Apartment shopping.

I was apartment shopping the other day with my future roommate. We spoke with a nice lady about the financial details. In order to give us an accurate quote she asked us some questions. One of which was:

Her: “Will you be bringing any pets with you?”

Me: “Just pet peeves.”

Her head rose as though she were lifting nearly impossible weight with her neck. Her face registered no expression. The only way I knew she was still alive was from a series of blinks.

Me: “Uhhh…???” I looked at my future roommate to see if the joke landed there. He chuckled. Armed with that slight reassurance I looked back at the lady. She hadn’t stopped blinking and showcasing what is possibly the best poker face I’ve ever seen. Was the joke still processing? Couldn’t be, it wasn’t complicated. Was she partially paralyzed by my humor? Hard to say.

Can’t win em all over I suppose. The experience failed to dissuade me from thinking I could. I had a feeling she would soon appreciate the skills…call it woman’s intuition. I didn’t have to wait long before another opportunity to shine presented itself. By shine I of course mean an opportunity to display my unique ability to make a donkey of myself. Eventually you would think I would get embarrassed and stop. If so, you would be so very, very wrong. Few things are certainties. This is one of them.

Not in the mood to finish the remainder of the experience. Perhaps I will at a later time.

Oh so hungry.

I’m so hungry that I’m tempted to go to fish something out of the toilet.

Don’t judge me.

A verbal exchange with a super hot substitute in one of my high school classes.

Sub: “Here is your test, E.”
Me: “How did you know who I am? Scratch that, I don’t care. I’m off to explore new drugs and sleep with questionable women.”
Sub: “Sounds like a solid life plan. Where do I sign up?”
Me: "Why Miss Jenkins I didn’t think you swung that way.”
Sub: “A door that swings both ways swings more often.”
Me: “Uncontestable logic. Grab the hot girl in the second row and let’s go make some bad decisions.”
Sub: “You mean Jenny. Excellent selection. She’s a lot of fun. She’s bendy too.”
Me: “Nice. I can’t wait. Why are your clothes still on?”

Getting spoiled incessantly spoils getting spoiled later.

“Are you able to perform the required task, sir?”

The responsibility weighed heavily upon my brow. Sitting in an exit row is a big deal. Seeing as though I am as big of a deal as Ron Burgundy, it only made sense I was assigned the responsibility. The woman at the ticket verifying counter selected me from the myriad of other candidates. She knew I was best able to handle the physical and emotional responsibilities of manning the exit hatch. Me. No one else. I was the only qualified flyer. The template for which all future candidates would be measured against I’m sure.

“That I am. If I were created for only one purpose, it would be that.”

“Ummm….okaaay. You may now proceed to the boarding gate, sir.”

“But of course. Please inform the passengers of the assured safety my able body will be providing during today’s flight.”

“Uhhh…sure. I’ll get on the horn and relay the message ASAP.” [cough] “Tool box” [cough]

“Get yourself a respirator for that nasty cough too. You come in contact with too many people to not take precautionary measures when it comes to spreading sickness.”

It is of little wonder that situations like this have provided the impetus for constantly washing my hands like I was OCD. Anyway, approaching the terminal I noticed a nice little reception party. I am so used to having the red carpet rolled out for me I no longer question the reason. This particular time however I wondered why, probably because it was smaller than normal. A nearby sign illuminated the reason. It read: “Frontier Airline’s inaugural flight to Louisville from Salt Lake.” Interesting. I pondered on that as I boarded the plan. Apparently I would not be the only one getting spoiled on the flight although each of the flight stewardesses’ eyes lecherously suggested the contrary. So be it.

They pulled out all the stops for my flying companions and I. Case in point; they allowed me the whole can of soda instead of the three stingy drops they splash onto ten ice cubes. A word of caution, don’t hesitate in swallowing the few precious drops of chilled liquid they usually provide. Do so and be disappointed when the delayed drinking action results in nothing but sadness. Waiting will evaporate the liquid long before you get the chance to wet your throat with it. I’ve always wondered why they ration the sodas. Do they only allot one can of each kind of soda for the whole plane? I want a thirst quenching amount, not one that arouses my thirst and does nothing to abate it.

While marinating in the gladness that came with receiving a whole can of soda, I was presented with an essential swag bag. They were given to all passengers as way of remembering the historic event.* I was so impressed with its contents that I quickly threw it in the next passing stewardess’ outstretched garbage bag without caring if the giver was watching. I’m sure the land fill will appreciate the donation.

Make no mistake the red carpet was not only rolled out for the inaugural flight. Seeing as though I would be forever remembered in the Frontier Airline’s archives and probably whispered about in the halls as the guy that would have expertly handled the exit door responsibilities should the need have arisen, they treated me like royalty on the return flight too. While flying to Denver, the control tower felt it necessary to allow the pilots to dillydally in a holding pattern for a half an hour or so because of a “major” rainstorm in Denver.

Upon arriving in Denver and surveying the skies, my eyes could only detect traces of a very minor rainstorm. I don’t know how quickly rain clouds can up and evaporate or move to other destinations but what I did know was that I was late as shit for my connecting flight. We landed precisely 5 minutes after my other flight was supposed to depart. The crew, realizing they had a bit of a celebrity they were detaining, alerted the other passengers that I would take de-boarding precedence and that they were to remain seated while I hastened to make my other plane 12 gates away. Sucks to be a peon…or so I’m told.

The connecting flight was held on the ground until I was able to board it. Many passengers were upset about sitting on the tarmac for 15 minutes. Their discomfort quickly dissipated when they discovered they were waiting for me. As we took off, I couldn’t help but wonder for a second time in a twenty minute span why there was no turbulence accompanying our flight. Zero turbulence landing. Zero turbulence taking off. Clearly substantial evidence of a “major” rainstorm barely avoided.

*My activities have been making a bunch of entries in history’s log books lately. Just a couple weeks prior I made history by attending the opening Bee’s game. We set the Bee’s record for opening game attendance. It felt nice to be such an integral piece of our great nation’s history. I don’t take my involvement lightly. Writing history by simply living life is a great responsibility and I act accordingly. It could easily be said I am living history.

Suns-Jazz weather preview for tonight's game.

SUNny with a high chance of rain from the three point line.

GO SUNS!!!

Future conversation with my wife. Part III

Wife: I’m ready to get back on the horse.

Me: That’s great. I was unaware you were trying to quit something.

Wife: Hmmm? Totally not quitting anything. I was meaning I’m ready to mount you again.

Me: Oh right cause I’m hung like a…yeah I get it. Man I’m awesome.

Wife: In the truest sense of the word, not modern vernacular.

Me: [blink, blink]

Wife: Awesome meaning tremendous, breathtaking, massive. Clearly I’m not with you for your scant intelligence.

Me: Ha ha. You said scat.

Wife: Scant you gorgeous moron. Just take your clothes off.

Me: I wonder why you even bother dressing me every morning when you just undress me every time I see you.

Work business.

I am glad the bathroom partitions at my work don’t continue to the floor. Largely because the lower open space provides valuable information as to the identity of your neighbor. I don’t look to see who it is to start a conversation. I don’t look because I have a shoe fetish. I look because this inconspicuous deed sometimes saves my life.

Sometimes I have mere moments to finalize the paper work and flee ground zero. Some go about their business quietly. Some mask their business with a flushing of the toilet. Some believe the stalls to be concert venues/stages and proceed to unleash anal symphonies played by a musically disinclined brass section.

Whatever their preference is, I prefer they do their business elsewhere or at another time when I’m occupying a stall. I used to work at a building that had two urinals and two stalls on each level. Working on the first floor and knowing it was heavily trafficked forced me to venture to other floors to attend to business matters. Surreptitiously folded over in my hand was a freshly printed sheet of paper with a strip of tape and three magical words emblazoned on the front.

OUT OF ORDER

I don’t like to be neighbored up. This magical, posted declaration prevented such occurrences…most of the time. Unfortunately it wasn’t foolproof. Many times however, I would hear hurried footsteps loudly crash to the stall, pause to allow the potential intruder time to read the sign falsely advertising faulty facilities then I’d hear an audible sigh of disgust. Success!! It took all I had to conceal my laughter sometimes. Good thing I was on the toilet and could allow little amounts of pee to escape safely.

I have come to learn so much more about the shoes of the people I work with. More than I ever wanted. Shoes tell a lot about a person. They tell if a person is neat, orderly, filthy, etc. Most importantly they can incite the aforementioned Pavlonian response. For example, I hear keys jingling in the bathroom I know our heavy set (don’t know what his title is) is coming to defile some porcelain. Each time I wonder anew if he has never excreted the contents of his colon before. It is as though he has held onto them his whole life and has chosen the precise, damnable moment I’m there to release the contents in the most audibly disturbing manner. Babies crying are a more pleasing sound than the ear drum rape he shares.

I don’t know how I can be so revolted by this entirely natural phenomenon. Especially considering that I will be working on the other end of the tube in a few years. Sounds a mouth makes are nowhere as troubling as the exit side of the tube. Anywho think about this the next time you’re on the job. Study the footwear of your neighbors. Associate the accompanying activity of the wearer. It will aid you in your future neighboring endeavors.

The slap heard round the world.

You could put WWF wrestling on a TV next to the last play of the Jazz game last night and wouldn’t be able to discern a difference. If Kevin Durant weren’t the superhuman man he is the lesser CJ Miles would have ripped his arm off with the slap he administered.

Why didn’t the refs call if then, E?

Because Jerry Sloan was on the sidelines peeling off hundreds to the refs.

Exaggeration!

Tell that to the sprawling sub hematoma on Durant’s forearm. Also, when did hip thrusts become allowed in the NBA? Durant should put a restraining order on the sexual deviant Miles. Silly Miles, this is not MMA. Grappling is not allowed in the NBA. Get some class pervert!

Dental School

I have come to the conclusion that I am a masochist. I have worked very hard to get into a position to be mentally beaten for 4 years. Even more troubling is that I am paying for it. Out the rectum to be precise.

Bring on the beatings.

A clever, appropriate title for the filth this post represents.

“You’d be popular in prison. Just like the Tupac song, you’d get around.”

“Of applause? It’s a little hazy what you’re implying.”

“You’d get used like you had a tattoo of a naked woman on your back.”

“Yeeaaahhh…I hear your words but I’m not following you. I’d be a horrible lemming. Can’t tell if it’s my fault or yours.”

“A tattoo of a naked woman on your back would be enticing to imprisoned men that haven’t seen a woman in years. The image would facilitate the raping of your backside.”

“That just does not compute with me. I’ve decided your metaphors suck.”

“Are you f’ing with me? Talking with you is like trying to reason with a retarded fellow that is anxiously engaged in humping a doorknob.”

“Ooohh you just used the “R” word. Please show some respect to mentally challenged individuals.”

“Allow me to demonstrate my apologies and respect by ripping your arm off and beating you about the groin and face with it.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re you.”

The little man just stood there, in near rigor mortis, nothing but his lips moving. “This is one of those times when I need a drink that's flavor is only eclipsed by its surgical grade anesthetic effect.”

“I do not give a shit. Let me see your arm.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I’d rather you do. Now relax and think about ponies, butterflies or whatever you like.”

“Will it hurt?”

“It won’t hurt me at all. Man, I slay myself! But seriously, this is going to hurt you like hell. Pay no attention to my laughing.”

“That is the gayest thing I’ve ever heard. How about a pain killer first?”

“Sir, I cordially invite you to check and see if perhaps your little boy vag isn’t bleeding all over the place.”

“Very well, let’s get this over with.”

I put a little tension on his arm and received an education. In hind sight, I probably should not have provoked this young man. The provocation lent itself to superhuman strength I never would have thought conceivable from his meager frame. I type my recounting of the event from a body composed of bruises, cuts, stitches, casts, screws, a halo and an assortment of metal rods that would make an erector set enthusiast inordinately jealous. Much like a quilt made from many pairs of Levis, I looked as though I had been sewn together from a collection of battered body parts. A poor man's version of Frankenstein, if you will. As a bonus, I got my own customized colostomy bag that I can accessorize with my catheter, respirator, casts and bandages.

I may have been sexy before but now I’m downright orgasm inducing. Cast and sling movement restrictions only enhance my ability to pose sexily. I simply exude sex. I’ve always been called a sex machine, now I resemble one too.

The little bastard most likely considers himself lucky I’m in a wheelchair and incapable of physical retribution. I can only assume he cheaply struck me instead of fought me straight up because he knew he’d lose in the most ignominious way possible if he were to fight me like a man. I can’t say for sure because the beating he gave me erased the recollection of how I’ve arrived at my present predicament. I don’t remember him driving a fully loaded Mack truck to the appointment and he certainly wasn’t behind the wheel when I gripped his arm. The only thing I remember is that I pissed everywhere. There was no place that was not covered in my piss. Point of fact, only a Mack truck containing two high yield nuclear bombs could inflict pain upon me. I wonder where he purchased such weapons. Clearly he had help.

To be continued? Probably not.

Implants are specious by nature.

Let me qualify that statement. Large, disproportionate implants are specious. All they are is an unabashed physical manifestation of a woman’s innumerable insecurities.

The decision to get them abnormally large is actually a sad concession. The woman realizes her face and personality will never get her the attention she wants and so she purchases it in the form of chest inserts. They bring the attention the woman deeply yearns for. Sadly it is all negative attention. The newfound attention is exclusively derived from their chest. All other attributes are mere accessories.

Don’t believe me? Pam Anderson. What was the first thing you thought of? Her monstrous rack, right? One more time. Dolly Parton. Why do you ever doubt me? I am clever enough to do this with half my brain tied behind my back.

Women if you are going to get implants, get them in a size proportionate to your body. Get them to restore the elevation they once had before children sucked it out of them. Get them after breast cancer takes one or both. Get them to restore perkiness that age and gravity have taken. Let not the compulsion or impetus be attention. You only deprecate yourself and your boobs by getting them. Get them abnormally large and I submit that your self esteem will plummet faster than Obama’s approval rating. You will quickly learn that men only respond to you because of them. That’s not what you want. Let your natural frame, or a purchased proportionate one, complement your personality. Improve what you can internally not under a surgeon’s scalpel. Respect yourself and for hell’s sake don’t alter perfectly natural beauties into freakishly disproportionate mounds. Straight up, when they’re that big, they don’t look good. They make you look like you should be a royal suck up to the Red Queen in the new Alice in Wonderland.

Massive boobs only suggest they are all a woman has to offer. What should women with massive homegrowns do? Absolutely nothing.

Isn’t that a mite bit hypocritical, E?

Only to a dolt.

Silly liberals.

An excerpt from a friend's Facebook post that I replied to then thoroughly owned a dill hole on. Copied as seen on Facebook.

SW Well, I can't wait until November when the Dems get destroyed and the #hcr gets repealed.

EH Ditto.

ML LOL, well friend, maybe wake up a little, stop blindly following the party of NO, who has done NOTHING other than run up the national debt, ruin America's reputation in the world, start illegal wars, pass legislation the allows the government to illegally spy on its own people, and completely roll over and pander to corporations rather than Americans. They lie, cheat and steal and you KNOW it. Grow up my young repub friends and think for YOURSELVES for once. Love YA!

EH Thanks for the advice, Comrade L. I gave it its due consideration while dropping a deuce. I think for myself. That is why I'll never support Obama who wants to take that right from me and bestow it upon the government. Juxtapose this administration's spending to Bush's and rethink your statement regarding the national debt.

ML Tut, tut, tut, E. Blindly following the blind. I call total bullshit on the majority of you all thinking for yourself, lol. Lets just spout the same ol' lies of rush and glenn and sean, lies that have been PROVEN to be such, lets just REFUSE to work with ANYONE that will not completely cave to your demands, no compromise, no debate, just miscommunication, mistruth, half turth and lies. Yeah, that basically sums up the republican party. Oh and learn what juxtapose means, moron, i think you mean compare. (Sorry steve, your moron friend here is so rediculous, couldnt help myself)

CW I like this M fellow.

KW He does have some excellent points.

RR Blindly following the blind? That would be the Dims. CNN's - not Fox's - latest poll has a whopping 59% of the country opposed to Obamacare. Seems like Obama and Pelosi are the ones with their heads somewhere dark and stinky, along with their sycophantic followers in congress. And those cheering them on as well.

EH Well said, R.

M, I don't know what's worse, your inability to think for yourself or the fact that you let BO think for you. You are both complete tools.

Juxtapose- to place close together or side by side, esp. for comparison or contrast. (www.dictionary.com) Buy a dictionary and educate yourself. BO can't do everything for you. Perhaps after purchasing a dictionary, you can spell ridiculous and truth correctly. You obviously don't know what truth is so I shouldn't expect you to be able to correctly spell it. Spell check is free but apparently not idiot friendly.

How can anyone support the dems right now? The daily increasing levels of corruption and blatant bribery are staggering. Yesterday they voted against the will of the people they supposedly represent and pissed all over the Constitution. You only prove your stupidity by supporting them, M.

I hope the next time you salute the poster of Stalin you have hanging in your room that you hit your head hard enough to dislodge some stupidity and allow room for sense.

Freedom died a little bit on Sunday.

Stupidity pervades our very existence. Mainly in the form of democrats.

It is of little wonder why the democrats have a jack ass to represent them. Both in logo and president.

I cannot begin to explain my rage and will not try to because it will only enrage me further.

Weekly stress.

For some unexplainable reason, I have always wanted a stalker. That is until I realized I’ve had one for quite some time now.

Church is usually a place of edification, reverence and of learning. These are no longer possible due to an impediment named J. I am on a constant state of high alert for J’s location. She makes me incredibly uncomfortable. I hug many girls at church without discrimination. All but one return the hug. J differentiates herself each week. J grapples me and releases me only after her muscles have vanquished their energy stores. Her inability to read my body language that vehemently screams I want to be anywhere but close to her coupled with the numerous failed attempts to free myself from her grasp once she catches me cause me to elude her every time I see her. I'll see her laser in on me from across the room and I’m spurred into evasive action like I stole something. I venture to say that whoever created radar, early warning detection devices and radar avoidance mechanisms had her in mind. I feel like a spy with my constantly scanning eyes surveying the room to know her whereabouts. My location is determined by her. Just like the VESPR theory for electrons, I try to be as far as I can from her. It's bad. I do all I can to keep her the F away from me.

Just to clarify and make sure you don’t think I brought this upon myself, I don’t remember ever initiating hugs with her. Surely she saw me giving every other girl a hug and probably thought she was entitled to one. However, I don’t give her a hug, she takes one. She nuzzles her face in my neck and holds on as though she’s trying to fuse our bodies together. It makes me sad. Spastic movements to indicate I want separation are ignored. The best way to maintain separation is avoidance, even blatant avoidance. Every Sunday I hope she has internalized my blatant avoidance and will correct her weekly folly. Every Sunday I am disappointed anew.

I feel bad about it but what kind of girl makes a man do this? Nobody wants to be like this but she makes me and I’m sure others too. Bad J!

Rodeo Clown Face

“What the….???”

This couldn’t be real. This had to be a joke I just wasn’t getting. This chick looked like she applied her make-up with a shotgun or had Ray Charles do it for her. Remember the old grandma putting her make up on in the movie Airplane when it was turbulent and her lip stick went everywhere? Grandma would look like a professional make up applicator at the Clinique counter compared to this chick.

Does she not own a mirror? A cursory glance would be sufficient to realize that she does not look good. Only a rodeo clown would appreciate the disaster…but probably not. There was no discernable evidence of a joke though. I sat there stupefied. This resembled self-mutilation but without the piercing of skin; simply a horrifying topical application of gross.

She looked at me like Jabba the Hut looked at Princess Leia attired in her metal bikini. What was I going to do? I had just made a New Year’s Resolution to be nice but if she came on to me I would have no other choice than to be honest.

“I hope you brought you’re A game,” she said lecherously as she eyed the front of my jeans as though they contained the secrets to world peace.

“I have no other game to bring,” I responded while the mantra “be nice” repeated itself in my head.

“Oh you’re trouble.”

There was going to be trouble if I didn’t end this quicker than a virgin on his honeymoon. I needed to escape before I snapped and was no longer able to control my tongue. By hell I was going to be nice!

“How about we make some bad decisions?” she asked as she arched her back in a pseudo-yawn. What she was really trying to do was show of her upstairs female parts. Her belly stuck out more than her chest! How revolting! Her shirt strained to keep the mass of belly fat from escaping. If a piece of fabric could commit suicide, it would have done so then. Her body looked as though it were sponsored by adipose tissue.

“How about I make a good decision and tell you no?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Aren’t you quite the talker?”

“I may be good at talking but I’m better at following through. Now giddy up!”

She lunged toward me. My only thought was to strike her in the throat and watch her struggle for air. That was quickly replaced with “be nice.” How do I get myself into these situations? Damn these cursed good looks and chiseled body! All they do is get me into trouble. Sigh…I wish those two things were true. I could grieve about those later though. Right now I had to fend off this painted beast. I didn’t have a red article of clothing to distract her though. What else could I use?

Honesty is the best policy right? I would test the validity of that statement by implementing it and hopefully getting this chick to scram.

“You look like someone repeatedly slapped you with a rainbow.”

“To steal a line from the lame Skittles ad campaign, come taste the rainbow.”
I grimaced and fought a gag as though someone had shit on my upper lip.
This chick was silky smooth…but hideous. Those two coupled together still equals hideous. It’s like any number multiplied by 0, the result will always be 0. There is no overcoming hideous…no matter how much a girl tries to cover it up with make-up.

“I’d rather kick a puppy and drown a kitten in front of a child.”

“Sounds hot,” she said as she slowly inched closer. One adrenaline rush was apparently insufficient energy for this behemoth to sustain movement further than a lunge. She had a body for sitting not for chasing. She drug her massive whale body toward me as her mouth hung agape and sucked air in like a turboprop jet engine.

Apparently honesty doesn’t work. I was having difficulty suppressing the old me. Half of me wanted to easily escape by simply walking away, not running but walking cause she wouldn’t be able to keep up either way. The other half of me wanted to share some thoughts with this thing. How long do resolutions usually go for? A month or two? A few days was good enough for me. I proved I could be nice and at the same time proved I didn’t want to. I hope her disastrous make up job is tear proof.

“Look slim, I’m sorry for all the maladies and ills that have befallen you. Food may seem like a logical option because it, unlike me, can’t say no. If I was on the phone with you and had never seen you, I would say you would rather screw than eat, which is a good thing, but upon seeing you I now know otherwise. I may be a walking hunk of man meat but I’m not the kind of meat you throw on the grill. You can’t eat me. Additionally I don’t voluntarily consort with cattle so I suggest you mosey on to a grassy field somewhere and graze. The phrase moving on to greener pastures applies on a few different levels. I could go on an on with a lengthy diatribe but you bore me almost as much as you sicken me. I’m now going to have my memory erased.”

Looking back, it wasn’t too mean, per se, but I was too grossed out to thoroughly ruin her. It’s hard to talk when you’re gagging.

A conversation I overheard.

Guy 1- Where do I know that girl from?
Guy 2- Probably through one of your filthy dealings in an hourly hotel.
Guy 1- I have never paid for sex.
Guy 2- Maybe not directly.
Guy 1- Explain.
Guy 2- Taking a woman out for an evening is a risky investment you hope pays off, a gamble if you will.
Guy 1- Go on.
Guy 2- At the end of the evening, you’re hoping your suaveness results in getting your peter wet. I say eliminate the risk and just rent a hooker. That way you forego the responsibility of entertaining her at dinner and eliminate superfluous time spent with her when it’s simply a prelude to screwing anyway. Why not just get what you want without the excess? You’ll spend the same amount of quid or less depending on your dining selection.
Guy 1- A sound observation.
Guy 2- I’m sure the prostitute screws better anyway.
Guy 1- Isn’t being with a hooker risky?
Guy 2- Risky like STD Russian Roulette or risky like she may not be clean?
Guy 1- Both.
Guy 2- It depends on the quality of hooker you invest in. Main Street and train track hookers are STD petri dishes. Stay away. “Escort” establishments are a little pricier but well worth keeping the itch off and out of your pecker.
Guy 1- You seem quite savy.
Guy 2- I’m simply a satisfied customer who believes in word of mouth advertising.
Guy 1- A major stumbling block for me with the idea of temporarily employing a hooker is even the mere mention of a whore gives me a fever and activates my immune system because it thinks it has to fight something off soon.
Guy 2- Tell your white blood cells to stop duplicating in anticipation and relax. Go the escort route. That or the safest method.
Guy 1- Abstinence?
Guy 2- The old five knuckle shuffle. Slapping the clown. Flogging the dolphin.
Guy 1- Jerking off is as close to being gay as it gets.
Guy 2- Interesting hypothesis.
Guy 1- While you’re thinking or looking at dirty things, a man’s hand is handling your garbage.
Guy 2- Correction: Your hand.
Guy 1- Reassertion of correct phrasing: Me being a man and placing a hand on my junk qualifies it as a man’s hand on my wedding tackle.
Guy 2- I follow your reasoning and wish you never would have revealed the concept. I can’t argue with the thought process. This leaves you with two options: Get a girlfriend or hire a prostitute.
Guy 1- Prostitute it is. I have a spine so that excludes me from getting a girlfriend.
Guy 2- You are very wise.

Passing of the torch.

“I leave you to divine what that means.”

“But you didn’t say anything,” the young man muttered while looking down at his scuffed shoes as the exquisite, young vixen sauntered off.

“Uneducated in the ways of body language and women, eh?” I chuckled lightly. He will need to learn this valuable skill set to be a successful practitioner of women seducing. Women almost exclusively deal in subtly. One must be able to perceive the signals and interpret them correctly in order to safely converse with them. One unable to grasp the subtly is considered unworthy and dim. I could be of service if this young man was willing to learn.

“Do I know you, old man?”

“Pardon me, but I couldn’t help but overhear your exchange with that voluptuous creature. In large part because I was eavesdropping. I thought I might be of some assistance.”

“I don’t have an immediate need of knowledge concerning osteoporosis or arthritis. Thanks anyway.”

“Wits?! That will make my job easier. Women appreciate wittiness if used correctly. That paired with an improved visual acuity with regards to signals will make you irresistible. I understand if you’d much rather prefer pounding out a symphony on your organ alone, fag!”

“You piqued my interest. A greater sampling of what you have to offer is required.”

“I’m not hawking my wares like some street vendor. I have valuable information your little Johnson will thank me for later.”

“A conversation will never take place between you and my pecker. Are you sure you know anything about women? You seem awfully gay.”

“I’ll dismiss the insult because you are young and know not what you say. Listen to this though, sonny. Women expect myopic attention. Damn the peripherals and anything else in your purview. However, a word of caution regarding that statement. This knowledge can be a great ally or bring about a quick and painful destruction if neglected. Women are incredibly sensitive to this. If they feel you are adhering to this principle, adoration and all that she has will be given to you.”

“No sensitivity here, pops. It’s as though my body isn’t innervated. I feel nothing.”

“You may not be sensitive but she is. Respect the sensitivity. If in violation of it, you bring about utter condemnation and scorn. Unanswerable questions will instantly be asked rapid fire like: Why don’t you pay attention to me anymore? Do you no longer find me attractive? Are you saying I’m fat? Why don’t you open your eyes when we make love? None of these questions and the myriad of others that will surely be asked make for a good day. Don’t allow your gaze to dawdle. Instead of making women manifest their barely contained insecurities by what they deem is ignoring them, visually or in general, use their innate ability to over analyze things to your advantage. Let their minds wander with the possibilities of what you two can amount to. While this scares yours and my rectum empty and our undies full, it is the safer of two evils. When a woman is considering what wedding colors to use, her wedding dress, which bridesmaids she should select from the pack of catty, vindictive bitches she calls friends and all other things you, me and all other men find atrociously sickening, things could be no better for you. Her infatuation with you at that point knows no bounds. Interestingly and crazily enough this starts from the moment you meet her. You simply need to cultivate it and not cause a deviation in her mind. Don’t be a douche bag and think you’re being a deceitful dick. It’s simply safety. Don’t do it and she’ll turn tail and peace out quicker than a Frenchman. Are you writing this down?”

“So you finally stop your diatribe to breathe? I thought I was going to have to watch you die because I was unwilling to give you mouth to jowly mouth.”

“Piss poor timing wits again, huh? Forgive me for giving you scripture. I see you are too young or too stupid to see the value in my words. Good day, son.”

“Sorry old timer. Proceed.”

“What’s your name, lad?”

“E.”

“You look like a nerd of no comparison.”

“I do like books and libraries. I suppose that qualifies me.”

“As do your glasses and overall plainness. You look like the short, male equivalent of Sarah Plain and Tall.”

“Who? I’ve often been told I look like a Brad Pitt/David Beckham hybrid but more sexy.”

“Who? Clearly there is an age disparity between us. Let us bridge the gap by further exploring the ageless art of seducing women.”

“Do you still change your own undies or do you have a nurse do that for you?”

“A nurse. Not from necessity but because I like to be pampered. See what I did there?”

“I hope you didn’t just shit your pants.”

“No numb nuts, my diaper joke. Never mind. What is your impetus for talking to women?”

“To bang.”

“Now imagine I’m a woman asking you that same question.”

“Same response but I can’t even imagine a boner looking at your wrinkly ass. Do you kick your droopy ass when you walk?”

“Good one. That while getting in the panties is your end game; you shouldn’t portray that. If she is smart, she will pick up on your cues and follow accordingly as long as you’re smart about it. One misstep or poorly worded statement and the legs close quicker than a well-oiled bear trap. You’ve only got one shot unless you are so handsome that any and all slip ups are overlooked or forgiven. Seeing as though that doesn’t apply to you, we need to make you the model of debonair-ness.”

“Clearly you need to be updated on what good looking is or you would know that I am a specimen.”

“You silly fool. I have eyes. I can see you are but I am trying to teach you something. Know you are but never act like you are. Confidence and arrogance are divided by such a thin line that it is almost indistinguishable. It is markedly better to come across as one that has never spent a second in the mirror considering his appeal to women. Be you and hope that you convey someone that knows he has infinitely more to offer than his looks. Women find that more attractive than looks. Women value security more than appearance. Don’t believe me? Next time you walk down the street pay attention to the couples. You will only see an attractive man with an attractive woman. The opposite does not hold true. You will see an attractive woman with varying degrees of “good looking” men. Some far from it. They want to feel safe, secure and comfortable with a man and can fall in love with whatever he looks like. Our simple, little man minds can’t make sense of the concept but it’s as true as…something that is very true.”

“Holy shit stains! You’re right. Preach on, sage.”

“No can do, it’s time for my nap. Be here same time tomorrow for more instruction and for hell’s sakes, man, wear some pants! Make her fall in love with you before you unveil the angry inch otherwise you have no chance.”

“I’ve been told it’s a good size and that it’s cute.”

“Holy shit you suck. Tie a weight to it and hope like hell it stretches. See you tomorrow.”

Straight up.

I will forever refrain from using a colon and a right parenthesis to illustrate jocular intent. Those are for chicks and fags.

Of bendy things.

Me: Don’t hurt yourself, girl.

Girl: I won’t get hurt, I do yoga.

Me: Bendy chicks are hot. I’ll happily be [whatever the female Gumbi’s name is] horse.

Clever title describing a shit parade post.

-Well yeah but I don’t see what that has to do w…
-Most likely because you’re an imbecile.
-Oh thank you. I do my best.
-An imbecile is not a positive thing.
-I don’t have a knack for big words.
-Imbecile is not a big word. You’ve been called it so much you think it’s positive.
-Positive like HIV?
-Holy shit! Really, dude?!
-I’m in no position to ascribe or bestow titles of “holy” on inanimate objects so I am of no help.
-Did your brain give up the ghost? Have you no ability to communicate?
-It was not haunted. I believe that’s what we’re doing here, no?
-Are you a panderer of stupidity?
-I’m not Asian nor am I a bear. You like to ask questions. Any more on their way?
-Utter sadness limits me from talking to you anymore.

Foolishness

-Balls and sacks, man! Did you build your house upon the sand?
-I’m not an architect and don’t know anything about being structural soundness or unsoundness. Frankly I don’t see what that has to do with anything.
-I’m saying you’re a foolish, foolish man. Scratch the –ish suffix which indicates partiality or a likeness, you are a fool.
-It is my understanding that I am not a fool.
-Reality is never ordered but always served, guy.
-Pretend I’m Argentina and cry for me.
-Pass.
-Why am I so pathetic?
-Great question. I have some guesses. Genetics? Horrible luck? For other people’s entertainment? Take solace in your one achievement. You’ve superlatively completed fool training and are now unrivaled in your foolishness. Put that in your back pocket.
-None of those things make me feel better.
-You saying that makes me feel better. I wish a boxer would come along and beat my eyes shut so I no longer have to look upon you. Hopefully the punches jostle any memory I have of you out of my head. Please die.

Bitch.

A girl that once upon a time used me to make her ex-boyfriend jealous then hooked up with my best friend just recently contacted me via Facebook. What’s funny is that she remembers it as good times and that she wasn’t a total bitch. I vividly remember actual events. Performing the most minimal and cursory analysis by way of a couple email exchanges yielded ample evidence of her advanced retardation. Ha ha, silly bitch!! I’m glad we never ended up dating.

I can't help it.

Friend: Creep!!

Me: Not yet, I would need to grow a moustache to complete the creep ensemble. Meanwhile, any want a ride in my van? No? Well I’ll be at the local elementary if you change your mind.

Classy

Friend: That’s how I roll.

Me: You should try walking…less bruises, cleaner clothes, etc. All bonuses if you ask me.

Friend: Well I didn’t so shut it.

Me: Pardon me, I didn’t realize I was talking to a lady.

A made man.

“Hey you! You in the glasses! Come here! I need your four eyes to keep watch.”

Realizing the mobster was speaking to me, I pushed my glasses back up the bridge of my nose to their rightful spot and puffed up my chest hoping to add a few years worth of growth to my meager 14 year old frame.

“What’s the action?” I asked eager to begin my life of crime.

“Kids are still saying that these days? Unoriginal bastards,” he mumbled.

“Yessir!” I replied misconstruing it as a compliment. Mobsters swear amongst each other by way of showing respect. Being called an illegitimate child was a high form of praise. I couldn’t believe I was already gaining respect within moments of meeting this guy. I wonder if he was a made man. I surely would be in a few short months if I continued to garner respect at this rate.*

“You ever picked a lock, kid?”

“Yes I had to choose a lock for my high school locker last week. The store had a wide variety but I think I made an excellent decision.”

“I thought nerdy looking kids were supposed to be smart.”

“If you saw the lock I selected from amongst the myriad that were displayed, you would call me a genius.”

“Whatever you say, kid. What I meant was have you ever opened a lock without a key? I was going to have you play lookout for me but I can’t seem to jimmy this lock. My fat fingers disallow the dexterity needed. Too much pasta I suppose.”

“Why would you need me to look out if it’s your place? Why don’t you have a key, mister? This would be much easier with a key.”

“I…uhhh…musta left it at work cause I can’t find it in my pockets. I need you to watch for my friend that’s coming to pick me up. Make sure he doesn’t enter my house because he abhors hygiene and I don’t want him touching anything. The neighbors don’t like kids yelling around here so once I get in whistle if you see him or anyone coming. I have an important meeting that starts in a few minutes and don’t have time to run to the office and get my key off my desk. Be a good boy and help me out? There’s a shiny fifty cent piece in it for you.”

As one prone to losing things I could commiserate and understand his predicament. This man was not dressed like he was going to attend a meeting of importance. In fact he looked a little downtrodden. This man seemed like a good dude so I accepted even though a fifty cent piece was as worthless as tits on a boar. Vending machines and arcade games don’t accept fifty cent pieces. I could always get it converted to 2 quarters at a bank or convenience store. I didn’t want to let my fellow gangster down. We gangsters have to stick together.

My decision to help was not solely predicated upon aiding a fellow gangster; I admit I also wanted to show off my hand skills. I am very good with my hands. Just ask any of the girls in the neighborhood. I knead a mean set of boobs.

My nimble fingers quickly familiarized themselves with the tools he provided as well as the inner workings of the lock’s tumblers. Mere seconds later a simple twist of the wrist sprung the lock.

“A natural, huh? That could come in handy. Wait here,” he whispered as he vanished into the darkened interior of the dilapidated building.

I took a seat on the stoop and entertained thoughts of where I would live when I became a made man. Surely not in a shit hole like this place. The wooden door was sufficiently warped so as to not fully conceal the interior from the elements when it closed. A drafty house was something I’d grown up with but never became accustomed to. As a gangster, these and other manifestations of being poor would be recalled and recounted with humor over lobster and champagne. I didn’t know what champagne tasted like or what it really was but I’d heard that’s what wealthy people drank and so I imagined it was good. Lobsters the size of small children and rivers of champagne filled my thoughts until I heard a commotion upstairs. Clumsy bastard must’ve tripped over something in the dark. The thought that I’d just referred to him as a clumsy bastard made me feel good. I was starting to think and swear like a gangster. What kind of gun would I carry? A Dirty Harry .45 revolver or an easily concealed Derringer? Both? Why not? The right to bear arms is plural, right?

While I was practicing drawing my imaginary guns, a man rounded the corner and was headed toward me. In my excitement of becoming a gangster, I forgot to tell the man upstairs that I didn’t know how to whistle. That didn’t stop me from trying like hell as the man continued my way like I had a tractor beam on him. The man looked me square in the eyes, chuckled and asked, “You playing an imaginary trumpet or having a seizure?”

“I’m working on new O faces cause your mom says she doesn’t like my current one,” I replied fully enjoying my newfound gangster role. I felt embarrassed cause only feebly minded fools use mom jokes. Remember I was only 14 and had not yet cut my teeth in shit talking.

“Big words for a pipsqueak. Why don’t you get off my steps and run along before I clobber you,” he said as he rustled my hair.

“Sorry Charlie but you don’t live here and I can’t let you in. You’re unclean.” If I would have had my guns, I’d be poking deep dimples in his fat belly with the gun barrels to strengthen my words.

“You can’t let me in? You?” he asked as he grabbed his belly and laughed with all his might. His mirth annoyed me. I have been referred to as a sex machine, a tripod and many other things but never a punch line. This would not do.

“Glad to hear you at least cleaned the dirt out of your ears so you can hear me. Why don’t you run up the street and get us a couple doughnuts. I know you’re hungry. Better yet why don’t you run in place for a minute cause you look like you sweat doughnuts, you portly bastard.” I am definitely going to be a made man in a couple months, listen to me. I sound like I’ve been doing it for decades. Guys like me make moves. We ascend quickly. Surely this man was as convinced as I was. I swore appropriately and respectfully. No doubt he would tell the boss to promote me past levels usually reserved for peons. No grunt work for me. No sir.

SLAP!! Riiiiiiiinnnnnnnng. What the hell was that ringing and what the hell made that noise. When did I learn to fly? My brain was incapable of processing the questions for a few seconds.

I looked around from atop a summit of garbage bags. How did I get here? I looked up and saw the rotund man standing on the stairs yelling something in my direction. I knew he was yelling from seeing the protruding veins in his neck and the spittle flying out of his mouth but I heard nothing. Nothing but constant ringing. Did I just get bitch slapped off some stairs?

To be continued…

*Clearly the extent of my knowledge of gangstering was nominal.

Lust supercedes all.

Girl: You are a retard, E.

Me: That may be true but even more troubling is that fact that you hump a retard.

Girl: I’m not humping you for your mind.

Me: Be sure to send my parents a thank you card.

Observations are sometimes sickening.

Me: You strike me as the type of guy that likes to cuddle up on another dude, rub dongs and then say you’re not gay.
Guy: You have impeccable perception skills but I’m not gay.
Me: Of course not. Rubbing dongs with another dude is in no way gay.
Guy: I know, right?
Me: False. It is totally gay.
Guy: I don’t follow.
Me: That’s probably because you’re up front getting your tailbone pounded into jelly.
Guy: I meant I don’t understand your reasoning.
Me: Therein lies the problem. Participating in gay acts make you gay.
Guy: Genetics makes a person gay.
Me: Don’t compound the problem by acting like an idiot. Gays have tried using that flimsy excuse for years. Having a genetic predisposition to dudes is entirely implausible. Look I don’t want to have this conversation with you, I simply felt compelled to voice my astute observation. I guess that makes me as observant as you are gay.
Guy: That’s really observant.
Me: That’s really gross.

My summation of the Suns-Jazz game the other night.

A pathetic start that at one point included a 14 point deficit for the Suns, 19-5. Streaking back in typical Suns’ fashion to tie it up at the end of the first quarter, 24-24. 2nd quarter Goran “Dragon” Dragic awoke from the slumber he’s been in since entering the NBA to breath fire and bitch slap the Jazz with a 3 time and time and time and time again. Never mind the fact that the Jazz didn’t feel it necessary to put a body on him. The Slovenian was shooting the lights out of the place. Then [cue sad music] half time came which included the Suns all taking an ice bath. They came out cold and couldn’t maintain an 11 point lead (never ending story of the season.) I can just see the half time pep talk from Coach Gentry; “Dragic has been unstoppable and can’t miss. Let’s completely abandon him and put the game in the slippery, incapable hands of Earl Clark. Let’s get out there and squander this lead. Okay, break!!”

And squander the lead they did. I love the Suns but they are making it difficult to be a fan this year.

I have never had my ass ridden but I can no longer say I have never had my ass driven.

I…uhhh…I was…[clear throat]…I was raped yesterday…and it wasn’t by a woman.

Some insensitive young man felt it necessary to sodomize me yesterday. He didn’t buy me a drink, dinner or tell me I’m handsome. Nothing. Tactless bastard! To make my embarrassment complete, he did it right in the open for all to witness. It was on the freeway.

I was anally probed by an automobile yesterday. Some dill hole felt the safest place to drive his car was up my ass.

I feel so dirty. I feel like Heath Ledger or Jake Gyllenhaal, whichever one was catching in the movie.

Eminem

Eminem, as demented as he is, is the best rapper that has ever existed. Don’t believe me? Buy Relapse Refill and get a mental erection.

In reminiscence of the conclusion of my teen years.

Women. Drugs. Women. Drugs.

I made sure I always used each one equally, as I was not a barbarian and had a healthy respect for symmetry.

Banging broads as a teenager was like fishing in an overstocked pond with dynamite. Teenage girls were quick to showcase their newly grown bodies and I was quick to appraise each one. In contrast, older women have learned the power their bodies have over men and use it to their advantage. Young, impressionable teenage women simply want to be accepted and don’t weigh or are unaware of the impropriety of their actions. Knowing this will cause me to put bars on my teenage daughter’s windows and threaten any potential suitors with death for any degree of palpation. I look forward to that time as much as I look forward to having someone hook up electrodes to my testicles.

Bolstering my teenage credentials was my PhD in pot smoking. Joints, blunts, pipes, etc. are nice ways to smoke if you are a novice but for a pro a 3 foot Graffix bong is necessary. The thing may as well been referred to as the Eliminator. (See what I did there? Refer-red!) That thing destroyed all wannabes and posers. It definitely weeded (Again? I’m on fire!) out the beginners from the big boys/girls. First time hitters would take a hit from it and slowly become part of the couch not to be heard from for several hours.

My ability to live this lifestyle was made possible by my desire to not work. I stayed home and sold and smoked weed all day. Girls would come over at all hours and do whatever was clever. Life was magical for a young E. I was the consummate whore and pothead but constantly strove to be better at both. An unfortunate result now is that I am stupid compared to what I used to be because of all the weed I smoked. Pounds and pounds. If I had my druthers, I’d spend a weekend a month back in that time period. Not because I want to lose more brain cells, or can afford to, but because I had a lot of fun then. Zero responsibility, zero accountability equated to maximum enjoyment. With age comes complexities. Complexities in the form of responsibilities and other boring shit. Oft times I yearn for my nearly hippy-like lifestyle of old. Hippy-like only in the free love and weed smoking senses. Hippies are by nature filthy creatures with no redeeming qualities. I just punched myself in the crotch for even briefly associating myself with their breed. Sorry sack.

Back to the skirts. Being 18 and having an apartment makes a young man irresistible to legal teenage girls. I felt a responsibility to provide an environment for these newly budded girls to explore their bodies and mine. No exaggeration, every night was party night at my house. We had a 90 year old lady that lived directly below us and probably couldn’t hear the incessant partying and debauchery going on above. The next door apartment was rented to an out of state company that would let its executives stay there when they were in town, which was never. The other downstairs were a bunch of partiers that bought weed from me. The contiguous apartments were appropriately populated to accommodate the non-stop partying. I remember there always being varying groups of women to select from. I didn’t know what a dry spell was until about age 20. How I managed to escaped STD-less is a testament to condoms. Thanks Trojan, you make a great product. I should have looked into sponsorship by them so I could have saved some coin.

In all honestly, I much prefer my current life. I had a lot of fun during those years and subsequent partying years but couldn’t have known the happiness I now have. That lifestyle is fun for a while but gets really old. Time distorts recollection making past times seem much better than they really were. I am content to reflect back on these times and remember them as I do.

Partying. Let’s distill it down to what it really it is. A sugar laden lie constructed from multiple partial truths. Advertising makes it seems appealing as do friends and other influences. Once the novelty of it wears off, it is more of a labor than anything. A social maintenance labor. Tolerances become higher, which means more money and time are spent to achieve a favorable level of intoxication. DUI’s are so expensive they will nearly bankrupt you. Drug convictions and other consequences of that lifestyle are not worth the risk. The temporary “fun” you experience are most times not worth the next day’s recovery period. The funds spent are certainly not recovered nor are most recollections of the evening, depending on the severity of intoxication. Why even bother if you can’t remember? Unless you regularly wake up next to a fatty or a farm animal, I don’t see why you wouldn’t want to remember the night’s events.

So why did I do it? I don’t have a good answer for you. It was fun. Was. Ultimately maintenance smoking and social partying obligations burdened me and left me unable to live the life I wanted. My friends didn’t want to go hiking, play football, play basketball, etc. because these activities didn’t involve imbibing. It was pathetic. You could set your watch to what bar I would be at at any given night. That frightening realization somehow navigated its way around my ethanol soaked brain one night and immediately triggered a change. I never wanted to be that guy. I had slowly become that guy and my resultant dismay was great. The surreptitious demise is so subtle you only realize your predicament once you're under water. Luckily I never had to hit rock bottom and suffer its enduring consequences. My realization was as powerful as doing so.

Drugs, especially booze, are social lubricants but they also rapidly erode decency and social mores. They allow you to do things you normally wouldn’t. Some find this liberating. Rather than take sober steps to become the person they want to be they succumb to the easy route and use a substance that magically transforms them into that person. Laziness I suppose, or ease. Different people become partial to different drugs. I have friends that are alcoholics, cokeheads, potheads, speed freaks, injectors, meth addicts, etc. I don’t know what attracts people to certain drugs. Perhaps the drugs choose the person. Maybe it’s genetic, chemical or magic. I would much rather try to make sense of a Rorschach test made from diarrhea than spend more time analyzing it.

In conclusion, I am glad my history has forged me into the person I am now. My hope is that others currently trapped in the cycle can escape. People need to be the person they are and not some drug induced fabrication. That is truly liberating.

All in a day's work.

Girl: “You look nice.”
Me: “Thank you. As a whore, I always feel it necessary to present an appealing product.”

My awesomeness.

It drives men to anger and causes women to fear for their purity.