Old age and gambling

The convergence of old age and prodigious gambling skills should payoff tonight when I will, without ceremony, ferret my sorry ass into St. Catherines Bingo parlour.

I will do this for two reasons.
First, to deprive old bitches of any remaining joy in their lives that would otherwise result from their franticly shouting the term “Bingo”, while flailing their de-moo-moo’d arm fat wildly about.

Second, to cover tomorrow’s Kentucky Derby losses.

Genius has never come easier.

He sees me when I’m sleeping?

Seriously?
I’m sleeping for fuck’s sake.
What kind of shenanigans does he think I’m up while in the land of nod anyway?
Not a damned thing, that’s what, well, not unless you count the occasional night-woody. And I’m pretty sure that doesn’t count for much. (My wife can attest to that).

And while we’re on the topic, how does he even know when I’m awake, not unless he hangs out the entire time I’m sleeping…right up the point where I awaken.
Now that’s just creepy.

Someone ought to look into this.
If anyone should be watched while they’re sleeping and awake, I think it should be him for goodness sakes.

Should have used barbecue sauce

Sometimes I watch Animal Planet on Sundays and wonder just how it happened that a hyena got to be a hyena and more importantly, why I got to be human and not a hyena. Then I think about whether or not Mr Hyena knows how great it is being human and all the cool shit he’s missing out on, like not being able to drive a truck or screw an Asian prostitute in a basket hanging from the ceiling.
And that makes me wonder about the whole cosmic narrative and who or what decided he was going to be a hyena and me human. Was it was luck of the draw, or was something else at play?
Something else meaning he probably fucked-up serious in a previous life and got sent back to Earth as a hyena, this in some hellacious form of penance. Seems plausible.

Lets say you ax murdered your seventh grade auto shop teacher and ate him for lunch. I totally get this.

God: “So uh, says here you killed Mr Hanson with a power drill and ate him…is that correct?”

Soon to be hyena: “Uh, yeah…all true God.”

God: “Well then, since you seem to have a taste for killing, and eating things uncooked, I’m sending you back as a hyena.”

STBH: “Can I say something in my defense?”

God: “Proceed.”

STBH: “After killing Mr Hanson, I really did plan on cooking him first, but I forgot to pay my power bill that month and the only way I could prepare him was on an old barbecue, and that’s when I got really confused. I didn’t have any bbq sauce on hand and ketchup seemed redundant…[God interupting]

God: “You missed the whole point—you shouldn’t have killed him in the first place.”

STBH: “Any chance I could stay and apologize to him, would that make things right?”

God: “Seriously? He’s sitting over there…in about thirty pieces on the floor.”

STBH: “Oh yeah, then there’s that.”

God: [poof]

Hyena: “Shit!”

My top 10 reasons for not wanting to be President

Let’s say there was a war to end all wars someday. A real doozy. A war so so devastating, its final campaign was the dispatch of a thousand nuclear warheads targeting the most populated cities of the world, ensuring the survival on no-one.
But just for shit’s sakes, remarkably, I somehow managed to survive the event. That only me and a bunch of half-wit cannibals from Papua New Guinea were all who remained.
I still wouldn’t want to be President of the United Whatever and here are my top ten reasons why:

1. There’d be no button left to push.  Half the fun of being President (I suspect) is having my admin ring up the President of Guam (or some other shithole nation) on days when I’m bored, informing him if he doesn’t sock at least half his country’s wealth into a numbered offshore account in the Caymans, there’s a big red button in my office with his name on it. But now, my Oval Office has been replaced by something resembling a homeless shelter with no big red button anywhere in sight. Shit.
2. No Cuban Cigars survived the blast. I love Cuban cigars but there would be none left. Not after a blast like that. Equally as disturbing would be the conspicuous absence of an idiot intern with whom I could bang with those same cigars. But there are no interns either. This makes me sad in a weird way but I’m not sure why. You’d think the absence of one would negate the need for the other but in my mind, it’s really unclear. In either case, I wouldn’t want to be President without both.
3. No slum neighborhoods. Every U.S. President throughout history has had a street named after him, and, its nearly always in a slum neighborhood. With all the slums gone, having been reduced to ash, I’d have to forgo having my own boulevard namesake. And while I could go around spray painting my name all over rubble with no consequences, somehow, it wouldn’t be the same.
4. Air Force One is now Air Force None. Yes the plane was joyriding, keeping the former President safe while the world was being destroyed. But now it’s just sitting there on the tarmac with no pilot, no fuel and, no President. (He eventually landed, stepped outside to take a peek at the devastation and was instantly fried by the radiation) This is really fucked-up, and, one hell of a reason for my not wanting to be President. Being unable to go cruising in AF-1 on a Friday night, doing low-speed passes over the local high-school football game would be a real downer. Besides, all my high-school honeys are now dust.
5. Porn. I don’t really see me getting my Presidential freak-on with some jabbering, low-hanging, pointed-tittied survivor from New Guinea. At least not without some jealous tribesman trying to kill and boil me in a big black cauldron. Fuck that. That’s why I’d need some internet porn. But the internet is now lint, and for me to conjure up distant memories of  my one and only adolescent sex experience—a high-school handy under the bleachers isn’t going to be enough to satisfy this Presidential libido. No sir. Another good reason to not want to be Pres.
6. There’d be no wars left to start. Part of the draw of being a U.S. President I would think, is how you’d be the most powerful man on the planet—able to start shit with any country—anytime, anyplace. Well not anymore. Everyone’s dead, taking all the joy out of fucking with other nations. Well, not everyone. There’d always be those fucks in Papua I could kill if need be. But I don’t see the point. They really don’t have anything I want. They’re broke and have no natural resources I could plunder like oil or uranium, and their women. Their women wouldn’t even make it at the Candy Store and that’s got to be the worst strip club in all of the United States. Besides, they draw flies.
7. No peeing in public. Unequivocally, the best part of having a non-presidential baloney pony is the ability to pee all over the place. However, as President, I can’t see myself going around pissing in public after a dozen or so pints. Presidents are not invisible. Not like me anyway after a night of drinking, making the likelihood of getting busted a real possibility. That just wouldn’t be right. In fact, it’s downright unbecoming of a standing (or sitting) U.S. President. I shudder at the thought.
8. Nothing would be illegal. One might think, and wrongfully so, that all my years of Catholicism made for an unhealthy fear of rotting in Hell someday, the result of a life fraught with debauchery. Again, wrong. Doing shit that’s illegal is half the fun of living. Whether it be psychotropic drugs or shoplifting a present for my kid’s 2nd birthday, all good fun. But imagine a world where no one’s left and everything’s legal. And, you’re the President. Where’s the fun in that?  Sorry, count me out.
9. Unspent Campaign Donations. If elected and on the off-chance there were unspent campaign funds remaining in my war chest, it wouldn’t be good. Knowing me, I’d probably go on a strip club bender until all the money was gone. One small problem.  No strip clubs (and no women) meaning I’d have to sit in the burned-out remains of some former strip club, tossing singles at cockroaches or rats or something. I don’t see myself doing this. Even as President. Do rats have tits?
10. Lying is hard. Ever since the time grandpa caught me checking out the neighbor girl’s bush and then lying about it to his face, I’ve never really cared much for lying. It’s hard and you need to be really good at it if you don’t want to get busted. I think Presidents are good liars and if the truth was ever known, probably did their fair share of ogling the neighbor kid’s hoo-haws too.  But with no cigars, women, porn, anything illegal, and no-one left to impeach me, I just don’t see the appeal of being President.

Yeah, no…I don’t want to be President. Ever.

My top 10, maybe 15 reasons for not sleeping

Despite the findings of the entire medical community, I’ve come to the conclusion, or perhaps more accurately, the conviction, that sleep is a monumental waste of time.
Now you may think I’m full of shit on this one, and from the world in which you reside, you may be right.
But hear me out. I believe my logic is pretty sound.

Let’s say you manage to live to eighty years old.
Twenty four of those years or roughly a third will be spent sleeping, another twenty or so in learning institutions and the remainder, unless you’re a perma-student, will be spent trying to eek out a living.
Ultimately, you, right along with with your octogenarian cohorts will while the time away in some raisin ranch where you’ll ruminate over how fast life passed all of you by, completely oblivious to the fact that 24 of those years were spent sleeping.

Well fuck that. Like Thoreau suggested, I’m marching (really plodding) to the beat of a different drummer—namely, Albert Einstein.

Using Einstein’s postulate of how time slows the faster one moves through it and connecting the dots between ones not sleeping being tantamount to their moving slower through time, I deductively reasoned how (assuming I’ll live to eighty) I can recapture at least 10, maybe 15 of those years.
I stopped sleeping three months ago.

The results are kind-of a mixed bag, but overall, Einstein was right. Time does slow down.
Here are my findings thus far…

Initially,  I was tired and grumpy the first few days, but that soon gave way to a heightened sense of awareness. Friends and family captioned this as my being a bit ‘jumpy’.
I suppose one could argue this ‘jumpiness’ may have been the result of my central nervous system freaking out, but I see it as the direct result of their continuing to move quickly through time while I on the other hand managed to slow considerably,  perhaps giving them the misguided belief I’m still moving quickly, when in all actuality I’m not.
I’m barely moving at all.

After a week or so, the jumpiness subsided and I began to see how Einstein was right on target. Time does in fact slow down—to a miserably excruciating crawl.
Minutes are now like hours, almost as if I’ve time traveled back to the eighth grade and am impatiently awaiting the seventh period bell.
There were other changes too.
Like how my body is unable to disseminate being hungry from being tired causing me to gain a couple of unwanted pounds. In this case it was ten or so. A small price to pay for adding some number of years back to to my life one would think.

Another side affect I should probably mention is how emotions are now set to high alert…DEFCON FUCKING TEN to be more precise.
I suspect this is the result of my central nervous system not keeping pace with our new sleep (or lack thereof) habits, but I have no empirical data to support this. For this reason, I’m going with Einstein again.

Time has slowed, meaning I have more time to do the things I never had time for before—namely, laughing and crying.
Prompted by little more than a traffic light suddenly changing from yellow to red, I now find myself weeping when the light turns red. Conversely, a green light is now a joyous occasion, one prompting cheers and laughter.
And while I seem to be more in touch with my ‘feelings’ these days, there have been some drawbacks to my newly found state of heightened sensual awareness.

Like how the laughter or crying may occur at inopportune moments.

BFF: “Dude, my mom passed away last night…I have to fly back home to Austin tomorrow”

Me:  “I’m sorry to hear that. [laughing wildly]

BFF:  [after short pause] “The fuck is wrong with you…why are you laughing?”

Me:  [hand cupped over mouth, suppressing laughter]  “Dude…I have no idea why I’m laughing. I’m really sorry.”

I haven’t talked to my BFF in a couple weeks. Or maybe it’s been a couple of months. I’m not sure.
I suspect it had something to do with his mom dying.
He’s probably bereaved.

Why I love Phoenix

4:00 A.M. Heading to work

A reasonable alternative

The prospect of death frightens me, but there are days when it has its appeal.
Then I remember how I never erased the playlist ‘Creed..fuck yeah‘ from my Ipod.
Listening to it seems a reasonable alternative to death, only without the actual dying part.