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!”

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.

Old school wisdom

I have to belive the person charged with coining the term “Two heads are better than one” wasn’t a straight male.

How to kill insects (when no-one is looking)

Running down a cockroach and smashing it with one’s shoe can get old over time, not to mention how a size 13 boot can take half the sport out of it. Let me suggest a new technique. Fire.
It’s easier than one might think, and not near as messy or crackly.

Here’s how it’s done:

1. Go to the store, get a can of Aqua Net hairspray. I suggest two, for when you see how much fun this is.
2. Leave the hairspray along with a cigarette lighter on the kitchen countertop before bedtime.
3. Wake up early, around three…head for the kitchen, being careful not to switch the lights on.
4. Fumble around in the dark for the hairspray and lighter.
5. I almost forgot, the flame adjustment on the lighter should be set to high…do this the night before.
6. Now flip on the lights.

Upon lighting the room, all the healthy roaches will scatter for parts unknown. Fuck them, you’ll never catch any of those guys. What you want is that older Darwinian fuck, the one that should have met his fate long before this. He’ll be easy to spot.

First, he won’t be moving.
It’s almost as if when the lights came on, he found himself standing there, frozen in his tracks, going; “Wait…where’s everybody going?”
While he’s standing there, thinking about his situation and just how fucked his life may be at this point (he’ll signal this by slowly gyrating his antennae like an old stripper’s tassels), that’s when you fire up the lighter, get the hairspray stream ablaze, and send his pestilent thorax straight to Hades where he belongs.

I think you’ll find this technique to be much more sporting (and rewarding) than traditional footwear and, with practice, you’ll eventually follow in the footsteps of such greats as Red Adair, or Boots and Coots; internationally famed oil-well flame extinguishers.

I should probably point out how this is a totally unsafe act.
And how ‘working’ with fire as a novice may have some unintended consequences, such as setting your nightwear on fire, or worse, blowing yourself up.
Or, if you’re even more unlucky….
Your wife will walk in on you as you’re setting up—torch fully ablaze—startling the absolute shit out of you, saying screaming something along the lines of;

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING???…TRYING TO BURN THE HOUSE DOWN?”

This, as you spin around [torch still ablaze] looking dumbfounded, responding with something like; HUH? What are you doing up at this hour? [flame still going] Things can go wrong super fast.

To this very day, I still have to hear about the time I set her late mom’s hand embroidered table runner ablaze.

IMPORTANT NOTE TO MOM’S AND WIVES EVERYWHERE WHO USE AQUA NET HAIRSPRAY:

Don’t leave your Aqua Net hairspray cans lying around the house, especially if you have boys or adult boys living at home.

Getting the most out of your DVR when you’re bored

Sometimes, when I’m bored and have nothing better to do than watch television, I like to use my DVR to see just how stupid I can make a celebrity look. I won’t say it’s a pastime or anything, but it does allow me to shuffle past the racks of magazines at my grocery store checkout, gaze at all the cover images, and grumble to myself; meh, she’s not all that.
In case you’re interested, here’s how it’s done.

1. Pick a tv show or movie featuring a popular actor / actress.
2. Pause the DVR
3. Fast forward the DVR while on pause for a frame by frame affect.
4. Stop on any frame when the person’s facial muscles have contorted in such a way that they now look like a complete idiot.
5. Now leave the image frozen on the screen so everyone in the family can see your handiwork.

With practice, and a few beers under your belt, you’ll come to realize as I have that most celebrities aren’t especially beautiful, they just have more facial muscles and makeup than do the rest of us.
There is one exception however.
Some celebrities, no matter how hard you try, are pretty good looking even when they’re making stupid faces.
The only thing left to do in this case is continue to move through the frames until they pucker up, as if blowing you a kiss.
Then pretend.
Pretty stupid, huh?
I know, but I did mention how I only do this when I’m bored.

Just say, wait…what?

Sometimes I wonder if today’s generation of young adults is aware of how the generation preceding them used themselves, or more accurately, their bodies, in an unselfish manner to disprove their predecessor’s claim that wanton lust accompanied by reckless experimentation with psychotropic drugs would not change the world. The elders in this case were correct.
We changed nothing.
We did however manage, at least those of us lucky enough to survive the ordeal and, salvage a few brain cells, to come up with a clever little ditty that would make our children think twice before pluking green monkeys, (origin of first known AID’s case), smoking PCP through a three-inch wide bong, or jumping out of a two-story window under the belief that mescaline could actually induce wingless flight. And all in just three little words no less. Go figure.

YOU’RE WELCOME!

 

On driving

Yielding to the hellish criticisms endured while driving with my wife, I finally wised up, asking her to drive the car whenever we go somewhere.
It hasn’t payed off yet, but hopefully it will someday when she smacks us into a utility pole or something and we both live to tell the tale.
I reckon at that point, I can drive however the fuck I like without so much as a peep.

The irony of genius

Throughout the years, my friends have often referred to me as a genius. Their doing so supports the notion that anyone abating from the present to momentarily wander off into space, appearing to confront life’s great cosmic narrative in what appears as a pensive gaze, is a genius.
What a laugh.
I’m just a guy who as a young man, scoffed at the notion that lysergic acid diethyl-amide (LSD, for the non-genius) would have any mood altering side affects thirty years after the fact like the experts warned.
Boy was I ever wrong.

And those pensive (euphoric) gazes? The ones where I’m enveloped in an out-of-focus bubble, catatonically adrift somewhere in the cosmos?
Well my friends, that’s what some folks call genius.
What a serendipitous gift this irony.

Dreams gone bye

A good dream in days past used to consist of me and some number of Swedish bikini models getting our freak on until we’re as blue as Smurfs.

Today, a good dream is having my truck stolen by a gang of lowly creeps, sleuthing them down, whipping out my 9mm Berretta, and shooting them all in the knees.

Funny how age tempers that whole sex thing.

Unbaby me

A friend posted this on FB today.

After reading a recent post by a fellow blogger where she expounded on her un-love of children, I ‘m dedicating today’s post to her.

http://www.unbaby.me/

An Olympic report

My take on the Olympics thus far. I should mention how I’m only 33 credit hours away from my sports journalism degree.

Bicycle racing:  Be still my fucking heart. It’s just that fascinating!

Archery:  Wait, what?

Men’s Water Polo:  Men in baby hats and weenie-huggers playing catch in the pool. Too many dicks flopping around in loose Speedos for my comfort—why isn’t there any shrinkage? Is the water treated with something? I don’t like the swimsuit fabric either…seems like it should be thicker, or padded at the very least.

Men’s Swimming:    See Water Polo above. (sans baby hat)

Women’s Ping Pong:   Get the fuck out. An Olympic event? Hang on a sec. [turning to buddy] Are you going to pass those fries or were you planning on eating them all…Jesus, you fucking hog!  Alright,  where was I?  Oh, who cares.

Fencing:   Worth watching if only to see if mom’s prediction about getting one’s eye poked out will ever come true. Appears unlikely with those goofy masks.

Women’s Weightlifting:   Chicks with huge thighs and bulging veins on their tits...gross.

Women’s Skeet Shooting:    Should be using real pigeons. It’s not like Trafalgar Square has a shortage of birds. They could inject the logy ones with caffeine.

Women’s Beach Volleyball:  Twenty one doesn’t seem like enough points for this sport.  The matches are going by super  fast. Maybe they could go up into to the eighties or nineties.  I don’t care much for  the swimsuit fabric either.  Not sheer enough for this cub reporter.

Men’s Basketball:   Third world countries should make up some excuse about getting sick from shellfish or something, save the embarrassment of getting trounced by the US Men’s team.

Men’s Rowing:  Got my fill of that shit in an eighties film featuring Rob Lowe where he attended Oxford and stole someone’s spot on the rowing team. Boring.

Women’s Gymnastics: Weird hair do’s. They all look like pixies. What’s with all that glitter and blue eye shadow? Apparently no-one approached MAC for an Olympic sponsorship.

MEDAL COUNT

Some athletes have won gold medals thus far. Interesting fact; there’s only six grams of gold in an Olympic medal. At todays prices, that’s about 350 bucks. The trend for precious metals is down. A year from now on the same trend line, a gold medal will only fetch about $150 or so. Sad. Silver is falling too. Bronze isn’t even precious for Christ’s sakes, just ask Penn State officials. So what’s bronze doing in the Olympics anyway? Platinum probably cost too much back in the day. You know what’d make a good medal? Kryptonite.  Plutonium would be way cool too but I hear it causes birth defects. Not cool.  My portfolio sucks. I should have bought gold a year ago. This is because my broker is a complete tool. Besides that, I think he’s sleeping with his new admin, I see the way she gazes at him. What’s he doing? He’s got a lovely wife and two kids. I hope she leaves him.

SUMMARY

These athletes are so ripped it’s sickening. I need to start working out this week and get off this damned Wellbutrin once and forever.
Where’s Beckham? Isn’t he an East-ender? I haven’t seen him since the speedboat thing Friday night. Does the Queen ever smile?
I haven’t seen a Cockney representation either. Shouldn’t they be doing that whole ‘Rine in Spine’ thing?
It’s early, maybe that’s still ahead.

Kinda hard to take these guys serious

Lust, and all its riches

In what I can only conjecture as all the perverted minds on the planet uniting in a common effort, I’m officially declaring July 23, 2012 Three Boob’d Women day.
For on this day, unlike any other day in my WordPress writing history, I received 811 views. 792 of them on my post; Lady boobs, a really poor design.
The post features an image of a woman with three tits.
On most days it gets a dozen or so hits.
Not July 23rd.

Who Googles ‘Three tittied woman’ images anyway?
Fucking perverts.
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Gym time (Haiku style)

Look up at the tv on the wall.
Look down at my gut.
I hate the Olympics.

A real man’s pedicure

Being a “man’s man”, I know dick about women’s fashion, styling, or any other matter involving their beautification. In fact, it’d be fair to say I know shit from apple butter in this department.
But I do know one thing.

If you’re a man, and you wear Roper boots on most days, never tending to such matters as pedicures, then, one day decide to break out your flip-flops on your way to the community pool, all the while gawking at the young women fashionistas’ finely pedicured toes and thinking; “jeez, their toes look remarkably similar to mine…go figure.”
That’s the time your wife informs you  how theirs are the product of something called a ‘French Pedicure’, while yours, the product of something called overgrown toenails.
Personally, I don’t get it.
To me they look exactly alike except for a little dirt here and there.

 

Sweet dreams (are not made of this)

Dream sequence featuring Annie Lennox…

Me: “Can we go over it one more time?”

Annie: “WHAT…WHAT DON’T YOU GET?”

Me: “This. I’m still not sure what ‘this’ is? You never really come right out and say what sweet dreams are made of, only this. You point around at a lot of shit in your video, but that’s about it, nothing really conclusive. Oh, and by the way, ‘this’ doesn’t even sound like ‘this’, it sounds like these.”

Annie: “Jesus you’re dumb.”

Me: “Why? Why am I dumb? Is it those gold records you’re pointing at in the video, are those ‘this’? I get how having a number of gold record sales could give you and Dave some pretty sweet dreams.”

Annie: “NO…IT’S NOT THE GOLD RECORDS FOR FUCK’S SAKE, IT’S A METAPHOR. ‘THIS’ IS A METAPHOR. DON’T YOU GET IT?”

Me: “And what’s up with those dairy cows? Are they a metaphor for something too?” 

Annie: “Exactly how in THE FUCK did you get into this studio again?”

Me: “My brother-in-law’s the security guard.”

Annie: [Dialing 911]

Me: “Wait..hold on, one more question, please? Is that a riding crop or a cane… is it yours?  Do you ever smack Dave around with it?  You guys seem kinda weird.”

Annie: “PLEASE LEAVE…NOW!”

The non-survivor

If I was ever chosen as a contestant on one of those reality tv shows, like Survivor, I hope the other contestants would have the good sense to boot me off the first chance they got. I’ve weighed this out, taking into consideration the shame and humiliation associated with having my tiki torch extinguished on week 1 as compared with the lunacy of spending some number of weeks in front of a national audience; starving, parading around in dirty skivvies, (not quite the same affect as a girl in her dirty bikini) making alliances I can’t wait to break, grumbling myself to sleep each night, pissing and moaning about how stupid the others are, eating bugs, falling for the pretty contestant in a dirty bikini, and eventually, being voted off by same dirty bikini chick and some cool guy. (I knew I should have made an alliance with cool guy instead of that lying little bitch).
Besides, I’d probably lose it on the cab ride to the airport when the cameraman, the same cameraman who caught me trying to get my freak on with bikini girl when I thought no-one was looking, is now perched in the front seat motioning me to speak, hoping upon hope I’ll make an even bigger ass out of myself.
This would be the point where I lunge for his camera, shove it up his ass, turn and roar to the cabbie; “YOU WANT SOME OF THIS TOO?“, ordering him out of the car, take the wheel, and drive the fucking thing right into an embankment. And I’ll do this why?
Because whatever level of pain and suffering I endured over the last sixteen weeks won’t even begin to rival what my wife’s gonna dish up.

Yeah, no…I’m probably not ‘Survivor’ material.

Divine intervention

Something was dreadfully amiss Ralphy conjectured when upon his wakening, he discovered one of his nuts had mysteriously vanished. This had happened before, but as a child; when his playing with them one day caused him to discover how easily they could be pushed upward into the fleshy part of his groin, concealing them from plain view. What an astonishing feature he thought as they remained tightly stowed in the newly discovered cranny. He was equally astonished by their absolute insistence on remaining there until his administering a certain pressure, at which time they’d quickly slip back into their awaiting sack. This was the kind of secret Ralphy would share with no-one. Ever. Or at least until some years later when he would meet LaDona, a signally exotic beauty who was uncharacteristically shy, and, who was endowed with two inverted nipples.
Ralphy would eventually come to realize how his seemingly endless hours of adolescent nut-shuttling was little more than divine intervention—breaking out his finely honed skills on LaDona’s tits one night when, despite his best attempts at foreplay, her inverted nipples remained stubbornly lodged in place.
Ralphy’s nut reappeared later that morning when bending over to tie his shoes before work.

Tips on getting your content removed from Yelp

Tom’s Thumb Fresh Market
Category: American (New)
7/6/2012
Whenever the need arises to wash my vehicle….
And, I’m in the mood for delicious slow roasted brisket, ribs, or pulled pork…
And, I need to pick through a convenience store-like grocery case for some Nestle’s Strawberry Milk…
And, I want to watch international soccer games in the car wash waiting area after eating the pulled pork and brisket—with a flavorful Starbuck’s-like coffee creation from the in-store coffee bar, while my vehicle—remember my vehicle—the one that needed cleaning is getting cleaned, I come here.

Tom’s Thumb Fresh Market.

Where I can satiate all my worldly needs in one fell swoop—save for getting laid.
But I’m guessing if one got really creative, he/she could manage to find a place to throw-down somewhere on this huge property.
If you are going to have a go at it, I suggest you steer clear of the men’s room, it smells kind-of weird and is likely to sour the mood.

From this reviewer’s perspective, the only thing missing at Tom’s Thumb is a place to take a nap after your getting laid.
Yes, a short nap after a furious jaunt is always refreshing and one would damned well think the proprietors could have thought through this a little more carefully when building their business plan, because had they done so, this place would receive a perfect five stars!

Why just think of it.
A place to get ones truck washed, eat barbecue, drink beer, watch soccer, conjugate, nap, and revive with a soy latte, as the attendant tosses you the keys signaling your vehicle is cleaned and ready. Now that’s the shit!

I’d like to summarize by suggesting how Tom’s Thumb may indeed be, despite its lack of non-conspicuous enclaves where one might seek a romantic interlude, a mere fuck and a short nap away from heaven.
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Tip # 1

Reviewers should limit their objectivity to only those features materially affecting the experience. Perniciously suggesting a business establishment could improve its star rating by offering patrons a place to sleep and fuck, not necessarily in that order, is just wrong and offers both the reader and the business no useful advice. I recommend not invoking this type of rhetoric in ones review.

Tip #2

Fantasizing about the perfect car wash does no-one any good, especially you. Stop thinking about how cool it would be to eat, sleep and fuck in a car wash. The very notion is ill-conceived and could land you in jail with a lewd and lascivious public act conviction.

Tip # 3

Stop submitting fantasy reviews to Yelp that invoke car washes, Anna Sharipova, and your wrinkle-rod.

Learning to hover

Peeing is such a chore. I hate how it interrupts my day with its unexpected timing, forcing me to drop everything, trot to the restroom, and stare at the tiled wall above the urinal— a hand-scribbled message reading; “Don’t look here..the joke’s in your hand.” Oh joy.
I suppose I could use a stall, but there’s always a gigantic turd laying in wait, probably left behind by the same left-handed Hemingway whose inspiration only occurs while urinating. And besides, even if the stall was clean, I still wouldn’t use it, mainly due to my unwillingness to learn the hovering technique. Although, I did notice an article on last month’s Glamour, talking about 5 workout tips for a flatter tummy. I’m pretty sure you need a flat tummy if you’re going to hover.
A vagina helps too.

 

 

 

A different kind of yogini

I met an older gentleman once, whom, as a young man, advised me how being older was merely a presence of mind, stating emphatically “that a person is only as old as they feel.”
His advice still echoes, similar to the overly prodigious use of a reverb pedal by a teen rock band.

I’m only as young as I feel.
I chant this daily, usually in the mornings, as part of a chakra ritual. But not just any chakra ritual. My chakra ritual.
Yogic tradition dictates the belief in seven well defined Chakras, which when used conjunctively, produce well-being within the yogi.
I use one, not seven.
Sort of a hybrid approach if you will, using a combination of chakras that suit my very specific needs—again, to not feel my age.
I call it my mega-Chakra, it goes like this….

Diego’s daily Chakra:

At some point today I will feel my age, but if I don’t, if I happen to make it through the day feeling youthful, it will have been for two reasons.
First, I had the good sense to not stare into a mirror after smoking too much weed.
And second, because the day gifted me with never crossing paths with a young know-it-all co-worker, whom after an ascending progression of barbs, finishes me off with the always fatal, “Well fuck-you old man.”
I am not old.
And there’s a convenience store, in fact, several convenience stores situated between my workplace and home, where I shall stop, purchase a twelve-pack of something alcoholic, drink three on the ride home, smoke a blunt in the driveway, and proceed to my mancave to ponder the day’s events. It is there where I shall find tranquility as I lie on the floor, squinting my eyes at the ceiling lights until just enough refractive light has passed through my eye lids and lashes that I now have a kaleidescope with which to properly color the day’s events.
I will do this until the door to my mancave swings open abruptly, my wife questions what the hell I’m doing on the floor, announces ‘dinner’, then shakes her head and walks away in mild disgust.
At dinner, a much more calm and peaceful me will actually listen to her, hanging on her every word as if it meant something.
I will understand what she’s saying, thanks to the weed, much like the first time I got high and realized the lyrics in Purple Haze were not “Excuse me, while I kiss this guy.”
When she is finished speaking and the conversations lags, I will use the time wisely, to regale her with stories from the competitive mart we call business, conspicuously leaving out any part where some newly—minted college grad called me an old ignorant fuck.
Yes, I am not old.
And I have a job, unhealthy addictions, and a curiously kaleidoscopic life that prove otherwise.