The upcoming presidential election is all over the news, and Barack Obama is still a douchebag. A stunning report revealed today that Barack Obama charges $115 for a turkey sandwich. What the hell is that about, huh?! I mean, turkey is pretty good, but at least throw on some roast beef if you’re breaking the century mark, am I right?
I really don’t know what the story is about because I didn’t have time to read the whole thing, but apparently in between campaign stops, Obama runs a deli or something. I’m surprised he’s got the time.
John McCain, meanwhile, is older than ever. Earth-shattering photographs splashed the front pages yesterday, revealing the Arizona senator wearing a band-aid on his wrinkly head. Can you believe it?! Fucking band-aids!
Despite his claims that he just hit his head on a car (what?), it’s pretty clear-cut evidence that his campaign is deceiving the public about the fact that he has head cancer. Some speculate that he’s already dying, and plans to croak after winning the November election but before taking office in January. His “expiration date,” if you will, is set for the week of Christmas.
Liberals fear that if this occurs, George Bush intends to declare martial law, suspend all elections and appoint himself dictator-for-life, shortly before expanding the war on terror to include massive attacks against Iran, India, Belgium and Ohio.
In both camps, rumors are circulating in “the great running-mate debate,” which is a pretty gay name for it (John Edwards loves it). The talk of a “dream ticket” featuring Obama and Hillary Clinton seems to have fallen by the wayside. Obama rejected the idea for a couple of reasons: first, he was afraid that Hillary would have him assassinated within the first year of his presidency; and second, he was afraid of having her manwhore of a husband Bill around, since the former president is liable to have sex with most of the White House staff during meetings. Obama of course wants his own fair crack at the “power” hungry insiders, but is also paranoid that his wife Michelle might either fall or leap into Wild Bill’s clutches.
McCain, of course, would not have such problems, since his wife is an android and he hasn’t been able to achieve an erection since 1931. Then again, he thinks Hillary is kind of scary, and wouldn’t pick her anyway.
Instead, according to the buzz, McCain might be leaning toward Charlie Crist, or former Secretary of Kickass Colin Powell. Powell is a favorable choice because of his ability to counteract Obama’s blackness – the dynamic of black factor, or “blacktor.” Except not “blacktor,” because that sounds like “black actor,” and God knows they’re all voting for Obama no matter what you do. McCain could run on a platform of Slavery Reparations, chicken and rap music and still have no chance.
My personal choice is to steer away from Powell, who is 70 years old (more like swollen Colon Powell), and pick up Charlie Crist, who can attract a variety of disillusioned Americans, especially, because of the similarity of his name, fans of the late Charles Shulz of Charlie Brown and fans of the late Jesus Christ.
For Obama, I would recommend anybody except that whore from Kansas whose name I can’t remember. But she’s a total bitch. I heard she was actually the mastermind behind Michael Vick’s dogfighting ring as well as the sinking of the Titanic. Oh yeah, Kathleen Sebelius is her name. Huge slut too, I think. She’s got that vibe – Bill Clinton would love her. Hell, he probably already has.
Then again, Obama’s choice doesn’t matter as much. He could probably choose Will.I.Am or Ronald McDonald or some other fake person and still ride his cultish support to the big win in November.
Remember then, remember that I warned you now: he’s a big tax candidate. You think $4 for a gallon of gas is bad? Try $115 for a turkey sandwich.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Weddings make me hurt so good
Before I even start, just know this: this weekend was crazier than I can possibly explain. Ok.
I was pretty much out of commission yesterday with a hangover that may well have been the worst I’ve ever had in my life. It was so bad I was dizzy, shaking and disoriented for a full twenty-four hours after my last sip of alcohol. My walking was unstable, my head pounded and my stomach churned non-stop, over and over and gurgle and bubble.
Needless to say, it was a hell of a weekend. My cousin Becca, who is super gorgeous and on whom I’ve had an inappropriate crush for about fifteen years, got married on Saturday in Wisconsin.
To make a real weekend of it, my two unmarried brothers and I left work a little early and headed up on Friday to the house of our other cousins who were waiting with a keg. That night, my brother Ed and my cousin Jake told me that my blog sucked. And I couldn’t have agreed more. Basically, they told me I write like a pansy, try to sound like “a blogger,” and generally act like a pussy bitch – when honestly, in real life, I’m more of a prick.
So right now, I’d like to say I hate that kind of writing: about half the blogs I read I find boring and self-centered and begging for compliments. And I’d like to say, to all those who write like that: shut up. Please, for God’s sake, your whining makes me want to kill myself. Turn it off. Shut your mouth. Get a pet goldfish and tell him about your body image issues, because no one else cares.
So we drank keg beer and played polish horseshoes (kickass game), where my cousins John and Broc ran the tables, because John was throwing the Frisbee overhand, and it came out upside-down and wobbly and fucking impossible to catch. After about ten games, I decided to try throwing that way too. I can throw pretty hard, so once I got the hang of it, it was pretty much unstoppable. Conveniently, just then it was “too dark,” and “we need to change the rules to maintain fairness,” and I was feeling a bit “you guys are such duplicitous pussies.” But then I drank some more and the people from the rehearsal dinner showed up (10, 11pm?), so I was distracted.
We finished the keg, told everyone we were going to go to a bar and then watched them pile into their cars. After about fifteen minutes, they got tired of waiting and took off, which was fine with us, because there was a liquor cabinet to empty before Aunt Jeannie moved to Texas. We broke out the scotch and sat around the fire until it was ready to be urinated and hosed into a pile of wet ash, and then headed to the basement, except for my brother Peter who decided to sleep in the car. The cement floor didn’t bother me much as I slept, but the bottle of vodka that Jake tipped over, soaking my sleeping bag and waking me up in a horror that I had pissed myself wasn’t exactly conducive to a good night’s rest.
Saturday dawned gorgeous. (yes, that is grammatically correct.) Small breakfast, off to Holy Hill for the 1:30 Mass. We stood outside the big church doors waiting for the parents to get there, looking out at the miles of countryside below us, smoking cigarettes in suits and sunglasses and talking about how waiting outside made us look like a receiving line, or maybe like ushers. And then we went in, sat down, prayed and waited.
I am a huge bitch at weddings. I well up usually four or five times and sometimes actually get tears running down my face. What a pussy. On Saturday, I think it was four times: once each during the first reading and the Gospel, once when the groom was saying his vows, and one time randomly later in the Mass, when I was either despairing of getting married myself or thinking about an episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.
And then it was on to the reception. Holy hell, what a party. I don’t even know where to start.
Put it this way: within one hour of the guests arriving, the bar had sent away for and were bringing in a case full of twelve new handles of gin. This family loves their G&Ts. The hors d’oeuvres, most of them having been created by my mom, were delicious.
The reception was at the home of the bride’s parents, a huge white tent filling up their back yard, which conveniently abuts a golf course. Earlier that day, we had stopped for posterboard, marker and a bottle of Jameson (party essentials), and then right around dinner, had a 32-man closest-to-the-pin tournament. I don’t even remember whether it was before or after dinner. I think it was after. Wow, it was a crazy party.
At dinner, Jake had saved me a seat with a bunch of young good-looking folks that he didn’t know, but I had met before – friends of the bride and of my sister. At that dinner, I remembered why Jake and I had been so popular in college – why our parties were always the ones that everyone talked about. When we’re hanging out together with other people at a party, it’s just a show. We straight-up dominated that meal: girls choking with laughter, guys either toasting and cheering or else looking uncomfortable because Jake was making fun of them. By the time we left the table, I think we’d been invited to three different homes around the country “whenever you feel like dropping in,” we'd appointed a “designated drunk driver,” and Jake had shouted with glee “he has a blog!” before I made fun of him for his inability to grow facial hair.
At each toast, Jake prided himself on bellowing “cheers!” before anyone else. I tried to sneak in a “hear hear!” by basically spending the entire toast muttering it over and over “hear hear hear hear hear hear hearhearhearhear,” at which one girl sprayed champagne between her fingers, which made me laugh. Of course, right then, the toast ended, and Jake sprang in with an enthusiastic “Cheers! Haha! In your face!” which I think confused some of the other tables.
When dusk started to fall (not until late, thank you June 21st), someone started handing out glow-in-the-dark bracelets for the kids, which some of them stuck together to make necklaces and a variety of other jewelry. I grabbed one, of course, filled up my pitcher of beer (yes, pitcher) and started heading out with everyone else to the golf course to see the fireworks. Yes, full-size fireworks, just for the party. Unbelievably gorgeous.
And then, right as the fireworks were finishing, Uncle Mike (the bride’s dad), who had apparently been organizing the whole while, screamed the charge and all the kids went sprinting off down the fairway. This was seriously one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen: seventy, eighty kids, all bedecked in glow-in-the-dark jewelry, screaming in a clustered line into the gloaming. And then when they came running back, it was actually a little bit frightening, like a horde of screeching alien attackers.
And then Uncle Mike yelled for “Everyone! Let’s go!” and we were off, sprinting over the even grass with beer sloshing around the edges of the pitcher in my right hand and the red glow of my bracelet on my left.
The party devolved from there. “The dance floor is now open!” was soon followed by “the dance floor is now open and I am making a fool of myself out there.” I danced feverishly. I danced well, poorly, I danced like Casanova and I danced like an asshole – like no one was watching and like everyone was watching. I grabbed girls from cousins to strangers, from young to old. Actually, not old – I don’t like dancing with old people. I think the oldest person I danced with was like 26.
I love weddings. Obvious, right? No, I fucking love weddings more than life.
They’re just the ideal party. The perfect balance of old friends and new, attractive ones. Family that you see every day with family you haven’t seen in forever. Families are joined! You have new relatives! Some of them are probably cute girls! I’m sorry, could it get any better? Oh yeah! It could – everyone’s drinking champagne!
The next day, Sunday, we made it out to the 12:30 Mass back at Holy Hill and then stopped at Asiankp’s house, where we met her lovely short parents and took advantage of their hospitality, drinking a beer or three and playing bags in the backyard. When the thunderstorms started up, we said goodbye and thank you to Wisconsin and Wisconsonians, and headed back toward Chicago. But not home. Not yet.
Instead, we went out to my sister and brother-in-law’s house in Lombard to have dinner with Grammy and another uncle and two aunts. That was a pretty uproarious dinner too. Everyone was still winding down from the weekend, and the wine was good and copious. Highlights included my mom calling my sister “you bitch!” to the horrified gasps of my aunt and I think my dad, and my overenthusiastic use of the phrase “elbow-deep in blood!” to describe my experience gutting a deer.
I got home Sunday night exhausted and dehydrated to the point of pissing caramel. My legs and ass were sore from dancing, my forearms were extremely sore from I don’t know what. My sunglasses are gone, as is one pair of my shoes. It was a hell of a Monday. But worth it, 100% worth it. Hoo-boy.
Not in this issue:
My cousin Jake plays wingman for me on a girl that is married.
The fucking Cubbies
I don't wash my hands in the port-a-potty, then handle hors d'oeuvres.
My mom is called out to the dance as "my favorite aunt" to dance to Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.
I was pretty much out of commission yesterday with a hangover that may well have been the worst I’ve ever had in my life. It was so bad I was dizzy, shaking and disoriented for a full twenty-four hours after my last sip of alcohol. My walking was unstable, my head pounded and my stomach churned non-stop, over and over and gurgle and bubble.
Needless to say, it was a hell of a weekend. My cousin Becca, who is super gorgeous and on whom I’ve had an inappropriate crush for about fifteen years, got married on Saturday in Wisconsin.
To make a real weekend of it, my two unmarried brothers and I left work a little early and headed up on Friday to the house of our other cousins who were waiting with a keg. That night, my brother Ed and my cousin Jake told me that my blog sucked. And I couldn’t have agreed more. Basically, they told me I write like a pansy, try to sound like “a blogger,” and generally act like a pussy bitch – when honestly, in real life, I’m more of a prick.
So right now, I’d like to say I hate that kind of writing: about half the blogs I read I find boring and self-centered and begging for compliments. And I’d like to say, to all those who write like that: shut up. Please, for God’s sake, your whining makes me want to kill myself. Turn it off. Shut your mouth. Get a pet goldfish and tell him about your body image issues, because no one else cares.
So we drank keg beer and played polish horseshoes (kickass game), where my cousins John and Broc ran the tables, because John was throwing the Frisbee overhand, and it came out upside-down and wobbly and fucking impossible to catch. After about ten games, I decided to try throwing that way too. I can throw pretty hard, so once I got the hang of it, it was pretty much unstoppable. Conveniently, just then it was “too dark,” and “we need to change the rules to maintain fairness,” and I was feeling a bit “you guys are such duplicitous pussies.” But then I drank some more and the people from the rehearsal dinner showed up (10, 11pm?), so I was distracted.
We finished the keg, told everyone we were going to go to a bar and then watched them pile into their cars. After about fifteen minutes, they got tired of waiting and took off, which was fine with us, because there was a liquor cabinet to empty before Aunt Jeannie moved to Texas. We broke out the scotch and sat around the fire until it was ready to be urinated and hosed into a pile of wet ash, and then headed to the basement, except for my brother Peter who decided to sleep in the car. The cement floor didn’t bother me much as I slept, but the bottle of vodka that Jake tipped over, soaking my sleeping bag and waking me up in a horror that I had pissed myself wasn’t exactly conducive to a good night’s rest.
Saturday dawned gorgeous. (yes, that is grammatically correct.) Small breakfast, off to Holy Hill for the 1:30 Mass. We stood outside the big church doors waiting for the parents to get there, looking out at the miles of countryside below us, smoking cigarettes in suits and sunglasses and talking about how waiting outside made us look like a receiving line, or maybe like ushers. And then we went in, sat down, prayed and waited.
I am a huge bitch at weddings. I well up usually four or five times and sometimes actually get tears running down my face. What a pussy. On Saturday, I think it was four times: once each during the first reading and the Gospel, once when the groom was saying his vows, and one time randomly later in the Mass, when I was either despairing of getting married myself or thinking about an episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.
And then it was on to the reception. Holy hell, what a party. I don’t even know where to start.
Put it this way: within one hour of the guests arriving, the bar had sent away for and were bringing in a case full of twelve new handles of gin. This family loves their G&Ts. The hors d’oeuvres, most of them having been created by my mom, were delicious.
The reception was at the home of the bride’s parents, a huge white tent filling up their back yard, which conveniently abuts a golf course. Earlier that day, we had stopped for posterboard, marker and a bottle of Jameson (party essentials), and then right around dinner, had a 32-man closest-to-the-pin tournament. I don’t even remember whether it was before or after dinner. I think it was after. Wow, it was a crazy party.
At dinner, Jake had saved me a seat with a bunch of young good-looking folks that he didn’t know, but I had met before – friends of the bride and of my sister. At that dinner, I remembered why Jake and I had been so popular in college – why our parties were always the ones that everyone talked about. When we’re hanging out together with other people at a party, it’s just a show. We straight-up dominated that meal: girls choking with laughter, guys either toasting and cheering or else looking uncomfortable because Jake was making fun of them. By the time we left the table, I think we’d been invited to three different homes around the country “whenever you feel like dropping in,” we'd appointed a “designated drunk driver,” and Jake had shouted with glee “he has a blog!” before I made fun of him for his inability to grow facial hair.
At each toast, Jake prided himself on bellowing “cheers!” before anyone else. I tried to sneak in a “hear hear!” by basically spending the entire toast muttering it over and over “hear hear hear hear hear hear hearhearhearhear,” at which one girl sprayed champagne between her fingers, which made me laugh. Of course, right then, the toast ended, and Jake sprang in with an enthusiastic “Cheers! Haha! In your face!” which I think confused some of the other tables.
When dusk started to fall (not until late, thank you June 21st), someone started handing out glow-in-the-dark bracelets for the kids, which some of them stuck together to make necklaces and a variety of other jewelry. I grabbed one, of course, filled up my pitcher of beer (yes, pitcher) and started heading out with everyone else to the golf course to see the fireworks. Yes, full-size fireworks, just for the party. Unbelievably gorgeous.
And then, right as the fireworks were finishing, Uncle Mike (the bride’s dad), who had apparently been organizing the whole while, screamed the charge and all the kids went sprinting off down the fairway. This was seriously one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen: seventy, eighty kids, all bedecked in glow-in-the-dark jewelry, screaming in a clustered line into the gloaming. And then when they came running back, it was actually a little bit frightening, like a horde of screeching alien attackers.
And then Uncle Mike yelled for “Everyone! Let’s go!” and we were off, sprinting over the even grass with beer sloshing around the edges of the pitcher in my right hand and the red glow of my bracelet on my left.
The party devolved from there. “The dance floor is now open!” was soon followed by “the dance floor is now open and I am making a fool of myself out there.” I danced feverishly. I danced well, poorly, I danced like Casanova and I danced like an asshole – like no one was watching and like everyone was watching. I grabbed girls from cousins to strangers, from young to old. Actually, not old – I don’t like dancing with old people. I think the oldest person I danced with was like 26.
I love weddings. Obvious, right? No, I fucking love weddings more than life.
They’re just the ideal party. The perfect balance of old friends and new, attractive ones. Family that you see every day with family you haven’t seen in forever. Families are joined! You have new relatives! Some of them are probably cute girls! I’m sorry, could it get any better? Oh yeah! It could – everyone’s drinking champagne!
The next day, Sunday, we made it out to the 12:30 Mass back at Holy Hill and then stopped at Asiankp’s house, where we met her lovely short parents and took advantage of their hospitality, drinking a beer or three and playing bags in the backyard. When the thunderstorms started up, we said goodbye and thank you to Wisconsin and Wisconsonians, and headed back toward Chicago. But not home. Not yet.
Instead, we went out to my sister and brother-in-law’s house in Lombard to have dinner with Grammy and another uncle and two aunts. That was a pretty uproarious dinner too. Everyone was still winding down from the weekend, and the wine was good and copious. Highlights included my mom calling my sister “you bitch!” to the horrified gasps of my aunt and I think my dad, and my overenthusiastic use of the phrase “elbow-deep in blood!” to describe my experience gutting a deer.
I got home Sunday night exhausted and dehydrated to the point of pissing caramel. My legs and ass were sore from dancing, my forearms were extremely sore from I don’t know what. My sunglasses are gone, as is one pair of my shoes. It was a hell of a Monday. But worth it, 100% worth it. Hoo-boy.
Not in this issue:
My cousin Jake plays wingman for me on a girl that is married.
The fucking Cubbies
I don't wash my hands in the port-a-potty, then handle hors d'oeuvres.
My mom is called out to the dance as "my favorite aunt" to dance to Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe Malfunction. Except with no lion or witch.
Margarita once asked me what kind of underpants I was wearing – or something like that – and I said boxer-briefs. As a matter of fact, I generally wear boxer-briefs. I’m wearing boxer-briefs right now.
But this past weekend, I had an experience that brought home a glaring and heinous flaw in the design of men’s underwear with staggering force. That flaw? The inexplicable open fly. Why? Why does every pair of underpants, from tighty-whities to silk boxers to my favorite boxer-briefs, have the expandable hole directly in the crotch?
Don’t tell me for a minute that it’s to make bathroom functions a step easier; that’s crap. That’s like saying you never unbutton your pants, just crank down the fly. Maybe at a picnic when you only have one free hand because you’re holding a beer, but that’s about it. Every man knows in 95 cases out of a hundred, you just pull the whole kit and caboodle down and out of the way.
Yet the hole remains.
On a well-worn pair of undies, the seams can stretch a little bit. There might be a little flap in the ass-fabric, the waistband might have lost some elasticity. When the crotch-portal starts flapping open uncontrollably, then you have a problem.
I pitched the second game of a double-header on Saturday, and after the a shitty game, I was getting into some shorts because I was sweating like Michael Jackson at a boy scout Jamboree. I don’t know if it was the friction of the snug-fitting baseball pants, or the one-footed, spread-eagle jouncing as I peeled the high socks down that did it, but suffice it to say that one moment I was looking up to hear the coach remind us to clear the dugout and the next I was staring down at my own crotch with dismay, surprised to see that a new teammate had joined the post-game meeting.
You know how embarrassing it is when you find your fly open – with underwear on underneath. Imagine how you’d feel with your genitals on full display in front of sixteen disgruntled teammates and six hundred-some fans in the stands.
I had two options: go the baseball-jokey-jokemaker route and start dancing and describing eerie pelvic figure eights; or tuck the offending party out of sight and pretend nothing had happened.
I tucked, pulled my shorts on, and tried to act casual (should I whistle? Shit, these shorts don’t have pockets!), but the looks I got from a few unfortunate teammates assured me that no matter what I pretended, like the fox and his sour grapes, like a rape victim who suppresses her memories until they eat away at her very soul, I couldn’t change the truth.
And the truth is that I think I’m going to start wearing speedos instead of underwear. Because even a bright lime-green banana-hammock could not have been more inappropriate than that.
But this past weekend, I had an experience that brought home a glaring and heinous flaw in the design of men’s underwear with staggering force. That flaw? The inexplicable open fly. Why? Why does every pair of underpants, from tighty-whities to silk boxers to my favorite boxer-briefs, have the expandable hole directly in the crotch?
Don’t tell me for a minute that it’s to make bathroom functions a step easier; that’s crap. That’s like saying you never unbutton your pants, just crank down the fly. Maybe at a picnic when you only have one free hand because you’re holding a beer, but that’s about it. Every man knows in 95 cases out of a hundred, you just pull the whole kit and caboodle down and out of the way.
Yet the hole remains.
On a well-worn pair of undies, the seams can stretch a little bit. There might be a little flap in the ass-fabric, the waistband might have lost some elasticity. When the crotch-portal starts flapping open uncontrollably, then you have a problem.
I pitched the second game of a double-header on Saturday, and after the a shitty game, I was getting into some shorts because I was sweating like Michael Jackson at a boy scout Jamboree. I don’t know if it was the friction of the snug-fitting baseball pants, or the one-footed, spread-eagle jouncing as I peeled the high socks down that did it, but suffice it to say that one moment I was looking up to hear the coach remind us to clear the dugout and the next I was staring down at my own crotch with dismay, surprised to see that a new teammate had joined the post-game meeting.
You know how embarrassing it is when you find your fly open – with underwear on underneath. Imagine how you’d feel with your genitals on full display in front of sixteen disgruntled teammates and six hundred-some fans in the stands.
I had two options: go the baseball-jokey-jokemaker route and start dancing and describing eerie pelvic figure eights; or tuck the offending party out of sight and pretend nothing had happened.
I tucked, pulled my shorts on, and tried to act casual (should I whistle? Shit, these shorts don’t have pockets!), but the looks I got from a few unfortunate teammates assured me that no matter what I pretended, like the fox and his sour grapes, like a rape victim who suppresses her memories until they eat away at her very soul, I couldn’t change the truth.
And the truth is that I think I’m going to start wearing speedos instead of underwear. Because even a bright lime-green banana-hammock could not have been more inappropriate than that.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Part Five: A Tale of Too Shitty
My Uncle Joe and Aunt Sue (the parents of Rory, in case you were wondering) hosted their share of family parties when I was a kid – heck, even now: two years ago they had the reception for their daughter’s wedding right in the back yard… just like old times.
Uncle Joe and Aunt Sue are the oldest couple of their generation (at least on my dad’s side of the family) and also have the distinction of being double-cousins with my family. Uncle Joe is my dad’s brother and Aunt Sue is my mom’s sister. No, look it up, it’s not illegal.
In addition to being the oldest, or maybe on account of being the oldest, Uncle Joe and Aunt Sue are the most serious of all my aunts and uncles. Their house is usually dark, and always quiet except for the squeak of the old wood floorboards and sometimes Irish music. You walk carefully in their house, afraid of breaking something, like ancient dusty vases that always seem to sit too close to the edge of the piano.
When there were parties at this house, the kids were gently encouraged to get [and stay] the hell out of the house. Weather didn’t matter – that’s why you have snowpants.
But writing your name in the snow doesn’t fly in mixed company, and when nature calls, even at Uncle Joe and Aunt Sue’s house, you had to go inside. The bathroom was located on the north side of the house, through the library (yeah, exactly – it’s the kind of house that has a library). This room was usually occupied by older teenage cousins, who are basically the most frightening people in the world when you’re six years old.
The worst part about a trip to the bathroom, though, was the doorknob on the inside of the bathroom door. It was a miniature knob, which was unfortunately missing some crucial screws. Opening the door required a jiggle left, pushing in while twisting, and then pulling out sharply while applying strong pressure upwards. Or something. No one knew, really. You just jiggled and jerked and twisted and sometimes it would open.
Fortunately, the door also had a lock, a simple deadbolt, and what you could do, if you were really careful, is just barely close the door so that the knob didn’t engage, and secure it using only the deadbolt. Then, when you were ready to go, you just unlock the door and push it open – no knob-fiddling necessary.
I had set it up just so one night, had finished at the toilet, and was washing my hands, lathering up with white foam, when someone knocked on the door. I was already nervous enough, and my gurgled response died in my throat.
So whoever it was tried to open the door, shook it twice, and horror! The hasp clicked into place. Immediately, without thinking, I sprang to the door and grabbed the knob with soap-covered hands, crying “wait, wait wait!” and twisting furiously in vain.
And there I was, scrabbling with a slick knob, scared and alone and trapped. I unlocked the door, and tried every combination I could think of. I rinsed the knob, dried it, tried the knob, cursed it. I considered using the shower-curtain rod to pole-vault out the window, but it wasn’t flexible enough.
Eventually, I just started beating on the door and, I think, crying. I’ve blotted out most of the memory successfully, thank God, but I think they had to take the hinges off the door, and for about twenty minutes, everyone thought I was too stupid to unlock the door and kept yelling at me through the inch of wood to “unlock it! UNLOCK IT!”
“Fuck you!” I should have yelled, but I didn’t know that word. I think instead I went with “Mommm!” And that damn bathroom still makes me nervous.
And just to let you know, right when I thought going over all these bathroom adventures would get it out of my system (ha!), this past weekend, I did the following, in this order:
Exposed myself to strangers while intoxicated
Shit my pants while napping
Exposed myself to strangers while sober
Ate a snack
Got drunk of high-end liquor at the downtown Hilton
Nearly had a coronary watching the US Open
Found more shit in the work garbage cans first thing Monday morning
Aahh. Bet you can't wait to hear about it.
Uncle Joe and Aunt Sue are the oldest couple of their generation (at least on my dad’s side of the family) and also have the distinction of being double-cousins with my family. Uncle Joe is my dad’s brother and Aunt Sue is my mom’s sister. No, look it up, it’s not illegal.
In addition to being the oldest, or maybe on account of being the oldest, Uncle Joe and Aunt Sue are the most serious of all my aunts and uncles. Their house is usually dark, and always quiet except for the squeak of the old wood floorboards and sometimes Irish music. You walk carefully in their house, afraid of breaking something, like ancient dusty vases that always seem to sit too close to the edge of the piano.
When there were parties at this house, the kids were gently encouraged to get [and stay] the hell out of the house. Weather didn’t matter – that’s why you have snowpants.
But writing your name in the snow doesn’t fly in mixed company, and when nature calls, even at Uncle Joe and Aunt Sue’s house, you had to go inside. The bathroom was located on the north side of the house, through the library (yeah, exactly – it’s the kind of house that has a library). This room was usually occupied by older teenage cousins, who are basically the most frightening people in the world when you’re six years old.
The worst part about a trip to the bathroom, though, was the doorknob on the inside of the bathroom door. It was a miniature knob, which was unfortunately missing some crucial screws. Opening the door required a jiggle left, pushing in while twisting, and then pulling out sharply while applying strong pressure upwards. Or something. No one knew, really. You just jiggled and jerked and twisted and sometimes it would open.
Fortunately, the door also had a lock, a simple deadbolt, and what you could do, if you were really careful, is just barely close the door so that the knob didn’t engage, and secure it using only the deadbolt. Then, when you were ready to go, you just unlock the door and push it open – no knob-fiddling necessary.
I had set it up just so one night, had finished at the toilet, and was washing my hands, lathering up with white foam, when someone knocked on the door. I was already nervous enough, and my gurgled response died in my throat.
So whoever it was tried to open the door, shook it twice, and horror! The hasp clicked into place. Immediately, without thinking, I sprang to the door and grabbed the knob with soap-covered hands, crying “wait, wait wait!” and twisting furiously in vain.
And there I was, scrabbling with a slick knob, scared and alone and trapped. I unlocked the door, and tried every combination I could think of. I rinsed the knob, dried it, tried the knob, cursed it. I considered using the shower-curtain rod to pole-vault out the window, but it wasn’t flexible enough.
Eventually, I just started beating on the door and, I think, crying. I’ve blotted out most of the memory successfully, thank God, but I think they had to take the hinges off the door, and for about twenty minutes, everyone thought I was too stupid to unlock the door and kept yelling at me through the inch of wood to “unlock it! UNLOCK IT!”
“Fuck you!” I should have yelled, but I didn’t know that word. I think instead I went with “Mommm!” And that damn bathroom still makes me nervous.
And just to let you know, right when I thought going over all these bathroom adventures would get it out of my system (ha!), this past weekend, I did the following, in this order:
Exposed myself to strangers while intoxicated
Shit my pants while napping
Exposed myself to strangers while sober
Ate a snack
Got drunk of high-end liquor at the downtown Hilton
Nearly had a coronary watching the US Open
Found more shit in the work garbage cans first thing Monday morning
Aahh. Bet you can't wait to hear about it.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Part Four: Actually this is more about Dean Koontz
I meant to write yesterday, but I was pretty hungover. This whole week, I’ve been working in a backed-up licensing department trying to help them “get back up to speed.” This consists of filing and… and that’s all.
Fortunately, the woman who was describing the filing tasks to me was not what you’d call an A-Plus Explainer. After asking her to repeat herself three or four times, I just pretended like I understood and then sat there at the desk doing nothing, poking every once in a while at the stack of papers like an animal that you’re not sure is dead.
Speaking of which, have you ever done that? It’s actually really fucking intense, especially with a big animal like a deer…. You creep up to it slowly… make some noise at it… poke it in the but with a stick… and then finally, your last step to make sure it’s dead is to whap it in the eyeball. Then you slice it open to remove the intestines. Eviscerating Bambi sound gross? Whatever, don’t kill the messenger.
Ok, before I forget, the bathroom story. Disclaimer: the story is not funny or interesting, and this post is going to be super disjointed, so keep that in mind.
When my cousin Jake used to come over almost every day in the summer, we’d play all day outside. Sunup to sundown. When we had to go to the bathroom, going all the way inside seemed like such a bother, so we used to just jump into the garage, which was unfinished and full of lumber, and save ourselves some time.
One day, it was time for Jake to leave, and my mom was coming out the back door with her purse and keys to drive him home. “Jake, if you have to go to the bathroom, do it now!” she called. So Jake turned, ran into the garage and unloaded. Right in front of my mom. I don’t know, he’s a dumbass.
For some reason, my mom still loves me, a fact which I rediscovered last night, when she left a new hardcover copy of Odd Hours standing on the stairs where she knew I would find it on my way to bed. Any of you read Dean Koontz at all? Because Odd Thomas is one of the greatest characters ever created, and the books are a total joy to read. Plus, they make me want to write stuff like this:
‘Walking down the road, I lost track of time. It took deliberate effort to put one foot in front of the other, and then the other, and the other. The muted squeaks of my sneakers on the cobblestone street were washed away and lost in the groan of the wind – only in the late over-ripeness of August can the wind groan like that, not a howl, not a whisper, but a throaty, painful creaking like the ragged breath of a long-dead lover, returned, wasted by the grave, to lament his lost sweetheart.
The hair on the back of my neck, no – on my whole body, stood straight. I was awash in a fervor, fever of terror. I’ve seen dead men before, but never like this. The scene was a gruesome work of art, the masterpiece of a demented mind. Around the body bluebells were scattered, drizzled with blood. A stake stood in the center, rising straight from the victim’s sternum, the blood-caramel-brown rays stretching across his chest in sharp contrast to the white of his naked body. His arms were splayed neatly, evenly, shining clean in the moonlight, but his excised eyelids left him staring blindly skyward, a mutilation to voice the killer’s silent cry, “notice me!”
We noticed the crime, but God help us, we were ignorant that the murderer was one of us.’
Ok, except that started sort of sounding like a detective novel or something, plus I didn’t use the word “susurration,” which Dean always does. Anyway, read Odd Thomas, it’s a really kickass book.
To wrap things up, I would like to make note of the following: someone in my office shit in the garbage can again. Is this a fetish, a practical joke, a cry for attention? I don’t know. Is it fucking disgusting? Yes.
The End
Fortunately, the woman who was describing the filing tasks to me was not what you’d call an A-Plus Explainer. After asking her to repeat herself three or four times, I just pretended like I understood and then sat there at the desk doing nothing, poking every once in a while at the stack of papers like an animal that you’re not sure is dead.
Speaking of which, have you ever done that? It’s actually really fucking intense, especially with a big animal like a deer…. You creep up to it slowly… make some noise at it… poke it in the but with a stick… and then finally, your last step to make sure it’s dead is to whap it in the eyeball. Then you slice it open to remove the intestines. Eviscerating Bambi sound gross? Whatever, don’t kill the messenger.
Ok, before I forget, the bathroom story. Disclaimer: the story is not funny or interesting, and this post is going to be super disjointed, so keep that in mind.
When my cousin Jake used to come over almost every day in the summer, we’d play all day outside. Sunup to sundown. When we had to go to the bathroom, going all the way inside seemed like such a bother, so we used to just jump into the garage, which was unfinished and full of lumber, and save ourselves some time.
One day, it was time for Jake to leave, and my mom was coming out the back door with her purse and keys to drive him home. “Jake, if you have to go to the bathroom, do it now!” she called. So Jake turned, ran into the garage and unloaded. Right in front of my mom. I don’t know, he’s a dumbass.
For some reason, my mom still loves me, a fact which I rediscovered last night, when she left a new hardcover copy of Odd Hours standing on the stairs where she knew I would find it on my way to bed. Any of you read Dean Koontz at all? Because Odd Thomas is one of the greatest characters ever created, and the books are a total joy to read. Plus, they make me want to write stuff like this:
‘Walking down the road, I lost track of time. It took deliberate effort to put one foot in front of the other, and then the other, and the other. The muted squeaks of my sneakers on the cobblestone street were washed away and lost in the groan of the wind – only in the late over-ripeness of August can the wind groan like that, not a howl, not a whisper, but a throaty, painful creaking like the ragged breath of a long-dead lover, returned, wasted by the grave, to lament his lost sweetheart.
The hair on the back of my neck, no – on my whole body, stood straight. I was awash in a fervor, fever of terror. I’ve seen dead men before, but never like this. The scene was a gruesome work of art, the masterpiece of a demented mind. Around the body bluebells were scattered, drizzled with blood. A stake stood in the center, rising straight from the victim’s sternum, the blood-caramel-brown rays stretching across his chest in sharp contrast to the white of his naked body. His arms were splayed neatly, evenly, shining clean in the moonlight, but his excised eyelids left him staring blindly skyward, a mutilation to voice the killer’s silent cry, “notice me!”
We noticed the crime, but God help us, we were ignorant that the murderer was one of us.’
Ok, except that started sort of sounding like a detective novel or something, plus I didn’t use the word “susurration,” which Dean always does. Anyway, read Odd Thomas, it’s a really kickass book.
To wrap things up, I would like to make note of the following: someone in my office shit in the garbage can again. Is this a fetish, a practical joke, a cry for attention? I don’t know. Is it fucking disgusting? Yes.
The End
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Part Three, I guess: Is runny-dump-pass a football term?
Holy crap, oh my goodness. I was a little tired/hungover coming into work today, so I ran out to the gas station to grab a little pick me up. Then I couldn’t decide whether I wanted the blue or green jumbo Monster, so I got them both. Then I drank them.
That’s 3000 mg of caffeine. The average cup of coffee has 100 mg. For those of you who aren’t good at mathing, that’s the equivalent of 30 cups of coffee. Now my hands are shaking like the dickens (what are the dickens?), and I feel like I’m going to throw up. No, seriously, I’m getting very nauseous. Also, I’ve smoke four cigarettes this morning.
Guess where my brother was on Thursday. At the R. Kelly trial. That’s right. For any of you who might have been there, he was the one who came out with the judge, sat in the second row, and was called up during the recess before the defense was even dismissed. That means R. Kelly sat in his place while my brother clicked across the floor to chat with the jumbo-judge. Man, being a downtown lawyer has its perks, even if you’re only a clerk.
I guess I should tell you the Octoberfest story now, even though I’m kind of tired of the Tales of the Fewmets.
Every year we have a family party (this stories all start that way, don’t they?) in October, titled, ingeniously, Octoberfest. The whole family gets together for – wait for it… drinking and hanging out outside. We always play football or soccer. Little kids get run over, cry. Old people get cramps, moan. I score touchdowns, rejoice.
Except the year when I was a freshman in high school and had a little bit of a stomach flu. We played soccer that year, and I was just getting old enough that I thought I could play with the big guys – namely, my six-four cousin Matt. I was battling for the loose balls, spreading the field and holding my own… until.
I was running for a ball that had squirted out of a scrum near midfield, and Matt had a full head of steam toward it from the other direction. He got there first, squared it, and stopped short. I tried to pull up, jumped to avoid him, and got his hip square into my stomach.
It was a full-on knock-the-wind-out-of-you shot, and I went down, gasping for breath. People gathered round while I squirmed on the ground with my mouth open, struggling for that first breath. And then, after I made it to the sideline for a break, I felt a warm sensation between my buttcheeks.
Head to the outhouse, and wouldn’t you know it, I’ve got a full diaper – a nice runny little squirt, straight into the soccer shorts. So I stripped off my undies and chunked them into the blue port-a-potty water and went to get sweatpants from my mom.
And that, I’m fairly certain, is an original experience. Has anyone else ever had poop squeezed out of them by someone’s hip? During a soccer game? Yeah, didn’t think so. Go me.
Ok, this caffeine buzz is getting to be more than I can handle. I’m starting to hum now and jouncing my legs viciously under my desk. What is this song I’m humming, even? Is this the Russian national anthem? You know the one… it goes hmmm-hmm-hmmmmmm, budummm…. Hmm hmm hmmmmm-hm-hmmmmmmm, bummm hmmmm, dnt dnt dnnnnnnnnnn!
No? Okay. I’ll ask someone smarter.
That’s 3000 mg of caffeine. The average cup of coffee has 100 mg. For those of you who aren’t good at mathing, that’s the equivalent of 30 cups of coffee. Now my hands are shaking like the dickens (what are the dickens?), and I feel like I’m going to throw up. No, seriously, I’m getting very nauseous. Also, I’ve smoke four cigarettes this morning.
Guess where my brother was on Thursday. At the R. Kelly trial. That’s right. For any of you who might have been there, he was the one who came out with the judge, sat in the second row, and was called up during the recess before the defense was even dismissed. That means R. Kelly sat in his place while my brother clicked across the floor to chat with the jumbo-judge. Man, being a downtown lawyer has its perks, even if you’re only a clerk.
I guess I should tell you the Octoberfest story now, even though I’m kind of tired of the Tales of the Fewmets.
Every year we have a family party (this stories all start that way, don’t they?) in October, titled, ingeniously, Octoberfest. The whole family gets together for – wait for it… drinking and hanging out outside. We always play football or soccer. Little kids get run over, cry. Old people get cramps, moan. I score touchdowns, rejoice.
Except the year when I was a freshman in high school and had a little bit of a stomach flu. We played soccer that year, and I was just getting old enough that I thought I could play with the big guys – namely, my six-four cousin Matt. I was battling for the loose balls, spreading the field and holding my own… until.
I was running for a ball that had squirted out of a scrum near midfield, and Matt had a full head of steam toward it from the other direction. He got there first, squared it, and stopped short. I tried to pull up, jumped to avoid him, and got his hip square into my stomach.
It was a full-on knock-the-wind-out-of-you shot, and I went down, gasping for breath. People gathered round while I squirmed on the ground with my mouth open, struggling for that first breath. And then, after I made it to the sideline for a break, I felt a warm sensation between my buttcheeks.
Head to the outhouse, and wouldn’t you know it, I’ve got a full diaper – a nice runny little squirt, straight into the soccer shorts. So I stripped off my undies and chunked them into the blue port-a-potty water and went to get sweatpants from my mom.
And that, I’m fairly certain, is an original experience. Has anyone else ever had poop squeezed out of them by someone’s hip? During a soccer game? Yeah, didn’t think so. Go me.
Ok, this caffeine buzz is getting to be more than I can handle. I’m starting to hum now and jouncing my legs viciously under my desk. What is this song I’m humming, even? Is this the Russian national anthem? You know the one… it goes hmmm-hmm-hmmmmmm, budummm…. Hmm hmm hmmmmm-hm-hmmmmmmm, bummm hmmmm, dnt dnt dnnnnnnnnnn!
No? Okay. I’ll ask someone smarter.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Funny shit. This post has nothing to do with shit (foreshadowing!)
Okay, we’ve got to take a quick break from the Chronicles of Bathroomia. If I ever even get back to that… the next three episodes tell the story of how 1. I got body-slammed and shit my pants 2. my friend pissed in my garage right in front of my mom and 3. I got trapped in my aunt’s bathroom.
See that? That’s called foreshadowing.
I am leaving work in half an hour to go to Michigan, for which I am excited. (More foreshadowing, you dig?)
Did I tell you I bought a car? No? I did. Black Chevy Impala LTZ – leather, sunroof, Bose stereo, the whole deal. I am even more fly than before, if that’s possible.
But the most important reason I needed to take this little break was to refer you to a post that I found on a fucking hilarious blog. Foreshadowing: it’s this blog.
The post: For real, like, for real. It’s funny. If you don’t like it, no offense, but you’re a retard. Have a good weekend, dudes.
See that? That’s called foreshadowing.
I am leaving work in half an hour to go to Michigan, for which I am excited. (More foreshadowing, you dig?)
Did I tell you I bought a car? No? I did. Black Chevy Impala LTZ – leather, sunroof, Bose stereo, the whole deal. I am even more fly than before, if that’s possible.
But the most important reason I needed to take this little break was to refer you to a post that I found on a fucking hilarious blog. Foreshadowing: it’s this blog.
The post: For real, like, for real. It’s funny. If you don’t like it, no offense, but you’re a retard. Have a good weekend, dudes.
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