Enjoy Your Weekend

Another weekend is finally upon us, so remember:

1) Don’t drink and drive
2) Try a new drug or cocktail
3) Thank your dad for making you the codeine-addicted, overweight, insecure, gambling mess you are today

[Wait, that last one’s what I should thank my dad for. Sorry.]

I Love Me

One weekend about every two months I don’t go out. This isn’t because I don’t want to, it’s because I just physically can’t. I’ll try to drink on a Friday or a Thursday night, and it just doesn’t work - I’ll immediately start to feel like shit, get all sorts of indigestion, and shut down. I can’t explain this phenomenon, and it’s terrifying, because it’s so unpredictable. I live in a state of constant fear, hoping my “down weekend” doesn’t strike when friends are in town, or I have a party to go to, or by some mistake on god’s part I have a date, etc. [But mostly I fret about the friends in town or party thing, not the date.]

This was the case this past weekend. The good news is that it coincided with a weekend that most of my friends were out of town, so I was left alone to defile myself in the friendly confines of my home. I am a big believer in numbers, and I work with them all day long, so here are two statistics that accurately sum up my weekend:

Number of pornographic films previously downloaded to my computer: 44
Number of pornographic films currently downloaded to my computer: 61

When I say that I have never been so focused in my life than I was about downloading porn this weekend, it is not an understatement. I worked so hard at it, you’d think I was trying to save a crew of astronauts trapped in space, or desperately working on an antidote to a poison recently ingested by my entire extended family. Imagine me, sitting in my small, dark room, wearing just boxers and an undershirt, watching literally hundreds of porno clips, featuring old faves like Celeste, Chasey Lain, Jenna Jameson, and Kylie Ireland, while learning about new starlets, such as Sunrise Adams, Briana Banks, and Kira Kener.

It was incredible. My every movement this weekend was based around the rates that the clips were downloading; whether they were mpegs, wmvs, or avis; whether I had already downloaded them but they were named something else; etc. Showers and meals were timed after the right number of films came off the queue and were mostly downloaded.

And the self-love was, to say the least, near legendary. My previous high for one day’s masturbation is seven, set back when I was about 14. This Saturday, I was at six at about 3pm, when I thought to myself, “Do I really want to tie, or perhaps set, a new masturbatory record at 30 years old? Isn’t that kind of pathetic?” So I decided to pull in the reins and call it a day. But I’ll tell you, I easily could have done ten. Easily.

And that was pretty much my weekend. When I’m not poisoning myself with liquor, I’m beating my dick like it owes me money. But I don’t think this should be too much of an impediment in my quest for a girlfriend/wife. After all, I have an engagement ring fund, and I probably don’t have any STD’s. What more could a woman want?

Jeez!

Have A Threesome With Me

So I was thinking the other day...if there is one thing that I’ve been asking for for years but so far I have gotten it, it's (drumroll please) a threesome.

[To clear that up, that’s me with two girls. That’s the only combination.]

I’ve always wanted this, and I don’t think I’m asking for too much here. I’d like to ask my female friends to consider all the times over the years I’ve made them laugh, bought them drinks, given them man advice - even gotten into fights for them. And all I ask is for two of them to come to my room and let me have my way with them, only for a moment. To sweeten the deal:

1) Realizing that having a threesome with me involved is probably the least appealing sexual activity in the universe, I’m willing to provide up to $800 worth of cocaine to make this happen. I have a lot of friends who are “in the know”, and this wouldn’t be a problem. Rohypnol, weed, X and a multitude of other drugs can be provided with 24 hours advanced notice.

2) Honestly, the whole thing would probably last maybe 4 or 5 minutes. You’re telling me you can’t spend 4 or 5 minutes of your time to validate my entire existence? To completely turn my miserable life around? To make me, for at least a week, the happiest guy on the planet? Come on - stop being so damn selfish for just one second.

3) In return, I will give you one favor of your choosing. If, after the threesome, you want me to move out of the area, well, I will do it. If, after the threesome, you want me to steal a car for you, I will do it. If, after the threesome, you want me to never mention it again, well, I can’t do that. But you get the point.

I’m not asking for a “yes” or “no” right now. All I’m asking for is that you all (females) think about it. I’ve had a few twosomes in my day and about a million onesomes, but no threesomes. I probably don't have much longer to live - won’t you help make my last few days (decades?) of existence enjoyable? For me? [Not so much you]

Open Bar Fiasco

I learned something very important this weekend. When I die and pass on my legacy of over-eating, under-performing, and being a terrible lover and friend, my death is most likely to occur either 1) at an open bar or 2) immediately after an open bar.

I’m 30 years old. I’ve been to probably thirty open bars in my lifetime, and yet I still can’t handle them. I absolutely lose my shit, like a kid in a candy store, albeit a really hairy kid with low self-esteem who one time got in a fight with a waiter at Denny’s because the chocolate chip pancakes he ordered had laughably few chocolate chips. And sure, maybe he was hopped up on drugs at the time of this argument, but he still knew that he was right, and didn’t think it was necessary to get the authorities involved. Dicks.

Anyway, every time I’m at a function with an open bar, it’s like, “Wait a minute - you’re telling me that these drinks are free? All of them? So I can’t get any drink I want, and I don’t have to pay for it? I can get three drinks, right now, for free? Holy shitballs! I think I just pissed myself!”

This past Saturday I went to one of my friends'wedding reception. She originally had her wedding in Aruba, but had a reception in NYC for those who couldn’t make it. In addition to good food and good company, there was also tons of free booze.

A word before we go any further: I had been feeling sick on Friday night, and decided to stay in to make sure I was 100% for the reception the following day. I hunkered down in my apartment, where I ate lots of ice cream for my sore throat and drank a half a bottle of cough syrup. I was entertained by the messages left by my friends, who were wasted, asking me to come out and join them even though I repeatedly said I was staying in. They basically went something like this:

Brian: “Dude, I know you’re there. Pick up the phone. God, you are such a pussy. We’re right down the street - why don’t you come out and have a drink? Hello? I know you’re sitting on the couch, probably eating a sundae, you son of a bitch. Put down the sundae and come out. [silence for five seconds] God, you are such a pussy.”

This happened eight or so times. Finally, I answered.

Me: “Hello?”
Brian: [wasted out of his mind] “Dude, are you coming out or not?”
Me: “Dude, it’s 1am. You’ve been calling every hour since 6. I’ve never answered. Do you think I’m coming out?”
Brian: “So you’re coming out?”
Me: “No, I’m not.”
Brian: “Come on, don’t be a pussy. Have I ever asked you for anything?”
Me: “You ask me for shit all the time. This morning, you asked to borrow my car. Yesterday, you ate my entire bag of buffalo wings. Also, you owe me $1200.”
Brian: [silence for four seconds] “Dude, are you coming out or not?”
Me: “No, dude, I gotta go.”
Brian: “Damn.”

So that was my Friday: Haagen Daaz, Sucrets, and sore throat medicine.

Saturday I made the trek down to NYC, feeling better but still sucking down cough syrup, on the road to convalescence. I was feeling pretty good by the time the reception rolled around, and gave myself the green light to booze to my heart’s content, which usually means way, way, way too much.

I am a man of many weakness: sour cream, cleavage, any woman who so much as talks to me, etc. But I have no bigger weakness than gin. I love gin. I don’t need to go totally into it, but suffice it to say that tears are welling up in my eyes right now, thinking about gin.

I have no excuse or explanation for how drunk I got on Saturday. Sure, I was double-fisting gin and tonics all night, and doing shots of Stoli Raspberry, but still, I got way drunker than I should have been. I remember leaving the reception, but not too much after that. I went to another bar, then another, before I told some friends that I was going to use the bathroom, but instead snuck home.

Oh, I do remember one conversation with my friend Tara who I hadn’t seen in a while.

Tara: “So John, what are you doing?”
Me: [very drunk] “I’m doing a little acting.”
Tara: [excited] “Really? Anything I would know?”
Me: “You know there's a new Predator movie?”
Tara: “Really?”
Me: [pointing to self] “I’m the Predator. Well, one of them. There were like 50 of us.”
Tara: “You’re kidding, right?”
Me: “Yes.”
Tara: [disgusted] “Oh.”

I stumbled home and amazingly suppressed my urge to go hunting for minorities to make fun of. I passed out and woke up in the middle of the night and did something I never do: threw up.

I never throw up from drinking. Ever. Well, I’ve thrown up twice while intoxicated, but neither had to do with drinking (are you with me?). Once I puked because I had eaten a bad chicken roll (well, it was delicious, but it made me throw up). And once I made myself puke because in my drunken stupor I had taken too many aspirin.

But boy did I throw up, and gin and tonic is one of the less pleasant things to see on the way up. When I woke up the next day with a crippling hangover, I made some phone calls to do some damage control. One friend said, “I was fucked up, but I looked over at you, and thought, ‘Man, he is fucked up.’ So you were really drunk.” Another said I was “mangled.” Another said I was “making stupid faces and had no body control.” I’m not sure what that last one means, but it’s not a good thing.

I was a disaster. I made it back to my place barely alive, and recovered only with the help of some Krispie Kreme doughnuts I picked up along the way.

I blame this entirely on the cough/sore throat medicine. I can handle my liquor. Shit, I practically drink professionally. I know what’ll get me buzzed, what’ll get me drunk, and what’ll get me hitchhiking at 4:30 in the morning, set on going to Canada to go bear hunting. On Saturday night, I had enough booze to get me in the “I’m pretty drunk” range, but because I drank a bottle of cough medicine in the twenty-four hours before drinking, I wound up in the “I’m going to see if this car can float in the Delaware River” range.

The lesson: cough medicine gets you fucked up. Drink a bottle of Robitussin, and about a liter of gin, and boy, you’ll be feeling good. Just don’t have any big plans for the next day, because you’ll probably need help bathing yourself and breathing. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Hire Me!

My boss just called to tell me that two of the proposals I’ve prepared over the past two months have been accepted. That means we’ve been hired as consultants. This is a very, very good thing.

Thus continues my inexplicable run at being really good at what I do. Seriously, I have no idea how to explain it, because most of the time I really don’t even know what I’m doing. Once a day, something like this happens:

Boss: “Do you see how we ranked on the latest league tables for mid-term notes?”
Me: [eating a big-ass sandwich, having no idea what a “mid-term note” is, being forced to guess] “Yes - we came out on top.”
Boss: “Excellent. Keep up the good work.”

Then I’ll spend the next three hours learning what a mid-term note is, pooping, checking the tables to see if actually came out on top (which we usually do), checking email, making really long personal phone calls, and pooping some more.

I'm an engineer, even though my course load in college consisted of: history, some writing, sign language, and whatever was in the afternoon or whatever that girl with the giant boobs from the cafe who I always met in the bagel line was taking.

And I don’t really apply myself because I learned at a young age that trying is for losers. You can save that “There’s nothing more satisfying than working hard to reach a goal and achieving it” drivel. You know what’s more satisfying? Doing just enough to get by and being honored/promoted/handsomely compensated for it. Now that’s a great feeling.

I don’t mean to toot my own horn here, but really, if I’m going to brag, there are dangerously few things that I can brag about, and this is probably number one. But this streak has got to come to an end soon, and when it does, no one is going to walk away a winner. I don’t think the powers-that-be will like it when they realize that their man in charge of research doesn’t even know what “research” means.

So if your company is hiring let me know. My skills include:

- good people skills
- showing up late
- seldom wearing a shirt and when shirted, said shirt only covers half of stomach
- excellent at sexual harassment
- punching people/co-workers when they’re not looking
- stealing large office supplies for home (i.e. lamps, chairs, desks, etc)
- ability to cry on queue
- one time I beat up a dog

You can just send me an email with salary info. Thanks.

Personal 9/11

Tonight when I was out, my friends and I talked about a very personal matter. A very personal matter that I want to share with you. Tonight, we talked about our personal 9/11's.

Right now you may be wondering what a personal 9/11 is. Maybe. However, if you've experienced one, you know. Everybody who's ever been in love... or more specifically, everybody who's ever loved and lost... has been through a personal 9/11. It's the moment when everything changes forever. The moment that there's no coming back from. The moment where you lose faith, you're hit hard and you're reeling. Wondering how you got to that point and what could possibly come next. It's the worst feeling in the world. Well, it's one of them.

Now, I don't want to mislead you. I think I need to be a little more specific as to what I'm talking about. I'm not talking about the moment in a relationship when you realize things aren't going to work. That moment's not nearly as devastating. And I'm not talking about the actual breakup either. Even that's easier to deal with. I'm talking about what happens after the breakup. Days, weeks, or months after when you start thinking about your ex and questioning if you both made the right decision. I'm talking about the moment that comes after you're left alone with your thoughts and your worries and your fears, and when you decide it's time to tell them exactly how you feel. Regardless of what the outcome may be. It's selfish, with the hopes that it will be considered selfless in retrospect. But at the same time it's a suicide mission. It's the formula for a personal 9/11.

Not every relationship leads to this type of moment. Thank god. Only that one special one. Even if you've been lucky enough to have more than one great relationship in your lifetime, there's still that one that you always come back to. That one ex that pops up in your head time and time again. No matter how much time passes or no matter how much you think you've grown. There they are. That's the one who's responsible for your personal 9/11. That's the one who committed a jihad against your heart, which is not only cruel, but also one hell of a Country song title.

This moment - this one-of-a-kind moment - is not limited to one style. It can come in many shapes and sizes. Sometimes it happens in a letter. Sometimes it happens during a planned meeting. It can happen at a party or in a park or in between classes as dozens of people stop in their tracks to soak in the sight of a guy crying his eyes out in front of the Psychology building as his ex-girlfriend stands there hoping that her teacher doesn't come out. Like I said, it's far from limited. Though there is one common tie that binds-- you're usually drunk.

The nice thing about these moments is that there's not a gender bias. It can happen to men, it can happen to women. The only difference is when a guy throws himself out there and lays it out on the table for an unresponsive ex he becomes "pathetic" whereas a girl simply becomes "crazy." Tomatoes, tomatoes. It's all the same.

Me, my personal 9/11 came not too long ago ago. Over the phone. And yes, I was drunk. In fact, I pulled off a rare personal 9/11 trifecta - it started at on the phone, climaxed with a drunken email, and the denoument involved an awkward meeting shortly thereafter. Scholars have since used this series of events in their studies. Studies which went on to conclude that it's never a good idea to invite Breakup with someone, only to beg them to take you back because you're confused. If only I would have had those schematics last year, maybe this whole thing could have been avoided. But probably not.

Because you can't avoid it. It's bigger than you. Even if everything points to it being a bad idea - your gut, your friends, that crazy little thing called "logic"-- it doesn't matter. You're going to do it. It's the grown up equivalent to "do you think it's going to hurt if I jump from here?" Yes, it will. But you're going to have to give it a try anyway.

I try not to think about the conversation we had that night. It was, no doubt, ugly. Getting rejected by somebody who in the past has only accepted you; there's no easy way to take that. It's definitely going to hurt and it's definitely going to suck and you're definitely going to say something like "I hope you regret this for the rest of your life" and wish you didn't when you realize what you did in the morning. Remember I said I try not to think about it.

Far removed from that night - both in time and emotionally, I know it was a good thing. It is a good thing. It gives you that closure that a breakup doesn't. I remember listening to Loveline on the radio one night driving around, where Adam Corrolla said "even after they break up with a chick, guys feel like they have a lifetime pass." Which is totally true. We do. That is, until you have that personal 9/11 moment. Thats when your pass gets denied. Done. Thanks for playing. But unlike other relationships, when you're talking about that important one, this is how it has to end. Or it won't end. There's a reason they're important.

Do I regret my personal 9/11? Yes and no. Looking back, I wish I wasn't drunk and I wish I would have been able to pull myself toether before saying things I'd regret. While the event was completely necessary, I wish I would have handled myself a little better. I think that sometimes, but then I realize No. That's impossible. That's not what it's about. When you decide to make that jump you can't expect to control anything as you're falling to the ground. You just have to hope that it doesn't hurt too much when you land.

And even if it does, guess what. That's not going to stop you from getting back on that edge again if you have the opportunity. Some people never learn.

Belligerent Drunks

I have never understood belligerent drunks. I feel like something must have happened to them in their childhood for them to get drunk and be hostile. All I want to do when I’m drunk is 1) make out and 2) eat (usually in that order, the second coming after I have tried but failed in the first).

I had a roommate in the military (who now is two days away from getting married - wtf?) who used to get wasted and try to start fights with me. The next day, I’d say, “Dude, what was your deal last night? You came into my room at 4:45 in the morning, punched me in the face while I was asleep, and ran out as I chased you down the street.” His reply: “Dude, sorry. I blacked out.”

I think psychologists need to devote more time to the black-out drunk. I don’t know why this isn’t already so…what you see is pure and undisguised “being in action.” Does anyone else find this fascinating?

Maybe I just need a hobby.

Being Blind

Blind people on the subway terrify me. Like most people, I share that “who’s going to help them” awkwardness as they slowly try to enter and exit the train. And I feel terrible for feeling this way, but I can’t help it. Second, I also feel like they going to just fucking walk right off the edge of the platform and fall onto the tracks, without realizing what they’re doing. I mean, this could happen - they can’t see shit!

If I ever become blind, I would just sit home all day and smoke pot, and be the most lazy person in the world. Sure, being blind sucks, but it’s an excuse to do absolutely nothing for anyone but yourself for the rest of your life. And sure, that’s pretty much what I’m doing now, but I bet it’d be a lot more acceptable if I couldn’t see.

An Open Letter To The Girl That Works At The Taco Bell By My House

Hi,

Though we have spoken many times, often several times a week, I don’t think we’ve ever properly met. My name is John. I am a celebrity, and I would like to spend the rest of my life with you.

As of now, you know me only as the sweaty guy who regularly orders two burrito supremes with no tomatoes and two soft tacos. And I know you only as the attractive woman of unidentified ethnic origin (Latin? Indian? Both?) who delicately makes and serves said burritos to me. But if given the chance, I know that we can get to know each other on a much deeper and nakeder level.

I know our relationship, though now only in its incipient stages, can grow to be something that we both (or at least I) can enjoy for many years to come. And I know that deep down, below your mascara that curves at the end making you look like a cat (but a sex-pot cat), and that little Taco Bell visor that I would surely ask you to wear during intercourse, you see some potential in me. Perhaps you realize that I am a man capable of endless love and devotion if I were only to find the right woman. Perhaps you sense that I am willing to never speak to my family or friends again if you asked me to. Or perhaps you saw one of the many occasions I took out a few $100 bills and showed them to you, mouthing the words, “This can be all yours - and more”, in a sexy manner while rubbing the bills all over my chest and crotch.

I feel that we can learn about each other, and take interest in each other’s hobbies. For example, the other day while waiting for my meal, I noticed you talking to a woman friend of yours who pulled out something out of her purse that looked like a mini blow-torch. I couldn’t really pay attention to what you two were talking about because I was very hungry and the smell of that horse-meat slowly cooking in those bins brings me nearer to orgiastic delight than any woman ever could, but I’m guessing you’re into metal work, possibly sculpture. Or possibly you use mini blow-torches to burn down homes, buildings, and churches. And you know what? I think that’s great. I want you to show me your world, and if your world includes arson, well then I’ll bring the kerosene.

I know you may be reticent because only a week ago I professed my love to another woman. I want you to know that she and I are over. She was a very unladylike and insensitive woman. What kind of “lady” attacks a man trying to give her flowers with pepper spray, especially after that man had been waiting outside her apartment for three days (without food or water might I add) just to get the chance to talk to her? The answer: a harpy and a whore. I want you to know that I would never forsake you - not for anyone. Well, except Lindsay Lohan. And Josie Maran and Elisha Cuthbert. And that stripper at Show & Tell who let me touch her boobs in the parking lot for $50 when I was coming down from my last coke binge.

I’m sorry - I’m getting a little side-tracked here, but the important thing is that I need you. And I need you to need me. Because, if you don’t, well, you’d probably better get a permit to carry. But let’s not let it get to that.

All I ask is that you think about it. And get back to me by this Friday via email by 5pm.

Love, always and forever,
This is what it sounds like when doves cry,
I am,
Eternally indebted to your will,
Johnny Trashbag

I Am Constantly Amazed At The Stupidity Of Fat People

I myself am a fat person, but this isn’t some sort of self-loathing thing. Because while I’m fat, I ain’t fucking real fat. When I say "fat" in this context, I’m talking about the people who get two Double Whoppers at Burger King, whereas my type of fat only gets one, and maybe a Hershey Sundae Pie. Big difference there.

(And now I’m hungry.)

The the building of the physical therapist I go to has revolving doors. Most Western people are familiar with how these work. You step into them, push on the door in front of you, enter a tube, continuing both pushing and walking through a quarter-circle, reach the outside, and (and this is important) continuing walking away from the revolving doors so the person behind can escape them.

As I was leaving their office yesterday, I headed to the revolving doors to exit. In front of me were two overweight women heading outside to grab a smoke. The first was mildly obese while the second has half-human/half-rhinoceros. The less fat woman entered the doors, followed by the rhino, followed by me.

The less fat woman made it through and cleanly exited, but Ms. Rhino messed it up. She made it through the doors, but when she left them, instead of walking away from them so that the next person (me) could get out, she immediately stopped to light her cigarette. The result was that I came out of the doors (there was a person behind me as well) and stumbled into the Rhino, nearly tripping over one of her tree-trunk ankles and making a small scene.

Of course, Ms. Rhino was not happy about this. In front of the small crowd, she turned around and angrily scolded me, saying, "Why don’t you watch where you’re going?" The incident happened so fast and I was so flustered that I could only mumble an "I’m sorry." Then I got a death stare from the Rhino, who continued to mumble something like, "He better watch where he’s going next time" under her breath as I walked away.

If I had been drunk, I would not have walked away so quietly. If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t have been so meek about the incident. Not only because it was clearly her fault, but also because she was morbidly obese. And I mean that literally - she is so fat that she could die at any moment.

So I stomped the rest of the way to my car, revisiting the scene in my head, with one major difference: When she says, "What don’t you watch where you’re going?, I respond with something like, "Why don’t you learn how to properly use a revolving door, Fat Chops? Here, I’ll help you out: next time you come out of the door, pretend like they’re giving away free cheeseburgers across the street. That should get you moving, Chunky." Or perhaps I would have still said "I’m sorry", but would have done it slightly differently, like, "Geez, I’m really sorry you stopped walking and caused me to run into you. So sorry about being right. And I’m sorry that you have lost all self-respect and are grossly overweight. As proof that I’m sorry, would you like to take a bite of me? You know, since you’re really fucking fat and all? Maybe I’ll go across the street to Subway and cover my thigh in mayo - would you like that, Chubb Rock? If not, I think I might have an old Snickers in my bag. Let me check."

I’m going to be fat for the rest of my life. My dreams of being skinny ended sometime around 8th grade. But if I ever get so fat that I turn my fat anger on those around me because I can’t move properly, please shoot me.