Vote For ME!

Well fuck me running if it ain't that time again folks. It is that splendid time which only comes around every four years. It is time to batter the national collective conscience over its fragile, god-fearing head. It’s time for the great presidential debates.

Whoopty –fucking-do!.

Now I know most of you sick fucks out there hate it when I go "all political" on your silly asses, when all you want to read about are my misadventures, but sleep safe tonight in your little beds knowing that THIS will be one of the few political statements that I make (okay, so I'm lying...fuck you, ok?).
First off, let me just say THANK YOU BABY JESUS for seeing this whole presidential race come almost full circle. It's almost over folks, and thanks to the aforementioned infant son of God for that. I can't remember a more shit-slinging, polarized, bare knuckled, deathmatch than the current presidential race going on right now. The whole "right wing vs left wing" has become a monster none of us can stop now, so let's be honest here...no matter WHO gets elected, it's only going to get worse. Both sides will get blamed for everything wrong that will happen in the near future, no matter how innocent it may seem. George Dubya farts live on national television? Them damned faggoty liberals will blame the conservatives for actively going out and depleting the ozone layer. And if J.F.Kerry happens to do a photo-op in a 7-11, shaking hands with Habib as he pays for his 99 cent bean burrito? Of course the conservatives are going to say he's soft on terrorism. It's the blame game, folks...no whammy, no whammy.
But I will be watching the presidential debates with baited breath and utter fascination. For one, it cracks me up to watch John Kerry try to give a speech.

"And...let...it...be known. That...freedom...WILL...ring....again...America..."

I swear, his speech writers must get paid by the ellipses. And don't get me started on Bush. The fake Texas accent, the smug look at his face every five seconds, that annoying little laugh he does where his shoulders bounce up and down, all of these things are both fascinating and painful to watch. Our only hope is if the final debate breaks down into a good ol' fashioned back alley knife fight, and I got my money on Kerry for that one. Hell, the guy is a self-professed baby gook killer. Plus he's got mad reach. You can't argue with that.
Who am I voting for? Not that it's any of your fucking business, but I can't vote anyhow...I've been convicted. But, if I COULD vote, I wouldn't vote for any of those two Ivy League, Old Money motherfuckers. Screw em' both! Something ain't right with the both of them and it's not only the fact they are both Skull & Crossbones. And Nader who? No folks. What this country needs now is your everyday, blue-collar, beer swilling common man. And that man is ME! I'm just what this country needs, people! I'm not rich, I'm not very well spoken in public, and I've been known to enjoy the alcohol a little TOO much but GODDAMNIT! This country needs an enema, and I have just the right mixture of warm soapy water to do it. So if anything, when the time comes around, and it's coming SOON people; get your lazy ass out there and vote.
And you know what? The popular vote may not really count for shit, but be a fucking AMERICAN and show the world how it's done. You wanna keep Bush in there for 4 more years? Get your ass to that voting booth. You DON'T want Bush to keep his job? You know the deal. Hell, with enough write-ins, we could even, dare I say it, get me elected. So do what's right for a change. On November 2nd, let your opinion be voiced and maybe, just maybe...it'll be heard.

Unless you live in Florida...then you're fucked.

I'm Innocent!

This one dates back to about 1998. I’ve mentioned this before... at the time, I had been Xanax dependent for over two years. One day, my worst nightmare in life had come to fruition - my entire supply of Xanax was depleted and I wound up having to go cold turkey.

While celebrating my birthday in New Orleans, my girlfriend at the time, who was merely an amateur drinker, got retardedly hammered and wound up doing the Technicolor Yawn on the comforter of our bed at the hotel. The next day we made sweet love in the pile of vomit for most of the afternoon. By the time night had fallen it was time to go back to Decatur Street to do it again. We called “Anything / Anytime” to have a maid clean the puke off the bed.

After several hours of boozing it up, we came back to the room and found that the maid had been there. When I went to take my nightly dose of Xanax and realized:

Houston, we have a problem…

In my drunken stupor the night before, I had unscrewed the Right Guard deodorant where I hide my precious Xanax in the bottom and didn’t screw the top back on to put the stick back in. The maid had mistaken the bottom for trash and disposed of it.
There was no way I was gonna score more. So I decided, fuck it, it was time I stopped being a slave to those things anyway. I was quitting, done…cold turkey. Such an aberration - leaving New Orleans more sober than when he’d come. Who woulda thunk it? I suffered with no sleep and anxiety wracking my brain, but it was good to have put that foul addiction behind me.
It was now time to drive back to Florida. If you’ve traveled around the Southland as much as I have then you would know that nothing is scarier than a wide open road, some corn fields, and a couple of rural ass hick cops with nothing to do.
As we crossed the border into the cosmopolitan Picayune, Mississippi, a cop was parked on the side of the road. I’m not speeding, sober as a Baptist preacher on a Sunday morning, not swerving or anything. I see him pull off the side of the road to get inline with the traffic. I set the cruise control to 5 MPH below the speed limit, make sure to drive straight as a arrow, and try to not look back at the Blue Menace. Still, I was having that sinking feeling again, I knew it - we were getting pulled.
Some inbred early-twenty-something-looking deputy steps to the side of the car with his gun drawn - it was Showtime. Of course, when speaking to a cop, it does you absolutely no good getting mouthy with him. As a way to suppress primordial fear, the human brain reverts to speaking an arcane language pigs can’t interpret to maintain some semblance of self dignity while being berated by these inbred redneck hicks with extra chromosomes. I shall translate this phenomenon here:

“Sir, would you please step out of the car please?”
“Yes, sir.” = “I hope you die in a vicious hail of bullet fire -- you pig asshole.”
“I noticed you were swerving back there. Have you been using any illegal drugs?”
“Absolutely not, sir.” = “I dug you mother up and fucked her skeleton.”
“Where are you coming from?”
“New Orleans, sir.” = “The same place we came from - necro-gang-raping your mom’s decaying corpse.”
“Where are you guys headed to?”
“Florida, sir” = “I would now like to give you the opportunity to suck on my hairy balls - you fag!”
“Do you mind if I pat you down just to make sure you don’t have any weapons?”
“No, sir.” = “See, I told you that you were a fag.”
“Please don’t make any quick movements; I have my dogs with me. You look a little nervous. What’s the matter?” = “Aren’t people always nervous when some ignorant redneck has them detained on the side of the road with dogs and a gun drawn?”
“Do you mind if I look in the car?”
“No problem, sir.” = “Why are you even phrasing this shit like its fucking questions? You know you are going to do whatever you want - just get it over with.”

We both get thoroughly frisked and then comes the dog. The dog goes around the car, in the car, the trunk is opened, our belongings are scattered on the side of the road, then the same bags are searched over, over and over again because El Piggo swears that the dog is “alerting to something.”

Dude – it’s a fucking DOG!

I tell you what Picayune, Mississippi, the proud home of two (this is no joke) Cretin Mobile Home dealerships. It ain’t a couple of city slickers with tattoos that you need to be worried about – it’s all of the cousins that keep inbreeding for generation after generation that has muddled your gene pool to the sorry quagmire that it is now. Stick to domestic issues and stop these inbreds from fuckin’!
I’ve been through my share of hairy vehicle searches before, but this one definitely took the cake. It’s one thing to get hassled when you are doing something, but there is no feeling quite as indignant and sanctimonious as when you are pulled over for nothing and you aren’t doing anything! If it were any day between 1994 and 1/21/1998 - you would’ve got me, but now I ain’t doing SHIT and THIS was HARRASSMENT!
It never fails...I give cops a chance, and they always prove to me how they're nothing but poorly educated, megalomaniacs with a license to kill. I'm innocent, bitches!

Mr. Telephone Man...There's Something Wrong With My Head

I happened to be reading some articles on the recent mindless acts in Atlanta, Ga. Strange shit happens all the time. You see it in every part of the nation. Some dumbass clearing out the gene pool with their tomfoolery (horrible word but I find myself strangely attracted to it).

It is an endless cycle. The "Jackasses" of the world prove themselves on national television every day. Children watch it in between their cartoons, Which I must add make no sense whatsoever, and seem to be destined to further debase the moral virtues we are no longer trying to instill in our youth.

Alcohol is probably the second best friend a man can have in his life (besides Rover) especially if he is following the American Dream of having 2.5 children, the big house, the white picket fence, yada, yada, yada… and a little (or big, I won't discriminate) girlfriend on the side. I hate to go back in time, but we all know how John Wayne Bobbitt lost his head. *Snip* The combination of debasing cartoons, alcohol and Bobbitism has brought us to a whole new level.

If you haven't heard about it, a guy drives drunk. His friend is hanging out the window when he gets up close and personal with the wire to a telephone pole while his friend drives up on the curb. You know who/what won this little confrontation. The guy drives home, leaving the friend in the truck and goes to sleep. His family now wants him out of jail so he can receive treatment. (I can think of some treatment he'd get if I was his family). It seems like the two families were really close so they don't want him in jail.

Just imagine driving down the road drunk. You look over at your friend in the passenger seat who has his head out the window like your best friends tend to do. He's so peaceful you drive on to the house and leave him passed out and go in and crash on the bed. You wake up with the cops pulling your hand off your dick and cuffing it behind you.

"Son, do you know why we're arresting you? Seems like you left something on the side of the road!"

"Officer, I swear the shit isn't mine!"

I've had problems finding my keys, finding my room, remembering the name of the chick laying next to me after a night of "tomfoolery," but never my friend's head.I guess there are several morals to the story. Either let your friend drive the car and lose your mind, go home with the ugly chick that was hitting on you earlier in the night or fuck it, keep your head inside the window.

Looks like I need another beer. Where the hell are my keys?

Kerry's Gonna Cut Out Carbs

You heard it here first: Dubaya is out this bitch. John Kerry is going to be our next president and YOU are going to have to deal with it! Yeah, I know, this is a brash statement. I’m just sick of all this pre-election bullshit that seems to be injecting politics into everything - it’s fucking pointless and it’s BORING! I can tell you this: As sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, as sure is Scott Perterson is a mur-diddly-urdler, and as sure as when I am done writing this homepage I will login to Euro Sex Parties to rough up my suspect till I cover this keyboard in a frothy man spackle…

Kerry is gonna be our next president.

Polls ask VOTERS who they will vote for. These polls call on VOTERS who have actually bothered to take part in the political process in the past. Well it ain't the VOTERS that will decide this next election! Speculation about the upcoming election ends HERE. This is my poll and it is the only one that matters:

From what I've heard:

Around 50% of people say they will vote for Bush.
Around 50% of people say they will vote for Kerry.
Around 10% are “swing voters” who constitute the “undecided”.

Newsflash: Statistically speaking, 50% of people do not vote!

Fuck off you flimflamming 10% undecided morons - you represent only 5% of the public anyway! This is as sure as I will be deleting your bloated Dubaya loving emails without reading them tomorrow, as sure as Michael Jackson fucks little boys, and as sure as I am readying my Bang Brother's Keyboard-Sperm-Guard to protect this computer from merciless sortie of dong malt that is about to be hurled in it's direction - at least 11% of the 50% of the people who don't usually vote will go resister to get rid of George Bush because he is JUST THAT HORRIBLE!

Then again, you can use stats and statistics to back most anything - 63% of people know that.

I'm not a John Kerry fan at all. Kerry is bad - not bad like Mao Tse Tung or Grey Davis bad; more just Millard Fillmore bad. This country will gladly accept four years of mediocre leadership just because Kerry is NOT AS HORRIBLE as George Bush. That's why only 50% of people have voted in the past - one mediocre candidate vs. another mediocre candidate - in 2004 its one mediocre candidate vs. the Anti-Christ.
I'm not trying to change anyone's vote or to even to get anyone out to the polls at all - I'm just sick and tired politics being interjected in my pop culture! Every channel, every comedian, every awards show, every god-damn-everything is about this impending election and I'm fucking worn-out! I need to get back to the issues that really affect my life: What about Mary-Kate Olsen's drug problem? When is there going to be an all original Anthrax reunion? What the fuck is with Ashley Simpson's nose? Is Chinese Democracy really ever gonna come out?
Jesus-Fucking-Christ…we are America and America wants answers!This is the kind of information that needs to be in the limelight; not all of this nonsensical yammering over who is going to be our next president. It's going to be John Kerry, so ya'll just STOP FUCKING ARGUING ABOUT IT! We've been beaten into submission; we are tired and bloated on the blubber of speculation! America is going on the Adkins' Diet! No more CARBS – that's right NO MORE FUCKING CARBS!

Nosebleed

I had just moved to New Jersey, from Kentucky (from bad to worse). I did, however, manage to go from being unemployed to having a sweet-ass full time job (which explains the move). To top it off, I was working with people my age, who seemed to like partying as much as I did. I’d been employed by this firm for a little under a year and the wear of partying, which sometimes took place in the office after hours, had just begun to take its grizzly toll on me. I’d just kicked my booger-sugar habit into third gear a week or so earlier so the sleepless nights and sudden mood changes had become little more than an annoying itch. I had, however, hit a nice stride with my c0-workers. I was funnier than a naked Richard Pryor stuck in a giant blender. I was sitting pretty on top of the world, so when my nose began bleeding like a faucet while I was sitting at my desk one could imagine my…surprise.
I actually remember that I was about to start picking my nose. Back then, in the old office, Paul and I sat not five feet from each other and harvesting chunky and long nasal-melons then showing them off to one another had become a bit of a sport for us, however un-Olympic. I felt a nice nugget loaded deep within my nasal cavity and had begun cracking my knuckles in preparation for the dive. I gave a preliminary snort to blow free any loose booger-age which might act as a decoy for my prey…when it happened.
It came as a strong “pop” and I first thought that I’d blown free my enemy. But a quick glance down at the three BIG red dots which sat on my shirt told me quite a different story. Thank god I wore two shirts that day. I was lame enough to have a t-shirt on top of another long sleeve t-shirt (skater garb) and I whipped the top t-shirt off faster than if my name was Barry Allen (The Flash, for you non-comic-book-reading plebians). I jumped up from my chair and made a hasty b-line for our kitchen area where also, conveniently, our bathrooms were located. I slammed the door behind me.
I was able to tilt my head back and get it over the sink just in time for the show to begin. And what a show it was. I didn’t really know that my head could hold so much blood and it didn’t look like it was going to stop anytime soon. I used my foot to put a good spin on the toilet paper and kept it going until I could reach some of it with my hand. Why is it that whenever someone has a nosebleed, drug induced or not, we pucker our lips like Mick Jagger? Well it’s probably to keep for getting the blood into our teeth and by the time I soaked those first 8 or so squares of toilet paper in my own life fluid, mine were covered.
The blood kept flowing and someone turned up the nightmare music that was banging in my head and filling the bathroom (as opposed to the elevator music which I was sure was playing throughout the rest of the office). For a while I began to think that I was going to bleed to death right there in the bathroom and I could see the headlines of the Courier-News “Evil, Comedic-Mastermind Honkey Bleeds To Death After Picking One Hell Of A Fucking Booger” and that’s when I lost it. Temporary insanity kicked in as I was staring at myself in the mirror, bloody teeth and all and I actually started to laugh. From somewhere in the recess of my subconscious I found the lyrics to that “Bubbles-song” that they sometimes sang on Looney Tunes and began murmuring it aloud.

“I’m forever blowing bubbles, blub-blub-blub-blub-blub-blub-blub-blub-blub…”

After the first run of that line of blubs, blood-bubbles started forming on my lips and after a second I was able to form some with my lips that were so big that they took flight and floated to the ground. Utter hilarity. I sang louder and louder and the bubbles got bigger and bigger and soon I was in the middle of a bastardized Wonka-Fizzy-Lifting-Drink-Bubble-Chomper-Deleted-Scene. Someone came knocking on the door and the Bubble-Song-Nightmare-Music screeched to a halt as the record needle was ripped to one side. …The knock came again and panic shot through me. I didn’t have the slightest idea who was on the other side of that door doing the crap-trap-tango but all I could mutter out was “Somebody’s in here” in a weak pansy voice similar to that of a frightened Homer Simpson. I watched the shadow underneath the door move away and exhaled. The bleeding had stopped. The bathroom was an absolute mess and looked like I’d started menstruating through my face as there was tissue all over the place. I slowly gathered it all and flushed it. I stood there for another five minutes or so washing my face to remove any clue of what had happened. I rolled up my blood-dripped t-shirt, tucked it under my arm and lurched back to my desk, exhausted.
Again, Paul and I sat not five feet from each other in the old office. After almost a year of sitting that close to someone day in and day out you begin to develop a bit of non-verbal communication. We called ours Instant Message. I didn’t have the balls to say aloud what had just transpired in the bathroom so once I gathered my courage I typed out the sentence “I’ve spent the last ten minutes in the bathroom battling my first "one of those" nose bleeds.” I watched him as my message lit up at the bottom of his monitor and held my breath as he clicked on it and read. He tilted his head back, tapped his fingertips together for a moment (while they still sat atop his keyboard) and then did that thing that George Clooney does when he turns the corners of his mouth down for a second in a bit of a half frown/half smile. He glanced over to me and…with a grin my boss typed back:

“These things happen…”