As one of the millions of Americans ‘searching’ for work and finding the apparent pickings so slim as to even warrant a pick, I have, like my fellow millions, thus far failed to find much by way of constructive hobbies. Of course I could lay down that six album rock opera I’ve always dreamed of recording, the one about the misunderstood teenage computer gamer who gets his revenge against some vague negative life influences; or I could finally take up woodcarving, exposing my lack of patience and artistic flair in equally quick and conclusive manner; or I could (continue) to amass the world’s (okay, local area’s) greatest collection of golden era pornography (early 2006 to mid-November 2008). But none of these seemed anything less than a whole bunch of work. So instead, like my millions, I decided to medicate my dying brain with a little TV. Continue reading
The whole thing started off innocently enough. I clicked the “Play Random Opponent” icon, and, enjoying the first turn, entered some awesome word. I can’t recall exactly what it was—maybe “dariole” or “atelier”—you know, one of the obvious ones. After picking up a quick 70, I took note the moniker of my new foe: “Mikeypoo2.” Instantly a feeling of unease overcame me. Continue reading
Everyone knows booze and writing great books go hand in hand like opium and penning your memoirs. After reading the bios of such heavyweights as Hunter S. Thompson, Tennessee Williams, Dylan Thomas, Edgar Allen Poe, Truman Capote, Jack Kerouac William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, James Joyce, and Hemingway, to name just 8, I found there was one common denominator—yep, that’s right, the juice.
NOTE: THIS POST CONTAINS ADULT LANGUAGE & CONTENT Continue reading
You ever notice those funny little preferences that are actually pretty insignificant but about which we feel strongly? Well I decided to ponder a few of those in this short but let’s face it hysterically humorous accounting.
For example, some insist the toilet paper must be placed on the holder such that the paper rolls over the top coming away from the wall, while others insist that it should actually be slung back toward the wall and then clutched from beneath the roll.
Or, let’s take eating a cob of corn. Some folks are quite positive the best way to go is “typewriter” style, where you chomp, chomp, chomp your way down the cob then ‘ding’ rotate and repeat, while others prefer the pure rotation method which entails maintaining a single left to right position, rotating the delectable and potentially butter drenched ear in a clockwise or counterclockwise position, and only when a full mouth sized ring has been completed does one scale down the cob toward the other end and engage in another rotation of chomping.
WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS ADULT & IRREVERENT CONTENT Continue reading
This is the third in what I hope becomes an entertaining series of adolescent recollections. You see a lot of stuff when you’re young–some good, some bad, some happy, some sad. Some involve pushing the girl you like onto the ground because you don’t know what else to do.
One fateful third grade day, in the chaotic moments just before class ended and students were allowed to gather up their belongings (i.e. manically stash all their shit in their desks), Mr. Saddler, chrome-domed and four-eyed “teacher” extraordinaire, took it upon himself to plunk his ample Montgomery Wards’ slacks-clad bum on the desk next to mine, scoop up my unguarded yearbook (I had, in the commotion, momentarily stepped away) and peruse it as if it were his, not my, personal property.
Combing through our class’ section (the annual was organized not just by grade but by teacher), he noticed the heart I had carefully and affectionately drawn (with my best blue pen, I might add) around the lovely image of my beloved, Jennifer Drury. Seeing this, a wholly private expression of intense, longing emotion, old Saddler-bags himself slovenly sat there chuckling and giggling. CHUCKLING & GIGGLING! This drew the attention of one Eric Marcaccini, who I knew to be fleet of foot but only then realized was snakelike too, who peered around the chubby, shiny headed, cheap-loafer wearing “educator” who was illicitly enjoying my intimate secret (I hadn’t yet revealed my “like” to Ms. Drury or anyone else). Is it me, or is that, like, a serious breach of teacher protocol? Continue reading
I thought the pit of despair was literally, like, just a pit. Now I know that’s just fallacy—there is much more than the pit of despair—there are also the chair of despair, bed of despair, shower of despair, toilet of despair, kitchen of despair, and barstool of despair. This unemployment shit? It’s a bitch, yo.
Look, we all know it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there (or as my sister says a doggy-dog world). The only question is which dog ends up with a happily engorged belly and which becomes Alpo. Lately, I’ve been feeling like the latter dog. At my age, trust me, there is no joy in being jobless.
When you’re young, of course, a stint of unemployment is like damned sunshine in the sweet sweet summertime. No rules, restrictions, curfews. As long as you’ve got enough bread for a sixer of Special Export, an Arby’s roast beef sandwich, and a little gas in the tank, it’s smooth sailin’, Jack. But when you’re older, this crap gets old after about…oh, five minutes. Continue reading
This is the second in what I hope becomes an entertaining series of adolescent recollections. You see a lot of stuff when you’re young–some good, some bad, some happy, some sad. Some involve gym class humiliation.
The Presidential Physical Fitness Challenge, designed to get kids up off the couch and to the highest realms of (alternately) glory or embarrassment, was a popular gymnasium fixture in the elementary school days of my youth. A minor part of President Lyndon B. Johnson‘s sweeping Great Society programming, and measuring performance in a variety of activities such as the 50-yard dash, pushups, and other displays of speed, strength, and agility, the Presidential Fitness Challenge was to the young “husky” boy an unadulterated manifestation of evil incarnate.
Most humiliating of all, at least for 8 year old me, was the “Flexed Arm Hang.” The idea was simple! Grab the chin-up bar, pull yourself up, and hang, for as long as humanly possible, with your chinny-chin-chin all the way up above the bar. Little Eddie so-and-so, who never struck me as the athletic type but did on second look have an unusually muscular upper chest, held it for 59 seconds just prior to my turn, setting the flexed arm hang “bar” high. I still set mine low, thinking if I could hoist my considerable mass up that high for a solid ten seconds I could claim if nothing else at least moral victory. I sidled up and hoped for the best. Continue reading