Thursday, July 31, 2008

hi ho, hi ho

Jesus, oh sweet, horsedicked Jesus Herbert Walker Christ, I have to go to work today? And tomorrow? And the next two days after that? Then I start up another dumb class? Ah fuck…My life is nothing more than and endless series of crappy exercises in barely holding it together while mouth breathing retards talk to me like I’m brain damaged. This is pretty much going on from the moment I leave my house until the moment I come home. You know how you talk to your dad and say something along the lines of “I hate my job,” and your dad gets all snarky and passive aggressive and says, unsympathetically, “Hey, that’s why they call it work. If it was fun, they’d call it something else.” Nice one, Dad. That’s the kind of shit I’m constantly dealing with. It’s like, they dumbed down the movie office space, because they thought that the bosses weren’t condescending enough, and then played it for everyone I’m around as a “how to deal with Brendan Kelly” instructional video. Thank you mom, boss, coworker, stranger, person at the fucking sandwich shop, for explaining to me what I can already CLEARLY SEE IS GOING ON!!!!!!! Where in the world do these people get the idea that I’m so dumb that THEY could illuminate the situation that I’m currently in? Hey, boss, thanks for explaining the importance of clocking in and out. Thanks for telling me how crucial it is to get the money in the register. Is that what drives this business? Money and time? Holy shit. I thought this bar was pretty much kept afloat by dildo swordfights and shitty world music. Who knew the money was also important? Wow, learn something new every day, I guess.
And, jack-off bar patron, I know it seems like you have to talk to me like I’m six, but I promise, I know what’s up. I’m just trying very hard to be nice to you. That’s why I look retarded. My brain is eating itself to prevent me from jumping across the bar and stuffing that chocolate martini up your ass.
In an only tangentially related story, my friend Dan and I were getting high in his room once. This was back in highschool, and his dad walked in. we had stashed the bong, and his dad, despite having a rather pronounced honker, was a heavy smoker, so we weren’t worried about him smelling the weed. “Hey, what’s up, Mr. A?” I said, casually contemplating putting a ho-ho in a hot dog bun and microwaving it.
So, you get the idea. Things were cool. Then suddenly, Dan’s dad gets crazy angry.
“What the hell is this?”
Our eyes got big. What the fuck was he talking about? Did we leave a chunk of weed on the carpet or something?
He reached into the garbage can and pulled out some pennies.
“What’s this? Dan, I’m talking to you. You rich enough to throw away money now? Man, I wish I was rich enough to throw away money!”
It just went on and on like this.
Dads are funny about money and jobs. Take me, for example. I’m a dad, and I’ve barely got a job or money. Isn’t that hilarious? Short answer: yes. I guess I’ve gotta get some of these little maxims in place though, so when my kid bitches about working, or forgets to respect the value of a dollar, I can hit him with a little sound byte that he can cherish forever, and someday use on my grandkids.
Okay, almost time to go. So quickly, someone wanted to know how they could make sure they stayed punk in the face of a grown up world. Listen, no offense, but this is not worth worrying about. How can I advise you? Uh, just stay punk, man. Listen, whatever you do is fine. Back before all this hairspray started filling up the room, punk rock was about a lack of rules, not strict adherence to a new set. So get a job, worry about money (everyone does) and listen to the bands you want to listen to and have the friends you want to have, and carve out your own identity that’s flexible enough to allow you to live, and to enjoy the things you want to enjoy. I hesitate to use the phrase “that’s punk” because who am I? Only loudmouth buttcracks like Henry Rollins hand down judgment on what is and isn’t punk. I tell you what. Telling me what to do, or how to live so I can fit in your subculture…I don’t know what that is, but I don’t think that’s too punk. So, in conclusion: Grow a nutsack and quit worrying about this bullshit. There’s a lot of real shit out there to worry about. Thanks for playing. Next up! What are the traits of a good woman, or conversely what are the traits to avoid that a bad woman possesses? Also, what do women find attractive in men? I’m going to make three lists, which I want you all to laminate and keep in your wallets/purses. These are definitive, anyone who tells you anything that’s not on one of these lists is a liar and a communist.
Kay, here goes.
Traits of a good woman:
She’ll put up with your bullshit and act like it’s what she loves about you.

Traits of a bad woman:
She has a penis.
She talks about astrology. God I hate this. “Yeah, well, I’m a pisces, so that makes me really impulsive!” No, it doesn’t. Stuff it up your ass. Don’t explain your actions to me by way of some dumb chart based on stars and birthdays. Here’s one “well, I was born on a Tuesday, so I’m quite meticulous.” See how stupid that sounds? It’s the same thing, lady. Sheesh.
Things women find attractive in men:
So glad you asked this, because this is a universal truth. There is one, ONE!!!!!, I cannot stress this enough, one and only one trait that all women find irresistible, from your grandma to Foxy Brown and everyone in between. That’s confidence, people. People say it’s money. Nope, it’s the confidence that comes from having money. People say looks, again, nope, it’s the confidence that good looking guys have. Status? Nope, the confidence that having status gives you. This is not a joke. In fact, along with gravity, it’s one of the only universal truths.
Okay, get out there and fuck each other’s brains out.
I gotta go to work. Sigh….

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

It's reality show clip time! -or- Let's talk about chicks, man.

Good morning. I’ve been up for three hours. It’s currently 8am. Next to me, on the ground is a small man engrossed in a mirror. And thank god. He’s going to need entertaining, food, ass wiping, calming, more ass wiping, etc. all day long, so as long as he’s attuned to that mirror, I say great.
My wife’s back at work and I’m doing a pretty great Mr. Mom impression here at home, complete with grocery coupon poker and using the vacuum to suck crap from the baby’s butt crack. What a time, I tell you. They should have a reality show about me!
Now, this is one of the most common, and unbelievably stupid things getting said these days. “Oh, you should see my office! It’s crazy, and Glen from accounts payable, he’s so funny. They should do a show about us!” Okay, firstly, no. Glen is not funny at all. He got those jokes from Dane Cook (and, for the record, reducing things to truncated nicknames and flailing around while you repeat said nickname is not a joke. It’s kind of what retarded people do. Which is fine…if you’re retarded), and secondly, we don’t need any more of these windows into the lives of the ordinary jagoff. I mean, there’s a show about hairdressers now? Okay, in a particularly dull decade, maybe, maybe that gets a pass. But a fucking tanning salon? Those people are just cashiers! What the fuck has happened to the palate of humanity? “Tonight on America’s next top cashier, will Damon be able to change out a hundred, and put half the balance on a debit card? Or will Jill swoop in and expose his lack of proficiency with the micros system?”
Fuck. There’s a show about dog groomers? Man, my sister is a dog groomer, and she’s apparently great at it. And you know what? She’s interesting. I don’t think, however, (and god, I hope I’m not mistaken) that the portion of her day that she’s shaving down labradoodles is the most consistently interesting part.
You know what’s a good reality show? That one about hookers on HBO. Now, there’s something that could stand to be demystified a little bit. Yeah, they gloss over the crying and all the coke and the fighting, and all that, but at least it doesn’t demonize sex, hookers or horniness in general. Oh, and that guy, the pimp, he’s revolting, for sure, so that part’s pretty fun to watch, too.
Ugh, I work for the next four days in a row, and my friend Sean is coming to town tomorrow. Sean is one of my very favorite people in the universe. He used to sell merch for my band, and he and I often rocked this little alternate universe for the fans. In it, he was a hobo, and we’d just kind of picked him up while on tour. Great bit. Really played in Iowa and SF. Two places that would hate to admit they fell for the same gag as the other. There you go red and blue states! You’ve been united by a common belief that Sean Nader could potentially be homeless.
Okay, so I got a letter from a dude, and I think it deserves addressing. I’m going to reprint it here, and then offer my typically amazing, sagelike advice. Here goes:

what do i do if my girlfriend doesn't like sex? we get along great, we have zero fights and i think i could marry this girl someday. but, she doesn't like sex at all! i mean, it makes sense, i wouldn't want to have sex with me either, but she doesn't even like porn or masturbating or talking about sex or anything...
ps. i love sex.

Your letter didn’t really get into any of the specifics, so I’m going to have to ask some questions myself. Has she never, ever been into sex with you? Or did she used to like to fuck, but it’s slowly dwindled and then dried up? I ask, because these mean two super different things.
Firstly, everyone is born to like sex. It’s an instinct, like hunger or the need to sleep. People are genetically programmed to fuck. If that trait wasn’t there, then that DNA wouldn’t be passed down, right? So, nature has a pretty good check and balance system set up to make sure that everyone is at least born with the desire to do a little boning. What happens after we’re born, however, can turn that desire off, sometimes temporarily, sometimes for good.
So, I’m no professional sexologist or anything, I’m just a..well, there’s an ‘about me’ section just to the right of this (it's entitled 'this is this is'), but here’s what I think. If she’s never, ever been into sex, she’s either a) a young or extremely repressed individual who isn’t aware of or ready to be honest with herself about her own sexual needs (Is she a virgin? Under 18? Some sort of reborn virgin? Is her dad a minister? Does she churn her own butter and wear her hair in a bun?) or, she’s had a fucked up experience in the past and it’s made her wary and/or mistrustful of sex. Lots of people who’ve been sexually abused, or just started fucking way too young end up completely turning off their libidos. Probably doesn’t need much explaining, right? You go through some crappy, horrifying experience, you automatically retool your mind to no longer want those things. I used to love toasted cheese sandwiches. When I was 7, I was home from school, sick in bed, reading the biography of Knute Rockne and eating toasted cheese sandwiches on a lazy Tuesday. Well, Two glasses of milk in, I barfed up the sandwiches and the milk all over my pajamas and bed. I still can’t look at toasted cheese sandwiches. Now, imagine that those toasted cheese sandwiches are dicks…yeah, again, not much explanation needed, but my team of shrinks say if I talk about it, someday I’ll be able to eat toasted cheese again…
Anyhoo, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that some people who have fucked up sexual experiences end up becoming super promiscuous as well, (see: the Internet for about ten million examples) and some cope real well and/or get counseling and end up with healthy sex drives. But, Eric, that doesn’t sound like your girlfriend, huh? Okay, next thing.
If she used to fuck you and she just doesn’t any more, well, sorry to tell you bud, but that means your relationship is over. There’s really not a lot of coming back from this one. I’ve been there before, and I held on for a year (yes, ladies and gentlemen, no fucking for a year! Pre internet, too! Thankfully, I lived around the corner from a pretty seedy video store) before I was finally made aware of my folly by way of my girlfriend fucking someone else. Because see, she wasn’t disinterested in fucking, as she claimed. She was disinterested in fucking me. Of course it’s much easier to just blame it on a dry, disinterested vagina and go back to watching Who’s line is it Anyway and pretend that it’s gonna get better. It won’t. I promise you this. Fucking is the heartbeat of the relationship. Once it stops, the relationship is doomed.

Okay, so, here’s what I’d say to do:
Firstly and most obviously, if the sex was there and now it’s not, suck it up and end the relationship. It’s already over, and the sooner you get out, the sooner you can lick your wounds and find someone new to hang out with, someone who won’t make you feel like an unfuckable turd. Hell, maybe it’ll be just the thing that will make her want to start fucking you again. That too, is not unprecedented. Anyway, for your sake, I hope this is the advice you need, because the other scenario is much dicier.
Okay, so she’s never wanted to fuck, huh? Well, you’re going to need to talk to her and let her know that you do, in fact, like sex. It’s not just a reasonable thing to expect in a relationship, it’s required. Now, I’m not saying that you get to fuck her whenever you want, that’s clearly creepy. But, no one should be stuck in a sexless monogamy. That’s like starving a person. It’s cruel. Regardless of her reasons, the conversation needs to be the same. In a more tactful way than I’m about to say it, you need to say “Look, I need to fuck every now and again. Actually, fairly regularly. I’m not trying in any way to pressure you, but I need you to know that I can’t stick in this relationship if this is how it’s gonna always be, as I have needs that I can’t just deny.” Because, dude, you don’t want to marry someone who will never fuck you. That’s just setting yourself up to cheat the second you meet someone attractive who is, in fact, interested in fucking you. And divorce is messy, expensive, and the result of people who stupidly jump into marriages that they shouldn’t. Like when, for example, one party refuses to fuck the other.
Honestly, Eric, she’s going to have to be pretty mature to deal well with this conversation. And, depending on her situation, she might not be ready to have it. So, chances are good that you’re screwed, and not in the way that you so clearly need. Yikes. Sorry duder.
See, that’s some advice, people! They should do a reality show about me typing on my computer. It would be amazing! My baby could costar! He is so funny. He’s like a younger, more dynamic Dane Cook!
Oh, and I’m well aware of the irony of blogging about the unnecessary proliferation of pointless reality programming being funneled into people’s minds via screens, so save it, smartguy.
Okay, who wants a margarita?

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Two words: Shit sandwich. Can they...they can't print that.

Nothing is easy to do when there’s internet pornography at one’s disposal. Well, I guess technically, that’s only the case for men, but as a man, I’m limited to a somewhat phallocentric perspective, you know, due to having a dick, and so, I’m kind of stuck with the only perspective I’ve got which is, as I mentioned before, easily distracted by internet pornography. If you, like me, spend a lot of time trying to get stuff done on your computer, and this computer is hooked up to the internet, (and you have a penis), it’s pretty much a foregone conclusion that there’s gonna be a little bit of blowjob/piss fetish/butt gangbang/foot massage/behind the scenes at the firehouse footage or whatever you’re into viewed here and there on the sly. And god help you if you work in a locking office or at home by yourself. Productivity is down! Underpants, bloodied and stretched out are hastily discarded in the office kitchen wastebasket! Penises everywhere are dry, bloody stumps all because a new generation of troublemakers have decided that all the good shit should be free. Free porn! Free music! Let the whacking and rocking commence!
Never have so many worked so hard to insure that no matter how hard some other people work, they will not get paid, and instead they will unwittingly contribute to an international pandemic of lazy-yet-compulsive whacking off, with whispered grunts accompanied by illegally downloaded tracks from the newest Metallica album. Man, Lars works hard, and he gets shit from you ungrateful hackers and pirates! However, and let’s be up front here, that guy is a total dildo, and he’s already quite rich. Plus, banging away at drums, using all of one’s mediocrity, as Lars Ulrich does, and has done for years, is nowhere near as hard of work as some woman getting pile driven by what looks like the bench of the Oakland Raiders. However, since people are more likely to watch said gangbang over and over than listen to Metallica’s crappy record more than once, a bit of cosmic balance is struck, and we’re back to where we started, namely, beating off frantically while the phone rings and the microwave beeps and the UPS guy comes to the door and the conference begins. “I can get a quick one in,” you think. They always wonder why you’re sweating, dude. Heh.
Oh, and just to be clear, I in no way give a shit about file sharing or whatever. Just making conversation.
So yeah, I was in California for my cousin’s wedding. It was great. It was on a horse ranch in Truckee and there were something like three hundred people there. The ranch is surrounded by huge empty fields, presumably where the horses graze and run around, I suppose, and once it got dark, I was pretty into the idea of sneaking off for some in-the- dark-in-the-field-um, booty. I mean, it’s a wedding! What better place to renew the consummation of your own vows, right? Well, thankfully cooler heads prevailed and my wife, sweetly, I might add, told me that maybe I should go get another beer rather than pursue this entreaty any more, as, no fucking way she was gonna go bone in some shit filled horse field while her husband’s entire family mingled just a few yards away.
Looking back, it was the right decision. That’s why I’m married to her, after all. This isn’t the first time she’s saved me from having to face my mom and great aunts, pants down, rapidly retreating dick in hand, covered in animal feces, with grass stains on my new pants, you know, figuratively. And besides, we were there with a baby. She really could have just slapped me across the face, and it wouldn’t have been out of line. What a woman, I tell you. Anyway…
It’s kind of funny, because it made me think about how technically, I shouldn’t be having sex at all. Below is a list of the reasons that I should still be a virgin. These are all true, but I have a baby, and he looks a lot like me, right down to the hairline, so I’m not a virgin, okay! Just throwing that out there. All right, without any further ado:

I have a young baby: Okay, I know that it’s technically impossible to be a virgin and have a baby, but you get the idea. I’ve got a tired wife who had had some pretty serious trauma recently applied to her nether regions, and a little guy who looks a lot like me staring at us constantly, and crying when we’re not in his field of vision. Ever try to have an intimate encounter while you can hear someone in your family’s voice in the next room? Not easy, no matter if it’s your aunt Gladys or your kid. So, anyway, yeah, this should be from another list, one that should be entitled ‘why I shouldn’t be having sex right now,’ I guess, but like I said, I’m just throwing it out there first, so whatever dicks. Throw your stones. The real list starts now!

I’m a nerd- Yeah, I read lots of books. I lit a candle for my induction into the Latin national honors society (that’s dorky just to write down). I’ve had only the most tenuous relationship with sports. You get the idea. If I was in a movie about college, on paper, I’m in Lambda Lambda Lambda. I know, there’s no inherent pussy repellent involved in being a bookworm, but it doesn’t end there. My nerdy proclivities are so all encompassing that the rest of this list is more or less a sub-category of this first larger point. Let’s continue.

I write a blog- Hello internet! Have you noticed my way with snappy prose? Well, that’s pretty much a dead giveaway that I spend most of my time sitting behind a computer, alternately (as we discussed before) whacking off and writing things to faux-friends on the internet. Anonymous opinion sharing? That’s the territory of virgins my friends. Bitter, bitter virgins. I mean for fucks sake, who is stupid enough, or egomaniacal enough to think that anyone wants to sit around and pore over the minutiae of someone’s life who’s got enough spare time to write about it? Well, dorks who know what it’s like to have lots of free time and very little to fill it with, that’s who. It’s odd, because the word ‘blog’ is so sexy. It sounds like, oh, I don’t know, someone gently tracing the lines on a ballsack with long, American flag press on nails. Wait, what? That’s not sexy? Okay, see. It’s hopeless.

Two words and an ampersand: Dungeons & Dragons That’s right kids. In my youth I spent a lot of time as a chaotic evil half orc assassin named Amspig tooling around the enchanted woods of my cousin’s imagination. Oh, it’s dorky. It’s so dorky that I think I’m embarrassed to even be writing this down, and this is in a blog! That’s like when someone really, really ugly has something happen to them that’s so disfiguring that they’re like “oh my god! I’m even more hideous!” It’s sad, really. You know, the girl that’s already got bad skin, crooked teeth, a bald spot, slack, droopy, yet tiny breasts, hammer ass, nose hair, third nipple, brown gums and pigeon toes. When she gets in an accident and the nose is ripped clean off her face, making her previously hideous visage even more unbearable, that’s sort of what it’s like to be embarrassed about some nerdy pastime within the comfortable parents’-basement-like confines of a blog. It’s incredible, and sad.

I play the bass (and I’m not good at it)- Not everyone can be Flea, kids. And for the rest of us bass players out there, it’s a sad truth. We’re useless. We’re mixed out of every good recording, and loudly ruining every bad one. We’re on stage playing a hopelessly uncool looking instrument while there’s a guitarist and a drummer right next to us looking effortlessly awesome. If you don’t have a saxophonist or a keyboard player in your band, (and you shouldn’t), well, suck it up, bass player. You’re the dorkiest guy on the stage. Every time.

I’ve never had a decent job- This is one of those classic tropes so universal that it was the basis for the 40 Year Old Virgin. I’ve said it before, I’m a barely employed bartender, meaning I have very little money, and nothing but time. Sounds pretty sweet, right? Oh, yeah. Well, let’s go through some other jobs I’ve had, kay? McDonalds, Ben and Jerrys, uh…some second hand clothing store, hmm…, comic book store, wow, that leads me to the next one.

I like comic books (way more than I should)- I’ve got the X men number twelve. If you know what this means, well, pretty cool, huh? I’ve also got the original first ten issues of the Tick, when it was printed in a non-standard size, including the die cut cover edition of #2, and that’s in near mint condition, and the entire first run of Akira. If you don’t know what that means, you’re probably spending your life outdoors, or with friends. Good for you.

I’ve got Chihuahuas- Oh! Look at the metrosexual with the tiny little designer dogs walking down the street! How cute…wait a minute, that’s guy’s unshaven, with a beer gut and wrinkled, unstylish clothes on. Did some bum steal someone’s Chihuahuas? I don’t understand. Maybe he’s walking them for a friend.” Nope. They’re mine, and I love the shit out of ‘em. I have a fascination with all little things, from mini dogs to White Castle sliders to Verne Troyer. It’s kind of creepy, you say? Hmmm…yeah, I know. That’s why it’s on the list, Will Hunting.

In high school, I played with a hackey sack and wore hippy clothes- Now, I was never a hippy, just to be clear. I was just one of those long-haired dorklings at the punk rock show who looked hopelessly out of place because I never had a big brother or anyone around to tell me about subcultures and all that. So, yeah, that was me with the ponytail, the medallion and the baggy jeans, hacky sacking outside the NOFX show with my friends. Very sad. At least those dirty hippy girls are into free love and stuff. I had the misfortune of being the dorky, faux hippy in the subculture that for some unexplainable reason treats sex like it’s awful. What do punk rockers and puritans have in common? They both preach against sex outside of committed relationships like a bunch of grumpy moms and health teachers. God help you if your mom is a punk rock health teacher. You’ll be so repressed that you’ll be doing animal porn by the time you’re sixteen.

I take an improv class- Could it possibly get lamer than improv? I don’t think it could. If you’ve never taken an improv class, well, firstly, good choice, and secondly, you don’t know the half of how dorky the things that go on in there are. Yeah, there’s dumb make-believe stuff that you do with your ‘ensemble’ made up of housewives, theater geeks, dumb dudes who fancy themselves to be super hilarious and assorted ‘eccentrics’ who wear, say, cocktail dresses with moon boots, or bow ties and v neck teeshirts. But! The warm up games are even stupider than that! Hey, let’s do a mirror exercise! Let’s play zip, zap, zop. Ever speak in gibberish to an overly excited mother of two adult kids while a hyperactive flamboyant man cheers you on in the most condescending manner possible? It’s just great. Jesus, my skin is crawling. Forget I said anything.

I can beat the original Legend of Zelda in just one continuous life- And I can quote Star Wars, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Spaceballs, Lord of the Rings…all that shit. The dork stuff, you know? The shit you go to conventions to enjoy. Thankfully, I don’t go to the conventions, but you know what? I secretly bet they’re a good time.

I like metal- Ah, metal, the cockforest of music. With the exception of Insane Clown Posse shows, there’s no higher men to women ratio in the entire world (yes, including Alaska) then at a typical metal show/store/convention/group of enthusiasts smoking pot dipped in embalming fluid in the highschool parking lot. Also, even by metal standards, I like some dorky shit. I’ve got Queensryche’s Operation:Mindcrime memorized, just for example.

Okay, I need to stop this. My self esteem is taking quite a pummeling, and we haven’t even gotten to the real bad stuff. Time to go back to the internet porn part of my day. Before I go, however, I’m going to quickly get to some advice:
Workplace romance is a tricky thing. The flirting of today could easily turn into the boning of tomorrow, but then there’s awkwardness, and if it turns out you aren’t really as compatible as you thought, you can bet your ass that everyone in your workplace is going to hear about your tiny dick/pimply chest/tendency to cry right after you come. Soooo, take it slow. Get lunch together. Joke around but keep the overt flirting to a minimum, you don’t want the other people in the office talking about you guys potentially banging when it hasn’t even happened yet. That’ll dry your game up faster than you could possibly imagine. Be honest, but be casual. Once you have a good rapport, then you know, see what she’s into. Is she into just fucking with no strings? She’ll let you know if she’s interested, as long as you take it slow. You think you’re gonna rush into banging someone in the office? Listen, dudes secretly videotape or photograph things. They talk, they do lots of shit that can really, really fuck up a woman’s professional life. If she’s got any brains at all, she’s going to get to know you before she puts her ass in the air for you to potentially photograph and show to the whole mailroom. If she’s got no brains, try this: “Hey, wanna get some drinks after work? I’m buying?” I remember at Ben and Jerry’s the two managers banged, and he lost his rubber in her, and she found it a week later. I didn’t even know these people well. I just worked there for 3 weeks. See my point? If you absolutely must fuck someone you work with, be prepared for it to get ugly, and for everyone you work with to know that you don’t have any idea how to properly eat a pussy.
See you all next time.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Aye, Chihuahuas!

I’m going to California. Right now my wife is folding baby clothes and attempting to stuff two months worth of her outfits into a two week bag, all for a four day excursion. It’s my cousin’s wedding. He’s the one who wore a sombrero and two glazed eyes the entire weekend of my wedding. He’s a good dude and I’m looking forward to seeing family, which is a really rare feeling for me…whatever. The point is, we boarded our dogs today, packed formula, I thought out outfits and figured out exactly which pants and which tie…jesus fucking Christ. You get the point. The whole thing leaves a decidedly adult taste in my mouth, and not the type of adult taste that comes from doing adult things, like rimjobs or what have you. No, I feel like a real grown up. For fucks sakes, it’s eleven oclock and the thought ‘wow, it’s getting late. I need to get some sleep’ just passed through my consciousness. God help us all.
Okay, so in the spirit of counter acting the sort of introspection that comes part and parcel with packing for a family vacation, I’m going to list my favorite euphemisms for shitting on another person’s chest. Most of these are going to be made up on the spot, but the first two, well, those have been passed down for generations over wicky sticks and Icehouses and paper bags of gold paint. Enough rambling. Presenting: Great ways to ask for someone to shit on your chest without having to say, “honey, will you shit on my chest?”:
Babe, I’d really love a:
Hot Sandwich
Cleveland steamer
Hot carl
Chunky monkey
Burnt worm
Soft serve
Corn pone soufflé
Chili dog with all the trimmings
Reverse thermos
Pudding parfait
Greek pencil
Dead puppy
Groundhog mound
Amish eel.
ghoul drool

Okay, have a nice weekend. Try not to get drunk around your family while holding your flailing baby and screaming “don’t you tell me about raising kids!”
Try not to do that, kay?

the secrets of my success

Okay, hi everyone! Thanks for all the great letters. I’ve got to head to work soon, like I mentioned in the last entry (Suck Me Beautiful), so I’m unfortunately not going to have time to delve into all your various depravities. Fear not, though. I’ve compiled the first of what’s sure to be many lists that will help you all navigate the storms and doldrums of life.
Ten ways to get a chick to blow you. (Guaranteed!)
1. Make sure some part of your dick/ballsack is exposed, or poking out of something at all times. This is a big turn on for chicks. It’s the male take on cleavage or ass cheeks.
2. Act pathetic. Chicks love whiny dudes who drone on about how the world is unfair and crushing them. Dedicate some really crappy obscure indie rock song to them at the bar, or better yet, play it for her yourself on an acoustic guitar.
3. Sometimes the direct approach is the best. “These balls ain’t gonna gargle themselves” is more effective than you might imagine.
4. talk about who you know. Even if you don’t know anyone cool, make it up! “Yeah, I was over at Dave (Grohl)’s house last night shooting pool with Joe (Francis [of Girls Gone Wild])” Just insert it into your convo casually, and before you know it, you’ll be in heaven
5. Talk about how well read you are, right off the bat. Be condescending if necessary. It’s important to let her know how much smarter you are than her.
6. Act like you care about animals and flowers and dumb shit like that. Coo at a baby or something.
7. Casually drop this into a conversation: “Man, I love eating pussy. I could do it all day, if I didn’t have to work.”
8. Wear lots of rings and necklaces. Also, groom your facial hair meticulously and make sure that the ladies can smell that cologne. This shows you care about taking care of yourself.
9. If you’re black, act white. If you’re white, act black. If you’re Latino act Asian. If you’re Asian, (and I’m including the subcontinent here, guys) act black. This scrambles girls’ circuits, and drives ‘em absolutely wild.
10. If you've tried everything else, and nothing is working, be a celebrity. This never fails.
Okay, there you have it. Write in and let me know how it goes! Happy hunting.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Suck me, Beautiful.

Okay, morning. It’s nine twenty two, and I’ve been awake for a while. Pretty wild. It’s the baby. He’ll keep you awake. Well, he’ll keep his mother awake, and then she’ll come in to our room and stomp around, because, well, this small thing has been deflating her tits for a good portion of the morning, and well, I’ve been sleeping. So, anyway, you get the idea. Babies keep you awake, one way or the other. So, a little about me, right? Yeah, that should kill some time. I’m five eleven, and I love peanut butter. Also, I was born in St. Louis, but grew up in Chicago, where I still live. I’m one of those people who still lives within five miles of my childhood home and my grade school. Pretty great. Okay, also, I’m a semi-employed bartender and I pretty much live off my wife. And I have a kid, so that’s pretty much the scoop. I’m a real Midwestern Federline of sorts. I mean, the parallels are astounding. We both have rich wives, we both were born in white trash Petri dishes (Missouri and Fresno respectively) and we both have great chinstrap beards. Okay, not so fast Billy Ray, I don’t actually have a chinstrap beard. I do have a friend named Tim, though, who always rocks at least the chinstrap because, he says, without it, his cheeks just go right into his neck. I think that’s probably a better look than the chinstrap beard, but what do I know?
So yeah, I’m a bartender. Not a good one. When people ask me for fancy shots I either ask them what’s in it or make it up. I’m not great with people, and I can’t stand being told what to do. Also, I don’t really like to clean up that much. Oh, and I drink. So yeah, bad bartender. I work Sunday nights. That’s it. No, seriously. One day a week. Yeah, and here’s the beauty of it, I still bitch about my busy schedule. Why? Because there are people out there willing to listen to anything, no matter how fucking stupid or irrelevant it is. That’s how you can explain the success of things like Katy Perry, James Blunt, George W. Bush, Jesus, my mom, Ashton Kutcher, Perez Hilton, whatever. The list is endless, to be sure.
I touched on it briefly in my first blog, entitled ‘Hello Blogosphere’, but to briefly expound, it seems like everyone and their mom these days has some website where they just talk shit about everything as though they, the bloggers in question, are somehow more clever and entitled to hand down judgment on what’s cool than the people out there actually attempting to make things. I think that’s great. Thank god we’ve finally developed a system where fat, anonymous, nerdy virgins can broadcast their snide opinions and suspicions about everyone else’s personalities, sexualities, talents or lack thereof to everyone in the world and…Here’s the best part! People read it and for the most part, these blogs shape public opinion.
So, it’s a pretty great equation if you think about it. Popular, beautiful people shun tubby, awkward iconoclast with questionable sexuality, or proclivity for gaming or whatever the final deathblow is for these people’s popularity. These shunned individuals retreat to their computers where they, without the hope of interacting with real people, sub public figures into their lives where the popular kids in school (who they had no interactions with either) used to reside. All the resentment, jealousy, snarky comments to other dungeon masters in the cafeteria etc. is now being broadcast all over the universe. Now, that’s all fine. Here’s the delicious part. These very same popular people who once shunned fatty now read his blog, and let his opinion shape theirs! It’s like a straw man that you burn first, and then he comes back to be worshiped. The Internet has completely reversed the world of social physics. Truly amazing.
Okay, that’s way too much of that. I have to work on Thursday, which is tomorrow and I’m dreading it. Why? Because I’m lazy. That’s why. I don’t like to work. But I don’t really like doing anything. I get bored easily. If I’m not having a beer, cracking a dumb joke around a bunch of sycophants who think I’m funny or sleeping, or getting some sort of work done on my penis (hand, blow, vagina, or anus job, you get the idea [pretty funny, actually to call butt fucking an ‘anus job,’ right? “Oh man, Valerie gave me the best anus job in the walk in cooler at the DQ last night, Sooowee!”]) chances are, I’m bored. My friend has this song and the chorus goes “Are You Restless like me?’ And I want to hide my restlessness and casually reply, “dude, you have no fucking idea.” I’m restless in the worst way. Restless and lazy with no desire to do anything. I wanted to call this blog “wasted potential” because I thought the amount of entendre there was charming. Firstly, I’m wasting my education, my aptitudes, whatever, but there’s a lot of potential within me, at least in theory. Secondly, I’m often wasted. I always have the potential to become wasted, and when I’m wasted I tend to think I have lots of untapped potential. Unfortunately, I’m sober right now and I can see the truth. Also, that name was already taken by a dumb graphic designer and some sort of comic strip that featured a giraffe that runs a pizza place or something. Well, at least the name’s being put to good use.
Oh, and keep those advice letters coming. Confidential to Apprehensive in Kentucky: If it’s not coming right back out, it might mean that he’s just too tight back there. And that’s not a bad thing. Try using a straw or a bellows! And have fun.
Okay, till next time,

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Hello blogosphere

My name is Brendan. This is my blog, apparently. Bad Sandwich Chronicles, named for one of the all time great rock bands of our time, Bad Sandwich. I'm somewhat tired right now. I've got a three month old in a crib, sleeping, I've had two greyhounds and a Miller Lite, I'm trying to write a skit for a dumb comedy writing class, and I'm making a half-assed attempt to get in shape. I bought the perfect push-up the other day. I was in Wal Mart with my lovely wife, when I happened upon the device(s). They're handles that rotate as you do a push up, somehow maximizing your core or something. Anyway, 'dumb idea', I think, and then, just to prove that I'm not one of those dickheads that just besmirches something without ever really trying it, I put the perfect push-up handles on the floor of the Wal Mart and did a couple of push ups. It really was kind of amazing...they really seemed to almost instantly strengthen my core. So, I went to the register and payed twenty dollars for two handles that will sit in my drawer for the rest of my life. There you go. Life: changed. Next.
Why do I have a blog again? Is this self reflexive, meta-post irony style still all the rage? Yeah? Cool. So, then is it my place to be hyper aware of the bullshit that i'm typing, and to constantly, shrewdly rant against the very rants that i post in hopes that it cancels out whatever it is that I say that's not clever? That's what the kids are doing now, right? OR, I could just rant about celebrities...Oh, that Amy Winehouse is such a trainwreck, right? Uh, have you seen Lilly Allen's gut? Okay, that's enough of that. Perhaps I could exploit my successful friends, by telling their personal stories here, on the internet, and using my whip-crack style of prose, make them somewhat my own...OR, I could exploit my wife and child, discussing my sex life and child rearing techniques. That's probably the best idea yet, because, well, there's nothing that gets people more excited than disagreeing with how you raise kids or fuck. Also, maybe my mom will stop by and check it out some time! That would be great. I'd love to have a conversation with my mother about how many blowjobs I'm getting/missing out on.
All right! This is shaping up splendidly. I think I'm going to have this meta-self-aware-celebrity-watching-friend's-story-stealing-parenting-sex-advice sort of thing here. Did I mention advice before? Oh, there's gonna be advice. I'm great at it. Just write in, I'll give you the what for. I'm like a sassy black woman who tells it like it is, mixed with a sassy gay dude who tells it like it is, crossed with a no-nonsense old lady who tells it like it is. Questions about felching will be answered first.
Who reads this shit anyway? How would anyone find this? Were you looking for a particularly bad sandwich? Perhaps you were looking for that dreamy irishman that you met on the plane back from dublin? No, not me. I'm just a guy in Chicago with the best self reflexive, celeb watching advice blog about sex and child rearing on the whole fucking internet...or at least the dot coms. Those dot orgs are doing some pretty out there stuff.