My Liver, My Enemy

I need to start this off with a public apology.

To all those whose lives I've touched or came across these past three brutally long days, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry, if not for the fact I have no recollection of what I've done, but for the things I'll probably wind up doing again this weekend. You see, as I write these words and do my best to control the spastic shaking in my hands due to acute alcohol poisoning, it's starting to sink in. Yes, indeed, Johnny boy, you've been awake for about 37 hours now. 37 hours, with 98% of that time drinking heavily, smoking pack after pack of Lucky Strikes, joint after joint of Mexico's finest import tatooing my lungs, and all in the name of glorious debauchery.

For you see, I'm coming off the ass end of a 3 day bender, but as I sit here trying to justify why exactly I've pushed myself to the heights of self-destruction, I can no longer lie to myself or make it appear glamorous. No, folks, these past few days imbibing all manner of poisons weren't in celebration of someone's honor or demise. No victorious event was celebrated and extolled by myself and the others. Nope, none of these things. Because simply put, as self-loathing starts to take up permanent residence inside my gut and regret comes knocking on my door, I realize this bender is the result of one simple reason:

I can't say no.

No matter how much I tell myself when I awake in the morning, "John. Now listen to me. This is your liver and brain speaking on behalf of your soul. Just stop...for ONE night, for God's sake, just stop poisoning yourself. Learn some self-control and self-respect, you stupid weak willed sheep-fucking bastard." But again, I can't say no. Offer me a drink, and I shall consume it. Show me a pill, and I shall tell you to pop it into my mouth. Cut up some lines of Devil Powder, and I'll roll up the 50 dollar bill. It's a vicious and ugly cycle, most likely destined for me to wake up in some wastelined gutter, clutching desperately at an empty bottle of Thunderbird wine, and addiction consuming my mind. But for now, I'm enjoying myself, and could give two fucks less what anybody thinks. In an effort to cleanse my soul of the things I have done these past three days, I'm making a public apology to the following people:

To my now and most recent former friends:
I'm sorry you're too weak of will and stomach to have journeyed with me on this glorious bender of mine. Shame on you for believing me to be something I never was; a fine upstanding citizen I am not, nor will I ever aspire to be. Enjoy your sobriety.

To Chris the bartender:
I'm sorry for not tipping you as well at the end of my bender than when I was at the beginning, but I'm sure you understand. You stood by me through thick and thin and was my constant moral reminder when I got a little bit too out of control. You're a good man, you Irish cunt, and you kept the booze on a steady pour. For that, I thank you.
Oh yeah, and I'm sorry I puked in the women's bathroom sink. If you haven't found out by now, yes, that was me.

To my liver:
As much as I despise you, right now I accept any and all forms of pain you want to inflict on me. I tried drowning you in Gin, flooding your defenses with Vicodin, and even giving you a kick in the balls with some booger sugar, but through it all, Johnny's faithful liver survived the onslaught. You're a tough little bastard, my friend, and I look forward to the day when we shall cross swords again.

And last but not least, to all the fans of my blog out there:I'm sorry for not taking pictures of me vomiting out a regurgitated burrito, bag of onion rings, 2 Kit-Kats and 5 fried wontons into the wash sink of the women's bathroom at the bar I frequent. I know how you degenerates would love to see me at my lowest and most depraved. Maybe next time, eh?

Thank god for Spell Check.

A Proper Practical Joke

Discussing ethics is as taboo around here as mentioning AIDS in a whorehouse, but must be done for fear of a generation of Americans growing up without senses of humor...or worse, suffering the insurance-funded desensitization to their own desires and senses of justice. The art of the practical joke is dying, and it is up to us to save this bastion of colorful correction before the right-speak crowd and safety police polish this last sharp corner off of youth. Like retards on a short bus, there's an entertaining variety and severity of practical jokes. They break down into "mean" and "not necessarily mean," then further, to "funny," "correctional," and "bizarre." If you've never thought about the many types and forms of pranks, then you've taken life too seriously for too long.

Mean pranks are those you play on people you don't like. I don't advocate fraying brake lines with a rusty metal file in various places so they don't obviously look cut, because that would be a mean prank. So, too, is using a very small needle to poke a hole through most of the condoms in his nightstand.

Now there are other, less hostile jokes to play, and the key is not so much conjuring up a joke - there are a million online suggestions, and any creative bastard with a penchant for tomfoolery can create one - as knowing which to choose. Say your buddy just got engaged, and you like him: Time to put a distant female friend up to a little late-night phone call. If you don't like him? Slip a black thong two sizes smaller than his fiance's into his laundry bin. The "why" behind your choice is critical...

Mean pranks correct injustices, send messages, or even scores. Deadbeat dad fuck you over for eighteen years, and now you know where he lives? You don't need Prozac and therapy, you need some dirty deeds done dirt cheap. The attention whore across the office get upward-mobilized to a better job before you? Time to fight! The jokes warranted here are the kind that knock people down to where they belong, which is often below the lid of a dumpster.

Be sure that your joke meets the requirements of, first and foremost, being warranted. Do they really deserve to have every biker gang in SoCal looking for them? Next, can you be fingered in the execution of the joke? Don't use materials that you have special access to, hit them in a place where you normally go, or perform in a manner attributable to you in any way. It might be easy to raid the closet for old mimeograph machine ink, but if you have the only key to the closet, guess who's going to top the suspect list. Third, make sure that the message you want to send is clear: if they don't get what they did wrong in the first place, they aren't going to be corrected by an obtuse rouse. The punishment should fit, and pertain to, the crime.

Now there are the purely fun jokes you play on friends: porning (where you clip pictures out of porno magazines and then put them in obtuse places, such as inside shoes, under shelves, inside books, under food in the fridge), plastic-wrapping their car, etc. These are often played for the sake of playing them, and little more - you want a laugh, you get a laugh, and the retaliation you get will be at least as entertaining as the hassle it creates. Everyone wins. Mainly, you neither get fired, nor start mean spirited feuds.

The ethical component comes in the balance of joke severity vs. warrant. Does the victim deserve to suffer what you're going to do? If so, proceed as such. If not, move down the scale until the has it coming" line intersects the "joke severity" line. Then look at what you've chosen...such as for the asshole who makes fun of your girlfriend, putting his home phone number in a gay personals ad online with the tag "I work evenings, so call between 1am and 6am." Bonus points to you if you add references to BDSM, or his address.

For a less severe measure, take out a yard sale ad for his address. Plug things like "Moving sale: Must sell Play Station and all games, Merle Haggard tapes, Harley '74 accessories..." and things of that nature. List items that appeal to the ardent grandmothers, biker gangs, teenagers, militant vegans, and other interesting people no sane person wants mixing together on their front lawn. Then give the address, and say "Sale starts at 6am." Let him deal with the fallout of that hostile crowd milling on his lawn.

Some of the best jokes, though, are framed to nail two guilty parties at once. Do you have two coworkers whose only connection is their loathing of you? Get them to hate each other, by playing a joke on one, then planting scraps of the leftover material in the other's territory. Let your initial victim "discover" the evidence, and then enact the other half of your vengeance for you.

The punishment must fit the crime. The joke needs to send a clear message. You need to get away clean. Fallout to innocents should be minimized in favor of channeling the damage towards other targets. This is all given, of course, purely for academic and research purposes...

Now, off to buy some decoy panties and call the classified department...

Healthy Beer

German beer ruined me.

Over-indulging on the motherland's finest brew reprogrammed my mind, and there just isn't room anymore for anything that comes in 30 packs, or says "Light," or "Natural" on the label. So lacking the cash to import my choice of poison across that Big Lonely, I'm now eight years into the quest for the perfect American beer. It's been a long and trying search, fraught with microbrewery misfortune, the denigration of peers, and many heartbreaking evenings in my home-laboratory conducting taste research. Out of the darkness of a sub-par rolling blackout, a friend lauded the health food store across town. Apparently where no straight male dares to tread, is a haven of beer no man should go without sampling. I was amazed - and motivated.

So yesterday I drove to the forbidden store with a baseball cap pulled low over my face, eyes hidden behind aviators and collar popped on a pink polo shirt. I was camouflaged, and they suspected nothing when I walked through the "low-energy-use" automatic doors. A sign advertised a nickel discount for bringing your own shopping bag. Another advertised community awareness events like "Vegan Cooking Basics" and a seminar on "Living In A Global Community." Clearly these were border crossing signs, delineating reality from this warehouse of baleful counter culture.

I began a standard sweep of the store: Circle the front, hit the west wall, trace it from the deli to the dairy center to the - I hoped - beer cooler. But what should have been straightforward - it was a glorified supermarket, after all - was sinister. A teenager with so many holes in her face she should have deflated, stepped in front of me with a burlap sack on one arm and a question for the equally-pierced counter guy. "Are those catfish," she asked, "farm raised?" How should he know? Who cares? Not I.

"Yeah, and fed organic unmodified corn feed," he said...with a straight face. Most of the red meat under the glass was advertised in adjective sandwiches between "Organic!" and "Natural!" I'd hope the meat is natural. What the hell else do you make meat out of, other than animals? And what's more natural than animals? Plants, I guess, but the produce across the aisle also wore "Certified Organic!" badges like the Star of David in Poland, 1940. What makes a tomato more or less organic? And who cares, it all comes out the same. The only difference, perchance, is the velocity.

Next was the dairy aisle, which included more types of yogurt than Kirstie Allie could eat in a month. There was maple syrup flavor, and lemon, strawberry, vanilla, banana vanilla...the works. The sheer quantity of choices ground all decisions to a halt for the four-foot-nothing person (of questionable gender) standing between me and progress. She reached for one, then squeezed it - like a peach, she squeezed the container - and put it back. My camouflage worked, and when she turned my way she barely acknowledged my existence. Onwards to victory.
A young mother pushed her cart past at a terrifying rate of speed, a child sitting backwards in the seat and a payload of strange looking containers anchored by a case of Coca~Cola - so much for being healthy. All around were brands I'd never heard of, advertisements I couldn't make sense of, symbols and words in codes not meant to be broken by heathens like me. I sensed my body language was belaying my confusion, so I grabbed a random container of pureed something and studied it cynically. This appeased the crones and drones and hipsters and the other mishmash of humanity circling me like tribal guardians.

At last, I found the beer aisle, the stainless steel half-refrigerator that cradled a year's supply of foul and strange inebriants with names like "Double Bag" and "Old Crustacean." Some came from Britain and Ireland, but I passed on them for the moment: this quest is for American brew, anything red, white, and drunk like us. Rogue Smoke caught my attention, and now, after a few forgettable additions to the cart, it has moved to the front of the fridge. My venerable River Horse Summer Blonde Ale will, for the moment, take a back seat to the 22 oz beast from California with the funny name and the all-American label.

I escaped the store with my life, sprinting down the aisle between "environmentally friendly feminine hygiene products" and a wall of granola dispensers, cart veering wildly because of a bum caster. It almost mowed down an old man reading an ingredients label, but disaster was averted.

Like few things in life, the discovery at the end of the ordeal was actually worth the price. It just seems like this store belongs in some strata far, far from ours.

But they can send me beer through that portal any time.

The Church Of John

I've always been a somewhat of a heathen. But, here recently I've come to the realization that I've crossed that ever so cleverly placed line and have managed to secure an even closer spot to the front of the line waiting outside the gates of Hell. I was raised Orthodox but haven't been to church since I was asked to leave Bible study class because I was wearing a Motley Crue, "Shout At The Devil" shirt with pentagram and all, 19 years ago.

Everywhere I turn, the devil is waiting for me. As soon as I wake up in the morning, that motherfucker is tempting me before I can even squeeze one off with my morning wood. It's gotten to the point that I don't want to leave my apartment because the temptation to become a full time slave to the Devil is far too strong for my feeble soul to handle. Right before I throw in the towel and give in to the dark demons that haunt me on a daily basis I've decided I might convert to a new religion that may prevent me from spending my eternal life burning in the bowels of Hell. I've searched high and low and I'm contemplating the following:

Islam

Why not be Muslim? I like bean pies and I'm not too cool to sport a bow tie. But, with all the 9/11 shit still fresh in people's minds, I feel I might be looked at as a terrorist. And fuck that whole praying five times a day thing. Being the big boy that I am, there is no way I could do that fasting stuff either. I know several Arab cab drivers (who also happen to be Muslims) and the difference between us is that I take baths and don't usually smell like armpits/ass, so that in itself may very well prevent me from screaming Allah right before I set off an improvised explosive device. On the bright side, I hear that pages of the Qur'an can be used to roll a perfect burning joint. I'd be in Muslim Hell for saying that last part alone. No thanks.

Hinduism

Hmmm, now that sounds kinda catchy. I think I can pull off the red dot on the forehead and I can pour one hell of a Slurpee. I'm not sure I can pull off the turban though and I'm not sure I can buy into all this reincarnation shit that these people go on about; especially when the worse a person is in this life the worse they come back as in their next life. In my case I'd probably come back as a fucking shit fly or some other soon-to-be-killed animal. There is also no way I could worship a cow, unless it's a dairy cow that supplies me with a never ending supply of 'shrooms, then we might be on to something. Tank you, com again.

Buddhism

Here's something that might be up my alley. Shit, I could be a Buddhist, and not just because I resemble a Buddah but also because I'm a huge fan of Kung Fu, the TV series. David Carradine was my hero! But, these guys are always trying to cease suffering, so I think, me not giving a shit about anything or anyone else may prevent me from full conversion. Hanging out in some far away place with a bunch of other guys with shaved heads, doesn't sound that appealing to me either. So, I'm thinking I'll keep burning incense out of my glass Buddahs' stomach instead of relying on the Beastie Boys to free the rest of my people.

Judaism

I've always wanted to be a Jew. I wonder if there are any other Greek Jews. I could wear one of those little hats on my head so that G-d can't see my thoughts. I could help run the media and I could easily obtain a hatred for Germans. I've always liked the kosher meals on airplanes and now I could very well have a reason for ordering them. And instead of one day of presents I could now have eight and even an extra weekend of not doing shit during Sabbath. But wait, scratch all that shit before you start making oven jokes about me. There is no way in hell some bearded fucker is getting anywhere near my dick to cut off any more foreskin. It's bad enough, I'm still tender from the time that bitch with the braces went overboard.

Rastafarianism

Shit, now I definitely know I can fit in with this religion. Sure, I'm not black nor do I sport dreads in the image of the lion Judah but we all know I'm into the whole meditation side of things. The more and more I thought about it, it made sense to me, until I was quickly reminded by a friend (who is black): "Nigga, jus cuz you smoke, don' mean you can be Rasta."
Well, that's just fucking great, way to keep a pigment-lacking brotha like me down, fucking oppressor. So, just like that, my dream of smoking herb, eating food in its rawest forms, listening to Bob Marley, waiting for my exodus back to Ethiopia, and fighting Babylon was crushed my some fucking Oreo, who just happened to be at my house with some fucking white chick.

So, lets see, what else might save me from eternal damnation? I think I got it, Scientology. Fuck, Tom Cruise just made some fucker grow 6 inches and he's fucking Katie Holmes, so he must be on to something. I took their "how toxic are you” test and it seems that after answering yes to all ten questions, I may be experiencing a case of severe body pollution. Luckily for me, these good folks have a 3 step purification program that I can start immediately. I thought I found the answer to all problems and figured I'd be saved in no time but come to find out; I'd be dead broke after buying all of L. Ron Hubbards' required reading. To think I almost drank these peoples' Kool Aid.

Fuck it. I think I'll give being Orthodox another shot. I enjoy drinking wine on Sunday mornings as much as the next guy, and who doesn't like fucking without condoms? And, I don't even have to walk into a small booth and confess my secrets to a little boy loving pervert.

Ah fuck, who am I kidding? Shout at the Devil!

Do I Look Fat?

Here is a bit of human experience that seems to fall into the “things everyone has to learn for her- or him- self” category: how to handle the question from wife/girlfriend, etc., “Do I look fat?” And yet the pain of that relearning process seems so avoidable. We all know the question will be asked. Why wait around unprepared only to be caught like a deer in the headlights when it finally comes up:

♀: Do I look fat?
♂: No, not at all.
♀: I’ve gained weight though, haven’t I?
♂: Uh... since when?
♀: Oh, so I have gained weight since you first met me.
♂: Well, I don’t...
♀: What you’re saying is, I do look fat.
♂: No!
♀: Well, you just said I’ve gained weight.
♂: But you don’t look fat!
♀: I’ve gained weight, “but I don’t look fat.” Lovely.
♂: I didn’t say that.
♀: So I do look fat!
♂: ....?....!
♀: If you think I look fat, why don’t you just come out and say so?

Of course, no wife or girlfriend wants to be told she looks fat. Quite the contrary! Yet it seems as though she is programmed to conduct razorlike, determined cross examinations that will not end until she has broken the man's will and extracted a "confession."Sometimes this examination may start in a more sly and subtle way:

♀: Do these clothes look tight on me?
♂: No they look great.
♀: You aren’t looking!
♂: (Looking up.) I am. Those clothes look great on you.
♀: I must have gained weight since I first bought them. They feel a lot tighter.
♂: Maybe they shrunk in the wash.
♀: So they do look tight.
♂: No...
♀: But you just said they look like they’ve shrunk in the wash –
♂: – yeah, but –
♀: – when I know for a fact they haven’t.
♂: ....?....!
♀: If you think I look fat in these clothes, why don’t you just come out and admit it!

The first mistake most guys make is to think they can correct their mistakes for next time by analyzing these conversations to figure out where they went off the rails. Clearly, in both versions of the conversation, ♂ gets himself into trouble by seeking a clarification (“since when?”) or offering helpful information (suggestion re clothes shrinkage), breaking the cardinal rule of responding to cross examination (never volunteer information!).But on closer inspection, any attempt to respond to these questions straightforwardly is vulnerable to variants of the impossible, checkmate cross examination question: "was I fatter then or am I fatter now?"

♀: Do I look fat?
♂: No, not at all.
♀: I’ve gained weight though, haven’t I?
♂: Definitely not.
♀: You think I looked like this when we first met?
♂: Like what?
♀: Fat.
♂: I didn’t say you looked fat.
♀: Well, I’ve obviously put on weight since we first met.
♂: I haven’t noticed that.
♀: So basically, I’ve always looked fat enough that a few extra pounds doesn’t make any difference.

Nor is it possible to head things off by making assertions to the contrary:

♀: Do I look fat?
♂: No, no you look thin.
♀: Too thin?
♂: No, you look just right.
♀: But if I put on some weight, I wouldn’t look “just right.”
♂: Sure you would.
♀: So it doesn't matter to you whether I look fat or thin?
♂: No, not at all.
♀: If I looked totally fat right now, you would say I looked "just right."
♂: That's right.
♀: Well, you just did say I looked "just right."
♂: Um... yeah?
♀: So you think I look fat.

The mistake is not the fact that ♂ gives wrong answers to key questions in the “do I look fat?” cross examination. The mistake is trying to answer the questions at all.Listen up, all you ♂s. You can avoid all these problems whenever you sense you have gotten within a mile of the "do I look fat?" line of questions, by following three simple rules:

1) Never, never, under any circumstances say the word “fat” – or for that matter, “heavy,” “gain” or even the seemingly neutral “weight.” Once you let yourself get drawn into a discussion concerning the weight of the human body, the battle is lost.

2) You should act as though you are a candidate running for the office of husband or boyfriend, and that “do I look fat?” is being asked by a reporter who is out to get you. Your one task is to stay on a single, simple campaign theme: “You are beautiful in both spirit and body, and every day I strive to remain worthy of your love.” Therefore, don’t answer any question directly at all. Do not say “yes” or “no.” No matter how much you are goaded, stay on message.

3) Be a walking thesaurus with at least a dozen words for “physically attractive” at your disposal.

♀: Do I look fat?
♂: You look beautiful.
♀: That’s not what I asked you. Don’t you think I’ve gained weight?
♂: Well, all I can say is you’re really hot.
♀: Stop avoiding the question. Do I look fat or not?
♂: You’re totally babe-o-licious.
♀: What you’re saying is, I do look fat.
♂: You were winsome when I first met you, and you’re even more so now.
♀: Winsome?
♂: Drop-dead gorgeous.
♀: Oh, so I wasn’t as good looking when you first met me, is that what you’re saying?
♂: That’s right. You’re even more lovely now.

With this strategy – which I call “the stonewall” – you can wear her down until the subject changes from weight to beauty, a more ethereal characteristic. Note how it’s harder to turn "then-versus-now" loveliness into an insult. Even the more persistent ♀ who is frustrated and annoyed that you never addressed the weight question has nothing on you but the fact that you said she’s beautiful. You hold onto the moral high ground.The stonewall is the only safe approach I have seen in all my years of experience. If you have something better, I’m all ears.

The Fuck You And Die Agency

I recently became aware of a little known policy that a certain government agency is trying to slip under the radar without any attention. And I'm pissed. So, please excuse me focusing on a matter other than sex, drugs, or prostitutes. Let's get real for just a brief second, then we can go back to being the sick fucks we were when you clicked that bookmark.

Oh ya, that's right...this is about sex. And drugs. And prostitutes, fights, tattoos, piercings, BDSM play and all the other twisted shit that we love. So never mind. Sit down, shut the fuck up and pay attention because it's time to fight your government and the power elite trying to kill all of us peasants. Yes, we're going to talk about dying today. Try to keep up.

Despite the fact that the technology not only exists, but is legal and in use in multiple foreign countries, the FDA has decided that we Americans are not smart enough to take STD and HIV tests at home. They say that it's "unsafe" because people don't receive the proper "counseling" that they would receive in a clinical environment like a health clinic or their doctor's office. Now, given they've approved a quasi "home" test that only requires you to mail your blood away somewhere, then call and get your results. But there's a lot they don't tell you about that.

For example, the FDA folks don't tell you that if you go to your physician or any public health clinic, get tested, and come up positive for any immediately un-treatable disease, they are legally required to report to your insurance agency, the CDC and the state health department that you have this disease. Never mind the extraordinary invasion of privacy this entails, the report completely irreversible and unavoidable. Once the results are out there, you can't take them back. Additionally, insurance companies share a database of information about customers that they rate your policy pricing with. Once your health insurance company knows, every insurance company knows. Imagine what sort of coverage is available for an Herpes or HIV positive person. Now imagine trying to get life insurance after that diagnosis. Yep. Impossible.

Now since this is your life and apparent death we're addressing here, wouldn't it be nice to be able to make those decisions without the world sticking their noses in and thinking they know better than you? I suppose I could trust some pharmaceutical company not to take my personal information. Sure worked for the airlines and that "trusted traveler" database, didn't it? No fucking way I'm going to trust a bunch of moneyhungry cocksuckers that "promise" they'll keep my dirty little secret, before selling me out. First off, buying that test gives them a credit card number. I can hear now.

Oh, but John, I paid cash at the pharmacy.

Nice work, but you mailed it, didn't ya? Now they've got your return address.

Ah, wrong again, John. I used a plain, un-stamped envelope and drove 200 miles to mail it. And I wore plastic gloves throughout the process to keep from getting fingerprints anywhere on it. Fooled you again.

Sure, but remember when you call for your results, they've got your phone number. And depending on their system, maybe even a recording of your voice. *67 just doesn't work against the government, and voice recordings are just as identifying as DNA. Fool that. Now I know it sounds way out there. But so did Disney collecting bio information on all it's visitors and selling it to a company in Atlanta for marketing purposes.

The FDA is protecting insurance companies and pharmaceutical companies by promoting only their products, not the less expensive, easier to use products. They're forcing you into doctor's offices by allowing them to profit by only endorsing testing at their offices, at extortion prices, and then ensuring that they keep a close tab on those who have this disease. Because it has become a crime for someone who has the disease to knowingly have sex with someone else without previously informing them. Now while I agree with that law in theory, I DO NOT want the fucking government in my bedroom, in any capacity. Especially when they're waiting to toss me in jail after I pushed when I should have pulled.

Not convinced yet? I wasn't either. So here's some stats:

• Approximately 1,450,000 people are living with HIV/AIDS in the United States today.
• 40,000 people every year for the last 10 years have been newly infected with HIV.
• Gays and blacks make up the grand majority of the carriers. Apparently, buttfucking Negro men without wearing two rubbers and saran wrap is akin to playing in traffic on a major interstate, at rush hour, wearing ankle cuffs and a blindfold. Damn shame for the brothas and sistas too, because those brothas sure like to commit crimes, and since crime typically means jail, they tend to get buttfucked. A lot. Condoms don't appear to be a major concern in shower rapes either. Then, Lamont (names changed to protect the innocent) gets out, go home to his baby mama(s) and gives 'em a homecoming gift they can't return.
• But guess who's a rising star in HIV statistics: White, middle class men and women between 18 and 35. That's right boys and girls...that's you and me.

See, I know the temptation. She's laying there, staring up at you with those big titties, glazed blue eyes, blonde hair spread all around, giving you those "Fuck me 'til I bleed" eyes, and you're not thinking about a goddamned thing in the world except sliding into that juicy, soft, warm pussy. I know, I've been there. And the last thing in the world you're thinking about, is a rubber. Except that nagging in the back of your mind that's praying she doesn't bring it up before you're in. 'Cause once you're home, there's no going back, right?

Wrong.

Because our society is more "open" now than its ever been, interracial and bisexual relationships are more prevalent than they've ever been. Ever notice how many "Blacks on Blondes" sites there are online? Ever occur to you that maybe the girls you're fucking love discreet black cock? As if there were such a thing. And girls, those metrosexual guys you're so fired up about? Yeah, they take it in the ass too. No guy that spends a half hour on his hair doesn't smoke cock. It's a fact. Know it. So, we're left with the reality that the HIV epidemic didn't end in the early 90s with bad Paula Abdul commercials and abstinence speeches at Sunday school. What to do about it?

Well, how sweet would it be to KNOW that the person you're about to fuck doesn't have HIV? Hepatitis B? C? Now, don't get me wrong, I know leaves a lot to the imagination, including Herpes, Syphilis, Chlamydia, Gonorrhea, Genital Warts, Crabs, Molluscum Contagiosum, Pelvic Inflammatory Disease and good 'ol Urinary Tract Infections. I doubt Vaginitis is contagious, unless of course, you have a vagina. But all of these, save a couple can be cured with a shot, and none of them will kill your ass. And they'd all definitely suck, but not as bad as it did for my friend to shrink from a 6'4", 240 lb. military man who liked to go rock climbing and kayaking to a 145 lb. shell of a human who died from drowning in his own lung fluid. That's right. A good friend recently died from this disease, so it's gotten my attention. And hopefully, it will get yours. We went to high school together, were in the Air Force together, and chased pussy together on three continents. Then late one night he asked if I'd come over and talk to him. I'll never forget how empty his voice sounded. I'll never forget how terrified my friend, who I'd seen do everything from skydiving to bungee jumping to beating the shit out of 6 British sailors, sounded. And now he's fucking dead.

Don't want to be dead? Still want to fuck with mad abandon? Well, here's your answer, boys and girls - USA Biomed.

These good people will sell you a simple test that will tell you with a simple finger stick and a drop of a re-agent whether you, or the person you're considering fucking, has HIV or Hepatitis B or C. Of course, there's that 1 to 6 month "incubation period" from infection to a positive test result for HIV infection. But dammit, this test is the best we can do, accurate as that used by your doctor or any public health clinic. In fact, this is precisely the same test is used in several countries and on a campus of Johns Hopkins University overseas. P.S. As far as not delivering to the United States, it's not true. I know quite a few people who have ordered these and they've all gotten them.

Mind you, this is not a paid ad. I'm endorsing these people because I don't want to stand by and see more good people die, just because they wanted to get laid and were too lazy or too goddamned stupid to use a rubber. I ordered thirty of these things because they're cheaper in volume. And I figure any girl who's not willing to do a finger stick with me, isn't worthy of my cock any way. My new slogan is:

No Prick, No Dick.

Helping The Helpless

Once again, I am here to cast my fishing rod of depravity into your swimming hole of queries and pull out some keepers, and in the process, we might all grow together as a human race. So ask away, you heathens!

Dear John,

Is it true that uncircumcised men feel more during sex than circumcised ones? My Richard Head is wears the skin cap, so I'll never know if it's more sensitive WITHOUT the ol' foreskin. And besides, if it is, I'm not about to chop it off. Fuck that.

-Father Foreskin

Dear, uh..."Father Foreskin" *shudders*,

Being one of the millions of American men who were taken against their will by the Hospital doctor, and had our cocks brutally mangled and sliced apart, I can't answer this question without some bias. So I did a little research of the online variety, plumbing away at various message boards and sites, in an effort to answer your question. It seems that those who are uncut believe in the theory that during sex, their cock's turtleneck slides and glides over their shaft while pumping away at whatever orifice they happen to have stuck their cock in. Supposedly it does the same for the head as well. Extra sensitive, the head is supposed to be. Call it a makeshift hand-job if you will, but I'm not about to find out firsthand. Also, the natural stinky assed cheese shit that collects and is secreted by the foreskin also makes a fantastic lubricant ... again, according to those who have one.

But then we of the camp that's been cut claim this is all malarkey. Since the foreskin hood retracts at the moment of erection, all that talk of some magical penile handjob just seems a bunch of nonsense to me. Besides, who wants to be extra sensitive anyway? I need as much time as I can get before I bust a nut while banging away at some cheap drunken floozy, you think I want my cock to be MORE sensitive? Shit, I barely can get in 3 minutes before I'm making a ridiculous face and shooting my chunky spunk pudding. Although I'm still sore about having absolutely no choice in whether I wanted a doctor to hack away at my penis when I was born, at least I can take comfort in this one statistic: according to a national survey done by a leading polling organization, only 5 percent of women preferred men with uncircumcised dicks. Apparently the extra skin and the thought of sucking down nasty assed smegma seems to turn off the ladies a bit. Who'da thunk it?

Dear John,

Me and my girlfriend have been dating for about 6 years now. She's still just as hot as ever, know what I mean? But lately, she never wants to fuck anymore. My advances usually get turned down, or she just falls asleep, leaving me contemplating forced rape or jerking off onto her face. WTF! Give me some advice on how I can get more sex out of her, you fucking stupid Greek bastard! I don't want to cheat on her, I love her.

-Sexless in Seattle

Dear Loser Who Can't Even Get A Piece Of Ass Off His GF Of 6 Years in Seattle,

Well, first let me start off by saying this:

Sucks to be you, huh?

Makes you kind of wish you never took that plunge into monogamy, eh? I don't care what anyone says. No woman is good enough to just throw away your "fishing" license for. Case in point, this loser motherfucker in Seattle who can't even bang his once hot girlfriend anymore. Why do I say "once hot" you ask? Because women you date cease being a sexy piece of ass at about 4 months into the relationship, give or take a couple months depending on who you ask. I've got friends who believe that after the first time she takes a cock, you need to start looking for a new chick, but I'm not that picky. You want some advice? Do what my dad always says:

Make her feel like she's the sexiest woman alive on Earth at that very moment - regardless of whether or not she looks like Bea Arthur or Jessica Simpson. It's a completely empty gesture, and let's be honest with ourselves, so are relationships and marriage. But underneath the shallowness of it all, it's like taking candy from a baby. Sound genuine, tell her how hot she is, perhaps a little rubbing of the shoulders or the sides of the arms; all simple and effective things that will make her feel good about HERSELF and her BODY, which makes her want to be NAKED, which of course leads to sex, no matter the situation. Keep the compliments coming, Jack, but at least try to put some effort into them other than, "Hey babe, you look freakin' hot.". That sort of shit don't fly. But in that part of the plan, you're on your own. I have my own stockpile of smooth talking compliments guaranteed to get me in the pants of any and all forms of slut muffins...and I ain't about to give them up to you.

So there you have it, folks. Another monthly installment of Ask Dr. John. If YOU want to see your cleverly written nickname up in lights and have me give you horrible, horrible advice for many people to read, email me and maybe, just maybe, I'll be sober enough to learn how to turn my computer on.

Vive La France

Maybe I should cut the French a little slack

After all, they just snubbed Oprah. In further proof that the functional intelligence of the country - perhaps the English speaking world - is spiraling down the shitter, I submit the current media storm of reports on the Parisian store Hermes turning Oprah away. Google hits on the words "Oprah Hermes": 157,000. With this one, make it 157,001 webpages dedicated to discussing the matter...only I'll add a bit of a spin, ‘cause really, I care only insomuch as one could ever care about watching a spent condom ride a gutter stream down a storm drain. Yes, it's amusing, but no, I don't really want to touch it, and the only folks degenerate enough to appreciate such discussion - of condoms or this matter - are you fine sick fucks.

All this I'm building on hearsay and research through a tabloid news posting or two, so don't hold me to details - the first thing to go in any form of celebrity reporting is accuracy anyway, so pick a dart and throw it in the general direction of truth. So Oprah is in Paris and wants to buy a watch; there's no place to buy a watch quite like the Hermes place to buy a watch, apparently...or Euro-Wal-Mart was closed, one of the two. I checked their website and couldn't find watches, which I'm sure is just a trivial detail, and has nothing whatsoever to do with fact-checking and finding glitches in other peoples' stories. So I priced bracelets, as they're metal and circular and go around people's wrists, much like a watch. The ugly one was $440. The uglier one was $570.

Just for shits and giggles, I clicked on a few other things. Hermes sells a baby "high chair pack" that consists of a baby bib and a baby placemat, both of embroidered linen. When I was little, my parents used the plastic tray that comes with the high chair, and wrapped me with quilted Bounty paper towel. Hell, quilted Bounty makes for some fine inexpensive, no-wash baby clothes, but I digress. When you need the finest, check out Hermes for embroidered baby linen: $160 for the set of spilled-food-and-vomit catching linen.

So into such a store Oprah tries to go, only to be turned away at the door by a salesman who states that she is fifteen minutes late - they're closed. And the salesman neglected to say "oui." This ranks on par with high treason in the upper echelons of French haute society. The rest of us call it "a salesman turning someone away at the door after the damned business is closed." This puts Oprah in a huff. A tiff, perhaps. Righteous rage? Your guess is as good as any pundit's.
She was treated like everyone else. The woman who has championed black rights, and women's rights, and all sorts of other group rights, towards the goal of having everyone everywhere treated equally (a truly noble goal), was treated equally. Don't cry, Oprah, smile: you've achieved that equality you've so longed for.

But the outrage, the shame of not being let into a store after it closes. I'm sure this has never happened to anyone else in the history of civilized society. Certainly, the convenience of one person is worth the inconvenience of, say, eight or ten store employees who have to stay late, not knowing how long the super star would take or what sort of demands she would make, they were faced with the inconvenience of the one, or the inconvenience of the many. Most philosophers agree: ‘tis better to cause the least suffering when suffering is unavoidable. Why should any store employees be forced by circumstance or arrogance to break store policy if they don't want to? How about some equality for workers' rights?

I hope some French celebrity winds up banging on the drive-thru window of a Texas burger joint fifteen minutes after quittin' time. I also really hope some loser is there, stoned and mischievous, to fire the grill back up and show how our Southland is just a bit more hospitable than some Parisian boutique.

But seriously, who cares? There are children starving in Africa, inner city schools without books, kids being kidnapped, terrorists building bombs, third world countries destabilizing...and the Oprah tabloids are getting more hits than the online World News section of the New York Times.

We see these whacked priorities...now what can we do about ‘em?

The Day After The 4th

There's a bag full of goodies behind me and a pile of punks on the table between the butane lighter and the cooler. With enough DOT Class C fireworks to blow hell out of the mountain, the view from this secluded spot in the mountains is pretty good today, and if my interest falters or the clock runs out, there's always the propane torch to light things a little quicker. When I get back to town I'll send this out, but for the moment I'm alone in the wilderness with friends laying rubber somewhere on the highway out of town and beer to drink before they get here. So, a cold one and a few thoughts to mark the occasion...

Happy Day After Fourth of July, Independence Day, Christmas in July, whatever you call the glorious holiday. May your day be full of BBQs and family, friends and fun, and may your evening be magical under the fire above. In celebration of America, I would like to take a moment to reflect on the certain hallmark freedoms our country was founded upon, recognize the ones we've developed in the last two-hundred-and-twenty-odd years, and celebrate just a few of the perks from our membership in Club America:

Religion: Believe what you want, how, where, when, and why you want. Yeah God; yeah us!
Alcohol: We have it, Middle Eastern countries largely don't. Take that, jihad!
Speech: Say what you want, about what you want, how you want, to whom you want
Expression: Art is free...at least, making and showing art is unrestricted by the government
Marriage/dating: We don't dig on pre-arranged marriages like some countries. Sleep with whoever you want
Political Disapproval: Hate Bush? Think Kerry is the worst disaster we've ever avoided? You can think, say, and write such things...and not go to jail. Good thing, or this place wouldn't exist. U-S-A!
Firearms: Despite the best efforts of a vocal minority, we still have, use, and love guns
Personal Choice: Take whatever job you can get, spend or save your money as you see fit, get paid what the company wants to pay you...it's all good, 'cause we're not Communist like China
Fireworks: They're legal in most states; cops in the rest don't care for the next 24 hours
Military service: It's voluntary if you want to do it, not compulsory to make you do it...so blow something up in honor of our fighting forces and their choice to serve
Internet: The government doesn't block 90% of foreign websites (like China), guaranteeing an uninterrupted stream of foreign porn 24/7. Oh, and stock info and world news too.
Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness: Want a sex change? Does it make you happy to hit yourself in the face with a ball peen hammer while singing on a street corner? Care to live in a shanty in the woods and never see anyone again? You can, if you want...it's your right!
All Men are Created Equal: In America, anyway. All women are created equal in Sweden. Or at least, identical. But here, unlike India and Britain, we don't have a Caste system, serfdoms, or annoying royal families...just the Kennedys.

Yup, America is a pretty great place. We gave the world television, cars, the Internet, modern medicine, democracy, thermo nuclear weapons, propane BBQ grills, french fries, hamburgers, milkshakes, and Cadillac. We can do most of what we want, most of the time, in most places (claim void in Massachusetts and California). It's a pretty good place to be. And today is the best day to be here, like Pamplona during the bullfights or anywhere in London at 4pm...only we have fireworks and beer.

So enjoy your 5th of July, and celebrate your freedoms, all at once.

Happy 4th Of July!

Happy Independence Day, my American compatriots.

And what a glorious day of independence this is, perched at the head of a table of drunks, debating the virtues and vices of an administration gone wrong. Sometimes, I sit here and wonder where those 229 years have gone, watching this fledgling nation grow into the international powerhouse we now enjoy. Who would have thought, all those centuries ago, that a sorry boatload of ultra-conservative Pilgrims would have started this self-righteous regime of military firepower and religious rule? How much more ironic could it be, that a batch of "rebels" looking to escape their government would face an ocean and start anew, only to slowly become the object of their own hatred?

Oops, almost forgot, this is a holiday for patriots, and as we all know, patriots never question the motives nor the decisions of those in charge.

So with a fistful of Guiness draft imported from Ireland, and smoking American Spirit cigarettes named after a long dead redskin, I have to stop and ask: Exactly from whom are we celebrating this independence? I mean, as an American in this dark day and age, I've found myself anything but independent. Sure, I sit in the safe boundaries of this Great Nation, getting paid green American dollars to post on American website, but American politicians have recently passed laws to shut asylums like this down. Christ, I drove an imported Japanese vehicle to the bar, fueled by Saudi Arabian oil, and I'm wearing a Hawaiian shirt sewn together by young Third World Asian hands. My shoes were stitched together in the Philippines, the glass I'm drinking from was wraught in France, and the basketball players prancing across the television screen have Muslim names. Believe it or not, the very code utilized for you to read this words and enjoy this fancy new interface was put together by Panamians and Philipinos for trivial installations of money. The drugs to which I've become addicted are a product of Peru, and the vodka I'm pouring down the throat of this woman is imported from Sweden. Could it be possible, in all this vanity and self-worship, that a day dedicated to a document some two hundred years ago is just a sham? Perhaps in the same manner that the King depends upon the taxes of his rulers to live his life of luxury, that we sit on this throne funded not by our own taxes but by the efforts of seemingly trivial efforts of several billion foreigners. Consider this tonight, when you light that first firecracker or aim that Roman Candle at your neighbor's cat. Independence Day, my ass.

We depend upon:

Thailand and Taiwan for our clothing;
India for our computer programming;
Central Africa for our processor chip and cell phone components;
Mexico for our immigrant minimum wage labor force;
Japan and Germany for automotive engineering;
South America for drugs;
South Africa for our diamonds;
The Vatican for approval;
The Middle East for our petroleum;
Caribbean Islands for our vacation resorts;
Russia for our Space Programs;
Scandanavia for premium liquors, and;
Great Britain for bullshit political support.

And apparently upon Israel for a massive tax writeoff, as millions of Jews who we ignored during their summary torching in the 1930's are apparently entitled to millions of our tax dollars and Palestinian territory. Fuck, we can't even make good chocolate here! Now that I think about it, the only tangible objects I've noticed America producing during the course of my life are more Americans, and the guns and bullets and missiles and aircraft employed to beat the rest of the world into submission. And with the exception of Australia and Canada, it would appear every single nation of Earth has something we can't live without. Sure, we'll all gather together tonight and blow millions of dollars shooting our wad into our polluted skies, and not a one of you will give one thought to what exactly you're celebrating out there. America is a dirty date rapist, a fat sow of a society that is growing thicker and heavier with the milk of Mother Earth's tit, and the only thing keeping us from Darwinian elimination is the big red "PUSH NUKE NOW" button under our fat middle finger.

Once upon a time, a mob of pissed-off radicals had enough shit from their oppressors and packed up the shop for a better way. A new way. And a New World. On this 4th of July, you remember exactly what that New World has become: a charade of fuck clowns and executive pimps, whoring your asses out for the fat dollar in the offshore bank account. The government tells you the lies, the media relays the lies, and you, the gullible American, lives the lies. The Dream, the vision, the role as international police officer and moral majority is a vast illusion. No, Virginia, there is no Santa Claus, and your President is a lying bastard. So I beg you, on this pyrotechnic evening commemorating the deaths of American soldiers across time and the world, to look up from your feet and the newspapers, and pay attention to what is actually happening.
You're not celebrating your independence from anything, not your past of "killin niggers and injuns", your legacy of ignoring genocides, your reputation of exploiting the Third World for your ends. You're not celebrating your right to look at smut on the Internet, your ability to purchase firearms and own your own land. You're not celebrating your freedom from international oil pricing, the effect the Yen has on the dollar, or what the Euro is going to do to your economy. And you're certainly not celebrating what those Founding Fathers had in mind when they drafted that Declaration of Independence or the Constitution that governs you.

You're celebrating their ignorance.

Ignorance of what America would become, ignorance of all those dead Iraqis scattered across the sand, ignorance of where you're money is going or what those Congressmen are doing or who's dying for your cause. Ignorance of exactly what that Flag you're waving signifies.
And your own ignorance that right now, in your backyard, a flag is burning.

An elected official lit the match. An appointed spokesperson debriefed the gathered press. A police officer held you back from the yellow tape. A cameraman was robbed of his film. An editor, a total stranger, warped the words you read. A familar face on the TV read them to you in that assuring voice. And you believed them.

You believed every word they told you.

So why don't you believe me?

The only entity of which you're operating independently is the truth.

Celebrate that, you conceited fuck.

VA To NJ

Virginia is an odd place.

I was only there for the weekend, and now I've escaped the toothless, backwoods, tobacky chewin' and sister-fucking clutches of the south, and returned back home to the north. A land of smog, insane drivers, cigarettes that cost more than a couple hits of crack, bad bitches with even worse attitudes, and Jews as far as the eye can see...

New Jersey.

Christ, it feels good to be home. It's funny how a weekend away from home can make you appreciate where you live. Not like Virginia is that far away, but I'm glad to be back. Back in the land where my grandfather first snuck off the stern of an incoming Greek olive oil tanker, I can finally breathe again. Quite frankly, my shishkebab blood was too thick to stay too long anywhere below the Dixie line anyhow, and as I pulled my car onto the exit for Interstate 95, I swear to Allah that I heard a million or so redneck voices shout aloud in unison, "GOOD RIDDANCE!". Middle finger high in the air, my other hand gripping my balls, I shouted back in defiance, "GUESS WHAT!? WE WON THE WAR, ASSHOLES!" And with that, I was gone.

If there's one thing I've learned in all my years of being a gypsy (because quite frankly, I can only stay in one city for a maximum of 3-4 years before I am either:

A. Kicked out by the authorities
B. Sneaking out before the authorities can find me or
C. Burning all my bridges, laughing hysterically on the other of the river of life, one hand clutching a gasoline container, the other a cigarette),

I've learned there is nothing worse than trying to drive through the District of Columbia. I would rather have the skin flayed off of my cock with a rusty, dulled grapefruit knife, wielded in the hands of an epileptic sufferer of Parkinson's Disease on the final end of a 6 day crystal meth binge, than have to drive through that godforsaken city again. It never fails, people. Driving UP there is a nice, long boring experience. Start anywhere from the South and I-95 is one smooth sailing ride.

Until you hit our nation's capitol.

Doesn't matter what time it is when you reach it. It could be 2 in the afternoon, 4 in the morning, or 12 o'clock lunch rush hour: Time is meaningless when it comes to the traffic near D.C. There's a perpetual cycle of road work going on, our tax dollars at hard work in an effort to make us all lose our fucking minds whenever one of us tries to drive through that hellish city. It's no wonder Marion Barry used to smoke crack, if the workings of their highway dept. are any indication. So, from leaving Manassas, Virginia, it took a boring 2 hours of flying down the interstate at 90 miles per hour. Eyes fixated on the hypnotic yellow dashes streaking before me. Lungs full of cigarette smoke and blood stream full of Red Bull. I was calm. I was happy. Even, dare I say, content.

Then I reached D.C. Even at 10:45 in the morning, traffic screeched to a tire squealing halt. My blood pressure rose to frightening heights, and a migraine started to stab at me from behind my eyes with a spork. I raged, I roared, I pounded on my steering wheel. From there, after a scant peaceful ride through Maryland, one is forced to suffer the ills of trying to hot dog through the New Jersey Turnpike, a place that I'm sure is the 6th level of Hell made manifest on our physical plane. I must have been away for too long, perhaps I grew too polite over the weekend, too accustomed to the drivers down south because no matter how fast I tried to go in the slow lane, some fuckhead would cut me off, honking his horn and cursing my name, foolishly believing me to be some slack jawed yokel like my license plate led him to think.

Then...home. 10 near misses, and a hit and run later, I realize something:

I love you, New Jersey, but goddamnit all to Hell, your driver's license needs to be revoked.