Late Again

I woke up late for work this morning. This is normal for me, being that I don't have any responsability at work (And if anyone from work is reading this, I'm totally making this up. Matter of fact, I'm swamped with work and I'm actually writing this at 3AM after finishing up ANOTHER late night of work). Actually, I woke up late, took an extra long shower, ate TWO bowls of cereal, and stopped off at the Starbucks just outside my office for a leisurely hot chocolate, taking my time and occasionally stopping to window shop. I could almost imagine my two bosses watching me dilly-dally around the building from their office window:

Boss 1: "There's John. And he's going into Starbucks."

[twelve minutes later]

Boss 2: "Look - he just came out."
B1: "And he sure is taking his sweet time to get to the building."
B2: "Look Ted - he appears to be arguing with that homeless woman."
B1: "HOLY GEEZ! He just threw his coffee in her face!"
B2: "And now they're fighting!"

[Boss 1 and Boss 2 watch in shocked silence as John and the Homeless Woman begin to tussle. It appears that John has the upper hand, but soon the Homeless Woman starts getting the best of him with a series of swift headbutts. John responds in kind.]

B1: "Good lord! He's really fighting dirty!"
B2: "I've never seen such gratuitous use of teeth and elbows!"
B1: "Oh wait - here comes the police to break things up."

[Both bosses watch as the police separate the two combatants. John, the more cantankerous of the two, is sprayed with mace. Homeless Woman laughs and claps her hands as John writhes in pain, first against a car, and then on the ground. After getting an emergency radio call, the two police officers flee the scene.]

B1: "Well I'm glad that's over with. I need him here today, because I need him to [some business related task that John surely doesn't understand]."
B2: "Check it out - John and the homeless woman are shaking hands."

[John and Homeless Woman begrudgingly shake hands.]

B1: "That's always good to see. Even though it wasn't a fair fight, at least it's ending well."

[Boss 1 moves away from the window, thinking the matter is over.]

B2: "Oh no, Ted. You gotta see this!"
B1: "What is it, Max?"
B2: "John is...John and the homeless woman are kissing."

[Cut to view of street below. John and the Homeless Woman are kissing - not lustily, but rather softly, delicately, staring into each other's eyes. Both start crying.]

B1: "Hmph. I thought he was gay."
B2: "I was pretty sure he was gay."
B1: "Well, I guess this weather makes people do crazy things."

[Both sip their coffee in silence, watching from the window while John and the Homeless Woman affectionately kiss and giggle like seventh graders. Some tickling is involved, and possibly baby talk. Six seconds pass.]

B1: "Well, back to work."
B2: "Yep."

[I don't really know where to go from here, so I'm just going to end it. Kinda got away from me there. Point being, I was late today...as always. Oh well.]

Christmas Recap

For some reason, I am having a very hard time writing this today. You're reading my fourth attempt at a post, and it has been a major pain for me. I don't know why it's been so difficult, seeing as I only took two days off (well, three if you count yesterday) and I have stuff to write about. Perhaps it's because I don't feel too well - when I left my home and family in Florida, I returned to New Jersey with tons of holidays pastries and sweets, which aside from some booze and kielbasa have been the only things I've eaten for the past three days. Also, whenever I take some time off from writing and have days worth of stuff to talk about, it can be overwhelming as I try to fight the urge to say, "On Wednesday...On Thursday...On Friday..." as I am not a very good writer, although I do know a lot of different curse words, and I think my grammar is pretty good for how quickly I write this.

But I think it is because I took that little bit of time off. Usually, I can spit this shit out in 15-20 minutes, no matter how long (it's simple formula really: fat joke - booby reference - something about booze/drugs - subtle cry for help - curse word - not so subtle cry for help - another curse word - retard joke - fin). But because I've fallen out of the routine, this has taken/is taking considerably longer.

So I'm just gonna fucking wing it, and you're gonna have to deal with it (everybody's off from work this week anyway, so hardly anyone's reading).

First, let's go with the obvious: it stinks to be back at work - big time. I am at my desk, bored out of my mind on a slow day, wishing I was home in bed playing with myself on this cold day. Not good. Not good at all.

Second, celebrating Christmas on a Sunday stinks. Going through the whole Christmas celebratory stuff on a Sunday, knowing that the next day was Monday, knowing that that means back to work, knowing that eventually someone's going to discover that I kinda like guys - well, it's just no good.

However, it was nice to be home for the holidays. Some highlights:

Nothing like waking up at 7am on Christmas Eve morning to throw up in the bathroom of your dad's house because the night before at a friend's Christmas party you ate:

- a chicken cutlet supreme (chicken cutlet on a roll with cheese, lettuce, onion, bacon, smothered in mayo)
- handful after handful of chips, doritos, and honey roasted peanuts
- about a dozen lil' holiday cookies
- over a dozen beers
- three glasses of egg nog
- at least three "Green Apple" shots
- and the kicker: a huge ass pile of creamed chipped beef and a quart of chocolate milk at 3:30am

Sure, this caused me to wretch violently and I'm pretty sure I threw up a kidney, but if given the choice I would do it all again.

The best part was the conversation between my dad and I at about 11am:

Dad: "Did you throw up last night?"
Me: [embarrassed] "No."
Dad: "Well, then did you shit yourself last night?"
Me: "What?"
Dad: "There's some brown stuff on the toilet and on the floor on the side of the toilet. I was hoping it's throw up. It's not shit, is it?"
Me: [dismayed, defeated] "No, it's throw up."
Dad: "Well that's a relief."

Speaking of food, I fucking love egg nog. I can't stress this enough. Wawa, which is like a localized 7-11-type convenience store in NJ and PA, puts out its own egg nog, and I shit you not, it's like drinking an orgasm. [I just read that over and threw up all over my keyboard. Ugh. It's going to take a while to get this chunk of bacon out from between the "I" and "O" keys.]

I guess what I'm trying to say is that it's really fucking delicious, in no small part because it's incredibly bad for you. It has 180 calories and 6g of saturated fat (30% of your recommend daily allowance) per four ounces. Not eight ounces, but four ounces.

By my estimation, I had over a half gallon of this egg nog in the past week. Let's say I had 72 ounces of this heavenly egg nog. That equates to 3,240 calories and 108 grams of fat in three days in egg nog alone. This is to say nothing of the limitless kielbasa, ham, deviled eggs, potato salad, cheese, and, oh yeah, booze I had over the weekend at home.

Why am I single again?

Moving on... my Top Three Gifts:

1) Vodka and wine. My aunt got me a bottle of vodka, and two other aunts got me each a bottle of wine. Hmph.

You know what? Why don't we save the time that a slow death from alcoholism would give me and you can just stab me in the chest instead? At least punch me very hard in the stomach - I insist. Because what I really need is some more booze. Why not give me a dozen pre-made 8-Balls while we're at it, or a maybe even a noose or loaded revolver?

The best part is that the wine is supposed to be "good" wine. I'm sure that some people would drink this wine and say, "Wow - this is good wine." I drank it and thought, "Wow - this is wine." I can't tell the difference between a $5 bottle of wine and a $50 bottle of wine because I drink both with the same speed and under the same conditions: out of a pint glass at 10pm on a Saturday night while watching VH1 Classic with my friends.

So thanks for the booze. Look for me to come calling in six months well I need some donations to pay my way at a nice wellness center upstate where I can get clean.

2) Any cash gift. When in doubt, always go with cash. Sure, there's not much thought involved, but I don't want thought - I want money. If only my unsuspecting relatives knew that the $20 they gave me in their Christmas card was going straight to the purchase of an inordinate amount of marijuana, I'm sure they'd be thrilled.

3) A velour jump suit. One of the presents my mom got me was a velour jump suit. I don't know what to make of this, except that if I wear it without a t-shirt underneath I look like an Greek-American Tony Soprano with slightly more hair.

And you know what? I fucking love it. If you don't think I'm going to be decked out in my velour jumpsuit every time I'm laying on the couch smoking doobs, well you are sadly mistaken. Fucking awesome.

And let me clarify something...Everyone says that their family is dysfunctional. No matter how lame and boring their family actually may be, this is just something that everyone believes. It's kinda like how you'll never meet a person who believes he/she has a bad sense of humor, even though the can find no humor in the finest of dick jokes or jokes that start with "So I killed this homeless kid about a week ago..."

I don't have a problem with people believing that they have dysfunctional families, but I do have a problem hearing stories about their lame ass families.

And I can't count how many times I've had to listen to people's stories about their "dysfunctional" family holidays. Like, "Last year, in the middle of singing Christmas songs after Christmas dinner Grandpa Ed forgot the words to 'Silent Night' and stop in mid-song to say 'Oh darn it!' and we all laughed because it was so funny!" and "Two years ago on Christmas morning, we were all opening our presents and my mom gave me a present and I opened it but I saw that it was a girl's sweater so my mom said, 'Oh honey, I made a mistake - that's for your sister!' It was so crazy!"

None of these stories ever go, "We were playing poker at my Aunt Mary's house and there was an argument over cards and my Uncle Nate said to my cousin Justin (who is obviously a homosexual) 'Stop being a fag!' and Justin got all hot and bothered and was like, 'I'm not being a fag - you're a fag!' and my Uncle Nate said, 'No, I mean you're gay! Everyone knows it! Just don't bring it to the poker table!' and at that point all hell broke loose and Justin's mom, Aunt Becky, started crying and Uncle Nate and Justin were yelling at each other and I saw that my other cousin was looking at my cards so I threw my beer at him and there was a bit of a melee and Lucky, the new dog, ran out of the house and they haven't found him yet." This is usually how some of my family's stories go.

But this year, I got nothing. Nothing crazy happened, nothing too out of the ordinary. Usually I'm guaranteed at least something - Uncle Ted showing everyone one of his balls, my cousin Fred showing up with his "Skank of the Week" girlfriend who proceeds to talk about Hollywood gossip in the thickest southern accent possible and privately asks each of the males over 14 if they'd be interested in a handjob for $15 - something. But this year, nothing. Damn.

Well, that only means one thing: next year I'm going to have to spike the egg nog with a little more than rum (wink wink).

Choxie Experiment

It is Christmas season and like every Christmas season they try to sell you all sorts of holiday themed crap because they know most people have the brain power of a drunken sloth and will shell out all their hard earned nickels and dimes for it. That is what we do, because we're goddamned retarded, no denying it. Maybe it's the red bows or the shitty snowflakes they screen print on the packaging, but whatever it is it seems to be working all too well in the stores. Entering a store this time of year is like asking to be mashed in the nuts by a cactus. That is why I go...I love cacti.

While wandering through the store, trying my damnedest to appear like a Christmas zombie so the other zombies won’t turn on me, I came across a bizarre product that just beckoned to be written about. It's called Choxie and is described as “artisan truffle tiles”. The screen printed designs they manufactured these chocolates with basically had me shoving 47 boxes down my pants in the span of 2 seconds. It also appears I wedged a kid in there as well. If anyone is missing a Billy Malhony from Beaker Street please contact me ASAP because Billy doesn’t like being locked in my closet or beaten with soap wrapped in a sock.

Sure, the chocolate tiles sent from heaven looked really cool, but the real question was...what the hell do these taste like? I soon found out that these little morsels were indeed not from heaven, but the Heaven’s Gate cult. I also got a sweet pair of black and purple Nike’s with my purchase.

After I got my box of Choxie home I finally flipped it over to see what sort of flavors I was going to be treating myself to in a matter of minutes. After spying cinnamon praline, cafe latte, jasmine tea, lemon rose, pepper/mint, key lime, apple pie, and chili limon I knew I had pretty much purchased my own one-way ticket to taste bud hell. What the hell is chili limon? Why does the mere mouthing of the word make me want to wet myself? I soon found out, and I also found out that scrubbing your tongue with steel wool will actually not take away the taste and instead will leave you bleeding wishing for quick quick death by a ninja.

I slid the demonic little tiles out of their plastic sleeves, which is no easy task. The makers of Choxie have constructed their little box to be a veritable Chinese finger trap. I wasn’t making any progress breaking into the box so I decided to push my finger in so I could bend/hook the plastic and then pull the end off of it. Instead the Choxie box decided to allow my finger to enter the box and then when I pulled to get it back out, the Choxie box decided to show me that plastic can be as sharp as samurai blades. So my now mangled finger is in the box, losing circulation and bleeding, and I can’t get it out. I expected a Choxie demon to appear at any moment to teach me how exquisite pain was. Sadly, no more evil sprang from my Choxie box and I finally had to lose some skin to both remove my finger and open the box.

The first thing I noticed when I handled a piece of Choxie was that the shit melted like I was made of magma. I mean I am used to eating chocolate and I never had a Hershey bar turn into liquid when contact was made to my skin for two-fifths of a second. This stuff was highly unstable and would begin to melt if you even looked at it. Sure, you think this would be cool if you wanted to take a chocolate bath, but let me tell you...chocolate sticks to body hair and that means a ruined weekend for everyone.

The first tile I pulled out of the box was Cinnamon Praline. It had a chocolate odor and tasted about as I imagined it would. The tile has a smooth texture in your mouth with a little plasticy taste. I noticed a hint of mint in the aftertaste, but I didn’t get any cinnamon at all. The inside had a creamy texture that sort of reminded me of biting into a chicken egg before it hatches. Overall I wasn’t shocked by the taste and gave it a 4-out-of-5.

The second tile to tempt my tastebuds was the Cafe Latte. After biting down on this tile I was immediately repulsed by the flavor that hit my senses. My initial thoughts as I wrote them down were, “Crap, nasty, fucking death”. Cafe latte tastes like a used coffee filter that is 3 weeks old and has been soaking in fermented dumpster juices for about 2 of those weeks. After the frontal assault is finished it sneaks in with a really bizzare taste mix of burnt hair and pine air freshener. I give this chocolate wrapped death wish 2-out-of-5, because I got to use the term ‘dumpster juice’ and it made me giggle like a dyslexic midget.

Jasmine Tea, the name sounds so calm and serene. I imagined biting into this would be like visiting a Japanese garden full of tranquility and balance, so I unfortunately let my guard down. Serves me right since I am eating shit called Choxie. After biting into the tile my mouth was hit with a wave of gag-tastic splendor. It seriously tasted like I just scooped out a bunch of 4 month old kitty litter and poured it on my tongue. After choking down my bite of ‘Jasmine Tea’ I had an odd lingering aftertaste of envelope glue and new car scent. This flavor also had a odd effect coupled with the aftertaste, much like pouring isopropyl alcohol on your tongue...making it sort of icy feeling and sort of numb. I gave Jasmine Tea 2-out-of-5 because I can now truthfully say I know what cat shit tastes like.

After Jasmine Tea is there really anything they can throw at me that I am not expecting? Well, there was and it was called Lemon Rose. When I think of Lemon Rose I think a floral fragrance mixed with a slight tang and zest of citrus fruit. When the makers of Choxie think of Lemon Rose they think of a hospital minus the used syringes, plus overflowing colostomy bags. What other chocolate have you ever taken a bite of that reminds you of a dirty hospital? This shit is great. Lemon Rose had a bitter aftertaste that made me want to set my mouth on fire and call it a day to get the stench out. The inside filling is some nasty crap and made me feel like I was biting into a baby's leg (I bite into a lot of baby legs in any given year, so I would know). Lemon Rose gets negative 5-out-of-5 because it made me think of a hospital and I hate hospitals...well, hospitals and cripples.

Next up was Pepper/mint. Did you catch how they spelled it? Pepper/mint. What the hell is that supposed to mean? I figured since they had already perfected the taste of a hospital then there is no reason to think they would not mix pepper and mint together, but alas...I was wrong. Pepper/mint definitely has a minty taste with a hint of diareaha, but that was a welcome thank you after Jasmine Tea. The aftertaste that lingered was like cleaning products, but not the name brand ones, only the cheap rate second tier pieces of shit like “Pine Cleaner” or “Lemon Dusting Spray”. I did notice a strange burning sensation in my mouth after finishing my bite of Pepper/mint...again, I was thankful because it cleared out any hospital taste that was remaining. I give this one 3-out-of-5, mainly for allowing my mouth to remember the days before Jasmine Tea.

Apple pie. Apple pie? I didn’t even know what to expect with apple pie. How is a chocolate supposed to taste like an apple pie? Well, I threw caution to the wind and bit into ‘Apple Pie’...I now wish I had that caution back. As my teeth sank into the chocolate square I had a feeling like I just got shot in the throat with a taser. Was my body revolting? Had it had enough of this nasty Choxie experiment? No, it just thought I had bitten into death itself. There are some things that simply take your breath away and Apple Pie Choxie is one of them. The after taste is sort of chalky and what they are passing for apple is more like how I imagine Ebloa tastes like. This one gets negative 5-out-of-five because I don’t like bleeding out of various orifices as my internal organs are liquified.

Last, but not least, was Chili Limon. Why would they do this? Why mix chili with a citrus fruit? But if we are going to ask ourselves questions like that we might as well ask why even create Choxie at all? You want to know why? To make small children cry on Christmas morning, because if they get Choxie they are going to be vomiting all over their toys in just a few minutes. The first thing you notice when you bite into Chili Limon Choxie is the god-awful pungent taste that rapes your tongue with a broken vodka bottle. This stuff is so vile it tastes like some sort of engine de-greaser and maybe a citronella bug bomb with a dash of Mr. Clean thrown in for good measure. The aftertaste this “treat” leaves for your mouth is one of pain and sorrow. The Chili Limon really dries out your mouth and I have been sitting here drinking water like a goddamn camel for the past half-hour. Imagine pouring 2 tablespoons full of Comet sink cleaner in your mouth and trying to swish it around with your spit. I had to amputate my tongue with a paperclip just to get the nastiness out of my mouth as quickly as possible. I give Chili Limon a 1 for making my mouth bleed.

The makers of Choxie are some sick and twisted bastards who must live on the 7th level of hell and pay homage to Lucifer in the form of chocolate rape. I would seriously rather have a stranger stab me in the face repeatedly, than eat another piece of Choxie in my life. I am scared that I might have some sort of demon seed growing in my stomach that will unleash itself, forever sealing my place in history as the poor fucker who actually ate Choxie.

Choxie: Satan's Vomit in Candy Form can be purchased from Target for about $5.00. Will make an ideal stocking stuffer for any children you would rather have all happiness taken away from for the rest of their lives.

Memo Comedy

The “memo” area on your average check is a comedy goldmine begging to be spelunked, yet people fail to recognize this. More often than not, people use this space to describe what the check is being written for: “May 2004 rent”, “John’s birthday”, “Account Number 193883984297”, etc.

But in reality, this is an opportunity for free-form comedy. I’m telling you this now because the holidays are upon us, and, like many of you, I have no imagination when it comes to giving gifts, so I often give money. Since we all know that giving cash is too…Italian (read: tacky), I always give checks. I know that receiving cash is preferable, but my logic is, “Hey – I’m giving you free money. The least you could do is take your lazy ass to the bank to cash the check.” Sartre says that the purpose of giving a gift is to enslave the recipient. I think that giving a gift is just another opportunity to be a dick.

[Please note: this does not apply only to holidays. Every check I write has something retarded in the memo. This is a year-round thing.]

So this holiday season, instead of writing in the memo of the check, “Merry Christmas, Tom!” or “Happy Hanukkah, Chaim!”, have a little fun with it. Write something ridiculous and/or offensive. You’ll at least get a laugh out of it and perhaps that person will have to hand that check to a teller to be deposited. Sweet.

Here are some examples to get you started:

“Third place prize - Semen Eating Contest”
“Killing my father”
“Licking ass on a dare”
“Your mother tastes like cocaine”
“Head”
“I rubbed this on my balls”
“Are you my brother?”
“Still tasting you, xoxoxo”
“This is for the drugs you sold me”
“Sorry about your sister’s uterus and all”

So please, try this at home. I do it, it’s awesome, so you should do it.

The Holidays: Past, Present & Future

I'm not that big of a fan about the holidays. I don't know why this is. As I look into my past, nothing stands out that would make me dislike this time of year (well, except 1988, when from December 6 to 28 I was held in a basement and trained to cockfight by a gang of Dominican youths - they let me go after learning that each time I got in the ring with the rooster I would start eating it, which is apparently against the rules).

As a kid, I loved Christmas. Really, what is there not to love? Presents, time off from school, lots of food - things anyone can enjoy at any age.

But then, the holidays, or rather my perception of the holidays, started changing. I think this occurred in college. I remember that in my freshman year I was looking forward to that month off between semesters, as a time to get home, see some old friends, and relax. And in truth, I even sort of missed my family, although this may have had not such much to do with my family members themselves but more to do with the amenities of being at home, like home-cooked meals, my own room, and a clean bathroom that didn't have to be shared with 25 other guys, including Dong-Woo, the Korean kid who showered for three hours and walked around the bathroom completely nude and completely hairless. God, I miss that son of a bitch.

And yet during that much-anticipated holiday break I wasn't home for 24 hours before I wanted to head back to school. After getting a taste of living on my own, I found it hard to revert to living with my family, what with their stringent rules like "Wear pants when you walk around the house!" and "I don't want drug dealers coming over here at 4:30 in the morning!" and "No, wear pants when you walk around the house! White briefs that are way too small for you don't count as pants!"

Thus began a steady decline in interest for the holidays. This year, today, I can't express how little Christmas spirit I'm feeling. Maybe I'm just feeling a little down because I'm coming down off a good high I had this morning (thank you for your killer weed Jarrett from Accounting - see you again 10:30 tomorrow morning at the under-construction bathroom on the 22nd floor), but it's just not doing it for me this year.

However, that doesn't mean I don't have any good Christmas memories. So I present the Top 5 All-Time Favorite Christmas Memories of John:

5) 2001
While watching Whitney Houston sing the National Anthem before an NBA game, John's 97 year-old grandfather remarks, "Why do the blacks sing the song like that?" (referencing the occasional 40-second "Oh...Ohohohohohoh...oh yeah, can you hear me?...can you hear me say it?...well, I'm-a, I'm-a gonna sing it for you right now...[starting song] Oh say can you see..." intro to the song). This horrifies not only John, but also John's then-girlfriend, who was half-black. VERY awkward, but nothing can get a man out of trouble like the old "senility" excuse.

4) 1989
While John's family was visiting his grandmother (and Uncle Tommy), a visibly drunk Uncle Tommy goes to his room to get a movie for the kids to watch, as they had just finished Christmas dinner. After nearly falling down the stairs on his return, he pops in what he thought was "A Christmas Story" but was actually a pornographic movie. Not missing a beat, Uncle Tommy says, "Sorry kids - that one's from Uncle Tommy's private collection." Grandmom beats Uncle Tommy with a shoe (most likely hers, but this could not be verified).

3) 1993
Other drunk uncle, Uncle Johnny, works on Christmas Eve and goes straight to shady bar with friends after his shift. He then shows up at our home for Christmas festivities drunk as hell at 3PM, and proceeds to punch the Christmas tree several times over an unpaid gambling debt, calling it a "liar", before falling over the family dog, Lola, and spraining his ankle.

2) 2002
Drunk John and drunk younger cousin Dennis get in fight over last cream puff; kitchen burns down.

1) 2004
Drunk John, exhausted from hearing, "When are you going to meet a nice girl?" from aunts and "When are you going to move back to New York?" from cousins and "Dude, did you make a pass at my friend Justin last night at the bar?" from other cousin decides to step outside for a breath of fresh air.

While standing on his porch, drinking a 16 oz can of Bud, John hears a cry for help and see a woman across the street being attacked by a large man. John gently puts down his beer and runs across the street - not to save the woman, but because he thinks he sees a hot dog under a nearby car.

When he approaches the attacker as he's harassing his victim, John notices that it's not a hot dog, but rather a wiffle ball bat. Disappointed, he moves to turn away and head back to the porch, but the attacker recognizes John as the guy who - only the very night before - he had paid $10 to give him a handjob. He was promised the "best handjob of [his] life", but instead got a sloppy drunken bird rub.

The attacker drops his female victim, and starts beating up John. The vicious beating causes John to bleat like a pig giving birth, so loudly that a nearby police cruiser hears his screams and quickly shows up on the scene to stop the attack and take the perpetrator away.

The woman victim, still woozy from the attack, believes John had come to rescue her, and approaches him to apologize. John sees the woman for the first time and realizes - wouldn't you know it - it's Kate Beckinsale! She begins to thank him and explain what she's doing on Christmas on a desolate street in Queens, NY, but can't finish her story because she is some overcome with the urge to fellate him, which she does immediately.

Kate then invites John to come to Hollywood with her so that they might make love until his heart stops, and thus begins a long story of love, lust, betrayal, fear, and hot dogs that ultimately ends on New Year's Eve 2011, when John, recently dumped by Kate after she learned of his affair with Elisha Cuthbert, takes his own life by eating three pounds of sour cream in under five minutes and setting his genitals on fire, screaming, "I'll never need these again! I love you Kate! I love you! God this fucking sour cream is good! Does anyone have any guacamole? Anyone?"

Alright, so maybe I do I love the holidays.

There's A Hole In My Esophagus And One Day It Will Drive Me To Murder

I suffer from terrible, terrible heartburn. This is not surprising, given my eating and drinking habits, which most doctors would call "not good". Other doctors may call them "I can't believe you live like this and you're still alive - it defies medical science. Also, you have the clap. Big time." But come on - sure, maybe one time I ate a live firecracker because someone stuck it in my pile of mashed potatoes, but really, who are they to judge? Assholes.

But just because it's deserving doesn't mean it's any less debilitating. Actually, it really sucks ass. It feels as though fire has borne a hole through my esophagus, which makes eating and swallowing very difficult. I burp a lot, but they're not like normal burps. Imagine getting ready for a big, loud-ass burp, posturing to force it out, but instead nothing happens. Rather than letting out a giant one to inspire your friends to say, "Sweet dude", you're left with a momentarily paralysis of breath and a fireball that tastes like this morning's mozzarella sticks tumbling up your throat. Not too much fun.

But truth be told, I don't really give a fuck about this most of the time. Sure, it's acutely uncomfortable, but I have other things to concern myself with (i.e. lunchmeat, boobies, hot dogs, breasts, etc).

The problem is that the heartburn adversely affects my drinking. This is not good. I'm not a doctor, but if you're suffering from painful heartburn, it's probably not best to come home and have some red wine, then some white wine, then a few beers, then a few vodka-diet cherry 7-Ups, then some more beers, then finally two slices of pepperoni pizza and a chicken roll, which is what I did on Saturday night (and yes, ladies, I am single).

Thus Sunday was not my finest hour, what with the hangover and the heartburn and the whole "I peed my bed in my sleep" thing. Since I've never been a big believer in "medicine" or "condoms" or "treating people the same regardless of their race", when Saturday evening rolled around, I started drinking again. Some say laughter is the best medicine. To them I say, "You guys are gay. Have you ever had three martinis in an hour? You don't feel anything at all, except warm. THAT'S medicine."

My "drinking through it" plan of action has worked through numerous illnesses: the remnants of hangovers, stomach bugs, that time I got malaria in Guadalajara from either a mosquito, the two prostitutes I made love to (though there was no love at all in what we did) or that guy Ted who I made out with in the pool after he gave me all that free coke - whatever.

But with the heartburn, the "drinking through it" plan just doesn't cut it. It actually, not so surprisingly, makes it worse. Each sip feels like it's taking another layer off my esophagus. Each burp (or near burp) feels like my stomach and throat is on fire. When it gets really bad, each sip of vodka causes me to have a mini-spasm and bolt upright, wince in pain, and paraphrase the old guy from "Braveheart" and say in my best Scottish accent, "That'll wake you up in the morning."

I talked to my doctor about this. My doctor is very cool. When I went it for an STD test, his first question was, "So do you have anything weird on your dick or your balls?" (using that language). He prescribed some Nexium, which works sometimes, but he also said that I'd have to change my lifestyle if I wanted the heartburn to go away (I also asked if he could prescribe some Percocets for me, but he told me to get the hell out of his office).

This was confounding for me (the need to change my lifestyle, not the refusal of Percocets, although both were pretty confounding). As a relatively spoiled person who, despite being in terrible shape, considers himself nearly invincible, I said to my doctor, "Um, no. I don't want to change anything. Can't you just give me a pill or a shot or something and make it go away? No? You're telling me we can put a man on Mars, but we can't cure heartburn? We can create super babies that are capable of flying an airplane, running a marathon in under three hours, and building giant robots that in one fell swoop can easily destroy a whole city, but you can't cure my acid reflux? What do you think I am, some kind of jerk? You know what? Fuck you. How about that? Did you like that? Because here comes another - fuck you. Wait, hold on, I think I hear someone coming. Oh, here it is: fuck you. Fucking asshole."

...

I'm realizing now that I've been writing this for a while and I don't really know where I'm going with it, so let's get to the point. The point is that this weekend was the first time in a while that yours truly has not been able to imbibe his favorite beverages unencumbered by pain, and it was certainly the worst ever. The results of my failed "drinking through it" plan have still lasted until today, Tuesday, as I still feel discomfort, most likely remnants of the boozing this weekend. Or maybe I'm just having a heart attack.

But hear me now: if I can't drink at my own volition, there are going to be serious problems. Not problems like, "Damn it - I just made pancakes and we're out of syrup" problems, but problems like, "Daddy, who is at that large man running up and down the halls of our apartment building with a flaming ax? And why is he stopping so often to put down the flaming ax to try to rip off his pee-pee?"

I don't have much, but I have my booze. Take that away from me, and all I've got left is a lot of back hair, a dick the size of a wine cork, and alot of weed. God and Heartburn: Do not fuck with me. You are entering a world of pain, betrayal, anger, lust, and borderline homosexuality. Slowly back away now, and everything's cool. Advance, and do so at your own peril. But if you're gonna bring it, you'd better bring it all. [pausing for dramatic effect] Because I will not lose.

[Well, I probably will lose, but I just said that to sound tough. And I don't even think it worked.]

Blockbuster

Friday night was a very weird and depressing night. As I've mentioned before, I am broke. Not "I can't hang out with you tonight because Monday is the night I got to Spanish Harlem to suck dick for cheeseburgers" broke, but "I really can't be spending $7 a drink at a bar and have 15 of these drinks and order out $25 worth of dinner four nights a week" broke.

So after work on Friday, I had only one goal: get drunk and watch some TV at my place. Knowing that the few friends I have in Jersey (whom I have to pay to be my friends) were out of town for the weekend, I had a special John night planned: some wine, some candles, Maxi Priest and Roberta Flack softly singing "Set The Night To Music", and of course wrapping up the evening by masturbating in front of my open window, swaying back and forth because it's hard to beat off standing up and drunk with your pants around your ankles (trust me - it is).

But it was not meant to be. There was nothing worthwhile on, other than that terrible David Arquette movie "See Spot Run", the one with the dog in it. After throwing up all over myself and my couch, I pulled myself together and made a sandwich.

Depressed, I channel-surfed and pounded some wine before eventually deciding that I would go to the Blockbuster nearby to rent a movie. Not a good decision.

See, Blockbuster on a Friday night at about 9pm is not a good place to be for a half-drunk, lonely manic depressive for hasn't shaved since Wednesday morning and is seriously considering the seminary to justify his celibacy. Everyone in the store was either a happy, young couple looking for a movie to watch and cuddle to, or a really hopeless-looking single person. It was unbelievable. About a dozen or so twenty-something couples of all races walking around arm-in-arm, saying things like, "Well, I guess I could watch 'Love Actually' if you really want to" and "But babe, we got the movie you wanted to last time - now it's my turn" as I sobbed loudly into my hands and shook with tremors of sadness (and lust).

Also, there were about a dozen loners walking around. I'm not talking about "loners" in the dangerous, mysterious but cool sense; I'm talking about people who look like me, but older. You know, mildly successful single people in their early thirties looking for a constructive way to spend their Friday night. And I take it back, they didn't look hopeless, but that's what kind of made them seem hopeless to me. The fact that they were content with this plan, thinking, "Well, I don't have anything to do or anyone to hang out with, so I think I'll go to Blockbuster to get a movie and watch it alone" made me very sad, and even more determined to propose to the next girl I kiss.

I wound up leaving the Blockbuster without getting a movie. And to be honest, I don't even remember what I did on Friday night, I got stoned (all by myself!) and basically passed out. I know I talked on the phone for a while to my long-lost friend Veronica, and I remember going to bed at 3:30 (though I started drinking and smoking alone at about 6:30), but that's really all I got.

Exciting, I know.

[Jesus, I just read this over and it sounds like I'm going to kill myself. Good lord. Honestly, I'm not going to kill myself. It's just really too much work. So let's talk about something happier!]

I'm Dying, Fuck You Luden's

It started yesterday. I felt like shit because my throat was sore as hell, and it kept my ass up all night and I was totally grumpy. I went to my local crappy doctor yesterday morning and though he said my throat didn't look "streppy", he's not sure and will let me know Thursday. Thursday? Asshole.

A sore throat is the worst malady to have (aside from anything that adversely affects your balls), because it affects swallowing, and that affects eating, something I take very seriously. For example, right now, I'm fucking starving (shocking, I know), but every time I swallow it feels like someone is punching me in the left side of my neck. After having oatmeal for breakfast, I've eaten nothing but Luden's Cherry Throat Drops. For the record, anyone who thinks these things hold any medicinal value at all is a total asshole. They're candy, that's all there is to it.

[And yes, I am a pussy with all this "I'm sick" and "I'm grumpy" and "My penis is too small for normal condoms, so I have to special order tiny condoms" complaining. The good news is that I'm going to go home and have at least two sundaes for dinner.]

Yeah, I know, yesterday I wrote about how good things are, but do you know what "bipolar" means? Asshole

But, today is a different story. I’m out sick today, and I think this is it. I have a fever, chills, dizziness, a monster erection, a sore throat – I think I’m checking out of this world, and moving onto the next (which, for me, will obviously be hell).

I know that my death is now imminent, because I have no desire to masturbate, drink or get high, or even eat the delicious double sausage, egg, and cheese bagel I bought this morning. This is surely the end.

So therefore I’d like to thank all of you for your support and encouragement throughout these years. Your emails have been a source of inspiration, and in the case of those who sent me pictures of your boobs, masturbation, and I treasure each and every one.

Sure, it would have been nice to get a least a fucking handjob out of this whole thing, but it’s too late for that now. Instead, I’ll just haunt the shit out of you guys. Know that whenever you are pooping, you will not be alone. I will be there in spirit, quietly humming “I Only Have Eyes For You” and combing my hair.

I have only a few regrets, which are listed below in order from least regretful to most regretful. I regret:

- not getting the chance to really fuck up that Clay Aiken bitch
- not telling my friend Brian that I secretly am in love with him
- the whole July 1994 Phoenix incident
- jerking off a dog when I was 14 and just so damn curious about sex
- not masturbating at work as much as I should have
- not sleeping with two women at the same time
- setting fire to all those African-American churches in the South in the ‘90’s
- not sleeping with four women at the same time
- all those Green River murders
- not sleeping with three women at the same time

So that’s it – I’m a goner. In lieu of flowers or cards, please send cash or checks, as I leave behind a monstrous amount of credit card and gambling debt to my next of kin, and possibly (keep your fingers crossed!) a child (ALWAYS bring your own condom to a brothel, even if you’re all coked up and telling people you’re George Washington and showing everyone your balls).

God bless, and good night. For my last words, I’d like to take a lyric from my favorite dead poet of all time, Mr. Russell Jones (aka Ol' Dirty Bastard, Big Baby Jesus, Dirt Megirt, Unique Ason, Osirus):

You give me your number, I call you up
You act like your pussy don’t interrupt
I don't have no problem with you fucking me
But I have a little problem with you not fucking me.

Breathtaking. Simply breathtaking.

Adieu dear friends. Adieu.

Give It All Up

My friend Rob and I always ask thought-provoking yet completely absurd questions of each other. It's sort of a psychological exercise in which we can jump right into the core of each other's beings, hopefully without wearing any pants and having "forgotten" condoms.

Last night I was feeling a bit wishy-washy about love. I occasionally get a little wishy-washy, as I am an Aquarius, so I guess that means I'm emotional. I also have trouble not pissing myself when I do coke; whether or not this has to do with being an Aquarius, I'm not sure.

But mostly I was emotional last night because another holiday season is quickly approaching and that means one thing for me: masturbating in front of the mirror with a Santa hat on.

[Man, today would be a really bad day for my parents to start reading this. Gay sex with my friend, doing coke, and watching myself jerk off. My god, I'm sorry.]

Anyway, the question was, "Rob, would you give up everything for a woman?" Rob, who at the time was smoking a cigarette, took a deep drag, looked off into the distance, and finally said, "Well, it depends on how much I have."

Very true.

For example, right now I don't have much going on. Sure, I have a good job. However, I don't have any money. I blame this not on my terrible spending habits ("Even though mine works perfectly fine, I think I'm going to buy a new TV, since it's only $900") but on the fact that Jersey is entirely too expensive. Also, I'm addicted to alcohol.

I don't have many friends, and I don't especially like the ones that I do have. I'm pretty sure my friend Greg tried to poison me three weeks ago (because of current legal issues, I can't get into the details at this time).

My family, which for years has thought that I have potential, is getting impatient waiting for me to capitalize on this potential (I don't know how - starting a business? running for office? starting some sort of espionage syndicate?). But they are learning each day that this "potential" was really just laziness well-concealed by constant self-aggrandizement. Therefore, they are turning against me. Although not entirely positive, I'm pretty sure my mom tried to push me down a flight of stairs last time I was home. Also, my dad stabbed me in the shoulder. Three times. Well, twice in the shoulder, once in the upper arm.

Other than that, what else do I have? I'm going to school, but "going to school" is the best way to describe it, since all I'm really doing logging onto a website, taking an open book test, and then not thinking about it again until the next class. I have this blog, which is nice and good and all, but nobody reads it and it has made me both undatable and unhirable, once I get canned when my employer finds this.

So yes, I would give all this up for a woman. And it doesn't even have to be a particularly attractive women. I would prefer a woman who isn't a paraplegic, but if not available, I'll make due.

Two Observations Observed After Observing People At Work

Mustaches

[Or is it "moustache"? I think the more common spelling is mustache, but I prefer moustache, so that's what we're gonna go with from here on out.]

There's a guy who works in my building. I don't know him personally, but I've seen him around. I suppose he's an attorney, but I'm not entirely sure; he may be a firm administrator. At any rate, he's well-to-do. He's white, of average height and build, a little thin on top, but seems to be otherwise very vibrant and healthy (and no, I don't have a man crush on him).

The thing is, over the past month or so, he's been rocking a moustache. He never had any facial hair before, and now he has this weird moustache thing going on.

At first, I thought it was a joke. He seems like a funny guy, so I thought he was either doing it on a dare or had a lost a bet, which should tell you how ridiculous it looks on him. But that was over a month ago, and he's still rocking the 'stache.

My comment is this: for white guys, there has been an unspoken moratorium on moustache growing since 1989. Effective on January 1 of that year, if you had a moustache prior to that date, you could keep your moustache without fear of repercussion, reprisal, or reprobation. After that date, you were/are not allowed to grow a moustache, unless either a) it's a joke; b) someone dared you; or c) you lost a bet. This is entirely non-negotiable.

Two qualifications:

1) Race. This only applies to white guys. Black guys can grow a moustache at any point in time and look cool. I went to high school with a black guy named Derrick who I am convinced had a moustache from at least age 6, possibly earlier. The same applies to Hispanic guys, especially those with the pencil thin ones (still, no one has explained to me how they do this - I think I would look most totally fucking excellent with a paper thin line of hair outline my overly chubby cheeks).

Asian guys are a little more difficult. On the one hand, the average Asian can never grow a moustache, and rocks the "I have 20 long hairs on my upper lip" look, also know as the "Jason ohn in 9th grade" look. But on the other hand, the Asian people are responsible for one of the greatest moustache incarnations of all-time: the Fu Manchu. Verdict? Asian guys can grow the moustache whenever they like.

2) Totality of facial hair. This only applies when the moustache is used as a stand-alone facial hair look. This does not apply if the moustache is part of a goatee, beard, or some other crazy concoction. My favorite crazy concoction is the mutton chops look, sported by George Westinghouse, founder to Westinghouse Electric Corp, the precursor of CBS.

An example of when it's ok for white guys to grow the 'stache: when I was a sophomore in college, one of my roommates, the recently married Mike, had a brother, Eustace, who at the time was a senior. We worshipped Eus and his roommates, because as soon as we came in as freshman, they took us under their wing, invited us to their parties, got us drunk, etc.

During their senior year, they decided to have a moustache party, meaning any guy who wanted to get into the party had to grow a 'stache. They hung signs and huge banners all over the campus, saying mysteriously, "Got 'Stache? 2/12".

The party was a huge success, but I missed it. At the time I was dating a girl long-distance, so I presume I went to see her to do my best to convince her that no, I was not making out with other girls at bars after they'd had too many kamikaze shots, and that no, I had never and would never pay for sex (surprisingly, our relationship ended).

But seeing those guys around campus pre-party with their moustaches was absolutely fucking hilarious. I've been trying to convince my friends to have a moustache party, but unfortunately they are almost completely hairless (so much so that we call my friend Ben "Baby Ben", because naked he looks like a big baby, although not as hot).

At any rate, them's the moustache rules. I don't make them up; I just follow them.

[Well, technically I did just make them up, but whatever]

Engagement rings

I work with a few women, whether they are administrators, associate attorneys, or partners. And let me tell you something, the rocks on these women's fingers have to be worth upwards of fifteen lives in any third-world country.

Good Lord! I consider myself a stalwart of heterosexuality, a true man's man who doesn't know how to wear a scarf, says things like, "How hard can it be to plan a wedding?", and would rather eat his own poo than go shopping for shoes (lie). But there have been times when I've walked into these women's offices and been distracted by the glare coming off these rings.

Two things to discuss here as well:

1) The fact that all day long I see engagement rings that are larger than at least three of the moons of Saturn is really going to warp my perception of the whole "buying a ring" process. How am I supposed to go to a jeweler with a bag full of nickels, a Sega Genesis, and some old Playboy's and expect to get a decent-sized ring?

I'll tell you what's going to happen - one day, far, far away from now, when I dupe a woman who has just the right amount of low self-esteem and psychosis into marrying me, I'm going to wind up mortgaging my life away for a giant fucking ring. I know this. I can be a sucker for perception with this kinda thing, and I know that I'm going to spend the first ten years of my married life making Christmas presents out of construction paper and popsicle sticks and eating bologna at every meal because I went $30,000 into debt to make myself look good to get my lady some bling-bling.

Damn it all to hell.

2) The reason that these women have giant rocks is that they're fiancées are all very successful. I've never heard a very successful woman in my profession (or around my profession) say, "My fiancée is a social worker" or "My fiancée is a graphic designer, but he also waits tables." No, they all say, "My fiancée is head of equity research at Morgan Stanley" or "My fiancée is vice general counsel at Merrill Lynch."

On top of that, it's sort of par for the course for older men to date younger women. Many of the women I know in their late 20's have serious boyfriends/fiancées/husbands who are in their mid to late 30's, possibly older. This bothers me, but also offers me hope.

It's gross for me to think of any of my female friends dating anyone over 30 (and most of them are only 25!). I don't know why...but it just does. Why would a 25 year-old girl want to date a man who's...well, old? Why would a 25 year-old girl not want to date, say, me instead?

On the other hand, it makes perfect sense to me why an older man would want a younger woman. I don't even need to explain this, but if I were 35, single, and rich, you'd better bet that I'd be trolling the bar scene, looking for some hot, dumb 22 year-old to buy gifts for and tote around town. As a matter of fact, I'm currently doing close inspections of middle/junior high schools in and around Jersey, just so I get dibs on any up-and-coming hotties as early as possible.

(Too far?)

(Oh well)

(You know, I'm just gonna quit now before I fall too far behind)

Parfume

What do the following three people have in common:

- Celine Dion
- Donald Trump
- Antonio Banderas

No, they don't all have penises (like me, Trump lost his penis in a vicious bear attack in Vancouver in November 1989 - we were actually in the same tour group, but it was different bears).

And no, they are not the three people I'd most like to sleep with (but it's close - if you take out Celine Dion and put in Rod Stewart, that'd be my trifecta).

No, these three people all have a fragrance. For some reason, they believe that because of their celebrity status, people will buy their fragrance because people want to smell like them.

To me, there is no greater unintentional comedy in Hollywood than people putting out perfumes. I can not express how funny I find this, and most likely will fail miserably here in trying to do so, so maybe you should just stop reading and come back tomorrow. Asshole.

There is something about putting your name on a fragrance that is fascinating to me. How does this even work? Did Antonio Banderas' agent call him and say,

Agent: "Hey, Antonio, I have an idea that would really help your career. Are you ready for this? A fragrance. A fragrance that captures the essence, the raw sexuality and the Puerto Ricanness of Antonio Banderas. What do you think?"
Banderas: "I'm not Puerto Rican."
Agent: "Really?"
Banderas: "Yes."
Agent: "Well, you're something not American, right?"
Banderas: "You're fired, but I'm going to take the fragrance idea and run with it."

I saw the commercial for Antonio Banderas' "Spirit" earlier this week and it stopped me dead in my tracks. In it, Antonio walks onto a dance floor, mingles with some sexy ladies, and walks off. Antonio Banderas' "Spirit". Now I know what I'm getting everyone for Christmas.

[Actually, I was dating a girl last year when commercials for Celine Dion's perfume started coming out. Her birthday was approaching and I got her the Celine Dion perfume as a joke (as well as another, real gift). She did not get the joke and shortly after we broke up. Last I heard, she was riding the rails somewhere in the Midwest, writing folk songs 'bout a lover with man boobies she had a ways back.]

As for Trump, well, despite the fact that we both lost our penises in horrifying bear attacks, we don't like each other much. I don't like him because I think he's a phony, and he doesn't like me because, long story short, I hit him with my car (well, it was a stolen car actually).

And his fragrance...good lord. The ads are being plastered all over men's magazines. I can't speak for anyone else, but I can't say that I've ever thought to myself, "You know what? I really want to smell like Trump." However, I have thought to myself, "You know what? I really can't stand Koreans."

So, in order to further enhance my celebrity status, I am pleased to announce John's "Dick", the scent for men who have bad facial hair, bad intentions, small ambitions, and even smaller (or no) penises. A strong musk, it combines sagewood with a variety of deli meats and just a hint of semen. It's guaranteed to make you completely resistible to any woman that you meet, even if she is unconscious.

John's "Dick" - coming Spring 2006.

A Letter To My Friends

Friends,

First I should tell you that I’m really proud of and happy for you all for being in serious relationships. That you all have found women to love you is astonishing and means that if you can do it, so can I. Love is great and I’m so happy that so many of you, my friends, have found it.

Second, I know that I am prone to getting all excited about things for no good reason. I know that I looked forward to this past weekend with an exorbitant amount of anticipation, imagining all of us getting together and, like old times, getting ourselves into ridiculous predicaments. Like that time in senior year when Dave slept on the deck and that cat peed on him, or when Tom had too much to drink and threw the coffee table out the window, or when Pete and I got plastered and somehow wound up in bed together. For three days.

But sadly, based on the events of this past weekend, I feel that you have – how should I say this? – lost your edge. It seemed on my visit over the weekend that you guys were different men, and I think this is due in no small part to the fact that you are in love. With women. And whatever the hell Sarah is.

(Just kidding Sarah)

I suppose I should get straight to the point: just because you guys have found love does not mean that you should give up on having fun. The sense of resignation among you is heartbreaking. What is even sadder is that you don’t realize it. So I am here to tell you about it and get you out of it. And when I’m done, you will be changed men, and I will take a long, hot bath, during which I will most likely bring myself to climax onto the pages of a men’s magazine.

On Saturday, we drank from the early afternoon until almost 1am. This would not be a problem in New York, where the bars are open until 4am. But in Jersey, last call is at 1:30. And the bar we eventually went to closed at 2am. So we were out for about half an hour.

This is entirely unacceptable. I understand and appreciate the logic behind your argument ("If when we go out we only talk to each other, why don’t we just stay here and get drunk cheaply?"), but that does not mean I condone it.

I know, I know, you scoff at hearing me take this side of the argument, when you know full well that I spend at least ten hours per weekend sitting in my living room, drinking Bud and watching VH1 Classic. But again, this is New Jersey. And you guys know that I need to get good and drunk if I’m going to come home from the bar to troll craigslist for bi-curious sex at 2am.

But I know that nothing exciting is going to happen when we are all drinking in the apartment. Well, nothing within the realm of reason anyway. I suppose something strange could happen, like some sort of lesbian party spontaneously breaking out next door or something like that. But, sadly, the odds are very much against this.

(Also, the lesbians would have really good weed and a lot of pie. But we’re getting off track here.)

I miss you guys when I am at home. Up here, it’s just me and my alter-ego, and we have grown tired of each other. Our conversations consist strictly of "I’m going to the store – do you want anything?" and "Does it smell like jizz in here?" and "Did you notice a middle-aged Asian guy sleeping on the couch when you woke up? Was he wearing my watch?" This isn’t necessarily bad, but merely the result of sharing the same space with my alter-ego (who is a superhero, indeed) for many years.

So when I come down to your end of Jersey, I look for a release. I look forward to going out with my buddies, getting shit-canned, and getting shot down by new and less attractive women who talk funny. I can’t do this when we spend all our time in an apartment discussing the ramifications of Noam Chomski's views on neoliberalism and global order.

And since you know me well, you know I’m never one to judge a situation without also offering an entirely unreasonable and impossible solution. And so in order to get yourselves back on the road to be fun-loving individuals again, you must first break up with your girlfriends. I know this is easier said than done, but honestly, you won't need them anyway. Because...

We're starting a cult. That's right - you all, me, and a couple of other guys here in Jersey are starting a cult. Modeled after the cult of the Greek god Dionysius, our activities will revolve around getting drunk, starting fires, hallucinating, stealing cars, and generally rousing rabble. We'll get together every other night (save for Sundays during football season) to party like it's 343 BC: homemade wine, pounding music, and, of course, horrible hygiene.

In addition, during the day we will be broken up into divisions so that we can make money to pay for our habits. For example, some of us will work as private detectives. Others, blacksmiths. The third main division will be our largest: systems analysts for mid-level advertising companies. The rest of us will be divided among other jobs according to our strengths (i.e. lifeguards, telephone operators, professional softball players, guys who design calendars, etc). We need to maintain a steady source of income so that when one of us thinks, "You know what would be awesome? If we got messed up and ate wings on a really fast boat!", we can do just that.

A large part of our cult life will be crazy, free and downright dangerous sex - though not with each other. Therefore, we will need women in the cult. On the surface, this might appear to be a problem, as we don't know many women, let alone women who would consent to letting creepy men touch them in all their secret places. But fortunately, the leader of the cult (me) just happens to be one of the most famous people on the internet, if not the entire world.

Knowing from the make-believe statistics I get, that thousands of people read my website daily and judging from the pictures that have been sent to me, I am confident that out of the many visitors there have to be around ten attractive-to-doable women reading. And so I will post a message asking them if they'd like to be involved. Now, I won't come out and call it a "cult", per se, but perhaps rather a book club or something (chicks love to read). Then when they show up, through my powers of charm, manipulation, and surreptitiously slipping barbiturates into the drinks of others, they will be initiated in no time.

So this is my idea: drop the girlfriends and join my cult. I think it makes sense. You guys will get the love that you so crave in the form of the nubile young women of the cult, who will always smell of the finest perfumes and sea salts. And I will get to hang out and get drunk with you all, unencumbered by the glares of your girlfriends who have such great disdain for me. It will be just like the good old times of high school, except with less homework and more orgies.

Please take the time to digest this and get back to me. But let me know at your earliest convenience if you are interested, so I can tell the caterer how much baked ziti to make for our first mixer. And if you can bring plastic cups or some macaroni salad, it would be most appreciated.

Your friend,
Whether you like it or not,
This is me,
A rogue and a drunkard,
Easy to spot,
In the tavern of Lovers,

John

How To Be Famous

It's been about four or five months that the press began calling me an "internet celebrity" (and by "the press", I mean "me", and then under duress and through bribes from my family and friends, and then, you know, a lot of other people).

I've been content with my title, and still am. Being an internet celebrity means that I can live my life in peace, but still enjoy a modicum of fame. For example, I can go to my local video store whenever I want and rent black-on-white gay porn without having it plastered all over the tabloids. I can drink myself into oblivion in any bar in Jersey, stumble out into the streets and kick a stray dog before exposing myself without getting shit from my manager. And most of the times when I hit a woman no one hears about it, especially because most of the women I hit can't speak English anyway [too much?].

That is not to say that I don't enjoy the "fame" aspect of my minor celebrity status. Every once in a while, I'll be introduced to someone who doesn't read the site, but knows I have a very popular blog (lie) and feel all warm and fuzzy inside when after a while they say, "Man, you stink in real life, but let me buy you a drink anyway." Many times I'll get emails from readers (lie) who recommend to me new and awesome porn sites. And of course, having this fame allows me to tell everyone woman I meet about it in the hopes of seeing how well-groomed their pubic region is, although this has not been successful to date.

But enjoying my internet celebrity status does not mean that I don't occasionally think of making a move to drop the "internet" from my title. I think this could be acomplished fairly easily. Below I have delineated five steps through which I think I can transform myself from an internet celebrity to a full-fledged celebrity.

1) Make a sex tape.

People think that Pam Anderson started this phenomenon, but those with longer memories know that it was Rob Lowe who kicked it all off. Of course, Pam's made a much bigger splash, since, well, who wants to see Rob Lowe getting it on (confession: me, please)? Since then, we've seen Pam-Brett Michaels, Vince Neil-Janine, R. Kelly and an assortment of "women", Paris Hilton, Tom Sizemore, shit - even Bam Margera has a sex tape.

But Paris Hilton was the one who used the sex tape to her advantage. Two years ago, she was an unknown to anyone outside of NYC, and known only to those in NYC because of her Page Six "I'm stupid, drunk, rich, and hot" escapades. And today Barbara Walters has named her one of the most fascinating people of 2005.

[Now, I don't want my meaning to be misconstrued and have you all think that I believe Barbara Walters is the single determining factor of who or what is fascinating, but I have to ask: Paris Hilton, fascinating? Really? Hot, ok (though too thin and with too small boobs for me). Dumb but in a manipulative way, yes. Rich, very. But fascinating? Are you sure? Do you want to think about this some more?]

So I needs to get me a video camera and make me a sex tape. I dare not ask for volunteers without first saying that copious amounts of narcotics will be involved. And I don't use the word "copious" often, so you know I really mean it. I'm thinking something along the lines of a tastefully done shower scene, because when my body hair gets wet I look like Bigfoot and I just want the whole world to see it. However, this is open to discussion.

2) Start practicing kabbalah.

I know very little about kabbalah (or is it the kabbalah), other than it's a form of Jewish mysticism, everyone wears a red bracelet, and you're supposed to donate a lot of money to it, and, oh yeah, a lot of famous people do it. Sounds completely crappy to me. So I went to the Kabbalah Centre website and read:

Imagine if there was a miraculous source of power so profound, so powerful, it could totally heal and transform your life and genuinely change our world for the good - forever!
Ok, I'm listening. Keep going...

There is. It is called Kabbalah, and it is the oldest, most influential wisdom in all of human history.

Doesn't this sound like something James Lipton would say? "Kabbalah is so wonderful that it is like bowling a 300 game, meeting Jesus Christ, winning the lottery, and receiving oral sex from the entire female cast of 'Baywatch' rolled into one, and extended forever throughout time and space until the end of time and beyond and into infinite space forever."

Kabbalah reveals all the spiritual and physical laws that govern the cosmos and the human soul. It answers questions. It provides solutions. It unravels puzzles. It decipher codes.

What? "Physical laws that govern the cosmos"? Really? And it deciphers codes? Sheesh - All this time I've been Orthodox, and all I've gotten is predatory priests and an incredible feeling of guilt if I commit even the slightest offense, like lying or arson or the murder of two teenage boys in Laramie, Wisconsin in January of 1986.

It gives you practical tools to effect change. And, it creates order out of chaos. And, if that isn't enough, Kabbalah answers the ultimate questions of human existence: Who are we? Where did we come from? Why are we on this earth?

I spent the next twenty minutes on the website trying to find the answers to those questions, but I stopped when it started talking about a twenty-three volume book about "light" and requesting $20 for two classes I'd have to take to learn more.

But none of this matters - Kabbalah is hot right now. So, so hot. And if I want in to the celebrity party, well, sign me up for volume one.

3) Go to rehab.

Do I even need to talk about this? I'm planning on doing this this summer anyway, having filed the leave of absence papers with my employer just last week, regardless of celebrity (just...can't...stop...huffing...).

4) Get married and divorced quickly.

This is the one I'm most looking forward to. Those who know me know that I love weddings. Those who know me also know that I love to steal inconsequential things from friends' homes.

I don't have a particular person in mind for this whirlwind, drug-induced, six to eighteen-week long marriage, but I do have some credentials:

1) She must be reasonably famous, and be willing to use another person to achieve more fame;
2) She will have no actual talent;
3) She will probably be foreign;
4) She may have a penis;
5) She will not be speaking with her parents;
6) She will have incredible breasts

If you or someone you know fits this description, please email me.

5) Get about 1.2 million more people to read this site.

Dude, I'm working on it. Don't be such a douche.

A message to the half-Asian waitress with the big boobs from Applebee's on Friday night

Hello,

Though I spent most of the night staring lasciviously at you, I don't think we ever properly met.Actually, I know we didn't properly meet, because if we did so, it would have been the greatest moment of my otherwise wasted life. My name is John, and I want to make you my wife so I can touch you all over.

When I first walked into the bar on that Friday evening, I did not think I would fall in love. No, my main focus was getting as many pitchers of beer into my body as humanly possibly, so that I could end the night in a haze, eating some delicious pizza and perhaps throwing a Snapple bottle at a taxi cab. I also wasn't feeling too well because I had a nasty case of the runs at work that almost caused a major disaster on the car ride home.

But then I saw you, and I knew that I would never be the same for as long as I live. I promised right then and there to love you until the day I die, or until I see a hotter girl. To use the word "striking" to describe the way you looked in your little black dress does not do you any justice, so I am forced to create a more fitting adjective to describe how great you looked by combining a number of words that all mean "attractive": foxagorgeohot. You looked absolutely foxagorgeohot on Friday night. So, so foxagorgeohot.

To be honest, you are the perfect woman. Sure, we didn't speak, and for all I know you could have knifed someone to death later that very night, but I am willing to look past any imperfections you may have, no matter how severe, because you are just that hot.

I am enchanted by your ethnicity. Your half-Asian side appeals to my unquenchable Asian fetish, but at the same time you are not so Asian that you'd be friends with a bunch of nerdy guys who are awesome at math and econ. Your half-Euro side gave you those green eyes and, more importantly, breasts so bounteous and a waist so small that it looks as though your body was drawn up by one of those geeky comic book guys.

And if I'm not mistaken, I feel like you felt a little something for me too. I'm not sure if it was the first time or the twelfth time you caught me looking at your ample cleavage, but when our eyes locked, I felt a twinge deep in my heart. The next day I learned after an EKG at St. Vincent's that this was the beginning of a mild heart attack, but medical science be damned - this boy knows love when he feels it, and he feels it when he looks down your shirt (or at your heinie).

The climax of the evening for me was our slight but enchanting interaction. I was making my way over the bathroom, and noticed you in my path standing and talking to some bar patrons. As I came closer to you, I pulled out my cell phone, and (this is embarrassing) pretended to talk to someone on it. I stopped just behind you, and spoke loudly and at length about my job and my upcoming bonus, and how I think it would be extremely large. I then shouted about how I would be donating most of my bonus to charity, because as I had just signed a mega book/music/movie deal, I would not need this money, and would like to help out starving children all over the world. You appeared to become annoyed and said "Asshole" before walking away, but I want to let you know that I'm down with the game, and if you want to play hard to get, that's fine.

One thing I wasn't able to mention on my fake cell phone conversation was that, well, I'm kind of famous. I don't know if you're familiar with the internet, but long story short I have this thing called a "blog" which thousands and millions (and possibly even billions) of people read. I'm not sure if you're the type of girl who thinks it's important for her man to be a household name, but if you are, well, you're in luck.

So I ask you to think about where you are in your life and consider choosing me as a life partner. I have a promise ring on hand that I can give you immediately, which will serve as a symbol of your commitment to me and my testicles until a more proper ring can be acquired. In the meantime, I will continue masturbating to the fantasy I have constructed in which you dance all sultry-like for me as I smoke pot and eat rice pudding while Cream's "Strange Brew" plays in the background. After I am finished the rice pudding (this takes a while, because there is a lot), I put down my J and put on the "Dirty Dancing" soundtrack and we make love all night long, or at least for four minutes until I fall asleep because I am tired from all that eating.

I look forward to your reply. Please say yes, or, well, I don't think we need to get into that now.

Love eternally,
Did you come here to play Jesus,
To the lepers in your head,
Time held me green and dying,
Though I sang in my chains like the sea,
I am,
John

What Am I Doing Here?

Work is absolutely fucking terrible today. There's a lot of:

My boss says: "I need you to research those [some financial-type thing]."
My boss thinks: "I need him to research those [some financial-type thing]."

I say: "No problem."
I think: "I have no idea what the fuck he's talking about."

20 minutes later:

My boss: "Did you get the results?"
Me: [smoking a cigarette in my office with my feet on my desk, drawing pictures of topless women wearing only high tops and doing jumping jacks] "Oh, you wanted that, like, now?"

On top of that, apparently the Lord's early Christmas gift to me was the most severe case of insomnia I've had in months, even though I explicitly asked Him for Nair for Men (jerk).

The good thing is that my navy blue shirt really brings up the dark blue hues under my eyes. I ran into a friend in an elevator full of partners with whom I work with but don't really know and he blurted out, "Man, you look like crap. Late night boozin' last night?" I contemplated punching him in the basement, but instead I said, "No, I went over to your mom's and raw-dogged her, but she wouldn't let me leave. Man, that woman just really loves dick. Now I know where your sister and your brother get it from. Your dad, not so much - he just likes to watch me whack off."

[Ok, so maybe I didn't say that, but I wanted to. So sue me for having some integrity.]

So that's all I got. I'll make it up to you tomorrow.

(well, probably not)

My Bonus

Well, I got my Christmas bonus today and it's not only nonexistent, but I also found out that 2 people just got layed off. So my Christmas bonus entails me putting my resume on monster.com.

I know I shouldn't complain, because a lot of people don't get Christmas (sorry to my non-Christian readers, I should say "year-end") bonuses, but I was counting on this in a Clark Griswold kinda way. Only instead of putting in a pool, I was planning on pinning down some of the massive debt that living in a state where vodka tonics are $7 a pop can accumulate for a manic-depressive alcoholic.

So it's going to be a sad Christmas as I start looking around my apartment for things to give my friends and family:

Cousin: "Oh wow, five VHS porno tapes that you've had since 1996! Thanks!"

Dad: "Oh great! Two half burned candles and a pair of pants that doesn't fit you anymore and won't fit me either! Great gifts!"

Mom: "A pack of matches, delivery menus for New Jersey restaurants, and some pens that don't work? All for me? This is a best Christmas ever!"

Friend: "Nice - a bunch of crumpled pieces of paper that have jokes about Puerto Ricans on them and a pair of scissors that you stole from work! And all I got you was that $50 Barnes & Noble gift card. I feel like such a douche."

Merry Fucking Christmas from The Company.

Speaking of the holidays, I have eight (eight?) holiday or birthday parties to attend within the next 2 weeks (well, two were last night). I don't know how this is possible, considering I have about four friends.

[And what's with all the December birthdays? I didn't know March was the month for procreating. Is this all the work of St. Patrick's Day? Another thing we can thank the Irish for, along with tiny genitals and alcoholic rages.]

So there's going to be a lot of bar-hopping this weekend and next, which means I'm probably going to spend over $100 this weekend on cabs alone. This is where I curse myself for being obese, because I can't run from these cabbies (Christ, sometimes I get out of breath drinking water).

And now I really want a hoagie. Fuck - such a vicious, vicious cycle.