I Drink Too Much Sometimes

What a glorious bender, boozing Wednesday through Saturday night. I thought that I was getting too old to drink that much, but then someone goes and puts it in front of me, and well, you know how it ends: on the floor of a gas station bathroom in rural Pennsylvania, so drunk and hungry that you would kill your little sister with your bare hands for $3 to get that “two hot dogs and a bag of Doritos” special.

God I fucking love Doritos. And isn’t “Dorito” a really cool name? Like, for a dog, or a really fat Mexican guy?

Anyway, Saturday night was wonderful. My friend Kevin had a birthday dinner at some restaurant ni NYC, which had a phenomenal special - $55 gets you a bunch of appetizers, and entree, and all the booze you can drink from 7-10pm.

Naturally, we abused this special, tearing through pitchers, and ordering double vodka tonics in pint glasses (is there anything better than ordering a double vodka tonic in a pint glass? Well, anything better that’s legal and moral? Obviously, vandalism, arson and hitting your enemies with a car that you’ve stolen from your Uncle Billy’s housewarming party are better, but unfortunately, I know all too well they are illegal. Especially that last one. Trust me.)

At about 9pm, panic mode set in, because there was only one hour left to abuse our bodies with liquor. So we ordered a round of shots, and shortly fifteen SoCo & Lime shots were delivered. Ten minutes later, we did this again. Ten minutes after that, again. This went on until 10pm came ’round.

The horrible beauty of doing shots is the delayed reaction. Immediately after taking the shot, you might feel a little queasy, but the full effect hasn’t really hit you yet. That doesn’t happen until you try to get off the barstool to take a piss, and you fall down and break your wrist because your skimpy girlish wrist isn’t strong enough to break your fall and can’t stop 200+ pounds of drunken maniac and fury falling to the ground. Not that I’ve ever done that.

And the delayed reaction was no different this time around for me. I wound up doing ten shots in an hour (in addition to the other booze I’d been pounding for three hours), because people got too drunk to do their shots and kept passing them to me. I should mention that I wasn’t nearly the biggest boozehound at the table - my friend Nicole, instead of continuing to pass the shots down the table when the waitress dropped them off, would drink them up as they reached her, at one point doing six in a row. Sure, it’s only SoCo & Lime, but six shots in a row for a girl, well - it’s a shame she has a boyfriend, and she is NOT racist, because otherwise we’d be a perfect couple.

[An aside: turns out those shots we were doing we NOT included in the all you can drink special. When the waiter came over with the egregiously high bill, it lead to this exchange:

Me: “I thought shots were included in this.”
Waiter: [motioning to my friend Lara, who set up the party and was the mouthpiece through which we ordered the drinks] “No, I told that girl over there that the first round was on me.”
Me: [going over to Lara, hoping the waiter is lying] “Lara, what did the waiter say to you about the shots?”
Lara: “Oh - he said that the first one was on him.”

Information that would have been useful before ordering $200 of SoCo & Lime. Thanks again Lara.]

We left that bar and went to Blue & Gold in the East Village, which should really just change its name now to “Home of the Bathroom that John Died In”, because $3 everything and I really don’t mix too well. More drinking continued, and then, while I was sitting talking with some friends, it hit me: that “Dude, I’m a REALLY fucked up right now” flash. I completely shut down. I stopped talking, and couldn’t keep my eyes open (drinking until 7:30am on Friday night probably had something to do with this too). I pulled out my cell and said, “I’m going to make a call” and took off for home.

Sadly, I missed out on something that surely would have changed my life. My friend Terry’s “girlfriend” and her friend (a girl) showed up at the bar after I left and starting making out all over the place. My friend Kevin described it thusly: “I’ve never been into girls making out or whatever, but John, it was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. They were all touching up on one another and rubbing each other’s hair - it was love, pure and simple. And I could not stop staring.”

Just my luck. But hey, good for Terry. I am sure he took his girl home and tried to murder her with his penis.

Some day perhaps I will be so lucky.

But probably not.

Unless “lucky” means hungover.

Ok.

More Dealbreakers...From You

I am so fucking proud of you all. I wasn't expecting any responses from my "Dealbreaker" post, but some of your responses have been terrific - nay, brilliant. Here are some of them:

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A deal breaker for me is when a chick refuses to drink beer and will only drink super fruity drinks. It’s always great when you are going to buy a round and you ask for 6 miller lites and a Sex on the Beach. It costs as much as the 6 beers, hard as hell to carry with the rest of the round, and you know that type of girl is just going to go home and puke it up anyway. Not good times. I also hate chicks who are obsessed with dolphins and pandas.

This email really hit the nail on the head. Nothing worse than walking through the bar with your six bottles and some mysterious fruit juice-based drink. Although, speaking from personal experience, I think that they are some girls that I would be more than happy to buy the fruity drinks for. I used to hang out a lot with this girl who drank Captain Morgan & pineapple juice, but she was so incredibly hot that she could have asked me for a pint of the bartender’s blood and I would have obliged [when my friend Mike first met her, she was over at my place, and when she went into the kitchen, he mouthed to me the words “What is she doing here?!?”].

Whenever I need to order a fruity drink, I playfully tell the bartender (if she’s attractive) “It’s not for me” hoping to get a conversation going. This never works. Ever. Probably because she’s knows I’m desperate and lonely and going to give her a gigantic tip whether she talks to me or not.

I would also like to add a dealbreaker along the lines of those above: girls who are really into that “Hello Kitty” shit. I mean, what the fuck is that all about?

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Another guy offered two incredible dealbreaker stories. The first:

This year I was sort of seeing this girl who was borderline average. So we’re hooking up and she says: “I want to have sex with you but I have a rule that I will only have sex with three people in my life and I’ve already had sex with one.” Anyway, I guess I was in the running for the number 2 spot and that completely freaked me out and particularly so because she actually said in a faux sexy voice in my ear: “I want you to be number 2″. First, never refer to me as “number 2″. Second, gross. Long story short, we ended up watching a repeat of college gameday before I passed out.

Wow. That’s freaky, but I think that for me their are only two things a girl could say in that situation that would prevent from sleeping with her: 1) “I have, like, eight STD’s” or 2) “I really want you to give me a baby.”

His other story:

In high school I took this hot Indian girl my friend set me up with to our homecoming dance. Anyway, at the time I had an obscene quest to “Do the rainbow” - I don’t know if you’re familiar with this, but it requires at least some form of sex with every ethnicity. Anyway, I’m driving this girl home and she’s telling me what a great dancer I am and how awesome my dad’s Buick Century is, blah, blah. We get to her neighborhood and I say “Where do you live.. in the projects?” She then says “Sort of.” What? Turns out she lived in one of those no-tell motels in the absolute middle of one of the worst housing projects in the midwest. It was the first time I ever walked a girl to her front door after a date and was not petrified about the impending good night kiss. Now I’m a Democrat and no one hates rich people more than me, but a girl living in a projects motel was just too much for me to handle way back in 1996. We never spoke again even though I was a desperate virgin and she was actually really hot. Today, I would go to the projects of Tikrit if it meant I could have sex with a hot, 17-year-old Indian girl.

Again, no words. None. I would like to say a big thank you for giving me one of the best terms ever: “Do the Rainbow.” So ladies, if you are not white and interested in helping a down on his luck guy out in this, please email. We can construe “sex act” to include “making out”, lest you catch anything that won’t go away (if you catch my drift).

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Many offered particular dealbreakers. For example, one girl wrote that she “can’t date guys who are shorter or weight less than [her]” and she finds it a turn-off if a guy can’t drive stick.

Another girl listed “long, black leather jackets” on guys as a dealbreaker. Another said: “I can’t date a guy who drinks cosmos. There is nothing more feminine to 1) hold, 2) order, or 3) drink.” I don’t blame her - cosmos? Come on now.

Others listed, “people who aren’t into foreign food”, “facial piercings”, and “stupid tattoos on girls” (he added, “only sketchy guys should have really bad tattoos all over the place” - true, very true).

Dealbreaker

What is a dealbreaker? It’s hard to define. Dealbreakers are not limited to sexual or romantic relationships; they can be in friendships as well.

There are only a few things that will automatically disqualify anyone from being my friend. For example, I can’t be friends with any guy who says “I don’t really like food or music.” Liking one but not the other is fine, but both is a no-no. I mean, what the hell do you do with your time? Food and music are probably 80% of my day (the other 20% is pretending to do work). What are we supposed to talk about?

Another example is that I can not be friends with any guy who goes to the tanning salon all year long. I can see maybe going before you head on vacation, but all year round is a no good. I can’t be friends with anyone, male or female, who thinks Matchbox 20 “rocks” or “kicks ass.” I don’t think I need to explain why.

And now I have another dealbreaker: people who wear colored contact lenses. And I’m not talking about weird people who were yellow or black (although they are disqualified too), but people who for whatever reason decide that changing their eye color is a good idea.

My friend just got these, and now she has blue eyes. She’s Asian. And now she has fake blue eyes.

I have so many questions about this, I don’t even know where to begin. Are you hoping people won’t notice? Or do you hope they do notice and they say something like, “Oh, hey - nice eyes.” Is it a forever thing? Or are you going to switch it up every week/day?

And what makes you consider this a good idea? How did you decide to do this? What are you hoping to accomplish with this? What happens if you meet someone, and they think you have blue eyes, and you really don’t? I mean, what the fuck?

Drugs Are Awesome!

My friend Josh works in the music industry. From what I can tell, his job has two main responsibilities: 1) going to a ton of concerts for free; and 2) getting awesome drugs.

The “pot” he gets is amazing. I use quotation marks because I don’t believe that it is pot in its common, more familiar form, but rather some superdrug bred deep in the rain forests of Costa Rica where it has kept the natives high and happy for thousands of years.

Last night I went over to Josh's new apartment to check it out. Naturally, we smoked, and naturally, within minutes I was a $10 bet away from jumping out his 21st floor living room window with his bedsheet to prove that it would make an effective parachute despite the fact that I am what doctors would call “obese.”

High out of our minds, Josh and some of his friends and I decided to go sample the restaurant scene in his neighborhood and grab some dinner.

This dinner was hilarious, but relatively uneventful - trying to relate something that you found funny while high to someone who wasn’t there to experience it high is a lost cause. But still, we had a blast. I particularly enjoyed grabbing my friend Josh's utensils every chance I could and rubbing them on my crotch (see, I told you it’s a lost cause).

Many glasses of wine later, our eyes still bloodshot and our minds still cloudy, the waitress brought the check over. At this point, I was very inebriated, which means one thing: I thought I was rich, rich beyond my wildest dreams, with more money in my bank account than I know what to do with, when in reality the people at Chase are plotting to kidnap my father and hold him for ransom until I pay off my egregious credit card debt.

So I offered to pay, because Josh brought us wonderful drugs that made us happy, because it was Ben’s birthday on Monday, and because Brian is broke (mostly).

I looked at the bill, and I couldn’t figure it out. I was turning it all around, trying to see how the numbers added up, and I just didn’t get it. This is understandable, as I still was high out of my gord and had a nice wine buzz going. But still, I was clueless about this bill. So I called the waitress over, and we had this exchange:

Me: [bloodshot eyes, wine-stained teeth, swaying back and forth with the smile of the high on my face] “Excuse me Miss, but I can’t seem to figure out this bill here.”
Waitress: [shocked, uncomfortable] “Uh, sir, that’s the desert menu.”

I was so fucked up I thought the desert menu was our bill. The fucking desert menu. I must have stared at that thing for a solid four to five minutes and couldn’t tell it wasn’t a bill, but a menu. Good lord.

Of course, within seconds my friends and I were in hysterics at the table, doubled over in laughter, tears streaming down our faces, Ben yelling at the top of his lungs in the semi-posh restaurant, “Stop! I’m gonna throw up! I’m gonna throw up!”

Eventually, we calmed down (by “eventually”, I mean “after a long time”). We paid the bill and escaped the disapproving and disgusted stairs of the other restaurant patrons, taking our maniacal laughter to the street and back to Josh's apartment.

And finally the night ended like most usually do: a pint of Haagen Dazs Cookies n’ Cream + twenty seconds in the microwave = the best part of my day.

The moral of the story: use drugs. Use them every chance you get, because they are awesome, and will only make you happy and make you forget that the last time you got laid, Outkast’s most popular song was “Ms. Jackson” and you never even considered that the Marlins would win the World Series and John Ritter, bless his heart, was still with us.

My Chilrens

On my mp3 player, I have Rockapella, the a capella group who did exquisite work on “Carmen San Diego”, singing the Gummi Bears Theme Song.

[bear with me on this]

I have written before about my distaste for a capella music, but every time I hear this song come on my mp3 player, I immediately get happy. I picture a school gymnasium or auditorium, filled with proud parents for a school talent show. I picture my dad, he of drinking and muscles and moustache, sitting in the audience with my mom. Then I picture me coming out with my a capella group, proudly singing the lead on the Gummi Bears Theme Song. My dad begins to weep, realizing that somewhere along the line he has failed, and failed miserably, and now his son is on stage signing a song in five-part harmony about cartoon bears with a bunch of nancys.

Ok, I just read that over, and it’s probably not funny to you. Like, not at all.

But that’s not the point. The point is that I think a capella music sucks. Therefore, my son will love a capella music, and perform with his very own nancy friends [isn’t “nancy” a great word?]

Long ago I realized that when or if I have children, they will be all sorts of messed up. This is because I have thus far lived a less than spectacular life, filled with jokes about: a) retards; b) cripples; c) the homeless; and d) the really, really retarded.

Therefore, I will have four children, and all of them will be screwed up in one way or another, and will cause me great distress all my life.

- One boy will be retarded. And not like a little bit, but astonishingly retard.

Me: “So, you’re telling me that my son is retarded?”
Doctor 1: “Dude, he is real fucked up.”
Doctor 2: “Like, the most retarded we’ve ever seen.”
Me: “Fuck.”
Doctor 1: “You got that right.”
Doctor 2: “Let me put it this way: last week we had a dog in here that had been beaten up by a gang of youths. That dog, even after it had been beaten up, still scored better than your son.”
Doctor 1: “And those kids fucked that dog up.”
Me: “What kind of dog was it?”
Doctor 2: “It was a bulldog.”
Me: “Damn it - those dogs aren’t even smart.”
Doctor 1: “Nope.”

- One boy will be a nancy and love a capella.

Me: “Son, why don’t we go to a ball game?”
Son: “No dad, I want to watch ‘Grease’ again.”
Me: “Damn it, you watch ‘Grease’ every damn day.”
Son: [starting to cry] “Why can’t you even try to understand me?”
Me: “Fuck.”
Son: “There’s only one person who understands me: Andrew Lloyd Webber! I wish he was my dad!”
Me: “Well, unfortunately for us both, I’m your dad.”
Son: “I’m going over to Felix’s house! His dads are cool!”

- One girl will be drop-dead gorgeous, and will be in the sex industry in one way or another.

[Scene: Me and two co-workers, drinking our troubles away at a bar, watching TV when a commercial for “Girls Gone Wild” comes on]
Me: “Oh, I love these commercials - just what the doctor ordered!”
Friend 1: “Yeah, all those young, nubile girls.”
Friend 2: “Hey, wait a minute - John, isn’t that your little girl?”
Me: “What?”
Friend 2: “Holy shit! It is! That’s Suzie!”
Me: “Fuck.”
Friend 1: “God DAMN - look at her move!”
Friend 2: “Is that Prince that she’s grinding on? Wow!”
Friend 1: “It’s Prince alright. Prince and the entire University of North Carolina basketball team!”

- One girl will be a hippie and love jam bands and drugs.

Me: “Clara, it’s 3 in the morning, the concert was over at 11. Where have you been?”
Daughter: [all fucked up, smelling of patchouli oil] “Dad, language was invented so people could lie.”
Me: “What the hell does that mean?”
Daughter: “It’s beyond all of us. All of us, but not the stars.”
Me: “Fuck.”
Daughter: [singing] “‘Whatever you do/take care of your shoes.’”
Me: “God, I hate your mother.”

And of course, I will live to be 131 years old, and 104 of it will be spent impotent.

God, I am going to get so fucked up this weekend.

The Therapist

I finally went to therapy yesterday (about my non-sleeping, see one of the last posts), and I can say this much: this is going to be hilarious.

Like I mentioned, I’m not entirely opposed to the idea of talking about myself for an hour then getting some drugs. But still, I think it’s kind of stupid. I mean, I’m not, like, really crazy, and I am certainly not going to tell this person my deepest, darkest secrets (like my uncontrollable urge to kill prostitutes or how I spend at least forty-five minutes crying in the shower each morning).

I don’t think it was a coincidence when I rolled up to the place, “Psycho Killer” randomly came on the radio (and you have to know that this really happened, because I think I’m too clever to make up something as lame as “‘Psycho Killer’ came on the radio just before going to the shrink”). There were all these crazy people hanging around outside the building, talking loudly and carrying on, smoking cigarettes and yelling at each other. I almost turned around at that point, because I was completely terrified (and a little hungry). I was even more terrified when I had to get in the elevator with a couple of crazies, two of whom talked to themselves the entire (thankfully, short) ride to the office.

I went to the desk to get some forms to fill out, filled them out and gave them back, and went to use the restroom. When I came out of the restroom and back into the waiting room, everyone had cleared out, except for a girl standing in corner crying, two police officers, two security guards, and a woman who appeared to be a psychiatrist. They all stopped and looked at me when I came into the room, and, unsure of what to do, I sat down in one of the chairs farthest away from whatever the hell was going on. The woman who looked like the psychiatrist came over and said, “Would you mind waiting in the back?” No problem sister.

Now I was really flipping the fuck out. All I wanted was some fucking Ambien, but I was officially now in the loony bin. I was cursing my doctor at this point, planning her assassination in my head, and blaming myself for telling her about my crazy dreams; if I had just told her that I couldn’t sleep, she probably would have given me sleeping pills, but the dreams made her think I’m stressed or crazy or whatever [also, had an awesome one last night: I was wrestling Will Ferrell (we were both shirtless) and there was an Asian girl giving me ether in a dentist’s office, and I was a police officer]. After that whole mess got cleared up, back into the waiting room we went, and eventually I was called into the office to see Maria.

Maria is not a psychiatrist; she’s some sort of therapist or something (I wasn’t really paying attention). Nice woman: in her forties, Latin, very pleasant. She explained that I would be meeting with her a few times before seeing the psychiatrist (what the fuck?), and sat me down and asked me some background questions, about, well, everything. Some highlights:

Maria: “Were you abused as a child?”
Me: “No.”
Maria: “Well, that’s good.”
Me: “Yeah, I’m pretty happy about it.”

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Maria: “Do you or your friends abuse drugs or alcohol?”
Me: “Hmmm…”
Maria: “‘Hmmm?’“
Me: “Well, ‘abuse’ is a tough term. I would say that we do our fair share of drinking.”
Maria: “What about drugs?”
Me: “Yeah.”
Maria: “‘Yeah?’“
Me: “Well, just soft ones. And I don’t think we abuse soft drugs as much as alcohol.”
Maria: “So you do abuse alcohol?”
Me: “Well, not ‘abuse’ like I need to drink every day, but you know - we’re young, we like to have a good time.”
Maria: [probably writing “drunkard, chubby” on her notepad] “Ok.”

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Maria: “Are you currently in, or have you had any recent interpersonal relationships?”

This question, the “tell me about your ex-girlfriends” question, made me cringe. After all, is there any better way of having one up on your ex then knowing they talk about you in therapy? Isn’t that the ultimate “you win”? I’m getting chills just thinking about it.

Fortunately, I was able to skirt this question with a “No, not too recently” and Maria left it at that, and I lived to fight another day.

But this therapy gig should be interesting. Like I said, I’m not really that crazy - I even felt a little bad for her having to listen to my non-crazy, boring story - so maybe next time I can make up some stuff in order to get some serious psychological meds. Maybe tell her that I’m terrified of lunchmeat, I can’t talk on the phone without masturbating, and I think that cars are alive. That might liven it up a bit.

I Don't Hate

So I'm sitting in my cubicle, when a coworker walks by, talking on his cel phone, saying something about "Well, I don't know how she could marry her. Lesbians shouldn't be able to get married"

Is this gay marriage “debate” the stupidest thing of all time, or is it just me? Why are we still talking about this? It's old news.

Does it really matter to me if two gay people get married? Either way, my life is still going to be the same: I’m still going to like to watch reality tv, play the “Superman” theme song on full volume during sex, and spend 80% of my disposable income on vodka and Budweiser.

And as far as “compromising the sanctity of marriage”, I mean, do you live in the US? Everybody gets divorced! If you don’t, you are officially in the minority!

Like many people, I can’t wait to get married. This is mostly because I just want to gain a bunch of weight and let myself go completely. I’ve also been saving change for a engagement ring since I was about 12, and I’m pretty much going to marry the next girlfriend I have (so ladies, look out!).

But back to the gay marriage thing: doesn’t all that hate (for gays and/or gay marriage) seem like a lot of work? All that yelling and standing outside and getting red in the face - wouldn’t you rather just stay home and watch “The Price Is Right?” And you have to make all those signs that say, “Ain’t No Gays Should Get Married Round Here” or “Gays Gettin Marryed [sic] Ain’t Right!”, which requires a trip to the hardware store to get paint, a paint brush, posterboard, and then you actually have to make the sign, which I imagine would take up a good part of your day, not to mention the cleaning up after making the sign.

So I don’t hate anybody. Not because I don’t have feelings of hatred, but because I’m just too lazy.

Kiss Sucks

I hate this band so much that it’s hard for me to write about them, since my fingers are quivering in rage. Some things:

- Has Paul Stanley come out of the closet yet? Does he even need to? Everyone pretty much knows he’s gay, right?

- Gene Simmons has never had a drop of alcohol in his life. Not very rock star if you ask me.

[And yes, immediately after this I will be starting up my very own Hate League (having made fun of Paul Stanley for being gay and Gene Simmons for not drinking), where all we do is drink homemade whiskey and make fun of gay people]

- I mean, all that elaborate make-up and crap? Does anyone get this? How could anyone get this? It’s a bunch of guys in costumes dancing around singing bad songs. Where in your life do you have to be to say, “Yes. This is cool. This is something I could get into - nay, this is something I could dedicate my life to.”

If I had to name the biggest asshole of the past 25 years, Gene Simmons would definitely be up there. What a greedy son of a bitch and a misogynist. This is a guy who admittedly says, “If there’s something we can put Kiss logo on, we will put it on there” making his group less a band more a clever marketing device. How can you tell me these guys were ever about the music when they have, according to Gene’s website, Chinese real estate developments, a television cable network, a Korean DVD/CD manufacturing plant, a motion picture company, and a boxing venture in addition to endless amounts of Kiss merchandise, Gene Simmons’ “Tongue” magazine, and, oh yeah, some records?

Appropriately, Gene Simmons’ new album is called “Asshole”, and he does a cover of Prodigy’s “Firestarter.” Please go to his website to watch this video (and no, I'm not posting a link, fuck Gene Simmons). It is all at once horrible, hilarious, sad, and embarrassing. I had to pause it three times so that I could collect myself. I mean, wow.

Women Hate Me

I’m not a ladies’ man, but have I missed something lately? I’m pretty bad with women to begin with, but it seems like every woman I came in contact with from the time I woke up yesterday morning could not have been less interested in dealing with me. I’m not just talking about sexually either (though that was certainly the case as well); every woman I spoke to - chicks at bars, female friends, the waitress at breakfast this morning, my own damn family members, - just seemed pissed off at me.

Was there some sort of Woman’s Conference on John at the Newark Airport Ramada on Monday night/Tuesday morning that I didn’t know about? And was the theme of the weekend, "John: What a Dick" Was a consensus reached that all women should be a total bitch to me in order to further deflate my ego and self-esteem?

If there was, I’m sorry. Women of the world, whatever I did to incur your wrath over the past 72 hours, I assure that I did not mean to do it. I was probably drunk and being insensitive and made a mistake. But I am truly, truly sorry. So please go back to being nicer to me. I’m not saying that we have to make out all the time, but a little kindness would really make me feel better right now.

Is It Worth It?

I hated grades in college, and I hated even more the people that got all worked up over grades. I’ve always thought that grades are only a small measure of a person’s success, and most of the time the pursuit of academic excellence detracts from a person’s overall happiness.

I don’t want you to believe that this is rooted in laziness, though I am admittedly an incredibly lazy man who happens to own an uncomfortable amount of VHS pornography and is dreading its inevitable conversion to DVD format. I do believe that grades are important to a certain degree; I don’t want to proselytize here and say things like, “Grades don’t matter!” and “Down with grades!” and “Fuck grades!” and “Take off your shirt!” I did ok in college grade-wise, to the point where I have no academic regrets.

My roommates and I used to argue that we had the best grades-to-work-output ratios around. For example, if you could get a 3.5 and get bombed most of the time, cheat on or try to cheat on your girlfriend constantly, and do only the minimal amount of work required, weren’t you much better of than the person with the 3.9 that spent forty hours a week in the library? (And really, if you study that much, how intelligent can you be? You can teach a fucking monkey to drive a car and a dolphin to make a sandwich through constant repetition. If you have to read something over ten times, wouldn’t you be better off calling it a day and grabbing the bong after the third time when it’s not sinking in?)

Therefore, I don’t think success (meaning money, power, respect) is the true measure of a person’s greatness (another abstract term that’s difficult to define). I think it’s more important how you obtained that success.

I think certain people are psychologically predisposed to how they perceive what being “successful” is and how to obtain it. I’m not the type of person who’s willing to work eighty-hour weeks from ages 22 to 45, so that I can retire at age 55 on a yacht and sail the Mediterranean. I’d rather take it one day at a time, spend 23% of my gross income on intoxicants, and have as much sex as the courts will allow me to.

Where the hell is this coming from you ask? I have no idea, as I am really on a tangent rambling away here, killing time as I wait for my soup to cool. I guess I’ve just been thinking a lot recently (after all, this is the “Johnny Trashbag 30 Years On Earth Celebrational Year”) and I’m learning that time is very precious. Look at me - I’m 30, and I don’t have any kids yet! Not one! Not even in Mexico or any of those Mexico-type countries! Zero!

This idea carries over to all aspects of life. Professionally, if one can get their work done in normal business hours, is it really necessary to stay after hours, in the hope that the boss will see you staying late and hence will gain a greater respect for you? No, because if you can produce the same quality of work while maintaining a high quality of life, you win.

Romantically, it would be great if one could just ask someone that they are attracted to if the feeling was mutual. This is not the case. Instead, one has to spend hours and hours drafting humorous emails so as to come off as funny but not creepy funny, while creating the impression of having 1) a good job with respectable income; 2) a large group of diverse and upstanding friends; 3) a wide array of intellectual and physical interests; and 4) a loyalty to family and loved ones, all the while appearing confident but not pretentious. The result in most (not all) romantic pursuits: wasted time and energy. I do not mean to sound overly pessimistic about “love” or any of that gooey stuff, but sometimes, and not just in romance but in all things, you have to ask yourself: is it worth it?

[I just read this over - what the fuck am I talking about? Good lord! Did someone slip some cocaine or pills in my Raisin Bran Crunch this morning (phenomenal cereal by the way)? Holy shitballs!]

I Can't Get No Sleep

Who do I have to blow to get an appointment with a fucking psychiatrist?

Let me explain.

I am, I guess, an insomniac (I hesitate to use the term “insomniac” because it is a medical term and I am not a doctor, though I do know a lot about recreational drugs). Though I don’t always have trouble falling asleep, my sleep is restless and intermittent, occasionally broken by a dream that is too vivid or by an impending sense of urgency.

I have been a like this for quite some time, but over the past few months it’s gotten worse. I have also been having extremely vivid dreams. I know, I know - everybody wakes up and says, “Man, that dream felt like it was real”, but the only way I can explain my dreams is to say that they are even more vivid than those dreams and much more frequent. And these dreams are either extremely horrifying or extremely boring. I gotta say, the boring ones I don’t mind - it’s the really, really scary ones I could live without. But it is a major let down to wake up after having a crazy dream to find myself alone, in the shower, with only my socks on. Talk about a whole other level of disappointment.

I went to my doctor and told him about this. He, like God, hates me, so instead of prescribing me sleeping pills, he suggested I go “talk to someone” about this. I have recently been given additional responsibilities at work (a sort of default “well, the only one available that can do it is John”-type promotion), and because of this my doctor thinks my “high stress” job could be the reason for my trouble sleeping. My question is: what is so high stress about my job? The four hours a day I spend on emails? The six hours a day I listen to music? Or the two hours a day I spend on the phone with my friends? You choose.

But I’m open to it. I always knew I’d have to see a psychiatrist some day, so I guess it’s good to do so before I become a sex offender, rather than after (sorry, that should read “convicted sex offender”). The problem is that it’s very hard to get an appointment. They’re either all booked up or they only do “medication management” or they’re no longer accepting my insurance - what the fuck?

So I will say this: when I go ape-shit and start picking dudes off from the top of my building because I can’t sleep, that blood with be on your hands Mr. M.D.

Bastard.

Hump Day

Ah, Wednesday - hump day. The day that means you’re one day away from Thursday, but just far enough away from the weekend that you get so pissed off you start wishing that you would come down with some contagious disease that would get you out of work, but the disease wouldn’t make you so sick that you couldn’t drink beer or take drugs, and also the disease somehow made you much more attractive to women, particularly women of Asian descent, particularly women of Asian descent with gigantic fake breasts, so attractive to them that you’d have so much sex over the next few days that you would throw out all your porn, most of which you are sick of anyway, because you are having so much sex with hot Asian ladies with big boobies, when, let’s face it, you’re barely healthy enough for sexual activity anyway and per doctor’s orders you shouldn’t be having so much sex to begin with.

I don’t know where that came from, but anyway - it’s Wednesday. And I’ve got nothing. Absolutely nothing. But, since if I were to skip a day I would probably be stoned to death (which is not a reflection on the fact that you all in any way need to read what I have to say about my body hair, lack of sexual activity, and masturbatory habits, but rather an indication of how bored you all are at your places of employment, so bored that you would in fact take a life via stoning), I’ll force it. Because I love you. And yes, in that way. Don’t play dumb - you know what I’m talking about.

Damage Control

It’s becoming more and more obvious to me that someday, probably sometime soon, either my parents or my co-workers are going to find this site.

And that’s ok with me. I’ve never really understood the whole point of blogging anonymously (god, I HATE the word “blog” and all its variations), but you should probably ask me if I understand this after I’ve been fired and I’m begging you people to send me cash, non-perishable food items, and cases and cases of condoms. Or after my dad stops speaking to me and my mom has a heart attack because she can’t believe her golden-boy son, who once placed 7th in the New York City Spelling Bee and loved the New Kids on the Block with all his heart (his favorite: Danny), now writes about handjobs on the internet.

But really, what’s the point? Is blogging anonymously the corporate drone’s only way of living out his Batman/Bruce Wayne fantasy? Why not just sack up and say, “Hey - this is me. I know that most of my posts make fun of retarded people and how I don’t get laid, but you know what? That’s what consumes my mind eighteen hours a day.”

I’ve actually told my parents that I have a blog, just not this blog.

Me: “Dad, here’s the deal - I’ve sort of become famous.”
Dad: [smoking two cigarettes at once, surprised] “What the hell does that mean?”
Me: “Well, I, uh, don’t know exactly. But I have a website that some people read.”
Dad: “Do you get any money from it?”
Me: “Well, no.”
Dad: “So what’s the point?”
Me: “Well, like I said, I’m becoming more and more famous.”
Dad: “Famous? Come on - you’re not famous. Sylvester Stallone is famous. Bruce Willis is famous. You’re not famous.”
Me: [silent, looking really confused, not really knowing how to respond to that]
Dad: [lighting two more cigarettes] “Besides, what’s the point of being famous if you’re not making any money?”
Me: “Yeah, look, that’s not the point. I’m telling you this as sort of a heads up. It’s not a site that you want your friends to see because, well, it’s like a lot of bathroom humor.”
Dad: “What do I care? I don’t check the internet. Talk to me about this again when you’re actually making money.”
Me: “Um, ok.”

Me: “Mom, I have a website, and a lot of people read it.”
Mom: “Oooh - what’s the address?”
Me: “I can’t give it to you - you wouldn’t like it.”
Mom: “I bet your cousin Irene would like it, and I can send it to Aunt Mary too.”
Me: “No mom, you can’t. It’s vulgar.”
Mom: [suddenly very saddened and confused] “Why would you have a vulgar website?”
Me: “It’s not like I started the site to be vulgar; it’s just my sense of humor.”
Mom: “What’s so funny about being vulgar?”
Me: “Mom, I don’t know. I’m just telling you this because some people in the neighborhood read it, and it might get back to you, and I wanted to tell you myself.”
Mom: “You don’t talk about me, do you?”
Me: “Of course not.”

So Mom, Dad, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry. But, let’s be honest - this is really all your fault. And hey - at least I have a good job, and I’m not gay (mostly)! Isn’t that all you can really ask for?

As for my co-workers, well, I’m more concerned about them then my parents. The worst my parents can do after finding this site is stop loving me (whatever); my co-workers can ruin my life by sending this to my superiors and getting my ass canned, which, since I have no money saved because of a small alcohol problem, would result in me being homeless in about three weeks.

Come to think of it, I don’t think there’s any specific reason I’d get fired. Sure, I write at work, but only on breaks (and by “breaks” I mean anytime between 9:30am and 5:30pm). I don’t mention anything specific or confidential about my job, so I’m ok there. And I still manage to take care of everything pretty well as far as my work responsibilities. So I guess getting fired isn’t main concern. Having to deal with co-workers that know I write about beating up homeless people is.

So if any of my co-workers stumble on this site: please don’t tell me. Let’s just pretend that you don’t know about it, and think of me as the guy who makes personal calls all day long, smoke cigarettes at his desk, rarely wears a shirt, and one time didn’t show up for a week and a half, only to come back to the office bleeding from his gums and yelling at people, “What? Like you’re fucking perfect? Bunch of assholes!”