Nobody wants to admit to themselves how they really do suffer from OCD.
But eventually, it becomes inevitable when you find yourself frozen, standing there staring at that newly opened jar of peanut butter, torn between satiating your hunger pangs and not wanting to ruin its silky smooth surface texture.
It’s been two days.
I really would like a pbj right now.
I wish my wife liked peanut butter.
And why did my barber give me bangs yesterday? God I look stupid. Fucking Sal.
Archive for March, 2012
Nobody wants to admit to themselves how they really do suffer from OCD.
If I happen to die in an automobile accident, I hope at least it’s while transporting a large pot of my wife’s spaghetti sauce somewhere.
I don’t want to die in a car crash, but there’s a certain consolation that comes from knowing the paramedics wouldn’t be so grossed out from all the blood typically associated with such an event, as they call the boys back at the station, asking they get a pot of water on to boil and heat up some garlic bread.
Yeah, I could totally see myself going out like this.
Or maybe the pot would spill all over me.
And they wouldn’t know where the blood left off and the sauce started. That might be even better.
Our national lottery, Mega Millions has now reached an all-time high of over half a billion dollars. But I’m sure you already knew that due to your seeing a massive uptick in prayers…or should I say bartering.
Bartering does seem more appropriate.
I’m guessing you’re hearing all kinds strange prayers right about now, many promising anything and everything if you were to somehow rig the winning numbers in their favor.
But you’ll never hear me praying for a lottery win. No sir. I’m saving that big prayer just in case you load me up with cancer or some new strain of syphilis.
Which is why I suggest you ignore all these lottery player’s bullshit prayers.
I think people will say anything for that kind of money. I know I would.
I’ve never sucked a dick in my life, not even a hint of gayness in my being, but for over a half a billion…I can see me promising you how I’d make some queer one happy motherfucker!
My point is simply this.
Anyone who sits there and tells you how they’ll be a better spouse or parent is full of shit.
Or how they’ll continue to live a life fraught with humility in your honor—or my personal favorite, how they’d give back—donating countless millions to charity. All lies.
I live amongst these animals God and can tell you first hand, it’s all bullshit. Don’t you buy into any of these prayers…not for one New York fucking second.
If someone is prone to beating their spouse or kids, money isn’t going to change that.
And living a life of humility? What kind of a moron would run around in sweats and drive an old junker if they had access to that kind of coinage? Be still my fucking heart.
Charities waste money on stupid shit like food and medical supplies…all stuff you can get for free now.¹ Then, when they’ve spent all your donations, they’ll start sending you letters asking for more…even though you’re broke.
Which I why I propose you consider making me the big winner in Saturday night’s drawing.
Because unlike all the others praying for a win, I promise to only make promises I’ll keep. For instance:
I promise to be the bad father / spouse I’ve always been. You know I can keep that one, having had plenty of money at one time, while remaining grounded…ever true to my shitty roots.
Second, I won’t be humble. I know you’re all into that shit, but not me.
I plan on riding dirty dude and I don’t care who knows it. Fuck, I’ll even take out ads on billboards with me and my bitches in a Bentley convertible, a bottle of absinthe in one hand, a blunt in the other as I give crazy mad props to all the millions who purchased lottery tickets, making this good life possible.
And finally, I absolutely promise to not give any money to any charities. And you know I won’t either.
Mom always said, “charity begins at home,” and I have no reason to start doubting mom’s wisdom at this juncture in my life.
Besides, charities don’t know how to spend money. I KNOW HOW TO SPEND MONEY!
Think about it.
When was the last time you saw an ad on some billboard with a cowboy in a Bentley, with a load of bitches, giving props to all the people who’ve donated to the American Cancer Society?
I didn’t think so.
¹in America anyway
My perfect job, if there is such thing, would be a waterfall bar critic.
Where I’d travel the world, seeking out five-star resorts featuring swim-up waterfall bars, then rate them on their various features.
I’d look for such things as the water flow-rate.
Or how noisy it is at the bar.
And what the women, the ones whose hair is perfect but are sorely in need of a cocktail, look like upon entering the bar area…the water acting as a straightening iron / mascara removal device.
Then I’d go back to my room and write a review.
I’d even start an association for waterfall bar critics such as myself.
I’d call it the IWFBCA.
The International Waterfall Bar Critics Association.
And God help the resort that fucks with me.
My Yelp review of the Eye
Only you won’t care for getting anchovied into a gondola with thirty other strangers. So do what I did.
There will be a long line, one you’ll stand in for what could be hours. And since you have no clout on this side of the planet, no amount of cool or bribery will get you to the front of the line.
Only one thing to do.
SImply start blurting out expletives and jerking your head wildly while doing so. Next, have your bro walk to the front of the line, explaining to the attendant how you have Tourette’s syndrome and a long stay in the line could drive off some of the patrons.
Shouting out a couple of well-timed FUCKS at this point would be a good thing, as it supports your friends claim of your serious health issue.
Two things will happen immediately.
The attendant will whisk you and your party to the front of the line, as you continue to bark obscenities.
The other thing, and this surprised me, they gave us a gondola entirely to ourselves.
Faking Tourette’s is something I typically wouldn’t advocate, but if you’re prone to cursing in public anyway, why not throw a couple of TITS and SHITHEADFUCKERASSHOLES into your lexicon and get the VIP treatment you so richly deserve?
Now, take your pictures, enjoy the ride, and take delight in knowing you just learned how best to navigate London’s tourist attractions. sans the lines.
As I slowly try to oodge my way out of this damned writers block, I decided to post some Yelp reviews in the interim.
I don’t understand why the powers at Yelp have yet to block me, every other publication has, save for WordPress.
Ok… so shout out to WP and Yelp for not censoring my sophomoric shit.
And yet another Yelp review.
This one for a car stereo installation business I had the pleasure of working with.
Category: Car Stereo Installation
3/24/2012 1 photo First to Review
Your parents should have had that third nut of yours removed at birth…now you’e paying the price for having a dangling trio.
Yes, you’re a true mistake of nature….producing testosterone in levels that should have landed you behind bars years ago.
But thankfully there are positive ways to channel all those hormones, and Definitive Audio is one of them.
Steve, the owner, can and will build that dream stereo you’ve always wanted, satisfying even the craziest of testosterone-fueled requests.
Now, when you bump all 8,000 watts on your Boston amp subs… in the school zone, as your Jeep’s windshield is vibrating so badly it blurs your vision, causing you to run into a kid jaywalking, you simply pull down your pants and show the police your troublemaking trio hoping for a little understanding.
The good news?
The kid will survive…you just ‘winged’ him.
But don’t be hard on yourself. It wasn’t entirely your fault.
Your parents, Steve, and that little fucking smurf from AC/ DC, Angus Young, all had a hand in this.
Note: Highway to Hell cranking on 8,000 watts in a Jeep Wrangler will vibrate your sphincter right off its hinges!
Perfect if you’re dating a deaf woman.
Way to go Steve!
If you’re a pilot, then you know how some airfields have at least two landing strips…one crosswind and one downwind.
Quite appropriately, and in one pilot’s opinion, so too should women—lady landscaping their bush to more closely resemble a landing strip, for authenticity’s sake anyway.
Only I’d lose the downwind strip altogether and simply go with the crosswind, looking something like this….
When properly administered, the crosswind strip, combined with your cooch would form to make a T, reminding your significant other just how TERRIFIC you really are!
The hottest of Scottsdale’s hot chicks go to church. But you don’t know this, either because:
A.) You’ve never been to church
B.) The church you go to plays host to only those sporting walkers, canes and wheelchairs.
Well you won’t find any of those folks in this place. Nope, not here.
This church is the mother lode of hotties, and they’re all on their knees, praying someone like you will come along.
And here’s the best part.
They’re Catholic, and that means one thing…issues.
You can bet that if these girls have spent any amount of time in Catholic school, their flower is ready for cross pollination. And who better than with someone a breed apart…in this case you…Right?
But you’ll need a clever ploy for these chicks.
Which is why you’ll want to bring along your little niece. At least the first time anyway.
Oh, and make sure she’s cute and dressed smartly. With a little ruffled dress, maybe even a bonnet— something that’ll draw attention anyway.
Kids make great conversation starters….you watch.
Now go call your sister to see what little Jessica’s doing this Sunday evening at seven.
Memorize this if you get one on the hook…..Domini vobiscum et cum spiri tu tu o.
Fortuitously however, I discovered another reason to like coffee, and did so at Starbucks yesterday.
Their trenta sized cup.
It was a great Sunday dinner…pot roast as usual but now it was Monday morning and time to ‘pay the piper’. I stopped at Starbucks on the way to work.
As bad luck sometimes has it, traffic was running slow that day…much slower than usual. I suspected something was wrong.
I just drank thirty ounces of coffee and was now in the throes of a face grimacing, bladder busting event.
This is where the thirty once cup came in handy.
Once filled with warm, steaming coffee, it was now being filled with something equally warm and just as steamy!
Whether you like coffee or not, you’ll enjoy the wide rimmed opening and the large capacity of their trenta sized cup.
It’s able to contain even the biggest of potential spills.
Way to go Starbucks trenta!
The following is a review I submitted to Yelp, a popular review website.
I use a cumulative rating system, the unit of measure being a star. The rating scale ranging from 1-5 stars.
Phoenix Police Department
First, let me say the ambiance and decor were first class. The service was a little on the poor side, but the food?
In a word..horrendous!
Let’s break it down.
Five stars for my arresting officer and how interested he seemed in my life…asking a ton of questions. He saw me as a real person and not just another perpetrator, appearing genuinely concerned for my well being. Under any other circumstances, I could totally see me and him as besties.
You just don’t see that kind of caring in an arresting officer these days.
Another five for his using nylon ties in lieu of those pesky handcuffs.
Three more for the super clean backseat in his squad car. I thought it would smell like puke or crack dealer or something, but surprisingly it smelled sweet, like cake frosting. Weird.
Where are we…thirteen thus far?
Minus five for the precinct officer who fingerprinted me and failed to acquiesce my request for a hairbrush and some gel prior to the mugshot. I looked like Nick Nolte and Gary Busey’s illegitimate child.
Another minus five for the Madison Street Jail facility and its ‘open’ toilets inside the holding tank.¹
I’m deducting another two for what I think may have been an egg Mcmuffin they served for breakfast, although I’m not really sure what it was.
Another negative two for their letting my wife post bail instead of my cousin David.
A whopping negative five for evicting me from my cell earlier than I would have liked. I was having a pretty good time with all the boys until the guard informed me my wife was in the lobby.
Deduct five more for the rude behavior of practically every officer in the precinct…their laughing at me while my wife lectured me the entire duration of the hallway as we left the building.
Overall, I’d say this wasn’t as bad an experience as some of my friends let on.
Given my druthers, I would have stayed and visited a few more days, or at least until my wife cooled down.
What does that leave us with, negative eleven?
I wouldn’t have guessed such a low rating taking everything into consideration.
Probably won’t repeat.
¹ If you have shy bladder syndrome, this may not be the place for you after a night of prodigious drinking.
You should have been an actor.
You could have been an actor.
Isaac Elementary School is where your life took a bad turn and it was all Vice Principal D’Angelo’s fault.
What did his kicking you out of drama accomplish anyway?
Everyone lost out in that deal.
You—losing the starring role in Grease.
The audience—never seeing your awesome portrayal of Danny Zuko.
Because Mr D’Angelo knew nothing of the dramatic arts?
One would think that as Vice Principal, he of all people should understand the importance of rehearsal, and how it factors into a student’s dramatic success.
Which is precisely why you and ‘Betty Rizzo’ spent so much time together, helping her rehearse her pregnancy scene— all over the school grounds.
Like under the bleachers.
And in the A/V room after school.
Even rehearsing in auto shop once, as your pretended the car was the actual car from the movie.
But you got caught when Betty took it too far, suggesting you rehearse on Mr D’Angelo’s desk one day while he was at lunch.
Like I said, you could have been an actor—maybe even one of the greats.
But like everything else in life, the man had to step in and ruin your dreams.
Thanks Mr. D’Angelo.
Note to Dr. Dvorak:
Was this the kind of letter you had in mind?
I wrote it in third person so nobody would know it was really me.
How long before I start feeling better?
Or does this kind of therapy take a while?
Flying from Phoenix a few years ago on my way to Telluride Colorado, I survived a horrible incident.
I’d like to share the story.
Flying over mountain ranges can be tricky at times, particularly when inclement weather abounds. Bad weather, in this case however would be the reason for our trip, as it was mid-winter with the skiing season in the Colorado Rockies in full swing.
Our aircraft, a twelve seat turboprop known for its handling ability in rough air made my decision to fly on this day much easier.
We loaded our gear and took off.
After a couple hours without incident, Mt. Wilson came into view, a landmark signaling our flight was concluding.
It was time to descend due to our proximity to the field.
I contacted Telluride tower.
“Telluride tower, three Juliet Bravo checking in, we’re about eight miles out, requesting permission to land.”
“Three Juliet Bravo, I’ve got you at thirteen thousand and eight miles out, you’re approved for straight in on 8, Wind is 23 from 35 Proceed with caution, it’s snowing pretty heavy sir, wind gusts have been clocked at 50 plus.
Telluride airfield sits atop a 10,000 foot mountain with steep valleys on all sides.
We were at 13,000 feet, and eight miles away. The task at hand was to descend through the ‘soup’ by finding a hole in the clouds, thus making the field visible for final approach.
After a minute or so, a hole came into view, I nosed the aircraft through it as if threading a needle.
Alright, something is wrong I thought. Where’s the field?
All I could see was a snow capped mountain. No landing lights, strip, anything.
I radio’d the tower.
“Telluride approach, no joy on the field sighting, please advise conditions.”
“Uh, yeah, Juliet Bravo, you just flew over it, come about try it again.”
Just then the plane shuddered, severely buffeted by turbulence. Obviously a mountain thermal I thought, pretty normal. Then another.
This one was not normal.
The aircraft, rocked by a strong cross-wind gust, was nearly inverted and on its way to a full three hundred sixty degree roll before leveling off.
Tense, and focused on hand flying the aircraft, the auto-pilot now switched off in order to land, I stole a quick glance at my wife to see how she had faired throughout the ordeal.
Another storm was brewing I would soon learn.
My wife, shaken from the incident was sitting bent over, clutching something in her hand.
“You ok?” I asked.
“I’m alright…but do you want to explain these?” as she held up a pair of pink panties in her trembling left hand.
The near-roll was the least of my problems now. I was about to discover a new kind of terror.
Ice was building on the leading edges and my airspeed had fallen dangerously close to stall speed. I needed to regain airspeed quickly, and there was only one way to accomplish that, put the plane in a rapid descent….a nose dive.
A lot of things were going through my head at that moment.
Like when to inflate the ice boots.
Or how far to descend before pulling up.
And whether my wife was thinking I’d finally gone mental—the panties pushing me over the edge—trying to kill my way out of this predicament.
It worked. Eighty five knots and climbing…I began making slow circles around the mountain as the airspeed indicator finally rose above 100.
I now had two tasks. Or make that three.
Find the field, land, and try to convince my wife of my innocence.
Still no sign of the field as a voice came over the radio. It was the tower.
“Juliet Bravo, what are you doing up there? You flew over the field twice and it looked like you dove down into the valley, are you alright sir?”
“I’m fine sir, just a little turbulence and ice, but we’re fine, thanks…we’ll be down in a few.”
“Juliet Bravo, look for the snow plow at the end of the field and line up with it.”
He had to be wondering if I knew what I was doing and whether or not he’d be spending the rest of his week filling out NTSB reports while they investigated the crash.
After all, I had just done a fly-by, nose dived the aircraft into the valley in what probably appeared on his radar screen as a death spiral, leveled, circled the mountain a couple more times followed by another fly-by.
He had to wondering what my skill level was as pilot, and rightfully so having not flown in over a year.
I didn’t need to, I had a full-time pilot on call.
But not anymore since firing him a week earlier, catching him use the plane to go to Vegas with a load of friends for the weekend…one of whom I suspect was at one time in possession of a pink pair of panties.
Do you find yourself waking up naked in the driveway from time to time?
I know..used to happen to me a lot too.
No worries, next time it happens here’s what you do.
After waking the neighbors from your furious fist-pounding, and she finally decides to let you back inside, you can bet there’ll be a ton of yelling in store.
First and foremost, don’t say anything…not just yet. Let her rant.
Once she’s off her tirade and has finished throwing shit at you, the only weapon she’ll have left in her arsenal will be to threaten you with divorce.
Again, no worries.
When she finally comes up for air, it’s your turn.
Time to speak.
As somewhat of a life coach, I’ve taken the liberty of scripting your response.
Baby…it’s me. All me. I’ve got a drinking problem and I know it. I just thank God I’m lucky enough to have someone like you who still cares.
Tomorrow, first thing when they open, I’m signing up for AA.
I’m going to beat this thing, once and for all…for us, baby. I believe in us.
Only you’re not actually going to sign up for AA. Are you fucking kidding?
You don’t have a drinking problem.
The only problem you have is a judgment problem and that’s easily remedied.
Go down to your nearest bowling alley the next day and sign-up for the Men’s Spring Bowling League. They meet every Tuesday, same night as the AA meetings, and, it lasts for 37 weeks…about the same duration as AA.
Next, when Tuesday rolls around, get dressed and head down to the lanes for some good times. Only you will need to limit your beer intake to say around 10-12 pints, staying well out of word-slurring territory.
When the evenings activities are over, head for home.
But not before eating a huge bag of popcorn along the way. Popcorn has such a glorious smell, she won’t be sniffing around for anything else once she catches wind of it.
One more thing, and this is important.
Crack a beer the minute you get in the door. Any residual breath alcohol will now be masked for good.
Of course she’ll ask why you’re drinking.
Here’s your pre-scripted response.
We learned tonight how in order to face ones demons, a person needs to confront them…head on. This is why our assignment for the next 36 weeks will be to come home and have one and only one beer. We’re not even supposed to finish it. This to exercise our will power over drinking, while demonstrating commitment to our loved ones.
Now, clean out your wallet and pants pockets looking for any receipts from the bowling alley, sit back, and enjoy the next 36 weeks.
She’s happy you’re finally off the bottle.
And you my friend are on the road to recovery!
We life navigators like to call this a ‘win-win’ scenario.
Here’s a review I did of Legal Seafood. Based in Boston, they now have one in the Philly airport.
I gave it my highest rating—five stars.
Airport Arrival 1, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
There are two things on the planet that smell like spoiled fish…and one of them is spoiled fish.
So LS smells bad when you walk in, that never stopped you before…why should it now?
Just hold your nose, take a seat, and get ready for some of the best pus….err, seafood you’ve ever tasted.
Start with the chowder. (pronounced chow-da) and a Yuengling beer.
Time’s a wastin and your flight is miraculously going to be on time for once.
Go for the fried clams.
Absolutely heavenly and quick too.
Do this if for no other reason than to experience the difference between a real fried clam, and that thing you’ve been calling your girlfriend.
You know—the one who forgot to pick you up at the airport because she’s tripping balls on Ritalin and vodka.
If you love something set it free…if it comes back, it’s yours, if it doesn’t it was never meant to be.
It’s also bullshit.
I’ve loved plenty of things and set them free. Only to have them return and fuck-up my life even more than it was before they left.
Concluding that perhaps the saying needs a 2012 makeover…
If you love something, set it free…then change the locks, alarm code, your email address, phone number, delete your blog, cancel your Facebook account, Yelp under an assumed name, find a new Starbucks, laundromat, city park in which to walk your dog, and start parking your car in the garage…if it comes back, call your friend who raises cattle, ask him for some of those veterinary grade tranquilizers and prepare to live life in a blurry fog…repeat until she finally goes away for good.
I’m pretty sure it’s not an addiction if you really love something—is it?
Or is it.
Yeah, no, it isn’t.
The big rage in frozen yogurt shops these days is their having a number of self-serve machines, allowing one to choose from any number of flavors and in any amount you so desire.
Then, after filling your container to its gunwales, and having loaded every conceivable topping on it from the self-serve condiment bar, you proceed to the check-out area where they weigh your masterpiece and charge you by the ounce¹.
And this is why I don’t go to frozen yogurt shops anymore.
Not the cost. I’m prepared to face the consequences of my wanton desires.
And not the lack of service. I rather like the idea of building a masterpiece that’ll draw the attention of my fellow diners.
It’s the machine itself.
I hate the machine.
The way it slowly craps out the yogurt, giving you just enough time to conjure up a related metaphorical image as the ‘flavor of the day’, chocolate-chip-chunk, oodges its way into your waiting container.
I’m repulsed by it every time, making me wonder how the conversation might go on the weird chance I’d ever get meet the inventor of the soft serve machine….
“So..tell me, how did the idea of a soft serve machine come to you?”
“Well, I was taking my dog Pinky for a walk one day when all of a sudden, he decides to shit all over Ed and Dolores Feinstein’s front lawn.
I was horrified.
Ed’s an attorney and he warned me about Pinky shitting on his front lawn one more time…how he’d come after us both.
So what does Pinky do?
Sans any precursory sniffing or circling the target, he immediately goes to guns on Ed’s daisy’s. But something’s wrong on this day, because Pinky, normally a two-three second shitter, was struggling…his super quick, two-plop turd now replaced with a large troubling mass slowly oodging its way out, giving Ed just enough time to spot us.
Fucking Pinky…what’s he thinking, I say to myself as Ed comes flying out of the house with a broom, a crazed look in one eye.
The next thing I know, Pinky freaks and hightails it down the street without even pinching it off or anything, leaving a large piece of turd hanging halfway out of his ass.
And that was it. My ah-ha moment.
It was in that moment I thought to myself, should I ever decide to invent a soft serve ice-cream machine, I’d want it to cleanly pinch-off, unlike Pinky, who ran all the way home, through the dog door, and right into his bedding area…the turd still intact.
So I guess you can say Pinky was my inspiration in a way.”
Many thanks Pinky.
I used to love frozen yogurt…when someone else was serving it up, that is.
Now that I have to serve it up, all I can think about is how the machine dispensing my often times, post-coital treat, was actually designed by some lunatic who managed to create a replica of his dog—shitting on Ed and Dolores Feinstein’s daisies.
¹Pound, in my case, mainly depending on what type of day I’ve just had.
Do you carry a gun—is it loaded?
I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but America has the highest rate of gun related "incidents" of any country in the world.
I know—that surprises even me!
God, if only I could get my hands on something a little bigger than a .50 caliber Desert Eagle, say—perhaps, a grenade launcher or a surface-to-air missile, I would feel much more complete as an American citizen.
I hope I live to see the day when some young doctoral candidate publishes his/her dissertation on the relationship between the number of drivers who routinely cut you off in traffic, and the number of those same drivers bearing handicapped license plates.
Isn’t that a dichotomy, of sorts?
Todays post is a tribute to Nadine Stair’s ”If I had to live my life over – I’d pick more daisies.”
With one small twist—
If I had my life to live over, I’d dare to make more mistakes next time. I’d relax, I would limber up. I would be sillier than I have been this trip. I would take fewer things seriously. I would take more chances. I would climb more mountains and swim more rivers. I would eat more ice cream and less beans. I would perhaps have more actual troubles, but I’d have fewer imaginary ones.
You see, I’m one of those people who lived sensibly and sanely, hour after hour, day after day. Oh, I’ve had my moments, and if I had to do it over again, I’d have more of them. In fact, I’d try to have nothing else. Just moments, one after another, instead of living so many years ahead of each day. I’ve been one of those persons who never goes anywhere without a thermometer, a hot water bottle, a raincoat and a parachute. If I had to do it again, I would travel lighter than I have.
If I had my life to live over, I would start barefoot earlier in the spring and stay that way later in the fall. I would go to more dances. I would ride more merry-go-rounds. I would pick more daisies.
Yes, if had to live my life over, I’d have bought my wife a bicycle helmet to wear during sex, to protect her from the brain-damaging, headboard-kissing blows she must have sustained throughout the years. Had I known then what I know now, mainly, how her vocabulary would be limited to phrases such as “Do you know how much I saved today?”, and “I don’t feel like cooking tonight,” or the ever popular “Do these yoga pants make my butt look big?.” I’d have demanded she wore a protective device of some sort.