This is an old post from :: 3 / 21 / 2003 :: Shit's a Wonderful Life


Alright, so I did it. I didn't want to, and I was wholely against the idea from the start, but it was an emergency and I caved.

I took a shit at work.

Yeah, that's right, I took a big shit at work, and what are you gonna do about it, huh? That's what I thought.

I hate doing it really. I mean you're in there, there's only one stall and one urinal. Everyone knows everyone else. They know you're in there. They know what you're doing. Don't think they don't. They know exactly what goes on in there. Plus its a small room. It's tiled. Very echoey. Its like an ampitheater in there. Every time you go in there, you're putting on a very public rectal concert. And what if you stink up the joint. They're gonna know you smell like shit. Think you can get away with it? Wrong. People know. They just do.

Anyway, it really was an emergency. I'd been feeling that familiar gurling borborygmus in the pit of my stomach since that breakfast burrito. And all day it had been churning and festering, just waiting to come back and bite me in the ass. Literally.

I mean I was in real, physical pain here, people. My colon was about about to swell and burst, into a million tiny little colons...like in fantasia, except with feces. It was not pleasant. So I got up, limped/walked all the way over to the other side of the building, all the while expertly maintaining anal integrity, until I got to the second, lesser known, kind of tucked away bathroom way down the hall. Nobody used that thing, even though it had the big handicapped stall with the wide lane and the guide rails. You can't beat that. It's the first class ticket of public bowel movement. And that restroom has two stalls, so you get a nice buffer between you and any would-be pee-ers.

So anyway, I got over there, and the place was virtually deserted. Even the surrounding cubicles were empty. I mean it was 5 ish, on friday afternoon....barely anyone around. So I strode in confidently, but still lightly, as not to arouse any sort of sympathetic urges from any nearby urethra's. So I got in, and of course chose the super spacious handicapped concert hall toilet, with the buffer stall inbetween me and the urinal. And there I was, feeling pretty good, everything was coming out just fine, when the unthinkable happened. I hear the door open. Someone came in. There was a pause. A trickle. He was peeing! Here, in my bathroom, right in the middle of my super secret 007 evacuation. The nerve.

So of course with the buffer stall, and my not breathing, I don't think that schmuck ever even knew I was in there gettin down. And to top it all off, he didn't even wash his hands. Dirty bastard.

So yeah, it wasn't the first time....it won't be the last, but somehow, no one really seems to give a shit.

This is an old post from :: 2 / 24 / 2003 :: Apt

Breaking News Flash: often times, apartment listing can be intentionally decieving.

By this of course I mean that most apartment listing seem to bring to mind huge open spaces with sunlight streaming in through floor to ceiling windows and lush wall to wall carpeting in a beautiful, rockwellian neighborhood, that is so nice you almost want to vomit all over yourself.

However, in most cases, (and by most cases I of course mean this particular case) that wasn't quite the scene I encountered.

I've searched long and hard for the right word to describe the humble lodgings I spent my weekend perusing, and I think I've done it justice. The word, my impatient friends, is shit-tacular.

The outside of the building actually looked promising, with no visible scars except the real estate agent, who was pudgily milling around outside when I pulled up. Now when I picture real estate agent, I'm thinking sleazy, but in a well groomed way. Our agent barely had on pants. He seemed, at least to me, slightly unprepared, and also, he didn't really give two gits if anybody rented his stinking little piss-hole apartment.

Now undoubtedly what all of you are thinking is, is piss-hole a word? And if so, is it supposed to be hyphenated?

Now we could debate that for several minutes, but lets stay focused here. The guy seemed to know about as much about the apartment as we did, specificly that it sucked big fat monkey wang. The only thinkg he knew that we didn't, was that the cabinet under the sink would be fixed, and that no, the "deck" had never collapsed. As he led us into our would be kitchen/living room, we found ourselves thinking that there weren't many aspects to living that could actually be enjoyed in a room of this size. You could probably fit a chair in it. Probably.

The dish washer seemed to be a big selling point, at least he made sure to point it out to us.

agent: "See this here? Its a dishwasher. Yup. It sure is. Washes Dishes. Yup."

After we recovered from the orgasm that followed that discovery, he led us into the bedrooms, which sported special futuristic mirrored closet doors which, conveniently, didn't open. And we thought it was just super. The "lush" wall to wall carpets that had been advertised were so thin that they were translucent. The washer/dryer occupied space in the bathroom that might have been better occupied by, say, a toilet. Somehow the view out of every window was the same brick wall.

So of course right away we were sold. Sold on leaving and never coming back. We actually saw the place at the same time as one other person who was also interested, and she seemed to share our sentiments, although she was slightly less tactful, punching the realtor like that. But who can blame her. He was a putz, he deserved to be punched.

We're seeing another place this weekend. We can only hope that it can compare.

This is an old post from :: 2 / 10 / 2003 :: Snow Job

Snow makes people idiots.

Scratch that. People are idiots all on their own. Snow just helps to illustrate how idiotic they are.

So I get up and its friday morning, luckily, because the prospect of spending more than one more consecutive day at my as of late spirit crushingly boring job makes me want to cut up my organs into bite size chunks and feed them to a macaque, and its snowing outside. Not only is it snowing, but it had apparently been snowing for approximately 30 years, as was evident by the mountain of snow already on the ground. So I, as I said before, get up, and see the stomach rupturing scene, and envision the hell of commuting to work and immediately fall asleep for several more hours. But eventually I get up for real, after it becomes really obscene for me to stay in bed any longer and begin what was destined to be, the shittiest day ever.

I carefully dress, as always in a shirt and tie, even though my job does not require me to wear shirt and tie, for the sole reason that it makes me feel as if I'm actually going to work, rather than to shoot a dockers commercial. Anyway, after carefully dressing, I carefully forego breakfast in favor of starting the car, which as I imagined, was buried in the fruits of the devil. As I'm making my way towards the car, it dawns on me that not only is there snow all over the car, but also, as luck would have it, the ground. About 5 inches of snow, which was at the time seeping in to my overpriced shoes and damping my delicately cuffed pant legs, as well as my spirits, which were already somewhat damp. The spirits, not the pant legs.

At this point I decided that it would be beneficial to go in and change entirely into some facimile of a lumberjack's uniform, but instead opted for the less ambitious outfit consisting of the same exact thing I'd previously had on, plus boots. Making my way back out to the car, I discover that the rolling of my delicately cuffed pant legs was not so much staying rolled, but inconveniently unrolling, exposing said delicate cuffing to said wet, cold, mood altering snow.

What did I do, you say, to protect the delcately cuffed pants? Well what any other self respecting, staunchly heterosexual male would have done....I pulled my pants up to my knees and squeezed my legs together to hold them up. So now I'm waddling around the car with an oversize snow scraper/brush aparatus, with my pants clenched between my knees like some sort of disabled penguin.

From this point on, having already solved the wet pants/shoes problem (did I mention I'm an engineer?) it was just a matter of clearing the gaddamn snow off my piece of shit, beater car. This proved to be a much more difficult task then you might expect, though, because of the construction of the snow brush I was using, which by the way, was an employee appreciation day gift from the engineering firm I work at. So yeah, the main flaw in the brush was that it unscrewed to allow you to extend the pole...this seems like a good idea at first, but actually its the spawn of satan himself. This is because since the brush unscrews, every time you try to brush to the right, the brush unscrews and turns sideways leaving you brushing with the backside of the plastic brush housing. This means you can only brush from the left, and thus you are left with one hand clutched in an arthritic claw, since the other hand is busy trying to hold your pants up to your knees making it impossible for you to switch.

However, I pressed on, and finally desnowed my vehicle, triumphantly, in just under four hours. Pretty good, huh? Well it doesn't stop there...oh no. Several minutes later, after redonning the overpriced shoes and unclenching my knees, finally I'm ready to disembark from the homestead. I began backing out of my driveway, which was still covered with snow, just as my neighbor across the street was backing out of his. I get halfway into the street and decided to wait for him, since he's proceeding backwards at an alarming rate with little or no regard for anything the might be in the road obstructing his way, namely me. SO once he gets to the end of his driveway, I start honking my horn, as is customary when you see an idiot on the road and get the feeling of impending doom. So honk I must, and do, for a good 20 seconds. And of course, he took the expected course of action of ignoring the honking and slamming into the back of my car. Very neighborly of him.

Well, it all turned out all right, no real damage, and I know where he lives in case I need his insurance information. Or if I need to egg his house. However, it did set the tone for what went on to be a very shitty friday. By the way, its supposed to snow tomorrow too. I'm so excited, I just might vomit.

This is an old post from :: 1 / 12 / 2003 :: Fear Nothing

People with no talent or vision or insight are revered because they look a certain way, or sing certain songs that appeal to mass stupidity. And even these people are just pawns in a master plan formulated by huge coporations to make money, capitalizing on the predictability of the idiot masses. Because they're smarter than you. And richer than you. And everything you want, or need, is wanted or needed because they tell you that you want it or need it. You are the masses. You are mass ignorance. You fuel the system. You put money in the pockets of tyrants. You are your own enemy. You are the sum total of everyone you've ever met and everything you've seen and heard. Nothing about you is original. Everything you've ever thought or felt has been thought or felt by a million other people that came a million years before you. There's nothing new. You can make something minutely better by standing on the shoulders of those who came before you, but ultimately, you can never invent anything. You are a repeat. You are a clone of a clone of a clone.

Do you think you have a vision? That you have a new idea? You're wrong. All you are is what others have made you. Find what you don't want. Seek out everything you're taught to reject and abhor and revel in it. Take a step in the wrong direction. Take two. Find out what it means to be different. Do you think that because your hair is pink, or that you have your ass pierced that you are special? DO you think that painting some meaningless picture on your back or arm or shoulder with a needle somehow elevates you?

Do you think you're enlightened?

You're wrong.

You simply are. Because someone, at some point decided that you would be. Alive. All you are is alive. Chances are that you will live a mundane life, without invention, or incident, aside from the trivial nuances of everyday, and you will think that you are special. You will think that you will do things differently than everybody else and that someone will remember you.

But they won't.

Even the most revolutionary of heroes is eventually forgetten. If there isn't a movie or a TV show about it, it might as well never have occurred. What's the difference?

There is none. Difference that is. Can one person change the world?

Nope.

Oh, sure, you might be able to make some minor modification to the current state of the world, but in the totality of things, you won't matter. People will always be the same, if not worse. Pessimistic you say? Cynical? I say realistic. The sun will burn to coal, and the planets and stars will fade to black, and your measly existence will not matter. In comparison to the all encompassing totality of the universe, you are a spec of dust. An annoyance. An afterthought.

So what's the point? What's the underlying meaning of everyting.

Well of course, its a loaded question. Give up? Us? Nah. We'll keep going. Trying to make money. Trying to be better than that guy. Trying to one up everybody.

Because he with the most stuff is king. Everyone wants it. Few get any. My advice? Forget it. Forget it all. Look at yourself, and be honest. What are you?

Are you your job? The clothes you wear? Are you who you're with? What defines you? What do you want? And why do you want it? Do you want it because that guy doesn't have it? Do you want it, because you think it will make her like you? What's your deal?

Everybody wants acceptance. Everyone is the same. Everyone is out for them. You can't escape. Or can you? Find everything you hate, everything you're afraid of being, and become that. Take a chance. What would make you happy? Do the opposite. Do the most drastic thing you can think of to ruin everything. Be brave.

Find what you fear most and go live there.

This is an old post from :: 1 / 11 / 2003 :: Fat-tay

People are so predictable. You can't change anybody. People are always gonna be fat, or stupid or ugly or have lupus, or whatever. It's never gonna change. And if it does, it will inevitably change back.

Take geoff for instance. He's on a diet. Has been dieting and exercising for years now...dropped a ton of weight. I'm in his car today and I see a mcdonald's bag. He says the breakfast foods aren't that bad for you. Now here we see a classic method of self validation. I call it the "it could be worse" syndrome. Basically how it goes is that geoff tells me that his sausage egg and cheese sandwich is better for him than a bagel with cream cheese. And since people eat those all the time, how could this grease covered angio-burger be so bad. Well I have new for geoff. Just because there's something worse doesn't mean what you're doing isn't bad.

Just because somewhere there's some backwards people's warring with each other using tactical ballistic missiles doesn't mean I can shoot you in the face with a pistol.

Geoff: "Yeah I'll have the Lard of the Onion Rings combo with extra bacon and a side of carcinogens."

Me: "Um, I'm no doctor, but don't you think that could be bad for you?"

Geoff: "Can't be worse than what that guy's having"

Me: "That's a dead cat."

Geoff: "Exactly."

Exactly. So geoff's back to his old eating habits. I can see him ballooning back up in no time. I see this with a lot of girls these days too. Especially ones in the gym. Now there are a lot of really attractive girls in the gym, but there are two distinct brands. There are those girls that other girls absolutely despise; you know, the ones who can eat three bowls of fatty o's and not gain an ounce. People hate them...all thin and attractive all the time... the nerve.

Anyway, there's them, and then there are these other girls. Now the other girls can be just as if not more attractive than the quasi-bullemic size zero's, but there's just something about them that tells you that the day they stop working out like a motherfucker is the day they start getting weighed in on the elephant scale. Yeah, you know the ones.

This is an old post from :: 1 / 9 / 2003 :: Not Really's

My life is full of not really's

I work a job I don't really like.

I get to and from it in a car that I don't really own.

I come home to people that don't really know me.

I live in a house that's not really mine.

I have friends but we're not really close.

I know women but we're not really together.

I'm not really a little, not really alot.

I'd like to think I'm in control, but not really.

This is an old post from :: 1 / 9 / 2003 :: Hardly Workin'


work.

work blows.

I'm at work. And it is currently blowing.

They pay me alot though, and that's a plus, but is it really worth putting up with the degree to which it blows? A difficult question on many levels.

So I've come to the conclusion that most work really sucks, but my work sucks even more. this is because I work in a technical, scientific, highly specialized field. When you secure employment in a field such as mine, you can (if you're not prepared) be thoroughly overwhelmed by the amount of what I like to call, mind numbing, socially inept nerd-ites.

The nerdites all have several things in common: a distinct indifference toward any sort of social contact, a staggering intellect, which is best illustrated in their propensity to replace casual comments like "hi," and "nice day today," with nerdian equivalents such as snorting and tactlessly staring at their feet, or something shiny.

These "people" make it very difficult to get through an entire day of work in that there is absolutely no one to talk to, or have any sort of personal relationship with due to their extreme...how should I say...cyborg-itude.

Anyway, I'm at work. And I'm bored as hell. You'd think they'd give me something to do, seeing they're paying me and what not. You'd think they'd find something to occupy the vast hordes of time I have laying in my proverbial lap. Some way to take advantage of the nearly endless potential for productivity in this here cramped cubicle. You'd think they somehow at least acknowledge that I work here. You'd think that, but you'd be wrong.

NO instead they've left me to my own devices, by which of course I mean playing video games online and assessing the hygiene of each of my body crevices. That's always fun.

Oooh, and sometimes, when Im' here really late wasting time, sometimes, I just go ahead and pick my nose. Sure I admit it. I'm human. I'll wedge a greasy digit up my sinus cavity every once and a while just to see what's cookin in there. And why shouldn't I? Aside from the host of hygenic reasons, and cause its gross, that is.

Yeah, so work. Me at work. Aren't I special.

This is an old post from :: 12 / 14 / 2002 :: Goddamn Morals....

I'm sick of being that guy.

I'm sick of being the guy they call while their boyfriend is out of town, or because he lives 500 miles away, or because they're "taking a break", which is really just a glorified way of saying that one of them had other options they wanted to pursue for a little while, but without the risk of losing the crappy relationship they already have. Cowards.

So yeah, it seems a little odd that I should be saying this, but I'm sick of all that. Sure, I go out with all these girls, and I could do alot more with most of them, and I don't, and why not, you ask? Why not take advantage of these situations and say fuck everyone else? Well its because of my goddamn morals, that's why. Stupid crappy morals; always bringin' me down.

Stupid selfish bitches. Always trying to use me as an excuse. I'm sick of being a fucking excuse. Consolation prize. Understudy. Put me in coach.

And you can never really tell what the hell is going through their minds in the first place. I would say the vast majority of people don't really care, because they're too absorbed in what they want. I think that I"ll be much better off if I'd just come to terms with the fact that you can't prevent people from being idiots.

So I take this girl out. Been taking her out regularly for a while. Just "friends", whatever the shit that means. We talk on IM. Instant Messenger. Its like a whole different world on IM. Its like you're a different person. YOu can say whatever you want, because you don't have to look the person in the eye. You don't even have to say it out loud. But nobody seems to really hold anybody accountable for shit they say on IM. So this girl is saying all kinds of suggestive things to me on IM. Then we decide to go out. I pick her up and literally the first two words out of her mouth are, "My boyfriend....".

Yup, that's all I need to hear. Right then I'm thinking about crashing the car into her living room just to get out of spending the whole damn night with her. But I don't do that either. That'd just be another big hassle. Lots of bending over probably involved in that cleanup. And I'm not about to bend over for anybody. My toes were not meant to be touched by any other part of my body. And I'm ok with that.

So anyway, I spend the night with her. At one point she even gets mad at me for not paying enough attention to her. The nerve. She was lucky I was still conscious. Or breathing for that matter.

So I make conversation. And its fun conversation too, because now I don't give a shit what she thinks, or if she likes me, or making any kind of impression, so I'm just saying whatever the hell comes to mind, which tends to be something sarcastic about something she's either said, or is wearing. So...I make it through the night. My friends are there to help with the burden of entertaining her, so its not a total loss. And I drop her off. And she pulls this strange move on me. I stop the car, she says goodnight, I continue staring at the road as I reply...and she reaches out her hand and strokes the back of my head...affectionately, I might say, if I didn't know better. And she looks at me. And for a split second I"m thinking, she wants to kiss me. After this whole wretched horrible night, she wants to kiss me. After all she talked about all night was how great her superhero brainiac bodybuilder millionaire giant-schlong boyfriend is all night, she wants to kiss me. And while all this is occurring to me, I'm sitting there with a stupid look on my face, trying to decide what to do. Meanwhile, she's already said something or other on her way out of the car and is proceeding towards her front door.

So what do I do? hmmmm....did I get out and run after her, catch her at the door and spin her around, kissing her? No, of course not. I left. I drove home angry and bitter and feeling foolish, just like I always do, telling myself that that's the last time I fall for that old routine, and that I'm sick of being the damn bag boy. But will it? Be the last time, I mean? I wonder if she's on IM right now....

This is an old post from :: 8 / 10 / 2000 :: I Nose My Rights

Look, just admit it, you've picked your nose.

We've all done it. Now I know, it's "gross" And it's "unsanitary" and it may even be a little "coo-coo", but you know, deep down inside in places you don't like to talk about at parties, you know that you've felt something...something deep inside your nasal cavity making it difficult for you to breathe and causing you to make strange contorted faces in vain efforts to dislodge this tumor from your ole factory, leaving you no other option but to go spelunking inside your proboscis with a stubby little finger until finally, in secret triumph you withdraw the dirty digit to reveal the offending, odorous obstruction with childlike delight, and quickly hide your discovery in a kleenex, the sleeve of a jacket or sweater, or when all else fails, the seat cushion of whatever unlucky piece of furniture you happen to be inhabiting.

Sound familiar? That's what I thought.

It's human nature you know. I believe, as do many anthropologists, that it all dates back to ancient, pre-dental hygiene man, when small insects or children would crawl up and become lodged in noses, which were, obviously, much larger back then, forcing primitive man to use his fingers, or sometimes his entire forearm, and in extreme cases, a severed tree branch to excavate the oclusion from his pipes or face certain death. That's what I hear anyway.

So what I'm saying is, just admit it. I'm not saying rip large jagged shards of nose flesh out of your face in public and show them off to everyone like a proud new father, I'm just saying be honest.

After all, you're only human. Pick your goddamn nose if ya wanna.

This is an old post from :: 6 / 28 / 2000

Air conditioning. That's all I really need. When it comes down to it, as long as I have air conditioning, I can scrape some happinees off the floor. I prefer to be cold. Slightly at least. I'm not a fan of the sticky, sweaty, smelly morning blah, waking up in your own stink, peeling open your eyes which had been painted shut by the heat induced goo.

That's no fun.

I like to be slightly shivery, enough so that I need a few covers to be comfortable. That's the way most people like it, I imagine. The problem with that is, of course, you don't want to get out of bed. You don't want to get out of bed, of course, because once you do, once you committ to that day, that getting up, going to work, complaining about getting up and going to work, being tired sort of day, eventually you're going to have to face the heat. And the heat, my friends, is vengeful.

I played golf today. Golf. What was I thinking?

The golf course, of course, was not air conditioned. In fact, the air on the golf course was distinctly unconditioned, conforming sheepishly to the humid, fetid lake of wavy heat that pervades everything in the summer. And I got out of bed, out of my comfortable, slightly shivery, air conditioned bed for this. Dumbass.

I don't know why I play, I can't afford it. The only way I can play is if my uncle or my dad offer to treat me to a round, which , of course, is what was the case today.

I make it a point never to pay for golf. You see, the way I see it, if you pay for golf, you're merely contributing to the lavish, unfounded lifestyle of the obscenely arrogant and pompous employees of the country club. The Country Club is, of course, our enemy. The country club, with its towering fairytale architecture and stone construction, is a monument to superfluity. It's a money pit. It sucks your money from your wallet, and then redistributes it to its employees...club professionals, rangers, bar and grill attendants, waitresses, the blind guy in the locker room...so that these darling individuals can continue being as arrogant and snobbish as hhumanly possible, in order to adequately make you feel like an ass.

I could barely stand to be in the building itself because it stank so of waste. The metaphorical kind. It wasn't like the locker room guys and the members were flinging their feces at one another, although God knows what they do in there when people aren't around.

I was feeling less bitter about the whole affair before I needed to use the restroom, and the bar girl gave me such thick attitude that it was almost tangible. Apparently, she's much better than me. How was I to know? I mean , I guess it should have been obious to me that she's in a class all her own, working at the country club and all, and in a little bar room no less, well that's just super. And how could I miss the way she wasn't doing anything at all productive and how her eyes rolled so smoothly at me. She was clearly above me.

Needless to say, I don't play lot of golf, and as a direct result of that I pretty much suck at golf. However, this is a fact that I'm very proud of, because it merely attests to the fact that I am not, nor will I ever be, a member of the country club. Well, it doesn't really attest to the fact that I'll never be a member, but I'm telling you right now, just so there's no confusion, I'll never be a member.

I think I've grown somewhat bitter...but I might be way off. I only say that because I used to look at big houses and nice cars with envy, and now I look at them with contempt. I used to think people with lots of expensive stuff must be smart, now I just think they're misguided.

But I digress.

Anyway, I don't know why I even bother playing, it's too expensive, it's time consuming, I suck, I barely enjoy it, and I hate all the other people. Especially that last part. I hate those people. Take the "ranger" for example. Now here's an old useless retired guy, with nothing better to do than ride around on a golf cart all day telling me to "speed it up." He's lucky I didn't speed it right up his boney little ass. What an arrogant prick this guy was.

What he does is, he rides around the course, of course, making sure that the rules are obeyed and that people keep a decent pace so as not to slow up other players. And I can imagine that if he'd talked to us like four times, he might have lost his patience. But the first and only time he approached us, well me, he was such an arrogant prick, as I mentioned earlier, that I felt like beating him to within an inch of his life. I was just waiting for him to say something to me a second time, but the chain saw I was holding might have spooked him.

Anyway, I hate frickin golf. That's it.
Of course.

This is an old post from :: 6 / 14 / 2000

I've never been a fan of antiquity. I'm not old fashioned, I don't collect...things. I'm modern. I have digital cable, electric guitars, and the internet. I enjoy technology. But, alas, technology comes at its price. And, double alas, I have no money.

Being poor sucks a big fat ass. Not that I'm destitute, or anything. I mean, I live in my parents house, which is nauseatingly fashionable, and I have various gadgets and gizmos and luxuries that they've afforded me. But me... myself, that is....I am poor.

And thus, I do not have cable in my room. Now this may sound like the lamentations of a spoiled and unappreciative individual, but I assure you it is not. I don't mind not having cable in my room. I don't mind having only seven channels. In fact, it keeps me from watching mindless tedium like "The Real World" and old reruns of "Married with Children." However, I just wish that those seven channels, those seven beacons...buoys in a sea of migraine inducing static...I wish they would just come in clear once in a frickin while.

I mean, is that so much to ask? Is it? Huh?

So anyway, I don't watch much TV. I spend my time these days....hmmmm, what the hell have I been doing lately?

I'm busy. I'm what they call a "go getter." I spend my weekdays painting. Not art, oh heavens no. Walls. You can really lose yourself painting walls. You can relish in the power of reinventing a room. You have total power in that room. You can kill it, or heal it, or completely remake it. You are God to that room.

Well that may be a bit dramatic. I may be a bit dramatic.

I played tonight. Music that is. That's where I spend my weekends. I spend my weekends plugging away with a band that has great potential, working towards the day where I can wake up and not have to go to work. I hate work. But this gig was a little different.

It was a retirement party. A hundred antiques crowded in a small banquet room, reminiscing about when they still had both hips. Now I don't have anything against retirees, in fact the only difference between them and most of the people I work with, is that the guys I work with come in to work to play solitaire and look at furniture catalogs.

So anyway, a teacher was retiring, and I knew the principle, and he had asked me if I would play for a few gag songs that he had planned. He would change the lyrics to be about the Urn-to-be in question and everyone would laugh at his cleverness, and there I'd be, tucked away in a corner, playing the bass to a slightly butchered version of American Pie.

It was fun. I love to play no matter where it is, or what it's for. And the aging kindergarten instructor about whom the hoopla was enjoyed the show thoroughly. I told her to call me if she ever retired again. I'm guessing I won't be hearing from her.

On the totally bizarre side, I ran into my third grade teacher at the shindig. It's a strange thing when you run into someone who played such an intimate role in an entire year of your life after twelve years. She looked the same, she must have been right out of college when I had her. Third grade...man that was a long time ago. I believe I had a big crush on her too. Even though I was constantly bitching about one of the slower kids in the class getting breaks, and extra chances on spelling tests. That kid happened to be the principle's son. The same principle whose hand I was now shaking after having done him a decent size favor.

Turnabout is the spice of life.

I bolted as soon as the thing was through of course. You don't want to be hanging around the scene when it's not your party, and all the old ladies want to tell you how big you've gotten. So I didn't.

The rest of my evening since then has been uneventful, except for my recent reflection on my rabbit ears. I think they have a few good years left in them before retirement. Either way, I'll beat it out of them.

This is an old post from :: 6 / 9 / 2000

There they were, as I came over the hill, speeding toward me, confident, menacing. They teased me a little bit, laughing at me, as I cringed and shrunk. They forced me to react, and then made me think.

Headlights.

They were bright. Seemed brighter than normal headlights do, but I think my eyes were just accustomed to the dark. After all, it was late. And so I met them, eyes to eyes, path to path, and they stared me down, hunted me, like a pair of rifles.

Bang. I'm dead.

But I'm not, am I? Not dead, not even really threatened. In reality, not one little bit of danger presented itself to me a few minutes ago, on the bumpy black road approaching my house. I wasn't moving fast, and neither were they, the headlights I mean, not really fast at all.

But none the less, for a split second I was...scared? Worried? More like surprised. My eyes widened, my grip tensed.

I sat up.

In that fraction of a fraction of a fraction of time I saw it, assessed it, and admitted.....

Defeat.

I read the headlines behind my eyes for that moment.

"man cut down in prime of Life by....."

"student's Life cut short..."

"boy with his whole Life ahead of him..."

Life

Life

Life.

Life...is a game. Isn't it? I was always the assumption that it was. Just a game. Play, don't play. Win, lose. What's the difference? But I like to play. I'm good at it.

I love to live.

And I think that I can appreciate it for what it is. And that my friends -- my worried, strung up, cautious little friends -- That is what's important.

And let me tell you what isn't important. Stuff is not important. Normality is not important. Its not important that you overslept, or that you're dog peed on your couch, or that you never learned to play the violin, or that the love of your life left you. Its not important that you're stupid and ugly and talentless. Which you probably aren't really anyway. But even if you actually were all those faulty things you think you are, its still not really important.

There really are far too many things in life which are not really important.

Then again, without all that shit, it wouldn't really be life, now would it?

Now, I'm not here to tell you what to do, or how to think, or what to watch on TV. I'm a cynic. I make observations. You can discount them as useless, or find lesson in them. That's up to you.

Here's what I say, though. Stop worrying about fucking it all up. You're inevitable going to fuck it up no matter what you do, or how careful you are. That's part of it. Stop trying to hold on to it. You can't. And if you could, you wouldn't really want to. If you think that's what you want, you're either exceedingly boring, or just afraid. Fear is an illusion. Play it, don't let it play you. Games are not always about results and competition. Sometimes Games are just about games.

Love Life.

This is an old post from :: 5 / 19 / 2000

There are many things in this world that absolutely suck...diarreah, that asshole with the subwoofer in his pinto next to you at the stoplight, your ex-best friend's manipulative whore/bitch girlfriend who makes me completely nauseated with her stupid little baby voice...but the things that are pissing me off this week are cd burners and gastroenterologists. Lets start with the gastro guys.

Now your gastroenterologist seems like your friend. Hi, how are ya, good to see you, sorry to hear your puking...that type of schpiel. So you tell him you feel shitty, he says there's really nothing wrong with you, but he'll prescribe some useless old drug to you for your piece of mind, and you should be done. But no, the man just has to examine you.

Examine. That's what they call it. What they really mean is "I'm going to apply intense pressure on various parts of your body to see if anything explodes." So he pokes you, pushes you, prods you, and after each "test" you clench your teeth and tell him it doesn't hurt in the hopes, misplaced hopes I might add, that he won't put on the glove. But oh no, the glove comes out, time after time after time. The glove comes out, along with the "lubricant" and the glove goes on the hand of this suddenly possessed ghoul, and he points his merciless, formidable index finger. "Turn on your side please," he says with a smirk, but what he really means is "Assume the position in which it will be easiest for me to watch you squirm." And then he takes his merciless, formidable index finger and sticks it,...well I think we all know where he sticks it. But for those who don't know...it goes RIGHT UP YOUR FRICKIN ASS. Oh and it doesn't stop there. It digs. It drills for oil. It scavenges for gold. He rams what seems to be his entire arm up my ass before he finds anything "useful" at which point he removes the offending appendage from points south and puts it back where it belongs. And that, my friends, my simple, naive friends, is "how they getcha". Bastards.

And what does it tell them? What does this insane experiment tell those bastards? It tells them, anti-climacticly, that you aren't shitting blood or corn or gold. And what better way to find out if I'm shitting gold, then by ramming your finger up my ass. Hmmmm, how about FRICKIN ASKING ME??? I mean I would think...I would HOPE...that if I was shitting gold, I'd be the first frickin person to know that I was shitting gold, and I sure as hell don't think I would need a supposed doctor to ram his entire torso up my ass, searching for gold, just to tell me that I'm not going to be shitting any, any time soon. So that, in a large nutshell, is my beef with gastroenterologists.

Now why don't we talk about my current dilemma, the cd burner. The cd burner is an intriguing device. It brings with it a feeling of power. Power to create and listen to cd's, the technology behind which is far beyond the capacities of most of us. Of course, we don't need to understand how a cd works to make one. All we have to do, is point, and click.

See, that's what they want you to think, those high paid corporate computer pricks, with their billions of dollars and their market monopolies and their stinking PC's that ACTUALLY FRICKIN WORK. I hate those guys. Because my computer never works. It doesn't do what I tell it to do. Most of the time it doesn't do anything. It sits, and it hums, and every time I put a simple task at its feet, it passes out, and when I finally revive it, it sits, and hums a little bit louder, with a little bit of an audible limp. And that, my friends, is clearly not good.

And they make you think its your fault. that you must have done something wrong, clicked the wrong click or pointed the wrong point, because the computer doesn't make mistakes. Oh no, the pc is flawless, it must be you, the stupid, feeble, dumbass, jerkoff user... that's the problem. Well let me tell you a little secret. Its not you, or me, or him that's the problem. (well maybe him, he looks like trouble) Its actually the computer. The computers are all connected and they plot against us when we're not looking and then, when they make us crazy, when we're hopping up and down yelling expletives at them...what do they do? They laugh. they tell all their networked computer buddies about the dumbass who they made cry.

That's what they do.

Well I for one am not gonna take it anymore. When my computer gives me trouble, I'm gonna fix it. I'm gonna fix every fucking problem with my computer. I'll break it in. Make it tame. I'm determined. Soon, it'll be doing what I want. It'll be purring quietly, processing every command I issue with full efficiency. And then what'll I do?

I'll laugh.

Oh yes I will laugh.

This is an old post from :: 5 / 10 / 2000

The thing about staying up all night is, you're up all frickin night. Now I'm not talking about your wild, all night party where there's alcohol and loose women and mind expanding drugs. No no no. I'm talking about your boring, hellish, I'd -rather- be- operating- on- my- own- eyeballs than- be- here- doing- this -stupid -shit -all -night all nighter.

So I had to stay up all night recently. I was not, as they say, coolio. Now none of this would've happened if I had simply had the insight to start studying maybe tow days ahead of time intead of the night before, but I just can't. I'm just not one of those people that can sitt around being all studious and responsible, preparing for a test that is 48 whole hours away, when there are sitcoms to be watched and doritos to be eaten. I mean, those video games aren't gonna just play themselves.

So I opt for the sounder, simpler method of cramming six weeks of information into my brainnn in eight short hours. And its not like I actually started the day before. I mean come on, you get up at a leisurely noon or so, you eat lunch, you check your email, before you know it its dinner time, and then, well shit you can't very well miss prime time tv, and when you finally get down to it, well double shit its ten o'clock. Throw in the inevitable distractions of the communications age (phone, internet, nintendo) and you've got your work cut out for you.

So I go to the science building. Its the only plaec where you can really get down to serious, progressive WORK. And they have cool games on the computers down there. The ones that work anyway. Half of the computers in the so called "electronics lab" are bags of electronic shit. It funny, they look like normal computers, and they behave like normal computers; uintil, that is, you get to the point where you've made some real headway and you can finally release all of that procratinatory guilt and you casually hit the little disk icon in the top left hand corner of the screen that just beckons to you to put your precious work away for posterity and suddenly you realize that this particular computer is actually possessed by several very obstinate demons that want you to have stress related ulcers until your whole life consists of doing what your therapist tells you to do and changing your colostomy bag.

But I digress.

Anyway, I got to the science building only to find the electronics lab filled with people studying electronics. I mean the nerve. Clearly that space is supposed to be reserved for my personal use whenever I need it. I mean how I am supposed to get anything done when the environment is overrun with people...and they're studying. There is nothing worse then a room full of people studying. They only maaake you feel bad about yourself. I mean that guy is clearly studying harder then I ever have. Look at him, with his furrowed brow, actually reading the text book...I didn't think anybody actually read the textbook. I set drinks on mine.

So finally I started studying. I worked problems, read through examples, reviewed my notes. Well, what notes I had anyway. Of course, I really wasn't ablt to string together more than fifteen minutes of constant studying. After fifteen minutes I totally lost control and reverted back to my procrastinating, video game playing, internet-porn perusing lazy ass persona. And that's not good for anybody.

So as you can imagine, it takes me slightly longer to gain understannding of the material than most people. So yeah, I stayed up all night, but it was worht it. I think I kicked some test-ass today and I'm not lookin back. Of course, once the cleaning staff arrived at 5:30 AM I decided that it was time for a change of atmosphere. I returned to my room to be exceedingly loud, waking up my roomate in a flurry of papers, programs, textbooks, and underwear.

Underwear becomes scarce during finals week, especially clean underwear. I'm not sure what happens to it, but somehow after all your tests are done and you've been wearing the same stretched out emergency pair that keeps falling down whenever you unzip, they all suddenly reappear and demand equal rights.

Its cool though. I'm done now. And Beetlejuice is on. I love that house.

This is an old post from :: 5 / 7 / 2000

So let me just say I admire their bravery, but enough is enough.

I had the extreme displeasure of enduring 50 minutes of high school students mutilating well known works of music. There were violinists, pianists, and of course the most humbling...vocalists.

Now I'm sure as high school students go, these were pretty decent, but as musicians go, they sucked. They didn't just suck. Whatever the slang is for a higher degree of overall suckiness, they did that.

Anyway, the reason I was there was that I was playing bass to accompany a few pianists. Now these guys were pretty good. However, when I arrived at the recital hall, I discovered that these three musicians were last in the program and that I would have to sit through fifteen other performances of the incredibly sucky variety. I was not, as they say, "down wit it."

In fact, I had to stifle vomit several times. Now I can see how a father or mother would be able to look past the overwhelming suckage that occurred there tonight, but i simply could not. They sucked. They were the suckiest bunch of sucks that ever sucked. At least the instrumentalists could sort of fake it. I mean, you don't have to be a top notch musician to enable me to not be physically ill as a result of your playing. The vocalists were another story.

The vocalists must have been joking. Now if you're a vocalist and you suck, you really don't need to go through all those motions with the hands and the neck and the eyes, like your performing a solemn soliliquy on broadway, staring into the distance, and you just can't repress the passion that the song and your own magnificence inspires in you. And yet all crappy-ass singers do this. They close their eyes and wave their hands and they still suck. its embarrassing. I mean I know the person sucks...everyone else seems to know that the person sucks, its painfully obvious that there is much suckiness being sucked, but somehow, amidst the overwhelming evidence, the person still does not seem to know that he or she absolutely blows. Its bizarre.

Now don't get me wrong, there was one person that was decent. But you could tell that she was all cocky and full of herself. And she played like eight times on eight different frickin instruments, just so there could be no question...just so you'd be totally convinced that if you knew her, you'd want to confine her to a turkish prison.

So after all the suckage had ended, we rocked. We were tight, and down, and various other esoteric musician slang terms. And I'm pretty sure I'd had all those high school girls droolin.

This is an old post from :: 5 / 4 / 2000

Fucking foreigners.

You know, I really shouldn't make generalizations like that.

Fucking Stamen. He's fucking foreign.

He's really starting to piss me off, with his all too american winks and his not using any pronouns. Where does he get off?

Stamen is the foreign kid who is in my group for Statistics class. And let me tell you, he's about to become one. A statistic, that is. With his industrious foreign work ethic and his getting things done. Fucking jerk.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'd be drooling all over the guy if he was actually doing things right. But he's not. Oh no. He's just doing things. Not even the right things. And what the hell is he speaking? It's like esperanto or something.

So, to back up a bit, we have this statistics project to do, and there are three of us: Me, Stamen, and Julie. Now we're all competent individuals. You'd think that we'd be able to distribute some surveys and make conclusions about them. Monkeys could do it.

So Stamen happens to have all the data. And then he happens to have everything done. Except for the minor hiccups that most of it is crap and all of it is in some strange slovakian language that only certain sects of monks still speak in countries with names like "Crappelplachia". And he has all the frickin data so Julie and I can't even fix anything.

So that brings me to the present moment. It's 2 AM, the stupid thing is due tomorrow, and no one is around. How did I get here you ask? How did I arrive at this state of affairs, with only hours left before the due date, and certain key parts of the project, namely the words, missing? Well I'll tell you.

You see, it all would have worked out fine if it weren't for stucky. But no, stucky had to go and fuck everything up. Stucky is my physics professor, and he decided to give a small test today.

The test started out easy enough. One problem, pretty simple, open book. So I finish the problem, I'm getting up to leave, and stucky walks in...looking around with that gleam in his eye just like the one that spitting dinosaur gets in Jurassic Park right before he eats the big fat guy.

He tells us that after we solve the problem, we have to write a computer program to display it, and also find a solution to the problem of world hunger. Then if we have time we're to solve the mystery of cold fusion. Cake, right?

So let me just tell you, right off the bat, cause I can tell that you're a little bit worried, that everything turned out ok. I wrote the program, and it worked and it only took me FIVE FRICKIN HOURS. Do you know what you can do in five hours? You could set up a small accounting firm in five hours. You could drive 300 miles. You could watch 600 beer commercials. You could get drunk and be sober again.

So naturally I didn't plan on spending five hours on that test, but I did, and so one thing ran into another, and I've been out till now. Till 2 AM, and now I come home to discover that a foreign guy with a thick accent and bad goatee holds 33% of my statistics grade in his hands, which are probably dirty (you know how those foreigners are, no hygiene) , and there's really nothing i can do about it.

I need a drink. And a firearm.

This is an old post from :: 5 / 3 / 2000

Now admit it, there's a lot to be said for infomercials. Now they may not all represent the best and brightest products on the market, but you know you love 'em, and you know you've fallen for at least one of the "as seen on TV" gimmicks. Don't lie.

You know, deep down inside in places that you don't like to talk about at parties, you know that you bought that Miracle Mop. You know you did. You can deny it all you want, but I bet you remember trying to get that damn thing to wring out, twisting that little nob like its actually gonna work. Then I bet you got so pissed at the thing you got down on your hands and knees and wrung the thing out yourself, just to prove a point. What point, you ask? Good question.

Anyway, I'm not saying that the miracle mop, or the spray on hair, or the fat trapper weren't completely idiotic products that only a complete tool would invest in. I'm just saying that there are exceptions to the rule.

Like, for instance, the Ronco Showtime Rotisserie Oven and Barbeque. Now this product is a true gem. You just can't beat it. Chef tested, you just set it and forget it. I mean you can fit nine hamburgers in the thing. Or five whole salmon filets. Or an entire rack of lamb. A whole roast chicken. A king sized sofa bed. AND keep the veggies warm at the same time. How can you beat that? Plus you get the flavor injector, a book of coupons, a set of genuine rubber barbeque gloves...it'd be crazy not to buy. You hear me? Crazy.

Now trust me, I'm not being paid by Ron Popeil to advertise for the Showtime Rotisserie Oven. I'm just obsessed with the thing. The prepaid commercial programming just comes on, and there all this food, and you start salivating, drooling all over yourself. You just have to have it. Well I have to have it.

So I've been pining after the Showtime for a good six months now, and no one has really offered to buy me one or anything. I mean it's only as wide as a toaster oven...

Not that I can blame them. I mean, I have a bunch of cool toys that I kinda never use at all. Like the sandwich maker...you know, the one where you really just make a sandwich and then this ingenious device grills it and closes it together into a pocket? See the problem with that one is, once you close it into the pocket, you pretty much seal a whole lot of super heated gas into the pocket too, so if you're unfortunate enough to actually bite in to the pocket, your mouth becomes exposed to lots of molten cheese and meat and bread, and pretty much your entire face melts. So that's not much fun. I used it about once, and it's been sitting in the "hazardous to face" pile since then.

Then there was the Miracle Mixer. It was this little hand mixer that was supposed to be powerful enough to whip cream.

It turns out that the only thing it was able to do was to mix powdered ice tea into a quart of water, and even then it was grainy. It was supposed to come with a surgical steel blade...ours was like aluminum foil. It couldn't cut marshmellow.

Anyway, you might say I'm gullible. Or you might say I have an eye for shelf art.

This is an old post from :: 5 / 3 / 2000

Let's face it. I have bizarre dreams. There's really no way around it.

Now by bizarre, I don't mean the kind of funny, sort of HA HA dreams that you tell at parties and make into movies. No sir. I have the weird, disturbing sort of dreams that you ponder late at night along with the ontological necessity of man's existential dilemma and scrapple and stuff. I mean, how the hell do people eat that stuff? Do they know what's in it?

But I digress. Where was I? Oh right.

My dreams are weird. Take the other day for example, there I am, just minded my own unconscious business, when I start having another psycho dream. I'm in bed, in my dream, and I wake up, also in my dream not for real. And what I see when I wake up, is my girlfriend. Seems pretty normal right. Wrong. The weird part is, SHE"S HOLDING MY FRICKIN' HEAD IN HER HAND. Like gripping my severed head by the hair and holding it up for me to see, which I can because somehow I also still have a head. And then I just look at her, like we're in a mentos commercial or something. Like I'm thinking "Oh, that Amy, she's a trickster."

Do you find that to be just a bit strange? Hmmmm? Well I do. I mean don't get me wrong, I don't obsess about it or doubt my sanity or anything, I just think it's pretty frickin' weird.

This is an old post from :: 5 / 2 / 2000

So called "student leaders" suck my ass. Not literally of course, because I wouldn't let a "student leader" get anywhere near any part of me, especially my ass. I fear that if one did stray from the single file, follow-the-mindless-slob-in-front-of-me path of the "student leader" so as to get within close proximity of my ass, I might feel the need to assault him or her violently with a tack hammer. And I just don't have the money for that kind of dry-cleaning.

Anyway, the reason I'm homicidal toward the so called "student leaders" is because they clearly do not possess the level of competency required to lead a sock puppet, let alone another student. And despite this overwhelming idiocy that pervades "student leadershhip organizations" these so called "student leaders" continue to be recognized. The administration, or as we like to call them, the room full of chimpanzees with memo pads, goes out of their way to find something about a so called "student leader" to recognize.

These feelings stem from the annual awards ceremony that took place today at the college I attend. The idea behind the ceremony, in a nutshell, is this: a bunch of complete morons who somehow gained control of the school (possibly through the use of firearms and pickup trucks) get together and pick out the most severely retarded individuals that they can find, and then put them in charge of distributing awards. Then these monkees go about finding the most obviously unqualified, incompetent individuals on campus and give them all the awards. Sounds fair to me.

Anyway, as you may have guessed, I've been overlooked in the awards department this year, and I can't help but feel a little jilted. This is partly because they gave my award to a glass of orange juice. Or a girl with comparable intellect...tomAto, tomotto.

So here I sit, unrecognized for all of my hard work as a "student leader," having made a decision. First I decided that, as previously stated, "student leaders" suck my ass. And secondly, since "student leaders" suck my ass, I can no longer be part of this illustrious group, partly because of my new found cynicism, and partly because the sheer mechanics of sucking my own ass are mind-boggeling. So I'm throwing in the blood soaked towel, after having every ounce of optimism and enthusiasm sucked out of me by the monkees with memo pads, and the other so called "student leaders." Free at last.

This is an old post from :: 4 / 27 / 2000

So called "student leaders" suck my ass. Not literally of course, because I wouldn't let a "student leader" get anywhere near any part of me, especially my ass. I fear that if one did stray from the single file, follow-the-mindless-slob-in-front-of-me path of the "student leader" so as to get within close proximity of my ass, I might feel the need to assault him or her violently with a tack hammer. And I just don't have the money for that kind of dry-cleaning.

Anyway, the reason I'm homicidal toward the so called "student leaders" is because they clearly do not possess the level of competency required to lead a sock puppet, let alone another student. And despite this overwhelming idiocy that pervades "student leadershhip organizations" these so called "student leaders" continue to be recognized. The administration, or as we like to call them, the room full of chimpanzees with memo pads, goes out of their way to find something about a so called "student leader" to recognize.

These feelings stem from the annual awards ceremony that took place today at the college I attend. The idea behind the ceremony, in a nutshell, is this: a bunch of complete morons who somehow gained control of the school (possibly through the use of firearms and pickup trucks) get together and pick out the most severely retarded individuals that they can find, and then put them in charge of distributing awards. Then these monkees go about finding the most obviously unqualified, incompetent individuals on campus and give them all the awards. Sounds fair to me.

Anyway, as you may have guessed, I've been overlooked in the awards department this year, and I can't help but feel a little jilted. This is partly because they gave my award to a glass of orange juice. Or a girl with comparable intellect...tomAto, tomotto.

So here I sit, unrecognized for all of my hard work as a "student leader," having made a decision. First I decided that, as previously stated, "student leaders" suck my ass. And secondly, since "student leaders" suck my ass, I can no longer be part of this illustrious group, partly because of my new found cynicism, and partly because the sheer mechanics of sucking my own ass are mind-boggeling. So I'm throwing in the blood soaked towel, after having every ounce of optimism and enthusiasm sucked out of me by the monkees with memo pads, and the other so called "student leaders." Free at last.

This is an old post from :: 4 / 18 / 2000 :: Feel The burn

Clearly human beings are not meant to be that big. Too big, that's what they are. By "they," of course I mean the bulky, bulging behemoths that frequent the weight room.

Now I'm not knocking the beloved pastime of working out. Oh no, not at all, for of that crime I too am guilty. But really there's just no need to be that revoltingly huge. But, as usual I'm getting ahead of myself.

So I walk into the gym today, just another normal day at the gym...until of course I see these two gargantuan men lifting weight equal to that of a motel unit over their heads, while at the same time managing to grunt like angry rottweilers. Now everyone's seen one of these type of guys. They have them at every gym. They lift insanely heavy weights and become so large that they lose the flexibility necessary to scratch their asses. It's true...they have to rely on one another for their ass-scratching needs.

Now first of all, bravo to these pioneers for having become the most revoltingly large beasts I've had the displeasure to observe, and also a big kudos to them for making me feel about as tough as Mrs. Kevkelstein, the 94 year old jewish woman who lives across the street from me and only leaves the house to have her knees drained and empty her colostomy bag.

It seems as though at the gym, everybody is always trying to show everybody else up. At least all the men are. I think the women have some other silly motive, like losing weight or something. The men are pretty much there to (a) look at the women, (b) try to impress the women by putting forth feverish efforts to lift weights that are clearly to heavy for them before their heads explode, and (c) give themselves hernia's. Most men don't have much trouble with (a) and (c), but it's the (b) part that takes up the largest portion of a man's time in the gym, and also the part which no one ever seems to succeed at. Probably because women pretty much don't give a shit how much you can lift. Funny, no one ever seems to realize that.

Then of course there's the complete psychos that are there with one goal: to simultaneously lift the equivalent of every weight and piece of equipment in the gym that is not nailed down over their heads, or die trying. It's these guys that get inordinately large and consequently have trouble scratching their asses. They also seem to be somehow genetically predisposed the the word "yo."

Anyway, they continued grunting endearingly while they pumped 800 pound dumbells up and down, while their faces showed signs that their heads were close to exploding. After an hour or so of hitting their heads on the ceiling tiles and saying things like "My bad, was that your spleen?"

they finally left. Since the encounter my ass has been unexplicably itchy, and I constantly feel the urge to "blast my pecs."

This is an old post from :: 4 - 17 - 2000

I suppose now I have an audience.

Well technically I don't have an audience yet since no one

knows that I'm doing this, except Amy of course, but as you (when I say you what I really mean is the collective, plural you consisting mainly of Amy) will inevitably learn, she doesn't really count as an audience.

Anyway, to start things off, lets talk about me. After all what the hell else is there to talk about?

Lets start with what I am exactly. That's sort of tough. I can definately tell you what I'm not. I'm not a writer. Well not technically anyway, I mean I am writing so I guess inadvertantly I am a writer but you know what I mean. I'm not a politician. I used to be. More on that later. I'm not a rockstar...yet.

I'm in college, blah blah blah, learning, blah blah blah, life experience, blah blah blah. Mainly my life consists of blah blah blah.

Apart from the blah blah blah, I'm an aspiring musician. And physicist. I can't decide. I figure I'll eventually fall into something. That's the primary way in which I plan my life. I plan to fall into things.

I plan that someday I'll fall into something big and become rich and famous and free of bloating. Cause right now I'm bloated, on a completely random and unrelated note. But one day, hopefully soon, I plan to not be bloated.

Aside from the bloating, life is pretty good right now. Classes are less than impossible, sleep is abundant, Amy's cool, and the ice tea cooler is especially sweet. Nothing beats ice tea cooler.

So no complaints, for now. But complaints are my specialty so expect them in the future. Anyway, this being my first "entry," I won't launch into any long, drawn out, but hilarious stories. I'll save that for my second and subsequent "entries". Also, unless someone emails me, I'll assume that no one is reading this, and write accordingly. Night.

Alright, so I did it. I didn't want to, and I was wholely against the idea from the start, but it was an emergency and I caved.


I took a shit at work.


Yeah, that's right, I took a big shit at work, and what are you gonna do about it, huh? That's what I thought.


I hate doing it really. I mean you're in there, there's only one stall and one urinal. Everyone knows everyone else. They know you're in there. They know what you're doing. Don't think they don't. They know exactly what goes on in there. Plus its a small room. It's tiled. Very echoey. Its like an ampitheater in there. Every time you go in there, you're putting on a very public rectal concert. And what if you stink up the joint. They're gonna know you smell like shit. Think you can get away with it? Wrong. People know. They just do.


Anyway, it really was an emergency. I'd been feeling that familiar gurling borborygmus in the pit of my stomach since that breakfast burrito. And all day it had been churning and festering, just waiting to come back and bite me in the ass. Literally.


I mean I was in real, physical pain here, people. My colon was about about to swell and burst, into a million tiny little colons...like in fantasia, except with feces. It was not pleasant. So I got up, limped/walked all the way over to the other side of the building, all the while expertly maintaining anal integrity, until I got to the second, lesser known, kind of tucked away bathroom way down the hall. Nobody used that thing, even though it had the big handicapped stall with the wide lane and the guide rails. You can't beat that. It's the first class ticket of public bowel movement. And that restroom has two stalls, so you get a nice buffer between you and any would-be pee-ers.


So anyway, I got over there, and the place was virtually deserted. Even the surrounding cubicles were empty. I mean it was 5 ish, on friday afternoon....barely anyone around. So I strode in confidently, but still lightly, as not to arouse any sort of sympathetic urges from any nearby urethra's. So I got in, and of course chose the super spacious handicapped concert hall toilet, with the buffer stall inbetween me and the urinal. And there I was, feeling pretty good, everything was coming out just fine, when the unthinkable happened. I hear the door open. Someone came in. There was a pause. A trickle. He was peeing! Here, in my bathroom, right in the middle of my super secret 007 evacuation. The nerve.


So of course with the buffer stall, and my not breathing, I don't think that schmuck ever even knew I was in there gettin down. And to top it all off, he didn't even wash his hands. Dirty bastard.


So yeah, it wasn't the first time....it won't be the last, but somehow, no one really seems to give a shit.