26 Sunday Aug 2018
Posted in Entertainment
The destroyer of worlds. The itcher of ankles. Exceptionally morose if contracted from an old conservative lady at a nursing home, rather than a sexually promiscuous chick in a dirty dumpster behind Arby’s ®.
To be played at my undoubtedly closed casket, because there are really only two things people don’t like looking at:
15 Friday Sep 2017
Posted in Seriously Serious
Tags
3kFor800mgMotrin, Dr. Andrew's a dick, Gotta stop with the rectal exams, HemorrhoidsAlwaysWin, SigourneyWeaverIsCray
“
hy is he still twerking around like that? isn’t he dead?” One of the many questions I gleaned an answer from during my 6 days in the backcountry, learning how to become an even woodsier woodsman. I queried my buddy this enigma when the fish that I had just caught & gutted would not cease the death spasms he was exhibiting whilst in my hand. “Did you forget? You just removed his internal organs. See them floating? Yeah: he’s dead.” Point-taken. Hindsight isn’t something I excel at.
A drop in the bucket of what I would soon learn about fibrous diets, lack of hydration, why ring fingers are overrated and the odd feeling that comes with being diagnosed as a very gay dope seeker (not that there’s anything wrong with that) whose Lucile Ball-ian scheme to score norco/butt play was to purposefully and forcefully A) impact two weeks+ of waste, and then B) disimpact it, painfully angering his hemorrhoids and everything south of his eyelashes.
There’s gotta be less messy, embarrassing, expensive ways to get 800mg of Motrin. But my bathtub basin has surely never been so effectively disinfected and the google engineers has a good laugh at my colorful search history.
Next time I’m taking buttloads of quinoa and steamed broccoli, no doubt.
10 Wednesday May 2017
Posted in Entertainment
Selected for random screening. Off to a great start. What’s more benign than a sickly “Powder” lookalike in tan loafers with crumbs in his goatee? Although Daryl had gargantuan hands, they were well moisturized and he was gentle. Hope he calls. Woman in front of me: “you can go ahead, I’m only in group 8.” I replied that I too was a member of group 8. “Oh, well…mind if I go ahead of you. Your bag looks bulgy, it screams ‘problematic’ and you know…airlines these day, right? Please let me take advantage of your kindness, stranger”. I obliged. Hello, 18A. You look uncomfortable. What is this stitching made from, baby tears? Doubt it. Because even in its infantile lack of pickiness and the dexterity required to use Kyakk, even a crying baby wouldn’t pay to sit in these glorified ottomans. 2 talking eyeballs with mouths and shittier goatees sit in front of me, chatting like etherized gease, who make shitty conversation. Only, these gease are in much better loafers. They look like they could afford first class. What the fuck are they doing here? And why talk on their cell phones as though the rest of the cabin cannot hear them, these earls of American Airlines, go back to your proper seats your lordships, us surfs needn’t be bothered with your smothering of our noses in the wafts of your greatness. Nobody cares that you lived in Scotland Dave. Shut the fuck up, I wanna listen to Terry Gross.
And then…it happens: A tide turns. Table done flipped. New deck is cut; “you can stow that big bag on the seat next to you, looks like you’ll get your own row, we’ve only got 31 souls on board tonight.” I gasp; choke, basically…on the sweet incredulity that is my not believing what this beautiful man just told me. “31…souls…?”, I ask. He confirms. Yeah. And they’re all in their seats. Looks like you lucked out. Enjoy the flight to the sweat lodge that is Phoenix. The whole town smells like a nun’s fart. “Thank you, Jon. I will. Let me know if I can be of any assistance.” He looks oddly at my new-found delusions of grandeur, “oh-kay….I…will.”
Later he brings the drink cart ‘round, in tow with an incredibly big breasted stewardess, herself something out of a Pan-Am ad from 70’s that had sex with a hustler ad, also from the 70’s. Her blouse looked like it capped off its days with a stiff drink and complaints to the wife, “another day holding her tits together. Goddamn that woman, Gloria. God. Damn. Her. How was your day?” Too much lip stick but at this point, it’d take an elephant tranquilizer to wreck the high I have of unfathomable leg and elbow room, I could openly masturbate comfortably in this pew of 18 A-C, and if I wasn’t sure it was frowned upon by the FAA, church would quickly be in session. The cart is before me now, all I want is water, only…a man-sized scantling of water. A John Wayne order of aqua, not those puny shots of water, I needed to hydrate, dammit. I think about asking Jon if I could buy an actual bottle but pass because to this point, my flight had been as comfortable and friendly as a Turkish handjob. “Ice or no ice?”, he asks. “No ice. Thanks.” I gratefully watch him pour that bastard to the tip of the cup; it would’ve gotten on his size 12’s if the pilot were shittier at piloting, but he wasn’t, the pilot was masterful, pretty sure it was Sully up there in the cockpit. Fuck yeah Sully. Don’t you spill on Jon’s
K-Swiss.
Later, Jon is making his return to collect waste, I reluctantly hand over my already emptied cup, pausing mid transaction, “do you think…it’d be possible, for me, to…get…another water, please?” Jon smiles. His goatee does that thing a woman’s lips do when she’s about to sign off on a sexual contract. “No problem.” He hands me my own water bottle. And not a 12 or 16 oz bottle, it looks to be a canteen of water. A fucking billow of H20. Surely this much water wasn’t meant for one person to consume. But here it was. American Airlines. My Airlines. My behemothian water. Jon smiles, as he hands me another clean cup, to transfer water into, if I wanted to, because, why the fuck not? If he could, he would’ve offered me an inflatable pool to dip my toesies in, they were a bit warm.
Gershwin is bouncing off my tympanic membranes now. The concerto leads us upwards into the stratosphere; this happy, merry bus of travelers up, up into the clouds, so high we aught be scorched vis-à-vis Icarus, only, we weren’t braggadocios, just really fucking lucky. A guy with his very own platoon of water, bobbing his head, the way gods do, circling the suckers below, jazz melody, righteous indignation, ample leg room, my final say in lighting and air control. We’re just about to land, my laptop battery has gone down a mere 3%, it’s bordering on being atomically powered, way to go Microsoft. Uday and Quasay’s Lenovo’s in front of me died long since and they’ve been moaning about it ever since. Jon just told them that we were landing and to please put their goddamn seats forward. Then he mimed “cunts” and gave me a wink. My chair remains comfortably at 117 degrees. This is how Augustus felt. A traveling journey, the way it was always meant to be, but rarely works out as such. The landing was bumpier than a working girls nethers, but it was alright. Sully was still good in my book. All I could do was smile. One of those moments, when you realize it all…the gratified resolution that comes with life, often at the rarest of times. In this metal toothpaste tube, sitting behind Eric and Donald Jr, their legs are crammed and discontent. Smite me down, I’ve lead a good life. In this moment, I am ready, willing and able to die. A happy man. Super hydrated. Music is life. And life is music. Fingers are rivers.
American Airlines flight 887 is the tits.
01 Tuesday Dec 2015
Posted in Seriously Serious
he need for deals often times goes ahead of our need for logic, said Plato. He may have had a grasp on the duality of the human condition, as well as the best wrestling moves to counter young boys with, but did the man really understand the glory that comes with Black Weekend discount shopping and sabotaging yourself only to save on shipping.
That hoodie is mythical. Twasn’t meant to be. Crafted from Odin’s dickhair. Now all I must do is trust that USPS doesn’t see the glowing aura from its packaging and jack it from me. They could flip it and turn a cool forty dollar profit because of the savings I slaved over. #WorthIt.
09 Tuesday Jun 2015
Posted in Entertainment
Tags
John Goodman Sized Spider, Proof that Bristol Palin is actually a broken android, Star Wars 7 Trailer en Portuguese, Very Nude Bette Midler Pics, Warriors/Cavs game 4 final score leak
hat instance when you catch the refrigerator Perry of spiders in your peripherals, chillin’ on your wall and you try and smite it with the dog bone, miss and it dashes under the bed is insomnia-inducing at worst and confidence-shattering, at best. A walking baseball mitt with fangs and you miss it. This is why I suck at whack-a-mole and was never a hitman: I lack the simple motor functions and constitution of a small child. And now he’s plotting like Bonaparte. Danny DaVito in a spider costume, or Ganesh, having gained 2 arms, getting comfy under my bed in prep for the evening, the way a guest does with a BnB pull-out sofa. His dad should’ve pulled out, that’s all I know. Because this spider is evil incarnate and I missed my chance to rid the world of him. Now I know how George Bush Senior feels.
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9:15 PM – I asked Jeves, “Liberace sized spider in bedroom, whereabouts unknown,” and it told me, “find a new domicile or work on hand/eye coordination. Either way: you’re fucked.”
And now the room smells of flying insect repellant, because that’s all I have, aside from broken self-esteem and wishful faith in my sheets as a protective barrier. Literally the worst feeling in the world, next to losing a game 7.
9:28 PM – Started playing Taylor Swift’s “Shake it off”, in an attempt to drive him out but thus far haven’t heard his size 12’s clomping out the sliding glass door. I think he digs pop music. Gonna throw on an episode of The Good Wife to see if that gets him, but not from season 2 or 3, because those were the tits, something from season 4 or the first half of season 1.
9:33 PM – Can’t get the image of his rippling abs out of my head. I never knew what a spider penis looked like before tonight. He was amply endowed, not that I was looking; It’s like an eclipse: when an object is that big and stationary, you can’t not look at it. Sometimes you run across an arachnid so large that you catch yourself telling a friend, “holy shit, did you see that spiders dick?!?!”
9:52 PM – He’s undoubtedly clasping his hands now in readiness, his giant basketball-palming spider hands, waiting for me to fall asleep. But I’ve got some 6 hour energies and insect repellent at my side. Wearing slippers…in June, about to duct tape my hoody to my wrists. Because I’m a grown-ass man.
10:07 PM – Asked my neighbor to borrow his cat, for protection, because the Egyptians believed cats to be very sacred and I know not an Egyptian to have ever been pegged by a behemoth spider. He said he didn’t have a cat. Clearly I still have a contact high from all the bug spray. Will change plans accordingly.
10:17 PM – Remembered that I have another neighbor on the adjacent side and asked her for her cat. She obliged. Introduced the cat to the undercarriage of my bed, in the hopes that its natural predatory instinct would kick in and it would pounce on this fucker like a gazelle but all it did was curl up in the corner and start yacking up bodily fluids from ingesting a great deal of the insect repellant I had spackled quite liberally onto the bedpost.
10:25 PM – The cat does not look good. It looks like Tom Sizemore now, but a Tom Sizemore that really let himself go. An unhappy, unhealthy Tom Sizemore, grief-stricken with the world, eyes dilated, giving off the hundred yard stare as though he just got back from his second tour with the hundred and third regiment. I tell the cat to hang on and just do his fucking job and sniff out the spider. With what seemed like the last breath in its lungs he clamored, “Cats don’t sniff, we use our whiskers,” and that I should take him to a vet, pronto. I said it sounded more like I should take him to manners school or the respect-for-thy-elders factory. His eyes rolled back in disapproval.
10:29 PM – Pretty sure I was mistaken about the reason for the rolling back of the cats eyes. This cat is clearly dead. Its furry diaphragm is moving no more. Paws occasionally twitching uncontrollably in what I can only assume is the gods preparing its soul for the kitty afterlife. Off into the distance, far beyond my reach I see the shadow of what looks like Tom Sizemore, but like a really buff, in shape, self-confident Tom Sizemore. Black Hawk Down Tom Sizemore, which, they could’ve taken out the helicopter and replaced it with this eight-legged penis wrinkle and nobody would’ve been the wiser.
It’s the spider. He’s smoking what looks to be a Cohiba or maybe a Macanudo. The balls on this son of a bitch. Where’d he get that tiny lawn chair? All I see is the glow from his petit robusto and the glimmer in like thirty of his eyes. I again take notice of his member. He motions that I should take a picture. I retort with, “Psh. You…take a…picture. Bro.”
10:49 PM – Put on Toy Story 2 in an attempt to quaff my fear down like a Roy Rogers but all it accomplished was reminding me of my distaste for Tim Allen. It’s his voice, he just seems like a dick. A giant dick on a huge spider, fangs retracting like Wolverine’s claws, sinking into all matters of good taste, rendering them useless and gauche.
11:48 PM – Felt a tickle up my thigh and immediately jumped into the dogs paws but forgot that it was me, pleasuring myself, in an attempt to shift my thoughts from this Volkswagen of an insect to something more pleasing. Except, it had the opposite effect. This spider’s giant cock is now all but burned into my retinas and I can’t stop seeing mental images of it. Even with porn, it pops in there like an unwelcome guest to a dinner party, or a giant goddamn spider that walked into your bedroom because you left the sliding glass door ajar out of laziness, like Hitler waltzing into Poland.
12:12 AM – Lamented over the fact that I didn’t use the sandals that were on my feet to club this bastard instead of my seemingly ill-advised choice of a non-flat-surfaced Nylabone. Still can’t get over that fact. It was like instead of hitting him, I gave him a dope percussion beat as he moonwalked down my wall, between my bed and into the depths of my obsessive compulsiveness. What kind of spider wears a fedora and one bedazzled glove? I’ll tell you: the asshole kind.
12:21 AM – Tried to masterbate again, for sleep purposes, but was thrown off by the sound of what I took as him masterbating. Felt very gay. Had to stop before finishing because I again had mental images of his schlong. He kept going until I heard the first spider orgasm of my life; sounded like a deer mouse sneezing. Maybe he tuckered himself out too much to bite me and turn me into a warewolf or give me spider AIDS? Let us hope so.
12:52 AM – Took 2mg of Klonopin in an attempt to quell my anxiety, which had as much of an effect as Kelly Osborne at a boner contest. I lay here now, well, not so much laying as standing in the middle of the room, listening for him. Every few moments I hear a noise and I hold my breath, the way a Sonar officer pings other subs but I’m not well versed in locating large angry things that I was unsuccessful at killing earlier.
1:12 AM – Remembered that trick when you encounter bears and you’re supposed to play dead and so, since both beasts are of equal size and might I decided to play dead, hoping he’s watching and believes me as an actor. I started off by fake receiving a phone call, the content of which was that my half brother Darrelle was hit and killed by an AllState insurance van. In my overstated grief I mention that it didn’t bode well with my heart condition, because Darrelle and I were ever so close and that I was feeling very ill. I clasped my heart in distress and shook my legs a lot because that’s a symptom that I assume one has with a massive heart attack. After flopping around a bit in my bed I finally succumb to fake death, only after blurting out, “Oh no. A heart attack. I knew it’d be like this. Into your bosom I retreat, St. Peter.” It was a performance worthy of Kevin Bacon or Matt Damon, which unfortunately was ruined when my phone actually rang and I answered it to confirm to my roommate that: no, I hadn’t found the spider and also, no: I didn’t want to sleep in her bed. I see now why they turned down my application for that SAG card.
1:38 AM – I finally lull myself to sleep, ever so briefly. I had just arrived at the land of nod by counting sheep, when mid-count my stable of sheep were slaughtered by a large, angrily venomous spider, who wreaked unbiased havoc like in one of those old Mothra movies. I do believe this cock-knocker to be related to Mothra, if not directly than by proxy. Clearly I’ve reached the state of madness that Dostoevsky and Danielle Steel often speak of. I haven’t any more fucks to give now.
So take my life spider. Feast on my flesh. In time, myself, my friends and my family may forgive you but the Lord never will. So come to me in my sleep, bête noire and we’ll dance the Dance De La Muerte. You can lead.
Here is an artist’s rendering of what he looks like, in case anti-venom must be synthesized. Every time I enter its descriptors into google for an image match it just comes back with pictures of Hillary Clinton. I do this not to save my own life, that is a gift already ruined, but hopefully to prevent this serial killer spider from becoming the Ed Kemper of insects and inflicting his pain on another human being.
04 Thursday Dec 2014
Posted in Seriously Serious
ecently I had something go awry with my rectum, which is a top 5 worst place for things to go awry. I’m a bit neurotic so I believed this to be the beginning of the end for me, so, in the off-chance that the P.A. got it wrong by assuring me that the bump was in-fact a hemorrhoid, I decided to make something to play at my funeral. Pro-Tip: never use WebMD to diagnose your own ailments, you’ll inevitably walk away with a panic disorder and even more damage caused to your sit bones. Pro-tip 2: In the off chance that you must undergo a prostate exam, and the guy who performs it shares the same first name with you, don’t worry, it’s not like the movie TimeCop, neither one of you will dissolve into nothing once he touches you.
Happy Holidays, to you and yours.
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