The Obnoxiously Hurtful Email

If my friends and I have one thing in common, it’s that we love to hurt each other’s feelings. I’ve thought long and hard about this, but the intentional ball busting is definitely the least common denominator among us. Some of us like sports, but not all; some of us like music, but not all; one of us once got arrested at an amusement park for taking a shit in a brown paper bag on a dare (Mike, I’m looking in your direction), but not all.

But we all love to break each other’s stones. The good news is that most of us are self-deprecating and can handle it well. And for those who aren’t self-deprecating, well, we deprecate for those guys.

I think this is partially a product of where I’m from. Where I grew up, breaking balls was a way of life, a true art form, a necessary survival skill. We’re not talking “snaps” like “Your momma’s so fat she had to get baptized at Sea World” or “Your momma’s like a bowling ball: she gets picked up, fingered, thrown in the gutter, and comes back for more”. It’s nothing that, um, organized, but generally if there’s anything I can do or say to you to make you look bad in front of people, then I’m going to do it. And I expect you to do the same.

But I believe I’ve taken this to a new level recently with the inception of something I like to call the The Obnoxiously Hurtful Email. Perhaps the best way to explain this is to give an example.

When he was younger, my buddy Bob’s house burned down. It was a very traumatic experience for him. In the middle of the night, he was awoken from his sleep, had to escape the house, and then watched it burn. He then lived in a trailer park for two months while the house was getting fixed. He has confided in us, his close friends, that this was the worst time of his life.

On Monday morning, I sent an email to Bob and five of our friends. The subject of the email was “Fire”. The text of the email went:

Hey Bob,

Remember when your house burned down and you lost everything and had to live in a trailer park? That fucking sucked.

Best,
John

Thus The Obnoxiously Hurtful Email. A lot of things make me happy: getting drunk and falling off a boat, killing an animal with my bare hands (or a pipe or sharp rock), getting high and hanging around a cemetery, watching children in a swimming pool, getting a blowjob from that junkie who hangs out in the park for only $3 and a pack of Juicy Fruit because she’s absolutely feening for a hit, etc. But there’s nothing quite like the satisfaction of knowing you just forced a friend to relive the most painful experience of his life - and it came out of nowhere. Jackpot!

Of course, my friends are ruthless and pounced on this, chiming in with, “Yeah, that did stink when you watched your home burn before your eyes” and “Living in a trailer park must have been embarrassing.” Good stuff.

Another example. When he was eleven or so, two men broke into my friend Mike’s house. His dad wasn’t home at the time (he was away on business), so he and his two brothers hid in his mother’s bedroom with her, door barricaded, listening to these two guys go through their home, crying their eyes out, unsure if they were their only to rob or to rob and hurt them. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, they left. To this day, Mike shakes when he tells the story.

Yesterday, I emailed Mike, cc’ing a few of our friends who know the story. The subject was “fear”.

Mike,

Dude, do you remember when those guys broke into your home and you hid with your brothers and mom in her room, hoping they wouldn’t kill you? I imagine being the victim of a home invasion is pretty bad. Is it?

Best,
John

Me: 1, Mike: 0.

This afternoon I’m sending one to my friend Jim. I’ll call it “your parents’ broken marriage” and I think it’ll go something like:

Jim,

Do you remember when your mom had to divorce your dad because he couldn’t keep his dick out of women that weren’t her?

Best,
John

So anytime you need a self-esteem boost, I recommend you try The Obnoxiously Hurtful Email. If life has taught me anything, it’s that the only true way to feel better about yourself is by making those around you feel worse about themselves. Or something like that. I don’t even know anymore.

I am such a tremendous dickhead.

Six Things You Need To Know

1) I am hungover. Big time. I'm actually pretty sure I'm dying. If I were a doctor (which I'm not, even though I occasionally tell women I meet at bars that I am), I would guess that I'm already about 70% dead. Every time the phone rings it's like I'm being stabbed. Every time I breathe my chest hurts. When I stand, I need to sit down immediately. When I sit down, I need to lay down immediately. When I woke up and peed this morning, I peed Guinness. I am in bad, bad shape.

The point is that I drank enough this weekend to kill a small-ish adult or a full-sized Amish person. And it was pretty fucking awesome.

2) On Sunday night and last night, I've had four girls staying at my apartment, friends from Queens in town for a hairstylists' convention (they are all hairstylists). I gave them my room and I've been sleeping on the couch. As a thank you, they took me to a nice restaurant last night for dinner. Being hungover from Sunday, I wanted to do dinner 6:30 or so so that I could sleep well and be rested for work today. Reservations were made for 9:30. After dinner at 11, we went to have "one" drink. At 11:30, we decided to get one last one before calling it a night. After about eight "last" drinks, we got home around 3:30 in the morning, and only left the bar because the bartender shut off the lights in our section. Hence #1.

3) I'm developing a dangerous taste for dessert drinks. I'm not talking about port or dessert wine, I'm talking about alcohol that tastes like dessert. I've been drinking a lot of Sam Adams Cherry Wheat, a delicious beer that satisfies my post-meal sweet tooth and my desire for alcohol, and last night I had a shot called "Chocolate Cake" for the first time, and I kid you not when I say it tasted exactly like chocolate cake.

I can not understate the potential destructiveness of this development. My two main vices are sweets and booze (actually, my two main vices are murdering prostitutes and heroin, but for argument's sake, we'll use sweets and booze). To combine them would be dangerous, if not fatal. I barely lived through it when I started adding crumbled up Double Stuff Oreos to my Cookies n' Cream ice cream, nearly sending myself into Oreo overdose. But booze and sweets...I don't even want to think about this anymore. Let's move on.

4) I was supposed to meet my friend Graham for drinks tonight. However, due to my condition, I will not be able to do so. Rather than be honest with him, I emailed him and told him I couldn't meet because "work is crazy". Graham will most likely read this. I am sorry Graham. I am truly undeserving of your friendship, and I am a coward. Please forgive me. I am weak.

5) Three of the biggest scumbags I know are in medical school (of course, I use "scumbag" lovingly - I am a scumbag too and I'm pretty awesome). One example: my buddy Rich, that I've known since I was little. He regularly referred to himself as "The Kid" and would talk ad nauseum about his mental, athletic, musical, and romantic capabilities. For example, we used to play softball at the local park, growing up. Rich played shortstop and I played third. When a routine grounder would be hit to me at third, Rich would dart over from the SS position, call me off, and make the play (and admittedly, would do so well). Then, after making the play, he'd say something like, "You know baby you can go relax if you want - The Kid will cover this whole side of the infield" as I shook my head in confusion. Yet he was one of my closest friends growing up, and once you got to know him he was a great guy. But still a scumbag. And now he's studying to become a doctor. God help his poor patients.

I met another scumbag who's studying to become a doctor, my buddy Jeremy's friend Chris. A bunch of us went out on Saturday night and got shit-canned, and I watched Chris drink a bottle of Bud in about three seconds and then have about ninety more. I think he suddenly disappeared at the end of the night, but I really can't verify that. Congrats on med school Chris, you magnificent son of a bitch.

6) I would love to write more, as I have more to say, but I simply can't. Pray for me.

Burrito Ultimo

I have fallen in love with Baja Fresh. For those not familiar, Baja Fresh is a chain of burrito places. Think Taco Bell with class and on steroids. Giant fucking burritos served in a building that has actually passed a city health inspection without an exchange of oral sex. A novelty here in New Jersey.

This new found romance could not have come at a worse time: though I have written at length about my imaginary battles with my heart, I am convinced that I will have a heart attack any day now (perhaps even before you finish reading this) and the average Baja Fresh burrito has about 1100 calories and 50 grams of fat. Cruel, cruel fate.

Of course, I could lessen the fat content by laying off the cheese, sour cream, etc, but then it wouldn’t be the same. In order to try to make the relationship work without compromising its dignity, I decided to order burritos differently. Before I would say, “I’ll have a Burrito Ultimo with pinto, cheese, sour cream, and a little bit of lettuce” and be extremely satisfied. However, after I’d feel very guilty and have shooting pains in my left arm. Not good.

So I decided to try ordering the burrito by saying, “Hi, I’ll have a Burrito Ultimo with pinto beans. But can I get just a little bit of rice, cheese, and sour cream? Just a little please.” I figure by doing this I could cut at least 80% of the calories and fat of the burrito. I'm not sure if this is exactly right, as I'm not a dietician, but I'm pretty sure it's close.

But there’s a problem: the burritos are made very quickly in assembly line fashion. That is, one person puts on the rice and beans, another adds the meat, another the cheese, etc. So though I’ll ask the person taking my order for my "lite" burrito, I find myself racing down the line asking people to lay off on swathing the whole thing in cheese and sour cream and of course this never works. I have yet to get a completely lite burrito (sometimes I'll wind up with a little bit of rice, but a ton of cheese and sour cream, other times a lot of rice, but hardly any cheese, etc).

The point? It's totally cool, because at least I tried. The biggest part of dieting is effort. When I go to Baja Fresh I give it my all and try to order my smaller burrito. If that doesn't work out because the burrito is made too fast or the people making the burrito don't speak English or because I didn't actually tell them to go easy on any part of the burrito in the first place, I can eat all 1100 calories and savor every last one, knowing that I tried my hardest and that's all that matters.

I love dieting.

Fake Disease

I am a hypochondriac. I've mentioned this numerous times before. At best, it gives my friends yet another thing to make fun of me about; i.e. when I'm hungover and I tell my friend Matt that I'm convinced my brain is hemorrhaging or when I have the runs and I tell my friend Drew that I'm certain I have diphtheria (though diphtheria has nothing to do with pooping, I don't think).

But at worst, it makes me incapable of leading a normal life. One of my oldest hypochondriacal fantasies is that I'm 100% positive that any day now I'm going to have a massive heart attack. Let's look at the facts here: I am not exactly what most doctors would call "in shape". I get winded from even the shortest amount of stairs or even if I'm standing for too long. A good long pee leaves me exhausted. There are times when I masturbate that I seriously contemplate stopping, since my heart feels like it's going to explode, but one thing that I have learned for sure is that my lust is greater than my hypochondria (thank the lord - though I can't imagine ever having sex again with numerous stoppages and Gatorade and/or Bayer aspirin breaks).

And my diet isn't too "healthy" or perhaps even "reasonable". Sure, I'm getting better and substituting the occasional protein bar or protein shake for a meal, but I do this only because the shit actually tastes good (not quite a candy bar and not quite a milkshake, but pretty close). Nearly every meal I eat comes with dessert, and there are occasional double-whammies when I'll have $12 of Taco Bell or a giant chicken parm sandwich followed by a whole pint of whatever Haagen Dazs or Ben & Jerry's pint moves me at the moment (strongly recommended: HD Cookies n' Cream and B&J's Oatmeal Cookie Chunk). On weekends, I'll wake up hungover and have a double sausage egg and cheese bagel and a quart of chocolate milk before retiring back to bed, waiting it out and collecting myself before I can start drinking again (twenty alcoholic drinks including, but not limited to: beer, vodka, gin n tonic, shots, melted plastics, ink, etc).

And so this adds to the hypochondria. It sucks. I'm that dude who has to take his bottle of pills everywhere, a bottle containing two day's worth of: four different kinds of vitamins; two different kinds of prescription heartburn medicine; Ambein, Sonata, Xanax, and this; as well as Claritin, Day-Quil, Aleve, and a ton of Bayer (to prevent heart attacks). Yeah - awesome.

It's weird because in my normal moments, I know that there's nothing wrong with me. I mean, yeah, I'm fat, but I'm also pretty fucking awesome and thus can't be expected to worry about or bothered by lame stuff like "health". But when I'm hungover and miserable, my liver working overtime to dispense itself of the poisons I ingested the night before and my brain sucking on my skull for hydration, there's pretty much no way that you can convince me that I don't have some sort of heart condition or life-threatening illness.

This past week, I developed a new and exciting illness: appendicitis. Some background: for about a week, I've been experiencing this weird feeling in my lower right stomach, across from my hip joint. Not pain per se, but sort of a realization that something is there that wasn't there before. Upon feeling this, I immediately went to webmd, also know as the worst thing to ever happen to hypochondriacs the world over. If you're a hypochondriac and you visit webmd, within six or seven minutes you can self-diagnose yourself with a variety of diseases or afflictions. Stomach pain? Ulcer. Headache? Brian aneurysm. Leg asleep? Deep vein thrombosis. Nervous? Embolism. Seriously, check it out next time you don't feel well and want to make yourself believe that you will die very, very soon.

The good news is that according to webmd, I didn't show any signs of appendicitis. The bad news is that by then I had convinced myself that I had appendicitis and didn't believe webmd. What the hell do they know any way? Internet doctors? All it takes is a domain name and an audience and a person can be anything he/she wants (see: John, Internet Celebrity). Assholes.

And so for the next few days I went about my life as normally as I could (oogling women, over-eating, crying in the shower - the usual), all the while cognizant of my impending appendicitis. However, on my way home from work on Friday I felt especially appendicitis-y. I mentioned this to my friends, who "supported" me in the usual way: "Dude, stop being gay" and "God, you are so weird". Unsatisfied, I called my friend Abby. I figured I needed a woman's opinion on this, and since I went to her wedding, she owed me and could sit and listen to me complain about my imaginary problems.

Abby wasn't as familiar with my hypochondria as my other friends, and when I finished my panic-induced diatribe, she said, "I don't know...maybe you should go to the hospital."

EEEEHHHHH [that's a buzzer sound] - wrong answer, Abby. The correct answer would have been: "Don't be silly, there is nothing from with you. Just watch some of your porno movies and calm down." After hearing this, I almost twisted my ankle running for the Xanax in my bathroom. Abby tried to calm me down, but the damage was done. I was in full-blown panic mode. Crap.

And so I hung up with Abby and did what felt like the right thing to do: called my mom. However, my dad answered the phone and told me my mom was at work. I've written before about my dad - moustache, tattoos, cigarettes, etc - and I didn't want to let on that his only son was having an anxiety attack about a made-up illness. And so I shot the shit for a little while before asking:

Me: "So dad, have you ever gotten your appendix out?"
Dad: [smoking] "Yeah. Oh yeah."
Me: "What did it feel like? I kinda have this weird pain in my side where the appendix is, but it's not too bad or anything."
Dad: [smoking] "I was 27, I think. The pain started at 10 in the morning. At 11:30 at night, your mother found me collapsed in the shower. It was so bad that I couldn't even get up to turn the water off. It felt like being stabbed."

Now, my dad is pretty tough when it comes to pain (I should point out that if anyone knows what it feels like to be stabbed, it's my dad, as he has been stabbed...numerous times...in jail). At the very least, he's much, much tougher than I am. So if the pain was so bad that it caused him to collapse in the shower at 11:30pm, then I would have been dead from a panic-induced heart attack by 2pm of that day.

So that conversation made me feel better. If I had appendicitis, I would surely really, really feel it, and not some slight discomfort (if it even was discomfort at all and not a figment of my imagination). To celebrate, I took a bottle of white wine into the shower and drank it all. I got out, got ready, had a couple of vodka red bulls and Brian and I had a standard Friday night: Brian got thrown out of a bar because he was too drunk, we almost bought drugs from some teenage girl in Alphabet City, we had big plans to meet up with some girls but were too drunk to find them and so drank alone before getting some pizza and going home. The usual, really.

And what followed was a very hungover Saturday. And so since Saturday I've been back on the appendicitis kick. I know what you're probably thinking: "This post is long and boring. Where the fuck is he going with this?" You could also possibly be thinking: "Why doesn't he just go to the doctor?" Well, I can't go to the doctor. My doctor is the coolest guy in the world, who asked me before administering an STD test, "So, do you have any weird shit on your dick or your balls or anything? Anything that just don't look right?" If I went to my doctor to tell him that I'm worried about a fake illness, he might punch me in the face for being such a pussy.

And therapy...forget it. I went to therapy for like five months because I couldn't sleep, and it was the biggest waste of time.

WEEK ONE
Therapist: "So what brings you here?"
Me: "I can't sleep."
Therapist: "Any traumatic events in your life? Accidents, death, divorce?"
Me: "Parents are old."
Therapist: "That's why you can't sleep."

WEEK FOUR
Therapist: "How are you?"
Me: "Last week, I tried to rip my penis off. Almost got it too, but I gave up because I got tired."
Therapist: "That's because your parents are old."

WEEK SEVEN
Therapist: "How are you?"
Me: "I get aroused when I watch shows like 'Cold Case Files' and at funerals. I just think it's hot."
Therapist: "That's because your parents are old."

WEEK ELEVEN:
Therapist: "How are you?"
Me: "I took a handful of pills on Sunday and beat up a woman, two dogs, and a fence."
Therapist: "That's because your parents are old."

WEEK SIXTEEN:
Therapist: "How are you?"
Me: "I burned down some churches and threw a hooker off a bridge. Also, I'm not coming here anymore."
Therapist: "That's because your parents are old. Also, please keep coming. I'm making a killing off you."

So therapy is out.

And so I turn to you, my readers, to save me from myself. If you have ever had appendicitis, your appendix removed, or are a doctor or med student, tell me about your experiences with it. I know this is pathetic and a last ditch effort, but I'm running out of options here. Also, I'm running out of Xanax, which is the only thing that helps me sleep, and I can't think of a good reason to get it refilled and would never buy prescription pills for a drug dealer.

Drop me a line to help calm me down. I should warn you, if you make me panic, I will hunt you down and punch you in the stomach. Hard. Let's keep it clean, let's keep it fair, and everyone will be happy. Otherwise, I'm going to have to start thinking of a good excuse for more anti-anxiety meds (already did flights and a "severe" break-up...maybe I have an audition of some sort? A death? I don't know. God I love drugs.)

Saint Valentine's Day

Few people know (or care) about the story behind Valentine's Day, which is the feast day of a saint in the Catholic church whose name was - you guessed it - Valentine.

Most theological scholars are not entirely certain as to who exactly St. Valentine was, though the consensus is that he was a priest in Rome in the third century under the emperor Claudius II. Now, good old Claudius believed that single men made much better soldiers that those who were married or engaged, so he essentially cancelled all marriages and engagements. St. Valentine continued to marry couples who were engaged and when Claudius found this out, Valentine was killed. However, while in jail awaiting execution, Valentine apparently fell in love with the jailer's daughter, and before he went to die, left her a note signed, "From your Valentine."

Fast forward seventeen hundred years. Valentine's Day is that special day a year when I get to listen to all my friends who are in relationships talk about their romantic plans, like going to the Poconos for the weekend, or going to a B&B in the Hamptons, or, well, I don't know - whatever else is considered "romantic."

Meanwhile, I, though not in a relationship right now, plan to do many romantic things this Valentine's Day. For example, I'll spend the first half of the day online, downloading pornography. That will be followed by an intense masturbatory session. What makes this different from any other Tuesday morning I wake up depressed and with a hangover, download porn, and beat off? Well, in the spirit of the holiday, I will light a candle and play soft music, something like Freddy Jackson's "You Are My Lady" or Al B. Sure's "Night and Day."

Then, I will most likely get high. I mean, SUPER high. This is more because I have to go back home to Queens today and deal with my family, rather than the fact that it's 2/14. I find it easier to deal with most things in life (i.e. family gatherings, christenings, first dates, driver's tests, job interviews, etc.) while under the influence. Just to take the edge off, you know?

And who knows what tonight will hold...

Well, that's a lie. I have a pretty good idea at what tonight will hold: drinking way too much wine, listening to Jeff Buckley and the Cure, and then falling asleep in the bathtub. Nothing too romantic about that.

Thank you St. Valentine.

Bad Porn, Bad.

Kira Kener is a porn star, and she is AWESOME.

I am convinced that God put Kira Kener on this earth to torture me. I know it, He knows it, and she probably knows it. Sort of like, "Hey John - check this out. Guess what? You will never, ever, ever be able to have her. You fat bastard." She is my favorite porn star and has been for a long time. I would like to say that she is my muse, as many times when I write (which is quite often actually), I'll watch some of her work in an effort to get inspired. Instead, I'll forget the writing altogether, masturbate, and wind up needing to take a long nap to recuperate. So she's not my muse, but I would certainly tell her that if she let me smell her hair, which I'm sure smells like a mix of roses, potpourri, and old semen (translation: delightful).

Last night, I was watching a newly-downloaded clip of hers, and by the end I was so thoroughly disturbed that I abandoned the whole "playing with myself" thing altogether. In the porno, she was making love to a man - a simple man-woman scene. As the sex was gaining momentum, building toward a climax, the dude pulled out to spooge on Kira's face - standard for a porn scene. But then, after he was done spooging, he laid down next to Kira and (god - it's even hard to type this it's so gross) proceeded to lick his own semen off her face.

Well.

Upon seeing this, I made a noise similar to a sound one would make after being punched in the throat. My expression, once lusty, turned to a mix of confused horror, as I rocked backward on my chair, rolling away from the computer that I was watching the clip on, trying to distance myself from the horrible horrible horribleness. I let out a few audible "Oh God"s as I got up from the chair and raced into the bathroom, where I hid until the scene was over (which was thankfully not long).

I mean, eating your own semen? WTF? Don't get me wrong, I'm pretty freaky - I once got busy in a Burger King bathroom - but never have I thought after sex or masturbating, "You know what? I wonder what my jizz tastes like. I bet it's onion rings." Good LORD.

I still love Kira, and I always will, so that's not the issue. The issue is that I'm going to seriously reconsider my porn downloading tactics, which heretofore have been "download everything". I haven't had this sort of existential/porn-downloading crisis since early fall, when I downloaded a clip that was just a little too grainy and the girl looking a little too young for me to feel comfortable about having it on my computer. Of course, after a few beers I grew comfortable, but it still wasn't finest moment.

Thus, this scene is now the #2 worst scene I've ever seen in a porno.

[And of course I'll give you numbers one and three]

#3: I don't remember the name of the porno, but it was set on a farm. A dude was starting to get it on with a woman in pigtails and a tied-off flannel shirt who was very attractive. As he was kissing her boobs however, something went horribly awry: she started shooting milk out of her nipples. Like all over his face. And the dude was all into it as milk was pouring out of her nipples. NOT sexy. Not sexy at all. Fortunately, I was able to regroup and get the job done, but that's only because I saw this when I was maybe 16, at my sexual prime. Had I seen this now at 30, I wouldn't have been able to look at a bare booby again for at least a week. I mean, damn.

#1. Though the scene with Kira was bad, nothing tops this. The movie was called "The Zone", a Vivid Picture starring, among others, Dyanna Lauren, Kobe Tai, and Peter North. I tell you it's Vivid and give you the names of the stars to prove that this wasn't some weird underground fetish porn; it was a major studio with mainstream stars, which makes what happened even more inexplicable.

"The Zone" itself was some sort of sex club where people went to find like-minded individuals to get it on with. When any scenes would occur in The Zone, there'd be a lot of cut to's, meaning one couple would be having sex, then they cut to another couple having sex, then back to the first couple, then back to the second, etc.

This particular scene was exactly like that. The first couple was a man and a woman, the chick giving the dude a beejer. Then it cuts to another scene, where a woman is standing, apparently getting oral. It only shows you her face in rapture, and she's kinda busted. The camera pans slowly down, and as you get to her exposed boobs you figure that for sure someone is going down on this chick (sorry for the graphic content, but stay with me here).

So all this is standard porn, nothing special. The camera continues panning down, past the chick's boobs, and the head of a woman comes into view from the bottom of the screen, so I figure it's a girl-on-girl scene. Yet it's weird, because the girl giving the oral seems to be bobbing her head, something usually doesn't happen when the person getting the oral is a woman, but I think nothing of this, as I'm beating my penis like it owes me money. The camera continues to scroll down the body of the woman further and reveals more of what the woman giving is doing and HOLY SHIT THE CHICK HAS A DICK!

No. Words.

...

...

...

Ok, I don't even know if I can go on here, but as you can guess, this was not appealing to me. Not that there's anything wrong with she-males or anything (some of my best friends are she-males), but that wasn't exactly what I was looking for at that moment.

The best part is that I then loaned my buddy Kyle the porn, "coincidentally" forgetting to mention the scene with the she-male. About two weeks later I got a frantic call from Kyle, "DUDE - what the FUCK was that scene about with the chick who had a dick? I mean, what the fuck?" So I guess it worked out for everyone in the end. And no, I'm not going to explain why or how, but I needed a way to end this because over 1200 words on porn is a little bad (even for me) and "So I guess it worked out for everyone" sounded pretty good at the time.

And yes ladies, I AM single.

More Things About Me (Or How I Think I'm Going To Die From A Drug Overdose On A Flight To New Mexico)

So this is what it's like to have a real job and a real life. For the past two days, work has simply been NON-STOP. And I don't mean "non-stop" like I can only talk to my friend Jeremy on the phone about where we can buy more drugs for 20 minutes instead of 45 minutes every day; I mean "non-stop" like I can't do shit (literally - my half-hour mid-morning and mid-afternoon pooping sessions have turned into sad four or five minute affairs that leave me feeling less than fresh all day because I don't have the time to properly clean the vast expanse that is my ass). No long poops, no long lunches, no long distance personal phone calls, no internet time, and no posting. Damn.

And I know you all could care less - you wouldn't care if my balls were being attacked by hundreds of angry mutant mice as long as you got your daily masturbation/racist/fat jokes. But damn...I'm telling you, this whole "working" thing sucks.

[FYI: Usually when I write posts, I can bang them out in one sitting in about 20 minutes or so. I'm writing this particular one almost sentence by sentence as I get time during the day, so I apologize if it stinks. And if you think it stinks, then I think you stink. So try that one on for size, bitch.]

I'm planning a trip out west, and I've considered driving as opposed to flying. I am about 95% sure that I'm going to die either on the flight to or from New Mexico or while I'm in New Mexico, so I'm trying to minimize my chances by driving. I don't know why I feel this way exactly, but I'm pretty sure it's going to happen. Admittedly, I am a hypochondriac and suffer from sudden bursts of anxiety, but I guess this is what happens when you let yourself go physically, haven't been touched non-accidentally by a woman this millennium, and list your three favorite hobbies as drinking beer, watching people have sex, and planning a race war.

The good news is that I have in my possession thirty pills of Xanax, so I will be VERY medicated if I do fly. But I have and have always had this feeling that God, who I have been feuding on and off with since the 1960's, is really going to fuck me over in the end (at death). My friends and I have a running joke about this. For example, say one day I wake up and I say to myself, "You know what? I can't do this anymore. I'm sick of killing myself with booze and pills and all this terrible food. From this day forward, I'm going to change." (I know, it's a stretch, but bear with me).

So I spend the next year being clean and sober, working out and eating right, and I lose weight and my health improves. For fear of dying, I stick with this for years and years - doing right by my body, but completely depriving myself of all the goodness and fun that weed, napping, and chicken fingers bring. Then, one day when I'm in my early 40's, I go to the doctor and he says, "Well, you're in great shape - your blood pressure and cholesterol is low, your heart looks great, but there's just one problem: you have an extremely aggressive form of cancer that's going to kill you in three weeks. So I suggest you forget the weight room and hit the Roy Rogers on your way home, because you have a lot of catching up to do."

I can see this type of thing happening on a plane: suddenly, we hit turbulence. Then, even more suddenly, the plane's going down. The oxygen masks drop down, everyone's going nuts, people are masturbating, etc. I think to myself, "Oh, fuck this" and take 26 pills of Xanax. Then, as suddenly as it started, the insane turbulence stops and the plane rights itself. The captain comes over the PA and apologizes, but assures us that everything will be alright from here on out. Meanwhile, I have a belly full of drugs and we're still four hours away from landing. And so I die of a drug overdose because I'm an asshole and God hates me. End scene.

With this in mind, it occurs to me that if I die during this upcoming trip, the best record of my existence will be this website: 400 pages of tasteless humor and curse words. Good god. Sure, there's a chance that after my death my career will take off, and other people will read this website and other people, besides me and the hooker I pay to repeat it while I masturbate, will call me a genius, but that's highly unlikely.

So in an effort to give you something more to remember me by other than the time I shit myself or some responses I wrote to a magazine's sex tips, I offer the following nuggets o' information about me (and somewhat of an inpromptu continuation of my "10 Things" post):

- I love animals. Not mean or big ones, but little ones, like dogs. As long as the dog has been neutered.

- No matter what I said when I was drunk or on a nationally-syndicated radio show, I firmly believe that Jeffrey Dahmer (and all homosexual serial killers) was wrong. This is non-negotiable. He was an asshole. Not a complete asshole, but definitely more asshole than not. Maybe like 60% asshole/40% not asshole. Ok, 52/48.

- I love music. My dream was to one day build a school so that all retarded kids could come and fuck with some instruments to know the joy that music brings (to the extent that it's possible for a retard to really "know" anything).

- I love children. All my life, I have wanted a big family. nd this is not because I wanted soldiers for the aforementioned race war or people to do shit around the house for me, but it's because I have so much love to give. Also, I don't believe in birth control and my aim is true.

- No matter what I said otherwise, drugs are bad for you. Very, very bad. Mostly because they're expensive. And that's bad.

- I love watching movies at home. More than I have ever let on, this is a major point of my life. And yes, I realize that I'm only digging the celibacy hole deeper, but I don't care anymore.

- For the record, I have never hit a woman with a cordless phone. I'll repeat: I have never hit a woman with a cordless phone. Don't believe everything you read, especially in filed court complaints or the "Crime Blotter" of the New York Daily News.

- I love taking really long showers. Nothing sexual, just a naked man, hot running water, and lots of hair all over the tub.

And, um...that's really about all you need to know. Celebrate these. And cherish them. And wish me luck in trying to figure out wether I'm flying or driving. My life is at stake here people...

Love, Fate And Sanity: A Novella

It was the fall of 1997 - most likely October or November, but I can't say for sure. I was a 21 year-old, in the military and in school. I had just come out of a relationship, so I had assumed my alter-ego of John: God of Beer and Fuck. Ok, so maybe that's an exaggeration, but I have a history of becoming an absolute masher (masher: one who gets women) immediately after I get out of a relationship. It's strange really, and I don't know how to explain it, and as quickly as it starts, it stops. But for some reason, for about four to six weeks after I get dumped or dump someone, I am on fire.

On this particular night, a weekend night, I attend a party in Tampa, FL at the apartment of my high school buddy Matt, who was going to USF. My friends and I were told to enter the party from the back entrance, but we noticed a line there. Standing in line in front of us are a bunch of USF kids, freshmen, among them a few cute girls. I have my eye on one in particular. She's medium height and thin, with dark hair and blue eyes (I've always been a sucker for dark hair and light eyes). She's got kind of a hipster look to her, something that stands out at a USF party. But her hipster look isn't extreme to the point of being annoying or forced and seems to come naturally to her. She is something. I think to myself, "Oh yes, she will be mine." And then I think to myself, "I don't think I remembered to put on deodorant. Fuck."

My friends and I stand in line for a bit, making chit-chat with the USF kids in front of us, before I realize the ridiculousness of the situation - I don't have to stand in line, because not only am I cool, but I also know the guys having the party. And so I take my friends and the USF kids (including the girl I think is cute) with me to the front of the line, pull rank, and get in the party no problem.

Now normally, had I not been in my J:GOBAF alter-ego, I would have followed the cute girl around the party, harassing her with dumb jokes and reminding her that I got her in the party and so she should let me rub her all over, until the climax comes at the end of the night when I get thrown out of the party for crying and masturbating in front of her. But on this night I am J:GOBAF, so I sit back, plan, and wait. Because I'm in the alter-ego and on a tear, I know I can get this girl. A freshman? C'mon - it's almost too easy. Even though she was way too cute for me, I was brimming with confidence. When I'm in the zone, it's kinda like what Michael Jordan used to say when he was in the zone: the basket looks as wide as the ocean, and all he has to do is throw the ball up and it will go in. That's kinda like how I feel, except I stink at basketball. And too bad this "zone" only happens to me after a tremendous heartbreak and I'm only able to get to this place because of booze-fueled vengeance, but really, that's not important.

My friends and I take our typical party positions: standing around the keg, making fun of other people and each other, saying "That's gay, dude" and "Shut up jerkoff" a lot. The party is going well. There are some people I know there and the beer is free-flowing. Also, my friends and I had our usual pre-party drinks, so we're all feeling pretty good. Some time passes, and my USF girl comes over to the keg, where I'm standing, all by herself.

This, believe it or not, is a sign, and a good sign. Rarely do people, especially freshmen girls, go up to kegs alone (trust me - anyone who's been at his/her share of keg parties can back me up on this). When I see her approaching, I make sure to shift in my circle of friends so that I'm closest to the keg. She reaches the keg, and there I am. I don't remember what I said to break the ice, but we start talking. Initial contact has been made, and it is good.

So we continue talking. Again, if I were not on fire, I would have spent the time talking with her about how I'm in the military and I'm a pretty awesome DJ too. In addition to being gifted musically, I might also mention that I got a scholarship to school in Alabama and that I'm going to Saudi Arabia in a few months. Depending on how drunk I got, I might also say that though my penis is average, it is just and true. And after all, it's not the size that matters, it's whether or not you'll stop when she says "no".

But I'm in the zone, and so I actually listen to her when she talks. Her name is Whitney. She is from Eugene, Oregon and her parents are hippies. She loves USF and Tampa and is studying art. She's not sure what she wants to do with her life, but she likes where she's at and is taking it one day at a time.

I am very impressed with her poise and wisdom and the more we talk, the more I become completely enthralled. The topic turns to music, and I ask her who her favorite artists are. She says, "You know who I'm a big fan of but a lot of people don't appreciate how good he is? Elvis Costello."

Well.

Well, well, well.

Elvis Costello was and is one of my favorite artists ever. I think he's a genius. I think he's not nearly as appreciated as he should be. And I think I love Whitney.

At this point, I'm floored. I look back at her with a startled expression, and say, "Seriously, which one of my friends told you to say that?" And I mean this. I know Elvis Costello isn't some random underground musician, but there was a certain degree of randomness here, enough to question whether this whole thing was a joke. She giggles and says, "Um, no one told me to say that" and in turn I explain my love of Elvis Costello. In doing so, I'm calculating how much I need to borrow from my family to buy her a ring within the next five business days.

We go further and I ask, "So what's your favorite song of his?" Her answer: "I would have to say 'I Want You'. Something about it is so intense, haunting...so vitriolic."

Good. Lord.

Just when I think it can't get any better, she goes and NAILS it. Just nails it. Let's check The Guide To John handbook, page 92, Section 3: "How To Impress The Fat Bastard":

Properly use the word "vitriolic". Bonus points if you do so in relation to music, specifically his favorite song.

If I was startled before, now I'm speechless. Literally speechless. I remember looking back at her and not saying anything for a full four seconds. Four seconds doesn't seem like a lot of time, but at a party during a semi-drunk conversation, it's an eternity. I took so long to respond because I didn't know what else to say besides, "I want you to come live with me and I promise everything will be ok for the rest of your life. We don't even have to have sex - ever. I just want to follow you around and stare at you." What I finally came up with was something like, "Wow." "Wow" was the best I could do. Smooth dude. What happened to John: God of Beer and Fuck? Asshole.

After another two or three seconds of stunned silence, I talk about how I too love that song and then, fearing that if things got any better I would explode, right there, all over the crowded apartment and the cheap furniture, I blurt out, "Listen Whitney, I've never done this before so I don't know if this is how you're supposed to do it, but would you like to go out with me sometime for a drink or food or something or whatever?"

I felt great, as if I had gotten a burden off my shoulders, but her expression betrayed her and she didn't even need to answer because I could see that she was going to say no. Still, she spoke and said, "Well, I would love to, but I can't - I have a boyfriend at home." Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

Here's where things get fuzzy, because I essentially started snorting beer in an effort to get drunk quicker. I remember being magnanimous in my defeat, saying that stuff like "That's cool" and "No big deal". Shortly after this one of her girlfriends came up and said that they (her crew) were leaving. Whitney went and had a little conference with the girl, and then came back and said that she could only stay for a few more minutes because her friends were going back to USF. I don't remember what we talked about, but I remember a semi-awkward hug goodbye. Nor do I remember how the night ended (see: snorting beer remark), but I assume it ended like many of those nights did: with me getting extremely hot pizza, biting it and burning my mouth, dropping the pizza on the ground, and then crying and starting a fight with a tree.

I never heard from nor saw Whitney again, but I never forgot her. Though I will at any time make out with anything or anyone, I rarely actually like women (wow - just when I thought I couldn't make myself more undatable...). Most times, I'll hook up with a girl for a while and then think, "Eh" and just sort of slowly end things. And I rarely get crushes. The genesis of the majority of my relationships has always been "I'm drunk, you're drunk - let's make out" and that sort of ennui always manages to carry over to the relationship and ultimately results in its demise. But with Whitney, for the first time, there was a spark - a glimmer of something beyond the ordinary college-age sexual or "romantic" interaction. But the lesson, as always, is that I lose. Every time.

Fast forward to the present day...

About a month ago, my friend Rob and my friend Mike (both from NYC) went to Tampa for the weekend. I forget why, and I don't really care. They probably told me, but I was most likely thinking about ketchup.

The point is on the plane from Tampa to NYC, they meet a girl. They struck up a conversation with her, and she lives in NYC, where she works at an art gallery or something. Mike got her number and they planned on hanging out. However, it wasn't a romantic deal, because she had a boyfriend, who was the purpose of her visit to Tampa (meaning he lives there).

I paid no attention to this at all. After all, why should I? I heard that the girl lived in Williamsburg and that she and Mike (who works in the music industry) talked about music, which meant one thing: she was a hipster. And I don't do well with hipster girls. They are way too intimidating for my tastes. I don't even know how to approach them: "So you're hot, your hair is a weird color, and you like all these bands I've never heard of. I like smoking weed and drinking Bud drafts in pubs. So do you want me to touch you or not?"

And so I carried on, doing whatever the hell it is I do on a day-to-day basis. A few days later, Rob and I were having dinner with a bunch of our friends. When asked about his weekend, Rob told the story about meeting the girl on the plane back from Tampa. He mentioned a tid-bit at lunch that he didn't mention to me before: the girl's name was Whitney.

Immediately, I thought about my Whitney, who also happened to be a cute, hipster girl. And Whitney isn't exactly a common name; maybe it was the same girl? And so the conversation went:

Me: "Wait - her name was Whitney?"
Rob: "Yeah."
Me: "What did she look like?"
Rob: "I don't know - cute. Small. Not too small."
Me: [growing excited] "Did she have dark hair and blue eyes?"
Rob: "She had dark hair, but I don't know if her eyes were blue. They weren't brown though. Blue or green or something. Why?"
Me: [growing even more excited] "Do you know where she went to school? Did she go to USF?"
Rob: "Yeah - how did you know that?"
Me: [sitting on the edge of my seat shaking, other people getting concerned] "Do you know where she's from?"
Rob: "Yeah, she's from - "
Me: [interrupting] "Don't say it! At the count of three, I want you to say it. I think I know this girl, and I know where she's from. To prove this, I am going to count to three, and at three, you and I will both say where she's from at the same time. Ok?"
Rob: [completely freaked out] "Um, ok."
Me: [sweating, vibrating] "Ok. One-two-three -"
Rob: [simultaneously] "Oregon."
Me: [simultaneously] "Eugene, Oregon."
Rob: "What the fuck is going on?"

Whitney. My Whitney (well, someone else's Whitney, but you get it).

I then told everyone at the table the story about Whitney and I and they were amazed. Not amazed in the "Wow - that's crazy!" way, but in the "Wow - you're crazy! You should probably talk to someone!" way.

Meanwhile, my head was spinning. By a strange twist of fate, Whitney, the only girl I had ever felt that spark for, that spark that you hear about in the movies, was back in my life. It was fate. And you don't fuck with fate.

As soon as I composed myself, I ran back home to call Mike. I relayed the story to him, and he was amazed in the same way my friends and Rob were (saying something like, "Dude, you are fucked up"). He promised that he would call her about hanging out the weekend and that we'd all hang out. I would be able to see if it was fate that had interceded on my behalf or just the craziest coincidence of my life.

...

That was about four weeks ago and we have yet to hang out with Whitney. There was a series of voicemails between Mike and Whitney but nothing came of them. My hopes were tempered, but they still remained. That is, until this weekend, when through a series of strange events that are too boring to describe Mike lost his phone and, more importantly to me, Whitney's number. Gone. Fuck.

So now the current situation stands that unless Whitney calls Mike, I will not get a chance to embarrass myself in front of her by having too much to drink, pretending to act cool, and then blurting out, "Um, yeah, I met you at a party almost nine years ago and have thought about you since. Will you marry me? If it helps, I am famous on the internet."

So I will wait, most likely in vain, to see if fate brings her back into my life. Sure, I know the odds are against me, but the truth is that I have very little else going on, so I don't have a problem investing a lot of thought and emotion in something like this.

And yes, I know I'm completely insane. At the very least, if I ever form a band, I have a great band name: Someone Else's Whitney. So all is not completely lost. Most is lost (sanity, pride, my sense of reality), but not all.

El Grande Stinko

Major fucking dilemma: my office smells like puke. It may sound like I'm going for a cheap laugh by writing that (it doesn't get any cheaper than using the word "puke"), but my office really does smell like someone vomited somewhere and then did a half-ass job of trying to clean it up. When I opened my door this morning, it was like getting hit in the face with an old sock, so much so that I let out an audible "Ech" in the otherwise silent office area, prompting our group secretary to say, "Is something wrong, John?"

I did some searching and it doesn't appear that there's any sort of visible vomit stain. As a veteran of secretly throwing up, I checked all the spots I might puke if I had to do so in my office - under my desk, on the other side of my desk, in one of my drawers, all over my balls because I couldn't move anywhere fast enough - but nothing.

However, it still reeks really fucking bad. My manager came into my office this morning and immediately made a face of disgust - a face not like one would make if they caught their parents making love, but maybe a face they'd make if they caught their weird hipster cousin giving her tattooed/pierced boyfriend a handjob in the yard after Thanksgiving dinner (and no, this didn't happen to me).

Sensing my manager passing judgment on me ("Damn, not only does he suck as a worker but he also has body odor"), we had this exchange:

Me: "Do you smell that?"
Manager: "Yeah, it stinks."
Me: "I don't know what it is. It's not me."
Manager: [believing it is me, trying to diffuse the situation] "It's not a big deal."
Me: [getting defensive] "No, no really - it's not me. When I came in this morning, it smelled like this."
Manager: [having no interest in arguing with a smelly person] "Really, it's not a big deal."
Me: [more defensive, hyper] "Oh, I know it's not a big deal. I'm just surprised my office smells like this, because this isn't coming from me."
Manager: [uncomfortable, silence for two seconds] "So can you swing by my office when you get a chance?"

So my manager thinks I smell like throw-up. Great.

About an hour after this encounter, we had our weekly update meeting. I love the meetings, because I feel so important: sitting around the conference room in the big comfy chair, speaking loudly into the speaker phone, all the while scribbling things down and drinking water, looking serious, smart, important. Sure, I may actually be thinking about how getting high in my bathtub is pretty awesome, but whatever.

This meeting was different though because a short time after plopping down in the comfy chair, I noticed that I now stunk like my office. Whatever the source of this stink, it had now transferred itself to me. So the whole time I sat through the thirty-minute meeting, I was sweating (more than usual) and worried that someone would say, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but does anyone smell that? It smells like someone drank a quart of semen and an onion and then threw it back up." Fortunately, no one said anything.

But the whole experience made me VERY self-conscious. Was it really me that smelled like stale puke? I checked my breath and it seemed fine, but I brushed my teeth anyway. I smelled my pits and they seemed ok, but I still put on more deodorant, so that now I have a nice half-inch thick layer of goo covering my armpit. My only guess was that it could be my pants, because I just got them dry-cleaned. I tried smelling them, but I could only smell my balls, which give off a fainter but equally offensive smell: ham and eggs left on an asphalt street for three days in the July heat.

I had my office door open, but decided instead to close it, lest people walking by pick up the stink. Running out of options, I made a decision: I would get something pungent for lunch, hoping that the smell of the lunch would essentially cancel out the smell the of stale vomit. Not knowing what else to get, I decided to go with tuna.

Terrible, terrible decision.

It didn't work at all, and instead added another awful smell to the mix. As it stands right now, I'm sitting in my office which smells like puke and tuna. Also, because I've had the door closed in order to keep these smells to myself, not only has the smell started to cling to me, it is also hot in my office. And I just got an email from my head boss to my manager and I saying that we should meet in my office at 3pm for a short discussion. I am fucked and there is nothing I can do.

So that's my day. How is yours going?

Funeral Guests

I was thinking the other day...

Before I die, I think it would be funny to send some random celebrity a chunk of money and ask them to just make an appearance at my funeral...just to fuck with people. At my funeral, you would hear things like, "Is that John Stamos?! John knew John Stamos? How the hell did he know John Stamos?!"

So it invoked the question, if you could send $5000 to any celebrity and have them make a tearful appearance at your funeral, who would it be?

Initially I thought it would be cool to have a supermodel at mine, but then I thought that I wanted Manute Bol to stop by and pay his respects. But something about John Stamos stuck in my head. So I had to put more thought into this. I mean really, I'd be doing this for everyone else's benefit, as my "last laugh", so it'd have to be good.

But after much pondernig (involving lots of pot, Cheez Whiz, and some crackers) I think I'd have to take this in a different direction. Instead of getting someone as "big" as Stamos, who would probably cost a good deal of money, I'd rather go after a C-list celebrity, or if possibly, two D-list celebrities.

With this line of thinking, I thought about this long and hard this morning, and wrote down some ideas (as opposed to my normal routine: thinking up a great idea somewhere during my morning coffee, obsessing over it, and then completely forgetting it when I get into work and try to write it down).

So my celebrity would be Thomas Dolby, the guy who sang "She Blinded Me With Science." Something about that song is so hypnotizing, and Dolby is so, so erotically-charged that I'd have to have him at my funeral. I can see it now:

My friend Ben: "Who the hell is that guy?"
My friend Jeremy: "I think that's Thomas Dolby."
Ben: "Who?"
Jeremy: "You know, the guy who sang that song 'She Blinded Me With Science.'"
Ben: "Really? That's him? What the hell is he doing here?"
Jeremy: "I don't know - maybe him and John went to college together or something."
Ben: "I don't think that's possible."
Jeremy: "Do you know if there's an open bar after this?"
Ben: "God I hope so."
Jeremy: "Jesus, I can't believe he's finally dead. I can't say I didn't see this coming, but what was he doing sticking his dick in an electrical outlet anyway?"
Ben: "Dude, don't knock it 'til you've tried it, because it feels pretty fucking good."

I think Dolby would come pretty cheap, so with the leftover money, I'd love to get any one of the following to make an appearance:

- The one-armed drummer from Def Leppard
- Buddy from "Charles In Charge"
- R2D2
- Andrew Ridgely (the other guy from Wham!)
- One of the crappy Baldwins (preferably Daniel)
- Vicki, the robot from "Small Wonder"
- DJ Jazzy Jeff
- 1988 Nobel Prize Winner Maurice Allais (Economics)
- The lead singer of the Fine Young Cannibals
- Crappy quarterback Vinny Testaverde
- Any major star's brother ("Is that Eric Clapton's brother?")
- Chris de Burgh, the guy who sang "Lady In Red"
- All three members of Bell Biv Devoe
- One of the Jackson 5 (Steve?)
- One of the New Kids on the Block (Danny?)
- One of the Pointer Sisters
- Cousin Larry from Perfect Strangers

I'll stop here, otherwise I'll have my entire funeral packed with celebrities.

I should probably start saving up for this, as I think my untimely death is coming soon, but I can't say for sure. I'm not really good with that whole "making promises and keeping them" thing. It's just how I was raised.