middle East may be a place that can tolerate his kind of fun? Why not, with guys like Saddam Hussein and the Bin Ladens, it makes sense. Bahrain understands the "natural" affection between man and boy. Perhaps if Michael Jackson had lived in the Middle East he would have been a Dictator, or perhaps if Saddam lived in the US, he could have been an eccentric pop star. Does Michael Jackson compare with Saddam Hussein? Painstaking research shows they have a lot in common:

The King of Pop VS. Mustachioed Dictator
"clash of the weird power-crazed, narsiccistic fuckers"

SADDAM: Many women in his country wear burkas
MICHAEL: Has often worn a burka

BOTH like fedoras

BOTH: have many lookelikes
BOTH: have secret chambers at their compounds
MICHAEL: Best known hit, Thriller
SADDAM: Best known hit, a whole Kurdish village

BOTH wear uniforms but neither has been enlisted in any army

MICHAEL: Known as the king of pop
SADDAM: Known as the one who confronts

BOTH: felt disrespected after they were strip searched.

MICHAEL: In 1991 made an album known as “Dangerous”
SADDAM: In 1991 made known as “Dangerous” by George Bush Sr.

BOTH: Had trials in 2005 was marked by sensational testimony.
BOTH: had abusive fathers.

SADDAM: Came into his own power in 1979
MICHAEL: Came into power in 1982

SADDAM: Set oil fields on fire in an attempt to escape the US
MICHAEL: Oils in his hair set on fire in a Pepsi commercial

BOTH like to be photographed with children

SADDAM: Invaded Kuwait
MICHAEL: Invaded Bahrain
BOTH: Despite their dispicable reputations, still retain blind, crazy, devoted fans, willing to do anything.
SADDAM: Born in the village of Al-Awja
MICHAEL: Born in the village of Gary, Indiana
SADDAM: Was big in the Ba’Ath Party.
MICHAEL: Was big in Bubble Bath Parties
SADDAM: Thousands of pictures and statues of him were erected all over Iraq
MICHAEL: Thousands of pictures and statues of him were erected all over Neverland
BOTH: will not be made father of the year, anytime soon.

I don't spellcheck

my girlfriend's in trouble

2005-11-22T12:20:00.000-08:00

well my girl finally did it. She set the woman's movement back another 20 years with a single blog entry on her site www.blackmantis.blogspot.com. let the record show that my girl didn't get the idea to blog, until i started. also let the record reflect that my girlfriend is technologically challenged. before i taught her what it was, she thought a "blog" was some kind of yogurt drink.

Now this post that she placed is absolutely a perfect specimen of the female mind. it is like a polaroid of their web-like and circular logic. i have pasted her post down below to save the trouble of bouncing back and forth between sites. i have inserted my analysis inbetween her post, which is marked by quotes. ok, her we go, roll tape...

"I just hung up the phone and I am so....Confused. Here it goes. My dear friend, whom I adore, professed his love for me. I am speechless. I mean I just don't understand how it got all twisted. First of all, I haven't spoken to him in years. We reconnected (a couple of weeks ago) after he tracked me down by calling my father."

ok...she creates the environment, it's mysterious, somewhat tragic, a bevy of heavy emotions are in flux, like the flux capacitor from back to the future. This is a typical female lament: I am so confused. A guy I considered a dear friend wants to dock at tuna harbor, what happened? i love how this confuses woman. this would nevre confuse a man. if a man had a woman who was a friend, and then she wanted to do the sweaty, there is absolutely no confusion, either it's a greenlight, or an intitial red, followed by a late-night caution yellow if nothing else comes through first. back to the footage...

"Dad: Hello sweetheart
me: D a d d y!!!
Dad: Do you know a Fred?
me: huh?
Dad: He says you two are really good friends? He's a doctor...
me: (here it goes..my dad is auctioning me off) mmmmmmmm..Yeah...He went to UT.
Dad: Very nice... Well, I wanted to see if its okay if I gave him your number.
me: Dad...I know what you are trying to do...
Dad: I am just giving your number
me: I know..but I have a boyfriend
Dad: Just giving your number.....gotta go...sweety pie..
Me: dad....dad... damn"

here my loveley recreates the sweet (gag) conversation with her father, so that no one is confused on how this guy tracked her down. women love to add unimportant details to tell you more about themselves. in this instance she's saying: I'm so unbelievabely hot, that grown men bother the aged to get my phone number. never forget, that woman has two favorite topics, 1) herself, and 2) what she's GOING to do? Roll tape...

"Why is it that my father finds the need to marry my ass off? Ahhhh... the suffocation of marriage. What a girl really wants! A man that will eventually suck the life out of her!"

...uhm a father tries to marry his daughter off so she doesn't keep borrowing money.

"Oh..back to my story....

So, Fred and I began talking again. It was nice but then he wanted to come and visit. My radar started to siren off."

ok a couple of points:
1) my GF never told me about Fred (sounds like a fag to me).
2) typical female speak: radar started to siren off.'nuff said.

roll it..

"me: Great... Let me know when.
Fred: I can't wait to see you. I bet you haven't aged one bit"

... what a don juan. this guy's a real smoothie...eh? real sweety pie. mothereffer. so charming. how'd he like to meet some charming friends in the backroom at Fatty's tavern, they could open up his stomach, make him real smooth....back to the tape.

"me: well I guess you have to see...
Fred: You know, Naz, I never quite got over you moving away so quickly.
me: huh? it wasn't that quick
Fred: Sure it was....remember you were supposed to meet my mom
me: huh? well I don't remember that."

great. this means, that this guy just left a bad breakup. whenever a guy becomes relationship road kill, he always seeks historical trim. he's there, on the john, holding his head in his hand (hopefully just his head), reminiscing about what went wrong. now he has to start over. he may be too old and worn out to "start over." there's got to be a fast way to get back into some kind of relationship and that's when the "girl from the past pops" in his mind. "girl from the past" girl is always a good girl. "girl from the past" girl has been waiting for you to call. he already knows her so he doesn't have to start over. enough time has passed so she might have forgotten what a creep he is. it's perfect. it's just so crazy it just might work...

roll it...

"Fred: Well, I just didn't understand why you left without saying good bye.
me: I told you I was leaving...What's the big deal?"

women love to twist the knife. they pretend that they don't know we're secretly pining away for them. they just want to watch our legs squirm as they drive that needle into the back of our heads...

"Fred: You don't get it.
me: get what?"

see? get what? my girl can tell if a woman at party is a bitch just by looking at her, and now, she doesn't "get it." at this point i feel sorry for the guy. maybe i'll take him to fatty;s for a drink...after they opens up his guts...

"Fred: never mind
me: come on....."

nevermind? does this dude have testicles? he's now switched gears, he's trying to guilt trip his way into the vagina monologues. however, my girl does say "come on..." most guys think it's because they want to hear us out. this is false, women just want to hear anguish because in a woman's mind, the more anguish and confusion a man goes through over his feelings for them, then the more desireable they must be. ana analogous situation exists for males, except it's poop. the bigger, and stinkier a man's poop is, the more "manly" he is.

"Fred: I still....care about you...I never stop thinking about you....You know, Naz, we just had a great time. You mean a lot to me.
me: (fuck fuck fuck....abort....abort....fuck fuck) ummm Fred....I didn't know....I don't know what to say.....um....sorry....um.....I never knew.(Then I thought...wait a minute....I never even slept with Fred...ummm... damn...one drunken night we did kiss...alot, but that was it...fuck!)"

aha! see this shit. women do this all the time. here she is acting like she doesn't know what "feelings" Fred is having and yet she made out with him. that's why guys go nuts in realtionships. women are very manipulative. any man, reading this now, never, for a second believe that a woman is ignorant of your feelings. if she play like she doesn't know about them, that means: she doesn't like you, but would like to hear how much you like her.

"Fred: you're still so naive! giggles
me: yeah....(I awkwardly giggle)
Fred: well...we can move forward....if you want
me: (fuck fuck ).....I...I...I am really really honored but.....I have a boyfriend.
Fred: Is it serious?
me: yeah,we are exclusive.
Fred: Oh...well (a long silence) that's my other line....I will call you back.
me: k?
Fred: bye....click"

giggling? he is a fag. by the way, my girl is not naive. here is proof. she's giggling but screaming "fuck...fuck...fuck..." in her mind. no woman is really naive, only men are.

However, typical guy fashion, after all of his harlequin romance oily-haired rhett butler sap, the guy jumps off the phone as soon as he knows my girl's ebony gates are closed.

"Fuck....Why does this shit always happens to me. I never send the let's "do it" signs. I just am very ...friendly.... fuck..... Damn. It can't be just me...I know that this has happen to plenty of people, right?!! So, I am taking it to the polls. Have you had someone misconstrue your friendship for something more? Tell me!"

Oh fey...whatever shall I do? Oh me, Oh my...this shit happens to girls because they drunkenly slobber-wrestle with dudes and then bail out of town. "I never send the let's do it sign, I'm just friendly" wow. i mean wow, really. that's cold. see a "let's do it sign" to a guy usually involves drunken kissing. if not tonight, at least some point int he future. shit, a guy thinks you want to have sex if you give him a hug hello. women are different. to them sex is just sex. foreplay is meaningless. they'll throw you a little and then watch your fat crackle over the flames as they say, "what? you want to have sex? but we're just friends."

"Well, I guess there will be no visit from Fred and now I have to hear the silence on the other end of the phone when I tell my father that I shot down the doctor. Damn! But hey...I've just gained major boyfriend points!!! (Love you, baby!)"

this is hardly a "shot down." more like an ugly forced landing. and as far as points? she may have forfeited earlier points. i don't necessarily see the above conversation as a heroic defense of our relationship...hmmmm, maybe i can use guilt to turn negative girlfriend points into postive boyfriend points. she may actually have to be quiet for a couple of days.

this just proves her fathe hates me...

i don't spellcheck.

i love to embellish!"

manstink monday

2005-11-14T12:57:00.000-08:00

it's nice to see arnie taking a break from his tour of china by frolicking with young boys on an "Ultimate Asian Sex Safari" in Thailand.

It was man-stink Monday at the job. Nothing is more decrepid and rank than old-man stink. Old man-stink is a cross between barbasol shaving cream, dewars scotch, and ass. Our building which has 42 floors. My job is perched up on the 37th, so I’ve got a long haul in an elevator that's been impregnated with man-stink.

at a certain age men get this malignant odor, like the red meat and bacon grease finally caught up to them and there’s a perpetual leak of foulness from their bowels. Oddly enough the attempt to cover it up with “cologne” actually only intensifies the nastiness. The smell has the staying power of rotten chicken mixed with dick clark. The other day I went into a completely empty elevator and the man-stench was wall to wall. It really makes me wonder what goes through gay men’s minds. Do they smell the funk? Or do they like it. Is man stink like a "pheramone" to them? Maybe gay men are like sharks, swimming around trying to pick up another gay guy's scent in the air. Being gay really must be a natural phenomenon, who'd purposely seek their fortunes in the asses of men. eeeech.

Speaking of gay men, some woman the other day was crying because some gay guys were making fun of her and calling her a “fish.”

Man there are some stupid conversations at work. I mean stupid, What the hell are people talking about? Crazy.

Conversation between Sophie and John, true-life characters from earlier portraits.

(sophie sees john is carrying two pastries from starbucks)

S: two?
J: Today was not a day for decisions. I have a headache.
S: what was the decision between?
J: A chocolate covered donut, or a non-chocolate covered donut.
S: So you got two?
J: I’m a little edgy today.
S: wow, you’re crazy.

Is this bitch serious? Crazy? Two donuts is not crazy, it may be a fatty’s personal joy, but it isn’t crazy. Crazy is when I pull out a samurai sword and hack off john’s fore arms and his head in one swing so his donuts and head can roll across the floor and watch the bloody neck fountain shoot all over sophie’s doughy face as she screams. That’s crazy.

Crazy would be socking our boss in the chest at the company picnic.
Crazy would be smoking a weed at the team meeting.
Crazy would be farting in the water cups and turning them over.
Crazy would be putting viagra in the coffee urn.
Crazy would be taking a blow torch and melting down the plastic jack-o-lantern still hanging up since Halloween,
Crazy would be planting nude photos of Montel Williams in John’s office.
Crazy would be feeling up the old bag in records just to be nice.

i don't spell check

c-

8th grade field trip to DC

2005-11-08T13:25:00.000-08:00

I was a total mess in the 8th grade. most bipeds experience a “growth spurt” marked by a titanic metabolic rate—not your boy though. I had a growth spurt in my appetite, but nature reneged on making me taller. my metabolism is magic sand. The kind you squeeze out of a ketchup bottle into an acquarium and it magically piles up, while the sand’s chemicals send your fish on a hallucinogenic sojourn through the forest of mongo’s mushrooms before they come to a complete stop, belly up. Just pour food down my gullet and watch the funny shapes collect on my rib cage. One could say that my metabolism has the energy of a drowned right floating in a toilet.

I bought men’s pants because my waste was man-sized, but legs were little hobbit stumps. I had to chop the cuffs off and then “peg” them to hide the shredded cuffs. Now shredded cuffs are in style, only 15 years later…heh.

8th grade was hell. Middle school for me was like what the middle passage was for blacks. the one good time I had was when our class went on the 8th grade field to Washington DC.

I had to room with Gary Lester, the biggest loser in the world. Even bigger than me. I had my aunt buy me some boxer shorts because I thought they’d make me look thinner when I had to change in front of Gary. Maybe boxers wouldn’t hide my gut, but no one would see the white briefs cutting into my chubby thighs. Damn! Even Gary, the loser, was thinner than me.

Anyways in terms of the educational aspect, the trip was a total clusterfuck. Mr. Eynis (pronounced Anus, don’t even get it started. Been there, destroyed that) who resembled Bert from sesame street fame, was all puffed up about the trip. He acted like he was general Washington crossing the delaware. Now that I think about it, it seems kind of weird. This must have been the hundredth time this social studies middle school teacher had taken a class to the crime capital of the US? why keep doing it? How many tikes can one man tramp around Monticello, trying to ignore all the signs of jungle love that Thomas Jefferson engaged in? trying not to notice the cocobutter on jefferson’s filing press in his cabinet room, or the afro-hair in on jefferson’s pillow in his bedchamber.

maybe our teacher was a creep. Maybe he was playing catholic marbles with the boys, maybe he was in the CIA and he needed to report on the illegals every year. More than likely he was a sad sack, who’s yearly highlight was an all expenses paid (except for the in-room “massages” he ordered from Oriental Palace) trip to Washington dc every year. He was probably clocking frequent flier miles and then rolling them over into free trips to Thailand for “fantasy vacations.”

Anyways, as always happens on a field trip, there was a reallocation of the school hierarchy. Less kids + new location (- supervision) = new “temporary” relationships.

Lucky me the relationship I got was with a skinny Mexican kid named Flavio, who’s school moniker was “floppy taco.” who had acne that looked like he slipped and fell in a butcher shop. We never talked in school, but for some reason the god of transport had welded us together for this particular journey.

We found a magic shop when we stopped off at some restaurant. Soon after that, we traveling up the elevators in the Washington memorial. The tour guide was some festering old man with filmy glasses who repeated the history of the monument between tracer shots of spittle. Keith Flamke said that the monument looked like a giant dick, which was even funnier when he said it because he had a high pitched voice and a lisp.

Anyways, on the way down me and floppy taco broke some stink bombs up in the monument. The smell of rotten eggs was everywhere. People were running to the elevators holding their noses. On the way down, the geriatric guide asked the kids who the hell cut the cheese, Jason newcomber who was fat with yellow spikey hair got blamed ecause he was fat with yellow spikey hair. All the way down he kept saying, “it wasn’t me, and he who smelt it dealt it.” Then he tried to pin on shane lakowski, who was also fat, but because he was thinner than Jason, the gaseous aspersion didn’t stick.

Anyways, they had a dance at the hotel. Since floppy taco and me weren’t scoring any chicks we decided to ruin the dance. During “it’s tricky” by Run DMC, we busted a bunch of stink bombs and cleared the floor. Then I went into Gary’s suitcase and poured itching powder in Gary’s underwear.

I had forgotten about the next day, and was in the back of the bus flipping senators off and spraying people with fart spray when Mr. Eynis came back. He was led by Gary, who’s face was red and looked like he was crying.

Mr. Eynis: did you do anything to gary’s underwear?
[the whole bus went silent]
Me: what?
M.E.: what did you put in gary’s underwear.
Me: Nothing.
M.E.: empty your pockets.
[shit, busted. i should yank the emergency switch on this bus door and hop out. Naaaaw, I’m a fat 8th grader, I’ll never survive on the street.]

I emptied my pockets. Four boxes of stink bombs. A canister of fart spray. Some hot pepper gum, and a plastic thumb.

M.E.: you didn’t put anything in Gary’s underwear.
Me: no.
M.E.: just the same, you have to stay on the bus while we go into Monticello.
[so?]
M.E.: I want you to think long and hard about your behavior young man.

So there I was a fat 8th grader, alone on a bus, staring at Monticello through the window, having just gotten busted for having magic shop gags in my pockets, and laughing.

i don't spellcheck

Chucky is Karl Rove's illegitimate love child

2005-11-02T07:43:00.000-08:00

in a sickening trist at fat camp, karl rove canoodled with the onsite nutritionist. the abhorrent outcome is this maladjustant mutant which has starred in so many films and nearly died twice at cedar sinai from tranquilizer overdose.

if madonna got any whiter she'd be invisible. something about the way madonna looks makes me think she could be real mean to her servants. like she might stay in bed for weeks, totally whacked on pomegranate juice and spirolina. i could just see her smoking botox and shooting a crossbow at her husband "the director." she probably doesn't wash for days on end, and puts a heating pad under ass, and let's her lap simmer under the blankets, and then calls him up and forces him to finish his marital "meal." "the director" probably pores over klaus von bulow biographies, thinking of a way, a way to kill off "the bitch" but keep all her money.

apparently madonna was a hit at the MTV Music Awards. which proves that MTV is not "age-ist," they don't care how geriatric or infirmed their awards show is, they air it anyway.

Maddona and Axel Rose should go bowling.

it's fascinating to watch stars get old. i love it. madonna, arnold schwarzenggar. as there stars rise, we think "wow, they're like gods." and then time bears down on them like a raging stampede of demonic buffalo, and they get arrested, they throw phones at hotel clerks, they take "naps" with boys, they botox the skull right out of their face, their bodies succumb to gravity, and their end becomes more real, like an impressionist's painting adding the final dots that articulate the wrods, "the end." how the stars deal with it, is fascinating. the average mope doesn't have money to fight effects or friends who'll lie to them. the average mope accepts getting older with a donut and coffee, maybe a little miller highlight. he doesn't go into a spastic frenzy because he's surrounded by others who are getting older too and it's quite uncouthe in the blue collar ranks to complain about the obvious. but the stars go shrill, "how could this be happening to me. i was so, special." and the fifty-year old black woman busdriver with pencils stuck in her graying hair and stretch marks that look like a relief map of the gobi desert puts her hands on her hips and says, "heh heh heh." which may explain why some people believe there is a voodoo curse from women in the carribean on black american divas.

LIST:
Stars aging gracefully:

arnold schwarzeneggar: let's face it. even though his chest looks like freeze dried chicken, it's still bigger than any of us, and he became the governor, and left hollywood.

meryl streep: she looks like how she's supposed to look. an older white woman. there isn't too much obvious plastic surgery and she's not trying to stay current by having boyfriend troubles.

edward james olmos: his face was so pitted and ugly in his youth, that old age doesn't seem to affect him. it's hard to have laugh lines when they're embedded in acne scars. however, he has kept his composure and KICKS MAJOR FUCKING ASS on the new battle star galactica series. i liked him before (if you recall, he was the "finger man" in stand and deliver, as well as salena's father..."i would do anything for the father of salenas!") he's so good in the series that he needs to be in everything from here on out. totally underrated.

Morgan Freeman - although he's aspecial case because he was already "aged" when he became a star.

pam grier - mmmmmhm. like my girl always says, "black don't crack."

a little long in the tooth:

john cusack: he's not FUGLY yet, but there's something wierd going on. his face is ripening like a turnip.

courtney love: although she's never been actractive, she looks even worse than ever. can anyone say CRISCO?

Kathy Griffith: she's not really famous, but woah, that's a man baby! her skin looks like it's been dipped in chunky peanut butter.

alec baldwin: it's finally safe to say it, "stephen is the good looking one."

i know i missed a lot, but at this point i stopped caring.

F spellcheck!

men don't do halloween

2005-10-31T16:29:00.000-08:00

notice: the highlighted words within the text are links to associated info or pictures to the material. feel free to click on them. -mngmnt.

who loves halloween more than kids? women. you know who loves halloween more than women? gay dudes.
the corporate myrmidons on my floor asked me what i was going to be for halloween. i told them, "a man for christ sakes!" men do not dress up for halloween. earning a living goes against playing "pretend.". you can't work eight hours a day grinding your soul down to pencil shavings and then put on clown make-up for candy.

in the elevator this white chick was so excited about holloween that she asked this black dude what he was going to be for holloween. the black man stared at her with that cold, far off stare that says, "silly white woman, i am a black man in a corporate environment, the only costume i am agreeing to wear is the stupid suit of my oppressor." then the the woman actually said, "you know what you should be? you should be a gorilla."

the black man said nothing. he didn't have to. i swore i heard shaka zulu's voice shriek off in the distance. and just for an instant, i saw a rage in his eyes. then he smiled and said nothing, but i knew there were words boiling in his throat, and they probably were something like this, "silly white bitch, don't you know that when it's holloween you never, ever suggest a primate costume to black man in america."

lets' talk about costumes.

1) there are always too many pippi longstockings. i hate the silly red-headed bitch. i don't know why it is, but chicks love to be pippy. if you ask me, she's biting Wendy's (the hamburger joint) style. i hate those fake ass freckles too. they remind me of all those wierd mexican comedy shows where like, old burned out alcoholic pedophiles dress up like children.

2) white guys got two costumes. they either get a furry hat and a cape and go as a pimp and then walk around calling women bitches an ho's for a day, which is as offensive as you can get. i mean if i was a pimp and i saw these pencil necked white dudes saying crap like, "where's my money bitch" i'd be pissed. and you know these guys got teensy little white peepees. sheeeeeit. if i was a pimp, i'd go around on holloween kicking some major ass. maybe even sell these geeks into white slavery at some turkish bathhouse. the other thing white guys love to do is dress like women. they love it. if i was a pimp, i'd grab these cross dressing bafoons and slap the taste out of their mouths.

3) black women love to go as cat woman, or a black cat. maybe because of eartha kitt or something.

4) if you're trying to make a fashion statement and buy a bunch of clothes. and then on holloween you look around and everyone is dressed like you and calling it a costume? that means you statement is over. that goes for: hippies, football players, doctors, 1920's gangsters, flappers, indians, cowboys, criminals dressed in black and white stripes...etc.

5) no one dresses like a lawyer for halloween.

candy:

the best:

take 5 - some mother'effer finally stuck a pretzel in a candy bar.
kit kat - always crunchy. never enough. obly hang up: they melt to easily.
atomic fire balls - a jaw breaker that burns your mouth. pure genius.
sweetarts - mmmmmm
hot tamales - red hot glowing cinnimon-flavored rat turds...mmmm
pop rocks - technology at it's finest
sour patch kids - little sour boogers shaped like children, yum.

the worst:

candy corn - what the hell flavor is it? it tastes like sweetened wax. who wants to eat candy named after a vegetable that looks like rotten teeth? i tried eating just the white part, then the orange, then the yellow--it's all the same damn flavor. someone's asleep at the flavor switch at the candy corn company.
3 musketeers - what a mistake. they should just call it ca-ca in a foil wrapper. it's pure nuget. i don't even know what nougat is. horrible.
wax lips - knock it off. it ain't that good. it's got a kitsch factor, but honestly, wouldn't you rather just chew gum?
that white and green swirl taffey in big bins at the supermarket -
black licorice anything - terrible. it's from the paleothic era when there was no candy. it tastes like nyquil. ech.

bombs away

2005-10-26T12:53:00.000-07:00

i was sitting at my desk when i was siezed suddenly. it was BANDOR the fecal god and he had heaved his brown lightening bolt right into my guts. he had awakened a pastrami sandwich burrowing it's way through my fiery guts like a mutated mole with radiation sickness.

the day before: i went to a fine dining establishment called "the hat." true to the name, there's a giant neon hat hanging over the restaurant's roof. they've been weilding hot pastrami dip sandwiches for fifty years and they're pretty damn good at it. the sandwich is overstuffed with pastrami. it's so thick it looks like someone carved up porky the pig's knees and stuffed them into gift envelopes.

a food side note: what is pastrami? it's corned beef that's been smoked.

anyways, i swallowed the thing in two bites. i felt like the sarlac pit, slowly digesting things whole for the next thousand years. except in twenty four hours the sandwich was demanding release from my digestive tract.

it was one of those times where i had to walk quick and then stop, frozen in turd spasms. let the waves of pain pass and then accelerate 0 to 60 in nanoseconds. i probably stopped like 4 times on the way to the bathroom. i think some people thought i was doing the robot.

i hit the bathroom. first thing is: i pick the biggest stall. i don't know if i need all that room, but you never know. i put about four waxy-cowboy hats on the toilet seat to keep my legs from touching the seat. i can just see those little germs on the toilet seat, dancing, like a demonic rave, multiplying, gyrating, dividing, waiting to hook onto my drumstick thighs and kill me.

i didn't have to push, the thing climbed out on it's own. i could tell that it had hit that cut-out in the toilet cover. you know, the round flap you have to tear without ripping the whole toilet seat cover (an art in itself). i have a very god toilet ear. i can tell when something drops into the water or has landed on the paper by listening. sometimes to prevent splashback i'll float one sheet of toilet paper across the water's surface. that way the fall is "broken."

anyways, needless to say, i destroyed the bathroom, even though i did a courtesy flush. basically, as a policy of bathroom etiquitte, do not let the tootsie roll sit int he water while you clean the cave. poo-poo acts as a reverse urinal cake. instead of eating odors, it releases them into the air. once your frog jumps, send him down the pipes.

i tried to the leave the stall but i had to time it just right. people kept coming and going out of the bathroom. honest injun, the stink was so bad i didn't want to lay claim to it. i didn't want their view of me to be fouled by my festering guts, so i waited, with my pants down, staring through the crack in the door, waiting for them to leave. some guy was at the urinal for hours, squeezing out what sounded like a painful piss. minute little bursts, like a 99 cent squirt gun. his prostrate was probably scorching hot and overgrown, from too many venti latte's and diet cokes. poor bastard.

finally he left. i ran out of the bathroom and started washing my hands. some suit walked in and made a face and said: great balls of fire, who died?

i said: i think it was the arrowhead water guy.
suit: really?
me: yeah, he like waddled in clutching his guts.

then the suit looked down at my shoe--there was a toilet seat cover stuck to it. (holy shit! i'm an idiot)

with the steely dignity displayed by king louis XVI right before the french peasants chopped his head off, i kicked away the seat cover, and used a paper towel to open the door.

i don't spellcheck.

portrait of john

2005-10-21T18:40:00.000-07:00

portrait of a guy i work with, this is a real person:

his name is john. he occupies an office with a view, which is always to his back. he's probably 6'2". huge pasty white rolls were slapped onto his large frame by god's brush. his legs probably haven't done any running since the presidential fitness test back in middle school. he's english descent, but most of the nobility of his dna has been erased by fast food and girls gone wild videos. he's definitely a porn guy. he probably has amassed a "collection." a pile of tapes and dvd's with asian girls on the cover that he actually takes care of. they are neatly arranged, by "fetish" so it's easier for him match the right girl with the particular beast he's feeding on any given night. for him, getting a new porn tape is much like meeting a new girl.

his big rayon shirts are designed to hide his midsection. the designs on the shirts are for the most part meant for an african american audience. huge sheets of checkered boards, or even an all black shirt with a checker board collar. it's technically a button up shirt, but it looks like something from house party. and it only seems to make him look bafoonish.

he has bill gates style glasses, or the kind of glasses an over the hill androgenous library lesbian would wear. it makes his face look boyish and pudgey. he has a girl friend in the IT department whom he calls, "puddin'" he means it affectionately, but somehow it comes across as obscene.

he sighs a lot. a lot. he always feels over worked. he feels as though he works harder than any one in the company. when people go to him for help, he's hard pressed and strained, but yes, he'll help them. because he feels he has no choice, because he's a NICE GUY. that's his curse in life, he's the "nice" guy. he passive-aggressively verbally attacks women because despite being nice, they won't give him their bodies, because these women don't want a nice guy, they want a good looking one. this is why he's been doomed to romance with technology, with plastic, with tapes and dvd's. he in fact, feels a little guilty about this because, all the tapes he watches are of beautiful women. deep down he is shallow too.

there is one particular asian woman named sophie in the company that goes to him with every question and it's a disgusting exchange. He condescends her. He patronizes her. he feels so superior to her that it makes my stomach churn. But he doesn't come out and say that he's better than her, it's layered thick into his voice. This happens at least four times a day and it usually goes like this:

sophie: i need your help.
john: of course you do hon.
s: i don't understand what they mean by vip audit.
j: read the email.
s: but i don't understand.
j: read your email, puddin.
s: i did.
j: read it again.
s: (quietly reading)
j: no, aloud cupcake.
s: (reads aloud)
j: so what does that mean?
s: that we need to double check the participant plans?
j: wow, you can do it by yourself.
s: i know, but you are good at this.
j: you need to trust yourself. trust your instincts hon.

and so forth. in john's defense, sophie is really annoying, but that's another story.

john pops diet dr pepper. he sits in his office chomping hostess peanut butter wafers and guzzling drinks. he looks like the kind of guy that could tread water in the military. a soft branch of the armed forces, like the air force. and he'd be sitting on guard duty or moving furniture for important colonels. not good enough to advance, but not crappy enough to get shit-canned either.

he also looks as though he could go completely psycho-burgers at anytime. like at any moment he's going to rip the fire ax off the wall and just start swinging..."here's johnny!" and like there'd be sophie, with her collar bone cleaved in two telling the officer, "he was such a nice guy."

i don't spellcheck.

going corporate

2005-10-19T17:39:00.000-07:00

i successfully completed the master cleanse. by the end of the ten days i was crapping out desert air and pissing artesian well spring water.

it was quite an experience. i wasn't "high" like some of the macrobiotic militia would have me believe. i did feel like i had a lot of energy. how could i "eat" less but gain more power? it wasn't that i had more energy, it was that i had more time. i didn't realize this but eating gobbles up more of my day than television. first, i spend an hour thinking about my future food possibilities, taco truck or quizno's? souplantation??? CPK???? pastrami? the possibilities are endless. then i spend about an hour eating. mmmm toasted bread on a sandwich tastes good, mmm yes, i'll have another round of tortilla chips, mmmm and a refill on the soda please. [i rub my tum-tum like pooh bear] that's right my little stomach, it's just me and you right now, this is our time, our time to be together. then i spend about an hour after i eat hating myself for what i just ate and being pleasantly suprised by burps that taste like lunch. 3(meals a day)X 3(hours) = a shitload of time spent on food. on the cleanse i had an extra 1/3 of day to do what i wanted with.

when i got off the cleanse the first thing i ate was a chimichanga. the hippie book specifically warns you NOT to eat too soon lest ye be faced with DIRE CONSEQUENCES. i was supposed to drink orange juice for another two days. i drank one glass oj and felt cheated. you mean after ten days of not eating anything, i'm supposed to recuperate by two more days of not eating anything? so i got a chimichanga, that's right, i went gangbusters see, top of the mark kid, yeah, gimmie a chimichanga hector and make it snappy see...

how bad could the consequences be? i also ate tortilla chips, jalopenos, rice and beans. it was shocking the amount of gas that welled up in me. i felt like i was destroying the ozone layer by myself. but that was it. a lot of gas and an upset girlfriend. nothing else. i will say this though: i couldn't finish the chimichanga. that was crazy. i'm a clean plate eater, and i couldn't finish a chimichanga. the last time i didn't clean my plate was my fourth trip through the sizzler buffet. although, it'll probably only take me a week to stretch my gut back out with peanutbutter stuffed pretzels and diet shasta cola. god i'm idiot.

besides that, i got a new job. a corporate thing. yep, a tie and a shirt. i work for some accounting firm that makes dough off of executives and off of life insurance. don't ask me how it works, they've hidden their parlor trick with an avalanche of white paper and acronyms.

the corporate world is weird. it's mostly populated by hot chicks, who usually work at the front desk in the lobby but act like they work in corner office with the biggest windows. maybe they act like that because thay're bopping the guy with corner office. then there's the asian guys with spiky hair. no long haired asians, no shaved head asians, just asian dudes with gelled spiky hair. and then of course there's a huge school of metrosexual white guys swimming around. i think they think i'm an asian, which is weird, because i don't have any spiky hair.

i've decided to go underground and really write about the corporate gig. i'm going to face their world in a hug of death. i will blend in amongst them. wear their shoes, listen to their conversations, see who's poking who. the whole chimichanga, and i'm going to report it.

right now i'm sitting at a cubicle next to a black dude (the only one in the company) named gary who's reading a book entitled, "pimp." no lie. this guy likes to work with the lights off over his cubicle. something about the flourescent lights killing his spirit and shit. flourescent lights = damaged spirit, book entitled "pimp" = restored human heart.

OH! I almost forgot, you must visit this sight:

click here gelfling

this is what white dorks do. they pretend that they're in the medieval period and that they have to wield swords. this guy works with my best friend. he's really into this stuff. it is not a joke. it's like his religion, sort of like wicca or something. anyways, i highly recommend the video where he DARES you to join him on the "quest for the crystal."

i don't spellcheck

master cleanse

2005-10-03T09:51:00.000-07:00

it's finally happened. i've been in LA so long that i've succumbed to a "health fad." my girl decided to do the "master cleanse" which basically means she decided i should do the master cleanse.

all i eat--excuse me, all i drink is ten cups of lemon juice and maple syrup, and i'm doing this for ten days. i'm five days into the stink of it. no food, christ, just lemonade. but that's not all--in the morning i guzzle a liter of salt water. not any kind of salt, no. it must be non-iodized sea salt. an hour after i drink the solution i sit on the toilet and explode like the trade towers. this ten day program is supposed to rid me of my toxins. which is nuts because i live in LA. if i shit out a bunch of carbon monoxide won't i just absorb more with the next breath i take? and even if i detoxify my system, don't i get polluted everytime i have a conservation with anotehr frustrated twenty-something? anwyays, that's what i'm doing. and all of these "trader-GI-joe's" keep telling me crazy lies: "you're going to feel such clarity." "you're going to crave healthy food after this." "don't you feel closer to god?" "you'll love the taste of bell peppers." SHUT UP!

this is just like when a fat guy gets sick: for one week his body's need for "sleep" overrides his gut's desire to eat. he loses weight on nyquil and bobbing along consciousness. when he gets healthy, he looks in the mirror and finally sees a rib or two. he thinks, "wow, that was easy, now all i have to do is keep it off." two passes through the drivethru and he's already bigger than he was before he got sick, sitting there at the stoplight, with mustard on his chin, pinching his stomach and fantasizing about getting sick again.

but, this fast did give me a revelation. this "fasting" has put me in touch with a higher power--junk food. i love junk food. i never realized how much i loved junk food until i couldn't eat it anymore. and i'm tired of being ashamed of it, so i made a list of my favorite junk foods.

1) jack in the box: king of the diverse menus. you can get a panini or a teriyaki bowl. it's like visiting italy and japan in the same day. jack's crowning culinary achievement is the monster taco. it's an oily, hard crispy shell with seasoned "moosh" inside. sort of like a giant cripsy won-ton. i don't know what the supposed "meat" is. it's like jack scraped all the underwear in tijuana and stuck it in a tortilla. so good.

2) french fries. there were potatoes and there was hot animal fat and god said "let there be fries." the only thing better than salted fried carbohydrates, is washing down salted fried carbohydrates with carbonated caffiene drinks. so good. a lot of people say mcdonald's has the best fries, but i think they're in a patatoe-decline. i've noticed their fries getting a little waxier, and they aren't as hot as they were. burger king's fries are seriously underrated. jack in the box's fries are good because they have that fleck of potato skin on the ends, and they have curly fries. sometimes i can really do some steak fries. except, you got be careful. steak fries have two temperatures: external and internal. when you bite into a steak fry you can sear your lips on the moltent potato inside. i hate shoe string potatoes: they taste like stale french fries. as far as i'm concerned carl's juinior doesn't sell fries, they sell hot, wet toothpicks. my favorite part of eating french fries is the "shake" at the bottom of the container. there's always a few small, hard salt-encrusted tidbits. the grease has soaked all the way thru the potato and it's translucent. mmmmmm

3) let's discuss seven eleven: i'm afraid of the 1/3 pound hamburger-hot dog thing. it looks like a huge spinning piece of shit. but, i have eaten their taquitoes. i'm not proud of it. but, they were good. i don't know what flavor they were shooting for, i'm not even sure i know what a taquito is, but damn, it wasn't bad. now let's kneel in prayer: "we have come here together to celebrate baby jesus and to thank him for inventing the APPLE FRITTER because it's covered in sugar, and because though it is only one donut, it IS the biggest donut, thank you for making a pastry that is really like eating two pastries, amen."

4) pizza-bites. i love pizza bites, little pizza spring rolls. it was the pizza bite that taught me to hate the conventional oven...(preheat oven to 450 degrees...fuck that) in the instructions it tells you to let the pizza bites cool for ten minutes. aw hell no. i'd rather scorch the roof of my motuh with piping hot marinara sauce. sometimes after i eat pizza bites, i'll have a wet flag of skin hanging from the roof of my mouth. but it was worth it.

5) oh, burger king gets an honorable mention for "chicken fries." if you don't know about them, go there now.

6) carnival food. mmmm funnel cake. mmmmm corndogs. corndogs are great. anyone who thinks they're too good for a corndog is pompous and a pompous liar. no one is above a corndog. even the new pope (who reminds me of one of the golden girls) likes corndogs. i even like the little crust-glob that's stuck on the stick.

7) movie theater popcorn. it always makes me sick later but i love it.

8) mcRib. what is it? just shut up and eat.

9) i tried to get behind the six-dollar burger but, it's i don't know. it's a whole ordeal. does it cost six dollars, no it's only three, but why do they call it a six dollar burger, because it's like a six dollar burger...way confusing. why would i want to eat an identity crisis?

10) i don't know why i think of wendy's as healthy fast food but i do. by the way, someone tell mcdonald's to quit trying to make salad fun. it isn't fun. it's raw. just beacuase they put it in a "cup" and you can shake it, does not make salad fun. dopes.

11) kfc is good but it's too damn expensive. does it really cost that much to raise chickens? can't they just raise them in grabage bags or something?

12) hawaiian potato chips. love 'em. the thicker slice can hold more grease. also, tim's cascade's chips are great. everyone likes dorito's but i especially love licking the fake-cheese dandruff off my fingers. it's like having five more chips after the bag is gone.

13) grilled cheese sandwiches. the faker the cheese the better.

14) frozen pizza. no stoner and no middle-school student could survive without tony's frozen pizza, pizza pockets, or even bagel bites. frozen pizza is the staple of the teen age diet. frozen pizza was invented during WWII. some dude was stationed in IWA-JIMA and he was trippin.' he told his brother in Newark that he could handle the "japs" if he could eat a pizza like mama made at home. his brother figured out how to deliver a frozen pizza to his brother and boom, spicoli's around the world found a new life.

fast-food pepperoni is interesting. inside pizza-pockets and atop some cheaper frozen pizzas are tiny bits of "pepperoni cubes." who makes these pepperoni cubes and how are they made? i'm not really sure, if anyone knows let me know.

quick sheet:

moonpies
weird sugary mexican bread with the pink crust (must have milk to avoid choking hazard)
cap'n crunch cereal, natural or peanut butter
peanut butter sandwiches...mmmm taste like a donut, but it's called a sandwich
any, and i mean any ice cream cake
potstickers...just because it's asian doesn't mean it's not junk food
mcgriddle. don't judge me until you've had one.

i don't spellcheck.

Couple's counseling

2005-09-26T13:32:00.000-07:00

wooooooooohoooooooo!!!!!!!! sakes alive and lawd have mercy. i am the champion.

my girl convinced me to go to couples counseling. why? because, well...because i'm not ready to get married yet. (look at the last three blogs...how am i going to provide dough for a marriage?) anyways, the consensus around the "relationship" campfire is that your boy is a commitment phobe who just needs to nut up and lay his sack on the plate. at least that's what my girl's friends are saying. i don't know why women insist on using "castration" language when referring to commitment. it certainly doesn't make me feel any safer.

anyways, look, i got a top notch girl. she's got firm skin. an ass like tadow. i'm serious. even gay men look at her ass and say goddamn. she's got perfect breasts. beautiful lips and beautiful eyes. in fact, last saturday we went to get soulfood with my friend mike white (who is a cross between fred sanford and louis armstrong) and the black chef came out of the kitchen and said to my girl:

black chef: [hands on her hips] Now look. you are a stunning child. look at that face. look at those eyes.

and then she ducked back into the kitchen to fry up some lima beans and bacon. you should have seen my girl, she was so pleased with herself. i had to hear about all day. i told my girl that lady probably just got out of prison.

anyways, my girl is hot. oh and she's got a great personality...she's more than just a pretty face...balh-blah...anyways, but i'm not ready to get hitched. that's it.

so we got to couple's counseling. and i'm totally freaked. i mean, anytime you go to counselors and what not, there's no telling what could happen, like setting fireworks off indoors. i've seen some dudes go into the psych-room normal, hetero men and come out with a lisp and a pink rat tail. it's spooky. and this counselor is batting a thousand amongst the estrogen posse. all of my girl's friends got married (applying more pressure on me) and this counselor got all the credit. so i was doomed.

we go in there and we start laying it on the line, and then it happens:

counselor: ok, ______ why don't you want to get married?

me: because i'm just not ready.

c: look at her when you talk?

me: [turning about a quarter inch for fear of eye gouging] i'm not ready.

c: [to my girl] did you hear what he said?

my girl: yeah but-

c: did you hear what he said?

my girl: of course b-

c: what did he say?

mg: [looking down at the ground] he wasn't ready.

c: do you want to force a guy who'd not ready to get married to get married?

mg: i guess not.

c: so from now on, you keep your mouth shut.

[my mouth drops. did she just say...oh shit, she just said...oh my god]

me: hiyaaaah ahahhhh ahaha this is an indian holy day....hiyaaaaaaaa i see rain clouds on the horizon...[i'm dancing around the counselor]

later my girl and i hugged. it was such a vulnerable moment for her and i. it was touching because we had communicated our inner most hearts, in a safe place and we still loved each other. was this one more step on the path? i touched her beautiful cheek and sad, "baby, this wasn't about right or wrong...BUT I WAS RIGHT!!!!!!"

and then i pumped my fist in the air.

because i don't spellcheck.

i hate interviews

2005-09-23T11:51:00.000-07:00

...well, i've been interviewing for jobs. i hate interviews. it's worse than going on blind dates set up on the internet. the date never looks like their photo. whenever i show up at the playground i'm always met by an FBI agent guy that claims to be "sarah"...just kidding.

an interview is stupid. it's nothing but lies. lies on top of lies. you pretend to like yourself and try to convince the other "guy" that their company would be making a bad business decision if they didn't make you apart of the team. as if you couldn't be replaced in a nano-second. and the part about interviews i hate the most is when they ask you if you have any questions for him. fuck you. yeah, i got a question, "which guy here is the sexual harassment guy? which woman here has the personality that most resembles concrete? who am i going to have to fist fight for a decent chair?" those whacked-out interview advice people kill me too. they're like three evolutionary steps behind guidance counselors. at least guidance counselors actually "have" a job. those interview consultants always tell you to ask a lot of questions so you appear to be passionate about the company. what a joke. what kind of a nut job is passionate about working for xerox? or for citibank for that matter? i've always wanted to come to a windowless building nine hours a day and talk to people i hate as if they're next door neighbors and man o man, i can't wait to use the employee kitchen. i love dishes from 1973. i hope those coffee cups look like they're form the set of 3's company. i really love plastic plates with cigarette burns on them. mmm, what coffee is this? was it flown in from the lobby of a car dealership?

all the eye contact in job interviews is rigid and awkward. all the questions are intentionally written so you have to lie.

Interviewer: What are strengths as an employee?

loser: man i'm way qualified. way. First, I'm a self-starter. Yep, when I'm by myself I just start right up. It's incredible. AAAAAnd, I'm a fast learner. I learn real, real, real fast. Like i can just learn something by looking at someone's head. and i work well with others. i can take a lot of shit with a huge smile. in fact, i love assholes. dickish people remind me of christmas presents. and i take PRIDE in my work. it doesn't matter what kind of work. if i was picking peanut shells out of elephant shit, man, would i take pride in that.

Interviewer: In what areas can you improve as an employee?

Loser: What? Geez, that's a hard one. Let's see. Well, I guess I could maybe not take my work soooo seriously. maybe, you know for my blood pressure, but no actually, i'm doing yoga so that really isn't a problem. i guess i would maybe not work sooo hard and give other people a chance to work hard too.

Interviewer: Do you have any questions for me?

Loser: Yeah, how long have you been in business?

Interviewer: I'm not sure. I think McDonald's has been in business since like the forties or something. I don't really know.

Loser: (awkward pause)

Interview: Any other questions?

Loser: no.

I wish you could be honest in an interview:

HONEST INTERVIEW TAKE ONE

Interviewer: What strengths do you have as an employee?

Loser: I won't kill people. I won't go postal and blow everyone's brains out. I wash my crotch and ass regularly, so you won't be smelling that. I can really make other people look responsible for mistakes i've committed. i'm genius at creating cliques within the company and finding someone weak to become the lightening rod for criticism, y'know? Like a credible scapegoat that everyone can attack so we don't feel bad about ourselves. I'm great at stirring up shit. Especially if someone is getting the ax. The first words out of my mouth are always "wrongful termination."

Interviewer: In what areas could you improve as an employee?

Loser: jesus, where do i begin? i should improve but i'm lazy and resentful so i don't want to. basically, i assume everyone above me got there through sexual favors, nepotism, or a weird stroke of luck. but it definitely wasn't from working hard and doing the right thing. so basically, instead of improving, i'm going to sit around and wait for that stroke of luck.

Interviewer: why should this company hire you?

Loser: they hired you. you have hairplugs and neck acne. if they hired you they should hire me too. in fact, i'll feel personally insulted if i'm not hired because everyone i've seen in this place is a total jack ass. besides, if you don't hire me, i may curl up on the crouch and cry because i must be a bigger loser than you.

Interviewer: Do you have any questions for me?

Loser: are you kidding?

or

Loser: is alright to drink on the job?

or

Loser: yeah, does the company monitor which websites i visit during working hours?

or

Loser: did any of the lies on my resume sound real?

or

Loser: How long do I have to pretend to be a good worker before I can finally relax and write on my blog all day.

oh by the way. this is a link to a site where a guy thinks that the japanese maffia caused hurricane katrina. he's a meteorologist who believes there are sky wars going on.

i don't spellcheck...except i did on my resume.

it fell though

2005-09-15T14:36:00.000-07:00

anyways, the TV gig fell through. in a major way. after i went to malibu and hung out with the producers. it was terrible. i suck.

anyways, i wrote yesterday's blog and this is the posted comment i get.

"Anonymous said...
My compliments. I have enjoyed your Blog. You have so many interesting things to report, please keep up the good work.

Did you know, that nearly all of us pay too much for their car insurance? That we are leaving a lot of money on the table by failing to compare properly the rates of all those different insurance companies?
I've made a new Blog just about Best Auto Insurance. You are friendly invited to a visit and to learn more about this interesting topic.
Thanks again and keep up the good work.

The Car Insurance Guy from Best Auto Insurance"

FUCK!!!! story of my life. everytime i think someone digs my work it turns out to be a sick little capitalist joke. bastards. at least ninabit had my back:

"ninabit said...
Fuck blog spam."

anyways, i'm on my way to being a lawyer. i'll have to substitute teach first i guess. god damn it. this is the last ditch letter i sent to the sundance institute.

Dear Sundance Institute,

My name is Medicine Bear. I am a struggling writer. I completed my MFA in screenwriting from UCLA and I feel more lost than ever. I expected writing to make a hell of a lot more sense after graduation--it doesn’t. I thought I’d at least feel safer--I don’t. Presently, I survive off the fumes of my Student Loan and the search for a daytime gig reveals I am qualified for absolutely nothing. I do not have the slightest clue what to do.

HISTORY OF MY WRITING CAREER

The Beginning

Since I was a child I hated the act of writing. I went to Elementary school at Chief Leschi, which was a school on the Puyallup Indian reservation. My second grade teacher was a hippie, mainly because she was “White” and she was teaching a bunch of “Brown” kids. Intuitively I understood that the “White” people who helped Indians were estranged from regular society. For some reason, I was also suspicious of people who did nice things. Anyways, I remembered being forced to learn how to write.
Elementary school writing is a painful process. It’s not writing as much as it is copying. The teacher handed us big, glossy pieces of paper with blue lines all over it; they looked like freeway lanes. The two outside lines were solid blue and the one down the middle was dashed. The teacher pointed to the alphabet hovering over the chalkboard. We were supposed to “recreate” the letters in between the lines. It was at this moment that I formally understood that I was right handed. I hated my puny, weakly little letters and having to do it over and over bored me to death. My penmanship remains inconsistent and ugly. The physical process of writing refuses to grow on me.

Early Days

I wrote many childish poems in elementary school. All subjects I wrote about were monosyllabic words like “trees” because it facilitated rhymes. I plagiarized one of my favorite books. I can’t recall the exact title but it was about some kid that had an awful, terrible, horrible, no good day. I stole the line and punched out my version of a very bad day on the typewriter in my dad’s office. I left to go get something to eat, which happens to be another great personal passion. When I returned my father’s friend Bill Schaaf had finished my story for me. He completed the story with a bunch of adult-themed “bad day” items that I didn’t understand. His contribution was an insult to me. By the size of his guffaw I could tell he thought it was real clever. He was one of the basketball Indians, real big. I silently seethed and entertained revenge. Perhaps this is the moment I decided to become a writer.
The power of words struck me in high school. I was in math class. I was sitting behind Matt Steele. Matt Steele was my hero because when he ran for class president he wrote a speech insulting the principal but he read it backward. Principal Silvernail just chuckled with everyone else as Matt told him some lascivious but true things about his daughter and the school. Then Matt Steele took eleven hits of acid and was gone. He was even rocketed out of the “non-conformist” kid ranks. He enlisted in some withdrawn march and stopped seeking attention.
When "words" finally hooked me was when some burner got arrested at school. The classroom door was open and our eyes watched a cop in uniform march the jean-jacketed derelict down the hall. Probably no big deal these days, but at our rural high school it was a real chest shocker. For some reason Matt Steele wrote a story. He wrote it on lined paper with a pencil. It was only a page and a half but his penmanship was beautiful. He wrote an allegory about truth and the weather. I was moved.

Now

I’ve been writing in Hollywood for about five years now. I did what everybody does in this town, I tried to manage my risk. I got a job as an assistant to producers at Davis Entertainment. I had the unoriginal thought, “I’ll write at night and learn the business by day.” It took me three years to realize I was drinking poison all day. To make matters worse, I have an inborn desire to please people, especially if it’s at the cost of my own happiness. The hate for my own writing came on slow like weight gain. You cruise along thinking about other crap and then one day you can’t stand to look at yourself in the mirror.
I’ve had numerous close calls with success. I wrote a short about a guy who could call dead people that was produced. It stars Ed Asner and Maynard Keenan. I was hip pocketed by CAA. I realized I couldn’t write and work at Davis Entertainment anymore so I applied to UCLA’s MFA program. I figured if they let me in the joint I’d sell something in two years—nope. I was almost hired to write a pilot for the N network on a TV show about Indians. The producer didn’t like my idea about making it a show about White producers trying to make a show about Indians, and eventually the whole thing collapsed. That was so painful that I took online LSAT practice tests.

Thank you for reading,

Chumahan Bowen

i don't spellcheck. maybe that's why...

back from HELLywood

2005-09-14T18:56:00.000-07:00

i have returned from my hiatus. my hell. it's terrible. and i'm going to quit writing. i'm taking the LSAT's. i'm going to become a lawyer. i'm throwing away the big ball of fuck-up that's known as writing. this thing has taken over my life like an evil, a hateful, version of ET. it's this greasy alien watching tv and forces me to make stupid decisions. it has mind-melded with me and is hotwiring my emotions.

i dropped out of this blog because i was appraoched by "two producers" to create a show. the show was to be called "lakota falls." it's about an indian chick who, like isn't "connected" with her "people," and then like gets called back to the reservation to run the casino. anyways, i hated it. i hated having to write something because i was indian. but they said words like "money" and "showrunner" which to me are better words than "broke" and "nobody." in television, writers have much more power, and a show runner is like the main producer, basically the hole in the funnel where all the cash goes.

it was all very exciting but then carnival music started up and the suckfest was on.

my manager was stoked. because basically he's a nobody too. his office is his apartment and everytime i go in it, it smells like gas. half the time he's not even wearing pants at his desk. he just sits in his boxer shorts. and he's a little over weight so like his gut and drumstick thighs pull at his underwear, and like open the fly hole, and so i have to train my eyes on his face. don't look down. this is the guy who's supposed to be "shaping" my career. instead he's on the internet all day learning about new food allergies he thinks he has. right now he thinks he's got too much yeast in his system. don't ask me how that happens. i guess he eats too much bread, or he dates filthy chicks. i don't know. he told me he failed the yeast test. apparently you're supposed to spit in a glass of water and let it sit over night. in the morning, if there's like "strings" in the water then you got too much yeast. so he needs to cut down on bread. this was after he went on the atkins diet. this was after he failed weight watchers. this was after he blew the zone into a thousand little peices. now he's got too much yeast in his system. i think maybe he's just got too much FOOD in his system. he blames his A.D.D. on yeast. i think he just needs to get laid. anyways, he's stoked because if i make money, then he makes money, then it's hot tubs, champagne, a platoon of hot black chicks, and he can tell his ex-partner (who got all the good clients) to fuck off.

anyways, at this time it looks like all systems go. i have a conversation with ****. she is a body image advocate. basically she goes to highschools and talks about how we need to accept our bodies and stuff. i don't dare say one word about how i feel fat, and how i think i'm not entitled to eat anything i want. i already got a big mouth and i don't want start shooting it off now. not while there's dough on the table. anyways body image advocate digs what i have to say about indian issues. and she has this partner she wants me to meet right away. they want me to write the pilot. it's going to be huge. my manager takes me and my friend out to dinner (i pick up the tab).

So at this stage of the game it looks like your boy is about to make money and finally advance himself into the pantheon of unknown television writers who wrote for a show no one watched but somehow still made enough money to spend sic hours at starbucks everyday...details coming.

i don't spellcheck

tales of a fat kid 3: jamaican menace

2005-07-22T09:48:00.000-07:00

what i'm about to do is an daredevil act that has absolutely no rival. it's nuts. it's insane. this would make evil kanevil's balls shrink to pink dots and shoot into his neck. it would turn him into a shivering mass of jelly, curl up like a sucked-up orange peel, quivering on the floor, his guts marbled with fear. there is no helmet for this stunt. there is no "hay" at the end of my landing ramp. this is the mother of all fat kid stories:

when i was eleven, my dad took to me to jamaica. jamaica at eleven years old is no pleasure cruise. some kindergarten teachers would say traveling is the best education. yeah? and just what is the lesson?

jamiaca for a fat eleven year old is sort of like being a quadriplegic. you can't do anything you really want to do, everyone else is having fun, all you feel is the sun frying your face, people keep asking you if you're having fun, and bitching is a luxury you can't afford. in JAMAICA, at eleven, you can't get away and score weed or magic mushroom tea. at eleven you don't have your own dough either. you can't wave american dollars to impress native chicks. you sort of, get to watch your dad buy stuff, smoke weed, date black chicks, and generally have all the fun. at least if your a skinny 11-year old you can take your shirt off and play volley ball. it's just a whole different ball of wax when you're fat.

we went to NEGRIL which doesn'thave nearly the same level of danger and violence that like montego bay does. anwyays. there i was on the beach, wearing a shirt into the ocean because i didn't wasn't to display my "fat rolls" to the island.

my dad's a big guy, and he's one of those dudes that doesn't care what he looks like on the beach. in fact, it seems like the more unhealthy he gets, the more he likes to take his shirt off. like those italians, or like greek dudes. huge stomachs like cold cut platters, hanging out. Me? i'm ashamed of my fatness. i cover that shit up. if i could paint my stomach to blend in with the scenery i would. i love camouflage.

my dad would always call me out and loud too. in front of strangers that i was trying to hide my fat from.

dad: hey.

me: what?

dad: it's hot. why don't you take your shirt off?

me: i don't know.

dad: are you embarrassed about your fat?

me: (looking around while self-loathing digs in like troops storming the beaches at normandy) i don't want to get sunburnt. you want me to die of mellanoma?

dad: take your shirt off.

me: (diving into the water so i don't have to talk to my dad about my fat humiliation anymore)

later i was walking down the beach and these two jamaican dudes were talking. like in rastafari and crap. which is probably the coolest language in the entire world, and really a great hypnotic tool on chicks. anyways they called me over.

jamaican dude: you shouldn't eat meat.

me: what's wrong with meat?

jd: (says something in rasta to his buddy and they laugh. i'm sure it was about me.) you eat too much meat. that's why you're fat.

(fuuuuuuuuuck! that was some cold shit. these dudes were like 30 and clowning my shit because i was a rich, fat kid. gaaaawd damn it! i wish i had super powers. i wish i knew karate. a gun. anything to turn the tables on these jokers. but i was 11, i had nothing to scare them with)

me: you guys shouldn't be so rude to tourists. you're giving your country a bad name (i was grasping at straws, but what the Hell, i'm eleven) take pride in your country or people won't come back.

i walked down the beach with my nuts looking like they just got blasted by a sawed-off shotgun. i had just been served. but then it got worse.

i jumped into the ocean with my shirt on. maybe swimming around could distract me from the gaping hole in my chest. that's when these 2 eleven year old jamaican boys walked out to the edge of the water. they waved at me. what the crap did they want? maybe i'll make some cool jamaican friends. maybe they got weed. or better yet, maybe they got chicks. i swam over.

me: what?

jamaican kid: this is my friend. his name is dubai. (i don't remember the name, so whatever)

me: yeah, well what?

jk: he doesn't speak english.

me: ok.

jk: he wants to know if he can be your boyfriend.

my shit just blinked. what the hell did he just say? i was reeling.

me: what?

jk: my friend thinks you are a pretty and wants to be your boyfriend.

(jesus h christ. god damn my man tits. this black kid thought i was a big girl. i heard black dudes were into big chicks. he wanted to date me. the nightmare was unholy. if i had a samurai sword, it'd be doing figure 8's in my stomach right now.)

me: i ain't a girl.

jk: yes you are.

me: what? i got a dick (perhaps rough language would make me more masculine).

jk: my friend doesn't believe you. he thinks you don't want to kiss a black person.

me: listen asshole, i want to kiss chicks, get it?

jk: if you're not a girl then why are you wearring a shirt in the water?

me: (good god.) because i don't want to get sunburnt, jerk.

jk: then lift up your shirt.

me: what?

jk: lift up your shirt. if you're a boy you can lift up your shirt.

and so, i slowly unpeeled my wet t-shirt to show two black dudes the man breasts i was trying to conceal. the embarrassment of being mistaken for a girl was had won a victory over the embarrassment of being chubby.

me: satisfied?

by the way the kids whistled and laughed and ran away, i was sure they were satisfied. in fact, i think i hadn't convinced them of anything except, that some american girl had just flashed them.

that night a shitload of fried plantains swam down my throat to put out the fires raging inside. i never told my dad. i never told anybody. what self-respecting man would? i'm telling it now because...i don't know why. it just seems alright to admit now. it's been 19 years.

i don't spellcheck.