Clown Car Vagina

I wanted a big family. I don’t think it’s fair that women with completely fucked up ovaries or the religious are the only ones who can have a big, lovely family. See, I have maternal instincts too, just not the maternal plumbing necessary. But thankfully I have my wonderful life-partner Carolyn. We met at a coffee shop that was hosting their bi-weekly Progressive Lesbian Poetry open mic. I remember, I accidently picked up her order (black coffee) and she accidently picked up mine (chai tea). And you know, we just hit it off. The conversation started off about how men are evil, which they are but I think I’m just slightly devious (tee hee), and then we were talking about women’s rights, role of women in society, and then she finally confessed that she wanted a family. Well gosh darn it did I ever give it to her! Two weeks later we were legally married and started right away with the process.

I went down to the drug store to talk to my friend Phil the Pharmacist (I love alliteration). I told him what’s up and then he told me to meet him in the back alley. For $200 dollars I was able to score, which is the correct term for drugs, 6 pills of a super secret fertility medicine that doesn’t even have a street name yet. I thought 6 were too many for my sweet Carolyn so I ate one. What? I didn’t want to waste it! I don’t know if it had any effect on me but that night I saw the saddest episode of Gilmore Girls ever. Those writers are genius. I cried into my snuggy all night.

A few days later after the medicine ran its course it finally came down to it: insemination. OK, Bradley. You can do this. Positive thinking, positive thinking. Do it for the family. Carolyn popped the medication like they were Skittles while I did some of my Pilates breathing exercises. OK…sex. Sex with your wife…and your wife’s...vagina. Boy was I ever nervous! I’m just glad Carolyn left her Doc Martin boots on. For some reason that really comforted me.

You know how these things go. We went to the doctor and he confirmed that Carolyn was indeed pregnant, and somehow 5 months just sprung by. My co-workers at the sewing store were so happy that I was going to be a daddy! Glenda, Betsy and all the girls pitched in and got me a baby car seat for my Geo and just the most adorable little baby bonnet in the world. I think Carolyn’s friends at that bar she hangs out at every weekend got her some cigars.

I remember the kids’ birthday quite well, all these little details. Our taxi driver’s name was Carlos Mohamed Popadopolis. The nurse serving as a midwife had grime under her finger nails. Carolyn wore her boots in the stirrups. I was wearing my ABBA t-shirt I use for working out. When the doctor announced that I was the father of a healthy, 1lb, 2oz. baby boy, well, I was floored. Imagine, my own, tiny little porcelain doll baby, not unlike my Hummel figurines. And when he said I was the father of ANOTHER, similar sized baby girl, well, I was beside myself. Simply beside myself. By the time he announced my 9th child, the buzz wore off. The final tally was 15 beautiful babies, who immediately had to go into an incubator since they were 4 months early. What a stud I am! And my sweet, sweet, Carolyn. What a trooper. The doctor said that after the birth, her body immediately went into menopause.

What to name them?! There’s so many. We agreed that I would name 7, she would name 7 more, and the last one we would name together. Since Carolyn made me get rid of my cats when she moved in, and they were my babies first and always will be, I named my kids after them, so a piece would always be with me.

Sniffles
Grumpy Face
Whiskers
Bun-Bum
Fang
Schitzo
Mr. Meowski

I don’t know why Carolyn named hers as she did.

Lezly
Doc
Klit
Harley
Indigo
Cunner
Lingus

And for our final daughter, we decided together on Howard because we both hate it (the name, not the baby)

Money isn’t a problem. The nice people at the federal government and Discovery Health Channel together are giving us $1,000/mo for each kid! That’s more than enough to buy food and clothes if we buy in bulk. God bless Wal-Mart. Plus Carolyn came up with a brilliant idea. Instead of getting 15 different bunk beds, which is costly, takes up too much room and is has this really icky “orphanage” vibe to it, she thought it would be practical, and adorable, if the kids slept in one big communal bed. Just like hamsters! I love hamsters! They’re so cute!

And so is my gigantic family.

I Barfed All Over My Keyboard

Sometimes writing these blog entries feels a lot like long, disappointing sex. At the beginning everything is great. I’m satisfied, my partner is satisfied (I suppose in this analogy you, the reader, are getting fucked by me), and all that’s needed is like a 15 minute break before I’m ready to go again. Over time I’m getting weaker and weaker, I’m running out of moves so I start improvising weird sex positions but I can match the initial high until finally I get out of bed to make myself a sandwich and simply never come back or call you, which is just a really round about way of saying “I suck so I’m taking a permanent sabbatical”.

I have two forces playing against me. The first one is where I am: the office. At the time this sentence is being written, it is now 10:00 AM. I’ve been at work for an hour and a half I haven’t spoken to a single, goddamn person. Which is fine! I’m totally cool with that. Intense boredom brings out my creative side. When I worked in a bakery (aka, handling your food) I would make little puppets and monster characters out of stuff I found in the garbage.

The second force is my creative process. You know how I write one of these things? I sit on my ass, stare at the florescent light right above my head, and pull from thin air a handful of words that would make a funny title. Then I work backwards, centering everything around that. Imagine a car company doing that. Imagine them engineering a car but starting with names like Avenger, Firebird, or Hummer.

This was going to be today's entry. Check out what brilliant literature I gave up on this morning:

Back in My Day

Kids today don’t know squat! I see ‘em running around and doing that little [gestures phone texting] “beep boop” thing on their phones. I have one phone and it’s on my kitchen wall consarnet! And I use it only to call family, the police and the gas company! They don’t even look like phones. They look like something outa one of them Action Comics ya get at the corner market. My son the investment banker used to get ‘em all the time for a nickel. That was back when we lived in Providence. It was so lovely back then. That was after the war, ya understand.

But these kids today! No respect! With their sneakers and their electric do-hickies and their juice boxes. Why, when I was their age and wanted juice, ya’d go down to the 5th street market up to one of the I-talian stands and get a piece of fruit. Then ya’d squeeeeze it straight into yer mouth. That’s where juice comes from! Right there, from God’s green orange.

My first wife Eleanor, God rest her soul, loved kids [gets teary-eyed and stares off into the distance]

Something changed in this country! I’ll be walking down the street and see this little…Halloween girl who looks like something out of one of them horror pictures. But the thing is, half the time it ain’t even a girl! It’s a boy! If I were that boy’s father I’d smack the queer right out of him! The queers in this country have ruined it! In my day no one was queer. No one! Well, there were some but the only ones they screwed were each other and the kids who got tempted with smokes and a bottle of wine. But at least none of ‘em looked like…[sputters and flails arms]! I tell you, the Dem-y-crats made it OK for queers and rapists and murderers and niggers to be here, and last I checked them things were bad.

And they’re all on the drugs! I seen reports on the news and they say every kid is on drugs! Murdering and dealing and stealing so they can get a goooood long toke of reefer. When we smoked reefer it was only when we was done working or when we needed to get through the day. My daddy was a rum-runner and he told me stories about how he and his partner Freddy’d smoke and then go on runs with the coppers chasing them. That’s when ya really need it!

{insert-hypocrisy on sex in media versus flappers}

{insert-rant on blacks and barack obama}

{insert-catharsis}

Look at all that stupid nonsense that was going nowhere. I barfed on my keyboard and that’s what came out.

What I really need is a mental sandwich. I need to go out and do something new. Something exciting. I need to break into Six Flags and ride roller coasters backwards at the same time a Belgium squatter is giving me a home made Depeche Mode tattoo that says “Ultra” while I’m eating a burrito. I need to pick a fight with someone in the military. I need to brush my teeth. Something!

I’ve written some weird, unfunny shit in my day (and today), but at least I’m not as uncreative and worthless as this guy: http://perezhilton.com/

Chicks love “witty” fags because they embody their inner stupid bitch SAID IT! I FUCKING SAID IT!

Isolation is Fun!

Your Carnival Cruise ship hits another Carnival Cruise ship (but it’s shaped like an iceberg) and goes down in the South Pacific. You wash up on the shore of a deserted island where you spend the rest of your days talking to garbage and writing Christina Aguilera lyrics and throwing them out to sea in bottles.

You wake up one morning from your night with Mr. Jack Daniels only to find the entire population of the Americas has been decimated by a mutated rabies virus. You spend the rest of your days stealing, then crashing, and then stealing more Mercedes luxury sedans and eating twinkies.

Your on-again-off-again girlfriend sleeps with your best friend and then has the audacity to break up with you but for real this time (the nerve!). Suddenly, volunteering for a position in a remote Antarctic post doesn’t seem that bad. You spend the rest of your short, crazy days jerking off at the penguin colony next to your shack.

You get really, really high one night, watch Into the Wild, and think, “man…I gotta…I gotta…I need to do this shit. This is…is…like...he’s got it all figured out, man.” You fly out to the Alaskan wilderness where you spend the rest of your days living like a cross between Survivor Man and a hobo.

See? Isolation is fun!

You arrive at work the morning after a huge ice storm that incapacitates the entire state. And you’re the sole person in the office…

What do you do?

1. Raid the kitchenette fridge – That’s where all the good stuff is. None of it belongs to you, and that’s half the reason it tastes so good. It’s where Fat Cathy keeps her “secret” reserve of chocolate donut holes. That’s where the leftover pizza from Monday’s meeting is kept. Oh you didn’t get any at the meeting? How silly of me, of course you didn’t get any! You’re only a temp. Yeah, well, now this temp is king. King I say! King of the office! Gimme that fucking shitty Lito pizza!

2. Sit in your boss’ chair –Who’s the boss now? I am! All of you get back to work! Who are you talking to? The office. But no one’s here. It’s just you. What? You’re talking to yourself. No I’m not. Yes you are. Shut up. You are a fucking crazy person. Shut up! You’ve gone ku-ku la bamba loony tunes on me. Get out of my office! I can help you! I don’t want your help! I want you got get back to work! Help me help you, which is actually me! Shut up! Shut the fuck up!!!

3. Unplug the mouse and keyboard from the back of your boss’s computer – This is hysterical because you know tomorrow there’s going to be 3 IT guys standing there going “uh, next time you might want to check to see if everything’s plugged in before you call us out here (you inept old man)”

4. Strut down the halls naked – And I do mean strut. Feels good, man. Really does. You’re gross and a liar. You didn’t do that today and you never will. I told you to shut the fuck up and go back to work! You’re a fucking crazy person! Get out of my office!!!

5. Enjoy a liquid lunch – Being drunk at work can be both one of the worst and one of the best feelings ever. It sucks when you’re like a bus driver or a doctor, but if you’re just some jackass college grad, you can put your feet up and realize you’re drunk, you’re watching TV online, and being paid to do so. Life is sweet.

6. Keep a diary of your insane thoughts – blog

Origin

It was the coldest winter the Soviet Union had seen in over a century. Architects of the Vyatka prison had not anticipated temperatures reaching well below -50F, which jeopardized the structural integrity of The Ice Chest, the name given by the inmates to the prison’s solid iron maximum security holding cell. The walls and bars made a terrible sound; screeching and straining as the metal constricted in the Hellish freeze, the blistering wind sounding a death whistle as it shot past any open crack in the corners of the ceiling. The cell nauseatingly swayed back and forth, back and forth, in the wind, up high on the 30 foot support struts. It resembled a look-out post.

And there, sitting in this deceptively weak structure in total silence were the two worst criminals Vyatka had to offer. Nikolai Zhabin had been a goods smuggler since 1965. He was able to illegally import everything from toilet paper to tampons through a network of international circus performers and entertainers. His connections to the Moscow Ballet proved indispensable when the demand for nylon stockings and cotton underwear shot up (the demand, by the way, was created by just announcing such products existed). And if you wanted feminine hygiene wipes, there was a Turkish midget with scoliosis Nikolai could talk to. His trade empire crumbled when he mistakenly shot and killed a Red Army soldier who was trying to buy adult diapers for his aging mother.

The other prisoner was none other than the infamous Sergei Vasiliev. A serial mass murderer who slashed a red scar through the heart of the Soviet Union, from his first few slayings at a Yakutsk market, to 5 massacres in Tula and 6 in Kyiv, finally culminating in the now internationally famous Daycare Slaughter in St. Petersburg, resulting in a total body count of 56. How he got caught is the stuff of legend; after he butchered the last child he went out and bought a bottle of vodka. He proceeded to get drunk in the middle of the day and pass out on a park bench amidst the stirring masses of the city who were just now learning about what happened in a downtown daycare center. The police apprehended him without incident.

And there the two men sat in total silence, staring at each other. It was 1977.

They each shared a mutual understanding. As soon as one let their guard down, the other would kill him. Nikolai would kill out of necessity, out of self preservation, out of safety. Sergei would murder for fun. This information was shared completely through non-verbal communication.

But their duel would come sooner than they realized, and fortune would favor one over the other. One of the 4 support struts, the west strut, finally buckled at the knee and split almost exactly in half. It started of with a creek, louder and louder, farther and farther the Ice Chest wavered high above, adding torque and stress to the already weakened leg until it finally snapped like a giant, metallic chicken bone. The metronomic movements of the shared cell ceased and finally charged towards one direction. Unfortunately for Nikolai, it was his side of the cell that no longer had any support. Without the west strut, the other 3 succumbed to the cold and top-heavy weight, and the whole structure came down. Sergei saw his chance. Jumping into the fall, he leapt towards Nikolai, grabbing him in a bear hug and held on for dear life.

“You Bastard!” Nikolai was able to shout before they hit the ground. The entire cell landed with a terrible crash and cracked open like an egg.

There was no longer any creaking, or Nikolai yelling. The only sound came from the wind running through the trees. There in the snow laid Sergei on top of the now dead body of Nikolai whom he used to cushion his fall.

Sergei took a moment to analyze his situation. He looked up at the sky, gave a small smile, and then ran off into the dark woods that bordered the prison before the guards could put on the proper winter attire and chase after him.

The prison was supplied with energy from the Kursk Nuclear Power Facility 10 kilometers away. As one of the first of its kind built in the USSR, it displayed all the problems of a bloated government prototype that was never meant for actual scale production. Aside from the glaring problems of an inefficient turbine system, a charcoal cooling system instead of graphite, and a condensate de-mineralizing system that was in dire need of new filters, the plant’s most hazardous flaw was in how it stored used uranium rods. The radioactive nuclear waste was housed in barrels. Regular, ordinary tin barrels that were then buried 60 feet underground, just a little too close to the ground water which fed the river that the plant was constructed next to.

Negligence had soon turned the surrounding area into veritable poison trap. A scorned piece of earth in which barely anything survived, and if it did, it wished it didn’t. A forest of death.

The same forest Sergei was trudging through.

Sergei’s initial burst of energy waned as the excitement of escape wore off, and the damning cold set in. Quickly, his running slowed. A mere 10 minutes had passed, but it felt like an eternity. This was far worse than prison; he would soon be encased in ice. “Why have the guards not searched for me,” he thought. It’s not hard to assume that they simply left his fate up to nature. And sure enough, he soon took his final step, collapsed at the foot of a giant, yet slightly misshapen Norway Spruce, and waited for death to arrive.

The guards did indeed intentionally forget about him. “Good riddance,” they thought. They removed the wreckage from the Ice Chest crash, gave Nikolai a proper burial, and proceeded life at Vyatka as normal.

As always, life goes on, even in prisons. Guards came and left, prisoners left and entered, and winter turned into spring. The spring thaw in Russia is quite a sight. Its climate permits rapid changes in weather. It is a time when everything is wet. The soil cannot absorb all the melted snow, so for a few weeks the environment is quite swampy.

It is here where Sergei’s frozen corpse gets a second chance. As weeks go by the ground beneath him becomes softer. First it is muddy, then cakey, and finally like a disgusting, shit textured bread pudding. It is not only the ground which changes; it is Sergei too. Swallowed up by the earth, his body is now able to properly decay, a process which winter robbed from him. Bacteria inside him are revived, feasting on his body and turning it into rot. The earth begins to digest him, warming his body, infusing it with soil. Tainted, radioactive soil…

A miracle is when God or heaven performs the impossible. There needs to be a phrase for when Satan does the same. “Hell froze over,” perhaps. Well, Hell did indeed freeze over. But it thawed out and was digging itself out of the swamp that rebirthed him.

Sergei, the nuclear abomination, not quite dead, not quite alive, powered by hate and radioactive isotopes, marched back towards Vyatka.

With the prison in his sights, Sergei picked up speed. He started jogging. When he got closer he started running. Then sprinting. Faster and faster, never slowing down, he charged the wall and perfectly scaled the 20 foot structure like a phantom. He leapt high off the wall and landed in the center of the recreation yard where the inmates were idly spending their afternoon.

A smile crept across Sergei’s peeling face.

The carnage that unfolded is the stuff of nightmares. Sergei grabbed the closest inmate and nearly lifted him off the ground. He drew him close and bit into his neck. A clean hunk of flesh was torn from his neck. Blood gushed from the giant, open wound, the prisoner unable to shout in protest; half out of blinding terror, half out of the fact that he was missing part of his throat. Sergei swallowed the skin in one fell gulp, and then dove into the prison crowd. Inmate after inmate fell before Sergei. Limbs were ripped from sockets and chewed on, faces torn off from their heads and eaten like gravy skin, ears and noses bitten straight off. Sergei was drunk on blood-lust, filling his desire and body cavity with more prison food. The guards were nowhere to be found.

When all were slain, Sergei rested. A pile of bloody dead served as his throne. The sun cast long shadows in the late evening. Sergei made himself comfortable. He leaned back and looked up at the sky, watching calm clouds drift by. His stomach was swollen, filled nearly to the brim, almost as if he were pregnant. Casually, he tore a hunk of flesh off of an inmate that was serving as an arm rest and popped it in his mouth. Finally satiated, he closed his eyes and had his first peaceful rest in months.

The sun woke Sergei up in the morning as it glistening through the guard towers. He got up. In a moment of panicked remorse, he yanked down his pants and took a humongous, wet, slightly florescent green shit in the middle of the yard. The totality of putrid damnation fell out of Sergei’s body, a flowing torrent of all of life’s sins. It was hot and burned Sergei as it exited. When he was finished, he pulled up his pants, charged and cleared the wall, and ran off into the wilderness to continue his rampage.

...

And that shit grew up to be…

Rush Limbaugh.

Rush Limbaugh is radioactive Soviet criminal zombie shit.

And the rest, is history.

Diary of a Big Game Hunter: Job Search

7/12/08
The Kenyan Ranger Service has finally found my poaching trail; cutting trough the center of Rift Valley and straight into the heart of Masai Mara. Fortunately for me, I was away from one of our reserve camps my crew and I established. I was in Nairobi shagging university students. If I had to not get caught, I’m glad I was not caught while shagging university students. My hunting compatriots were not so lucky. “Laurence, you have to be fucking professional when you’re out here in the bush!” they’d yell at me. “Stay here and help us track that lion pride we spotted a week ago.” Now they’re walled off in some shit hole of a cell being refused communication and extradition back to Britain. While I am still a free man, I have just lost my primary source of income.

9/2/08
Bloody Hell. I am nearly out of money. The last lion pelt went months ago, and I was able to turn a right nice profit (sold one to a lady in the states; lives in Chicago, is on TV, first name begins with an O…Oprah. I sold a dead lion’s skin to Oprah Winfrey for $120,000. There, are you happy?). I don’t know how I burned through it so quickly. I remember…it was last Friday. Friday afternoon. I woke up in my luxury suit at the Flemings Mayfair. I laid out lines of cocaine on the night stand last night so I’d have some lines ready and able right when I woke up. No mucking about. I was listening to Oasis at full volume on my Bose theatre system when I heard a knock on the door. I thought it was probably room service bringing up my routine platter of fois gras and duck a l’orange. Instead I was greeted by 2 very gruff looking bobbies and the hotel manager. All 7 of my cards had been maxed out from the previous month and I was finally being evicted. That was the moment I realized my luck had turned to bollocks. It’s a good thing they didn’t personally remove my belongings or they would have found my polar bear skin underpants and anaconda boots (I shagging last night. I forget who she was and she was gone when I woke up, but it doesn’t matter. You always have to bring you’re A-game to the sack).

9/4/08
Things are dire. I’ve started looking for jobs. Actual, jobs. Father and mother have refused to pay for anything else in my life, but I still expect to collect a healthy inheritance from them when they croak (more on that later) and royalty check from the Guinness Peat Group. All I have done for the past 8 years is hunt game. I figured the best equivalent was to work for the London Humane Society. Sure, I would still be tracking and killing. But it’s a little high, little low. The only thing that made me apply for the job was the knowledge that I would at least be murdering dogs several times a day. I never got the job. These fucking interviews are worse than customs. “What was your last form of employment? Why are you no longer doing that? Why do you want this job?” You should have seen the look on his face. It twisted up like rigor mortis when I answered hunter, the Kenyan government, and to kill dogs. “Is that vest made of real leopard?” Actually, no it isn’t real leopard you wee ginger cunt poofter. It’s jaguar and I bagged it myself.

9/7/08
What a crock the police in this country are! I forgot how supposedly how much we “value” “human” “life” here. I was watching Hot Fuzz last night and had the most brilliant idea: shoot humans! That is easily just as dangerous as stalking any rhino or tiger. But I forgot one big problem. Police here don’t carry guns! I’m so used to seeing authoritative police-state patrol men and the militant rebel fighters the police are chasing strolling down the marketplace with AK’s and RPG’s that I completely forgot Britain has order! From this day forward I promise never to buy horrible coke from those fucking Somalians at the corner shop and then watch Simon Pegg movies.

9/16/08
What the fuck is all this rubbish about the economy? Credit Crisis? Meltdown? Black Monday? No wonder it’s been so hard for me to find a proper job! It’s not my fault…it’s the CEO’s! All those greedy, self-serving, rich arsholes who would rather watch the world sink into the ocean than give up one ivory back scratcher (which is stupid since any more than 5 is just excessive). How can they pillage, and they are pillaging by the way, without feeling the slightest bit of remorse. Don’t they know what they’re doing? To me?! There are some terrible people in the world. Let’s just say I sleep with my rifle now.

My Evil Plan

“My evil plan/Has failed again/For the benefit of man/I think I’ll…try again.” – Buttsteak, from their album Men Who Pause. 1995

Money is the root of all evil, and idle hands do the Devil’s work. What a shame it is (for you) that I am poor and bored. I’m basically Satan in a pair of Chucks right now. How to make a lot of money at the expense of your fellow human beings? That is the $64,000 question. I’ve been kicking around a few ideas.

Plan 74-S
Code name: Rudolph
The quickest way to make money is to steal it. The second quickest way is to create a new market and then dominate it. I’m going to make a new line of sanitary wipes. Some sort of anti-inflammatory thing for skin irritations. I’ll mix some milk and talcum powder together and dunk cotton balls into them. Super cheap to make. Call them “Cool Tips” or “Ice Clouds” or something stupid. Whatever. Leave the name up to the eggheads in marketing. Anyway, I put this product out there and then create a demand for them. The bhut jolokia pepper is the hottest pepper on earth; it is certified to be over a million Scoville units (regular Tabasco is about 5,000 units). This stuff will bring an elephant to tears. I don’t need many peppers. 10 will do. I take these peppers, grind them up and then make a little trip over to Louisville, Kentucky, Fort Patterson, Indiana, and various other places that manufacture Kleenex brand tissues and Johnson-Johnson products. Break it. Into the vat of moisturizing lotion go the peppers. Can you see it? Can you imagine the world? A little boy in a small mid-western town has a cold. His mother comes in and pulls out a contaminated tissue. He smiles at her, leans forward and blows his nose. But something is wrong. His face…burns. Everything burns! Oh my god why is his face bright red and his throat closing up?! He tries to scream, but can’t. Only a tiny gasp escapes his face, wet from sweat and tears. A man in Rockville, Maryland gets up during halftime of the big Skins-Ravens game. He sits down on the toilet and lets loose a big, wet shit. Unconsciously, he grabs a wad of toilet paper and wipes. But his comfort soon turns into blinding pain. It feels like someone is shoving a red hot poker up his ass! He falls to the ground, howling, pants still around his ankles, grabbing his ass and searching for answers. He won’t be shitting for a while.

I’d make a fucking killing.

Plan 117-T
Code name: Max Headroom
This is really an idea for a TV show, but it’s guaranteed to have 150 million viewers by the third show. It’s a sitcom. Play it on NBC. Advertise the hell out of as being “The must see show of the season!” but make it look really, really shitty. Something incredibly gay and predictable. Like a nerdy white guy who’s been best friends with a super hot chick since childhood and…I don’t know. They’re plumbers or something. In New York. Who cares? It’s supposed to be horrible. Make sure there’s a laugh track involved. Ok, here’s where it gets good. Right after the first commercial break, “interrupt” the signal transmission. Cut straight from the professional video recording equipment of this horrible show to a shaky, hand held camcorder. It’s broadcasting from some sort of industrial shithole of a basement. It’s dingy. It’s dark. It’s creepy. It’s like Saw. You can hear the cameraman’s hand as it squeezes the casing for the camera, and the echoes of a young woman screaming in this dungeon. The cameraman moves to a door where the screams get louder. He opens. Inside is a woman, bound up. She’s dirty, tired, and petrified. She screams louder when she sees the cameraman. Cut back to the sitcom. “That’s what she said!” *laughtrack*. Immediately have the president of NBC come out and disavow any knowledge of this incident and promise criminal prosecution for the signal interruption. Next week, do the same thing, except this time it’s a new girl trapped in the room, in the same spot that is now covered in dry blood. By the third episode you can make upwards of $100,000,000 in one, fucking night in advertising alone.

The ABC's of White People, part 3

Rastafarianism
Whoa whoa whoa, wait a sec. Are you telling me that a religion that was created by blacks, practiced by Jamaicans, states that the emperor of Ethiopia is the incarnation of God, practices the spiritual use of marijuana, and calls the western world “Babylon” is a thing of white people? Yes. Yes yes a thousand times yes. Ask yourself this. When was the last time you stepped into a black kid’s dorm room and saw a Marley poster? They’re too busy painting their own posters and fucking to give a damn about that pot-addled, barely coherent, dead man. It’s only white kids who grew up in a snow globe who really embrace that stuff. Let’s not kid ourselves here. Rastafarianism is fun; I’ll find any excuse to smoke. But it is by no means brilliant.

Scandinavia
If African-Americans came from Africa, and Asian-Americans came from Asia, then where do Caucasian-Americans come from? I cannot find Caucasia anywhere on a map. But if I HAD to guess, it would be Scandinavia, only because that’s where the best white people on Earth come from. No one is a dick, the women are knock-out dead gorgeous, they invented the world’s first robot out of clock parts 150 years ago, and it’s basically a winter wonderland. If and when American chokes on the vomit of capitalism and sinks into the annals of history right next to the Mongolian, Roman, Spanish and British empires, I’m moving to Scandinavia. Finally be able to go to a dentist and find out why my gums are always bleeding on some of that free, socialized health care.

Trailer Park Boys
Over the past few years white trash has been turning a dingy kind of color thanks to the influence of “urban” culture being played constantly on MTV, so you have hicks driving around trailer parks in Tennessee with 20” spinning rims and gold fronts. But this concept of poor stupid white people should not be lost forever. There is a bastion for such unmitigated hilarity, and it’s called Canada. Trailer Park Boys is a Canadian TV show (fiction, dude), that follows the lives of Julian, Ricky and Bubbles, 3 poor, stupid and hilarious white guys who are constantly coming up with money making schemes. This usually involves breaking the law, so needless to say they spend a lot of time in jail. Pot smoking is systemic. If this place where real it would be a poor man’s Scandinavia.

Ultraviolet Light
This stuff is like kryptonite for whites, and God help you if you’re Irish. How genetically disadvantaged are you if you get taken out by the freaking sun? Being nocturnal wouldn’t be that bad; get to party all night and feast on blood, but too bad our eyesight sucks so bad we would get taking out by everything else that goes bump in the night. So fun in the sun it is. UV light causes direct damage to DNA, which is fine. Punish it for being inferior (if I could draw a big red arrow from the end of this sentence to the beginning of the second one I totally would). Some people can produce melanin to protect them from the sun. My grandma is one of those people. She is the daughter of Polish immigrants and lived in Canada most of her life. She now lives in Florida and somehow, her skin looks like a piece of leather. But she’s my nana. Love ya, nana. And I hate getting sunburned. Fuck you, UV light.

Viewing the World through Other’s Eyes
Not as great a thing as it sounds. For one thing, you learn Chinese people think we are “fat and sentimental”, and that America “smells like hamburger”. Africans and middle easterners call us The White Devil and The Great Satan, respectively. Oh yeah? Yeah?! Well…fuck ‘em. They’re dicks. w00t w00t <3<3<3

Weird Al Yankovic
This guy’s pretty white. And hey! He plays the accordion! Alright. Cool. (side note: I thought he died years ago or something but nope. He’s alive. Also, UHF was not a terrible movie).

Xtreme Sports
I’m not talking about skateboarding or motocross. I’m talking about stuff like jumping from sky scrapers and professional glass eating. Stuff that amounts to playing Chicken on train tracks. Ignore, for two seconds, the fact that most of these people are bored white kids from the suburbs who are desperate for something, anything, to stimulate them like a counterweight against their humdrum upbringing. These people are pioneers. They are brave visionaries, boldly attempting the impossible. They’re like astronauts if there weren’t any I.Q. requirements.

“Yes We Did”
- Every minority and ~50% of white people on Nov.- wait. I already made this joke. How about “Y am I still writting when I have obviously run out of shit to talk about?”

Zippity-Do-Dah
This is the most racist shit I have ever seen, and it was made to entertain white children. “Oh look at that old colored negro. They all sing songs and talk like morons because we keep them out of your school for your own safety. But don’t worry they make excellent nannies.” Yeah, I’ve said some off-color remarks about blacks and all races for that matter but shit. This is a little blog that like 2 people even know exist. I’m not Walt Disney, here. And I’m only kidding (half kidding).

The ABC's of White People, part 2

Ice Sports
I would have just said “Ice Hockey” for this one but it’s simply not true. The NHL has been integrating more and more black people, or is it more and more black people have been integrating themselves into the NHL? Either way, they are all badass, good at fighting, and reason #4 on my top 10 list on why hockey fucking rules. Speaking in more general terms, it’s hard to find someone whose skin isn’t as translucent as the rink to attach to blades to their feet and twirl around out there. Michelle Kwan is Asian, but remember what I said about albinos? She counts.

Jesus Christ
Is he black or is he white? We’re going to figure this out once and for all.
Black: There were no whites in the Middle East back then, born in a barn, and walked on water (blacks don’t swim)
White: About a million pictures of white Jesus, God is white, and church says he’s white.

Um…gonna have to go with white on this one based solely on the fact that if I didn’t it would totally fuck up this whole ABC’s of white people list I’m making.

KKK
Talk about a honky convention. Yes, these guys are stupid, racist, inbred hicks who can barely work a shotgun and run around in white sheets pretending to be ghosts. But I have a question. What’s with the giant cross burnings? I get that they hate blacks but what is it supposed to symbolize? Confusion on what religions to hate? Aren’t these people Protestant? They hate Jews and Catholics. So is the cross supposed to be like this big, ominous warning of Hell for Jews, or are they just saying “fuck you” to Catholics and their messiah, which they also believe in? What stupid assholes. Fuck the lot of them.

Lattes
God forbid they don’t have their espresso enema in the morning. This stuff is crack for whites (both are stimulants, fyi). They “need” one to make it through the day. They love its rich, smooth, mellow flavor. The aroma of finely ground Moka mixed with warm, rich, creamery milk. A heavenly scent…the unmistakable…the…the…

…

…


…





…[Mark went to get a latte – ed.]

Medieval Times
An era of fast times, and even faster women. Of white hot passion, and white hot women. Wait. None of that makes sense. I guess if you like horses, eating with your hands, inferior technology, a caste system, and ugly clothing, this stuff is for you. You should check out its futuristic equivalent: the sci-fi convention.

Narcotics Officers
37th president of the United States Richard Milhous Nixon became the biggest buzz-kill in history when he first used the term “War on Drugs” to describe his little prohibition campaign. Weed and other drugs that were never worth doing suddenly became faux pas. Someone had to go out there and enforce the rules. Only a select group of men volunteered (and continue to do so). They all never really had a friend. They all uneventfully grew up, married the first girl that would sleep with them, and churned out a slew of jaded, resentful kids. They span the range of builds from average to husky. They all have mustaches and think Serpico is a God. The only music they listen to is Elvis. They don’t laugh because they don’t know how to. And most importantly they all have never seen a single drug in their life. Send them into East Harlem and Anacostia. Time to clean those dumps up!

Oppression
This and white people go hand in hand. Like butter on white bread (with a cool glass of milk to wash it all down. Mmmm). There isn’t a culture alive that has not been touched by the cleansing hand of Europe/USA. Ever hear of a boat full of Polynesians landing in Madagascar and setting up a sweat shop? Hell no it just doesn’t happen. We have fucked over every race on the planet: Latinos, Indians, American Indians, Eskimos, Abos, African Americans, Africans (living in the most fucked continent ever), Arabs, Persians, Asians, South East Asians, and even other whites when they got sick of wanderlust. Every race and culture is violent, but whites are violent on a global scale. Somehow they discovered early on that if you make the rules then you don’t have to play fair. This whole thing can be summed up in a little phrase called Manifest Destiny.

Polka
Ugh

Queen
Finally! Something good. This is probably one of the best bands of all time and if you’re not down with Bohemian Rhapsody or We Will Rock You then you need to seriously check your friends list and make sure it still exists.

The ABC’s of White People, part 1

Barack Obama will soon become our 44th president of the United States of America. And yeah, he’s our first black president. Sorta. We all know his Kenya dad and Kansas mom, yadda yadda, mutt, hurf-a-durf. Obama’s black side is rich with strife and culture, uniquely American and a verification that dreams can come true through hard work and common sense, both The American dream and Dr. King’s dream. A true triumph.

But what about his white side? What do we really know about it? I mean, common, this guy is still a total mystery, which means I still don’t trust him. It’s high time we unwrap this riddle of a conundrum of a puzzle of a Rubik’s cube that we call Whites.

Albinos
How can you tell if you’re white? Well, store managers will tell you to come on into their store and take your time. Sociologists will tell you some stuff that I can’t really repeat because I don’t listen to sociologists (lying, thieving rapists, all of them). Everyone else will say “your skin is white!” Doye. Race is a social construct established through shared physical features that are in no way heterozygous dominant. In fact alleles that determine race have incomplete dominance. A red rose crossed with a white rose will make a pink rose (gay). That’s why albinos are so damn white. It’s like they took genetics and went “PSHWAAAM! No screw you!” They are like the ultimate white people because they’re freaks of nature.

Beaver, Leave it to
Watch any black comedian and he will do a joke which compares whites to blacks. In it whites are always dopey, hokey, uptight in an “Ah, shucks!” kind of way. This is epitomized in the 50’s TV show Leave it to Beaver. Too bad families like the Beavers’ never existed. Ever. Common, we were in the Cold War and propaganda was our biggest weapon. Saying something became more powerful than actually doing something, so saying “hey, this is a typical American house and look how fucking awesome and well off they are” was like giving a smelly, poor ass, heathen USSR the finger. Plus it gave our white middle class something unrealistic to shoot for. Like how Barbie dolls give girls an unrealistic standard of beauty. Same thing, but for an entire class of people. Now, if you were a white, middle class girl growing up in the 50’s…

Crackers
Mike Birbiglia

Dairy Products
White people first walked the earth 8000 years ago in Europe. Before that they were blacks from Africa. In Europe they discovered 2 things. 1) it was cold as balls and 2) plants don’t grow in the cold. You make due with what you have, which means drinking lots and lots of fatty milk. This eventually turned them white, and that was beneficial because it helped camouflage them from Snow Yetis. White people love milk and cheese and will eat it on everything. One time, my buddy Adi and I got really baked and ended up eating dinner with his family and visiting relatives from India. His aunt told me that Indians don’t get osteoporosis because Indians don’t drink as much dairy as whites (and I think she mentioned something about Indians being from a particularly healthy stalk, or how Indian medicine was superior or something. I don’t remember. I was pretty gone). But, don’t Indians eat a lot of yogurt, and isn’t yogurt a dairy product? Aren’t Indians technically Caucasian? Don't they have bones? Someone give me a research grant.

Election Day
“Yes We Did! Yes We Did! Yes We Did! Yes We Did!” – Every minority and ~50% of whites on Nov. 4, 2008

“…fuuuuuuuuck…” – the other 50%

Friends
Only white people watch this show. It’s about a group of jackasses living in New York City who say horribly unfunny things but they get to screw each other, because they’re friends, and good times are had by all. To point out the elephant in the room, for a show that takes place in a major US metropolitan area, they never showed one single minority. That’s how white this show is. They segregated reality from fiction. The show also featured a laugh track.

Gentrification
This past summer in London I crashed some random house party in Hackney. It was fun. Nothing but a bunch of white students getting drunk. They started talking about how a few days ago there was a stabbing down the street, and how they didn’t feel safe with all the minorities (African immigrants, actually really nice people). I mentioned how I was from DC and shootings happen every single day. One said “Yeah I heard about that! There are some areas where you can’t even walk without being in danger!” All of a sudden I became Sgt. Hardcore Badass: Warrior of the Streets. “Yeah that’s right, man. You better watch yourself when you’re in my town!” I didn’t tell them I was actually from NOVA. The next day my sister took me to the Portobello Road Market where all these trendy hipsters were selling fedoras and scarves. She told me that like 10 years ago, this street used to be THE hood in London. This story relates to gentrification somehow, I just know it. All I know is I got some girls number at that party and that makes me happy.

Hitler
Nothing says white like trying to build an Aryan nation that will last 1000 years. And preaching your own genetic superiority. And eliminating all threats to your white utopian society. And being a colossal dick. And having that stupid fucking little mustache. And being German.

“The capital of North Dakota is named after this German leader”
*buzz!* “Hitler!”
“Hitler, North Dakota?”

The Brave and the Bold

I used to be a really picky eater. In fact I’m still a really picky eater. The only difference is now I’m in an adult with no money living in a recession. What can one man possibly do?

I’ll heed the call. My hero is a big fat bald gay Jew from NYC named Andrew Zimmern who travels the world and eats stuff that is comparable to the end product of digestion, not the starting materials. But fuck it. If that guy can go to a 3rd world country (which is like one big recession, forever) and eat a pile of fermented mystery meat, then gosh darn it all, I can be just as heroic too.

(I’m working on our superhero concept team of Jews who eat nasty things: He will be known as either Fat Man or The Iron Gut. I’ll be his trusty sidekick and ward Rat Boy or Scavenger. Homosexual undertones will be explicit)

The Trials of Rat Boy/Scavanger

Trial 1: Old Taco
Ordering food at Taco Bell is already like going up to the counter and asking for a big bag of food poisoning and diarrhea to enjoy in the morning. But left unchecked, let’s say in your garbage can over night, this small time crook can mutate into something…sinister. It was also horribly deformed from when I crushed it in my hands before disposing.

Plan of Attack: Throw it in the microwave, nuke the shit out of every last possible E. coli bacteria, and pray to God the hydrochloric acid in my stomach is enough to kill off the stragglers.
Results: It was hot and bland. Some of the tortilla hardened to the point where it looked like the skin of people who have been smoking for 50 years. I suppose the cheese in this analogy would serve as puss because that shit curdled (or something). Surprisingly, it wasn’t terrible. The only “uh oh” moment I had was an hour later when it entered my small intestine. Nothing a little “don’t puke” chant can’t solve.

Trial 2: Vodka Gummy Rings
What once was a noble quest to discover new and exciting ways of getting drunk, something went horribly, horribly wrong. The procedure was simple enough; place gummy bears in a large plastic Tupperware set, pour in a butt ton of vodka, leave in a fridge for 2 days, and then enjoy your vodka-swollen treats. But time constraints forced it down to a day and a half, and in lieu of gummy bears, we used gummy life savors. The two have completely different chemistries. Oh the hubris of man’s folly!

Plan of Attack: Scarf that shit down.

Results: It wasn’t the taste…it was the texture. Good. Fucking. Lord. Slimyness was a constant throughout digestion. They started off chewy and rubbery but instantly started to dissolve in the mouth. It was like trudging the bottom of a lake, pulling up a drowning victim, and then eating its lemon/orange/lime/cherry/wildberry anus. Rarely have I ever gotten the urge to spit something out on texture alone. The way around this toughest of foes was to just swallow the whole thing at once. The leftover stuff, a Tupperware container full of flavored vodka, was actually quite delicious.

Trial 3: Andrew Zimmern’s Cock
…

Plan of Attack: …

Results: …Heeeeeeeeeelllllllllllllllllllll no.

Fuck that, I’d rather starve to death.

Inside the Belly of the Beast: Wal-Mart

I had to get new batteries for a key chain. Not even my key chain; my sister’s key chain. It was a little, rubber, blue elephant she picked up in Spain. Many of the shape’s features had been worn off from the constant friction of being bombarded by phones, tampons, loose change, make-up bags and whatever other assorted things my sister carried around in her purse. When squeezed, a little light deep inside the elephant’s stomach lit up and illuminated the tiny keep sake. It was very special to my sister. Something about a drunk gift from a friend that was good luck because she finally nailed a guy she was after the day she got it, how this little blue elephant had become an inside joke with her and her friends, and how it could not be simply replaced.

And so I was placed with the sacred task of finding a new set of batteries when the light burnt out (and changing the batteries since my sister is far more inept at these sorts of things). She said I owed her. She said, “I’m always letting you hang out with my friends, um, I let you have some of my leftover Carona, you owe me.”

“Where the fuck am I going to get batteries for your stupid thing?”

“I don’t know. Shit…Wal-Mart? And it’s not stupid, you asshole. Here, take these.” She handed me her precious blue elephant. “Take out the batteries and ask someone who works there to get you a set of replacements. Hurry. I’m going out tonight.”

Why Wal-Mart? That place makes me feel so uncomfortable. There are a million other stores I would rather walk into. That includes second-hand gun stores operated by guys who were too stupid for military service (“The fuck you doin’ here, faggot?” the guy wearing a green wife beater behind the counter would say) and stores that specialized in selling pajamas for pre-pubescent girls (“PERVERT!” their mothers would scream). If I need to go to a whole-sale store where I can buy both a plasma screen T.V. and a barrel of pretzels, I’ll go to fucking Target.

I’ve heard some horror stories about Wal-Mart. Like the kid who grabbed a bunch of magazines titled Pregnancy or Maternity Living and ran off into a plastic fort for kids to jack off. Or how about the guy who stripped naked in the middle of a checkout line to drop a duce on the conveyor belt? Then there’s always the running stereotype of the majority of their patrons; the teeming swaths of the damned, a mixture of NASCAR tank tops, complex carbohydrates, Coca-Cola, and IQ’s of ~85. Certain characters come to mind, like The Mother; the slow moving sow on her 5th kid, breast feading in the store as her little hellions run wild, knocking over merchandise because “dey haf da ADD”. Or The Professional Jailer; the scrawny gentleman dressed in near rags, scruffy facial hair and assorted tattoos ranging from a crucifix he picked up in prison to the rebel flag his dad gave him at 8. Under his arm is his pregnant girlfriend. She’s 15.

Fucking savages.

I have it in my mind that Wal-Mart brings out the worst people and the worst in people.

I park my car and approach the door. The Wal-Mart greeter, hunched over old man, looking even more frail in the blowing wind, coughs into his hand. The Harbinger stares at the contents for a minute before turning around and heading inside. All this happened under a display of the store’s mascot; a giant, yellow smiley face with the words “Have a nice day”. A bad omen.

Wanting to get out as soon as possible, I grab the first employee to cross my line of sight. He’s about 17 and looks like he's probably really into Offspring. I make note that the front door, in addition to leading to the gates of Hell, is also a time portal. His nametag reads “David”.

“Hey David,” I say trying be as inoffensive as possible. “I’m looking for batteries, but not like double A’s or triple A’s or d-cell. I’m looking for like, these special little ones that are like tiny, sliver disks.” I pull out my sister’s dead elephant batteries to show. “You know where I can find some?”

His gum chewing slows to the pace of a fucked-up cow. He turns slowly to a small stand of Energizer batteries, the ones next to packs of candy and DVD’s of Jingle All the Way and Heat. Smiley face mascots were telling me these hits were marked down from $12.99 to $10.99.

“No. Not, like double A’s or triple A’s. Like theeeese” I said, now trying to not sound like a curt dick; like I’m pissed off. David mumbles something about the back room and to check with people in the back room, before turning away and heading off to play one of the demo games of Madden ‘09 in the electronics department.

I head for the back of the store. On my way I pass a mother and son. The boy is trying on sweaters. For some unexplained reason the mother slaps him upside his face. He manages to get airborne, hovering just off the ground before crashing into shelves of shirts with Sponge Bob Square Pants’ image on them. He begins to cry. The mother angrily marches toward him, I assume to finish him off. Yellow smiley faces are displayed all over this area.

Around the corner in an aisle of the toy department a girl in her early teens and a guy in his early 20’s are furiously making out. She’s standing on her toes. The guy reaches around, grabs the girl’s ass, not so subtly lifting up her skirt, and then goes further. He lifts her off the ground by her vagina to get better leverage and a better angle of attack on her face. She's sitting on his hand like it's a bicycle seat. Probably no less than a dozen yellow smiley faces are watching them go at it.

Someone left a used diaper in the middle of the corridor I’m walking along. Condensation formed on the tile from when the shit was so hot it was steaming under the air conditioning vent. It looks like it had been there a while. More yellow smiley faces.

Finally I reach the entrance to the back room; the storage area adjacent to the loading docks where they receive and store merchandise before going out on the shelves. Guarding the gate, which is adorned with tiny, yellow smiley faces, is the old man from before: The Harbinger.

I reach into my pocket to pull out the batteries, but The Harbinger is too quick for me.

“Batteries?” he gently asks. A twisted smile cracks across is craggy face. I pause; weigh the question in my mind, before nodding slightly.

“Right this way.” He pulls back the plastic sheeting to allow me in. As I pass we make direct eye contact. He still smiles at me. I notice the hand he coughed into. His palm is stained a deep burgundy. “Have a nice day.”

This is a completely different world. I’m in a warehouse. I’m in a Victorian-era sweat shop. I’m in a futuristic power plant. I’m a seedy ally in Beijing at night. The pale, fluorescent ceiling tiles of the store give way to a few scattered, yellow incandescent bulbs which poorly illuminate this new realm. Towers of boxes and crates stamped with the Wal-Mart logo form a twisted landscape; half city block, half labyrinth. Steam seems to shoot out of every corner. Inside it’s muggy and damp. There are puddles everywhere. It’s like a gym locker room. I am almost overcome by the putrid smell of rot.

Not sure where to go, I pick a direction and follow it blindly. The ceiling is surprisingly high. This…place…is surprisingly large. Anxiety inside me forces the idea of getting lost in here forever into my mind. I clutch my sister’s little blue elephant close to my chest.

I am treated to a cadre of macabre sights. In one of the nooks and crannies of the towers I spy David. He is out cold, splayed belly-down over a crate. The Xbox360 controller is still in his hand. A large, shirtless, pot-bellied man wearing a NASCAR hat pulls down David’s pants and begins to sodomize him very roughly. I can’t tell if the man is sweating or if it’s all the steam but his grunting at every awkward thrust makes it obvious that he has not gotten laid in quite some time. Further down my path the floor becomes sticky. Large open containers of bloody remains are everywhere, and it is now evident that I am behind the butcher's shop of the store. A horse is held off the ground high in the air by its hind legs, attached to an industrial pulley. It is still alive. A very haggard looking woman, thin from either mal-nutrition or constant stress, walks over to a controller and lowers the horse to just above the cement ground. She lifts up an axe and begins to dutifully smack the horse. She does not appear to be aiming for any specific body part. Both she and the horse are wearing NASCAR t-shirts. The horse’s shirt, and to a lesser degree the woman’s, are soon stained with blood.

Somehow I make it through. Somehow I find myself standing in front of a small, well lit manager’s office. The manager is a fat man. He is wearing a white, sleeveless, dress shirt with brown vertical stripes and a lime green tie. He is balding, but his hair still keeps its rich, dark tone. I bet he believes his comb-over is convincing. A little bit of tobacco saliva escapes his mouth and lands on the paper work he is mulling over, since he seems to like chewing his cigar more than smoking it. On the wall is a calendar. Ms. January is some super permmed, super feathered blonde bikini chick standing in front of an orange Mustang hot rod. The calendar is from 1988.

Without looking up he barks at me. “You the battery kid?!” More tobacco saliva lands on his paper work.

“Y-Yes. Yes I am. I’m looking for-“ He cuts me off.

“I know, God damn it! I know exactly what you’re looking for. We all know what the Hell you’re looking for.” He opens up a drawer in his desk and pulls out a packet of batteries. They look like the kind I need. At this point I really don’t care. “Here, ya go.”

Almost as if a curse had been lifted off me, I could feel myself get lighter. This is what I wanted, and now it’s finally here. I walk over and take the pack from his hand. But as soon as that’s done the curse descends once more, this time in the form of the manager’s meaty hand grabbing my wrist.

“Now you listen to me,” he said in a low, angry tone. His beady eyes are dead locked on mine. His hand is crushing my wrist. “You get out of here, and you best forget what you saw in here today. Do you understand me?” A moment passed. “I said do you fucking understand me?!”

“Yes!” I stammer. He lets go and I fall backwards. The whole time he was speaking I was desperately trying to get away; completely unaware I was doing it. It was a natural reaction, a subconscious response mechanism left over from a more primal time in our ancestry. I was able to pivot on the ground and about face. I'm in fight or flight mode. Without hesitation I sprint through the door, through the darkness, and through the chaos. The manager’s voice echoed in the cavernous dungeon.

“Oh yeah! Have a nice day!”

Anyone Can Rap

The new season of Comedy Central Presents is coming up. One of the performers is a young gentleman named Bo Yo who has gone from posting raps on youtube to his own special in less than 6 months. Am I jealous? Of course I'm fucking jealous. My only solace comes from knowing he's a flare-up. Hell, anyone can rap. It's not like a skill or anything...

Aint it scary
How any idiot
Can lift
A rhyming dictionary
And spin two words
That you never heard
Like when
I’m fucking a bitch
And I get the itch
To stick it in her hitch
Completely undeterred?
Break her ass cherry
Though I aint no fairy
On the contrary
I’m revolutionary!
Spread her bubble
On the double
She’s in trouble
I see her moon
With my foot long Hubble
In and out
Rhythm and flow
Nowhere to go
I’ll fuck your head up
And the status quo
Yo bro, Sloppy Joe
Didn’t you know?
I’m fucking incredible
Your rhymes are deplorable
My beats are unstoppable
But you know what’s impossible?
Missionary

Anyone can rap
Any lass, any chap
And if you can talk
And if you can clap
Then you can tap
Into all the crap
That white people love
That’s where
The money’s at

Now listen to me
Real closely
And you will agree
Step 1 is easy
Say things Blacks say
Like heezy fo’ sheezy
I know you’re whiter
Than Patrick Swayze
You ain’t NWA
You’re cheesy and gay
See…
I can make this ironic
But look how moronic
I look
When I talk about
The shit I smoke
(It’s fucking chronic)
Or my big fat dick
And the bitches on it
But let’s face it
My sex is platonic
This rap is sardonic
I ain’t no rapper
Who’s a thug and demonic
Hennessy?
Gin and juice?
Nigga I get drunk
Off gin and tonic
But there’s no excuse
For this duce I produce
Or my substance abuse
I don’t live hard
Or hang loose
In a noose I’ve made
For the common good
I’m no recluse
I’m well understood
My suburban hood
Is called Mt. Spruce

Anyone can rap
Any lass, any chap
And if you can talk
And if you can clap
Then you can tap
Into all the crap
That white people love
That’s where
The money’s at

To win this game
Step 2’s your name
It’s your claim to flame
Where you place the blame
For all your shame
And what you became
From hood rat
To street dictator
But don’t be lame
Once a simple hater
A lonely masturbator
But greater the time
You put in your crime
Busting coppers
And rolling dimes
The more chime and rhyme
You get
In this life of grime
See what I did?
That almost sounded
For real
What’s ideal to rap
About straps, and traps
The bitches you slap
The busters you cap
And all that peril;
Shocking the flocks
Who come to mock
When you grab your dick
And then moon walk
Glocks, lock stock
And two smoking barrels
Oh no fo sho
Don’t you know
How sick this shit is
Pissed off anglo?
Chill man, don’t irk
You still down
With all the Bros
But I gotta smirk
Since I wrote this beat
While at work
(Office Depot, woah)

Anyone can rap
Any lass, any chap
And if you can talk
And if you can clap
Then you can tap
Into all the crap
That white people love
That’s where
The money’s at

It’s the last verse
I’ll heed the call
And go balls to the wall
I’ll fucking yell
And I’ll fucking curse
I’m the best
And you’re the worst
In this contest
I’m way in first
Victory lap dance
In the players harem
No need to share ‘em
The pussy knows
Who’s dick
Will tear ‘em
I’m King Shit
And I’m here to brawl
On hands and knees
You will crawl
Fuck all yall
I win with ease
You better please
My dick’s getting off
If you’re a bitch
With a pussy or mouth
I don’t care which
Either way
You’re gonna bleed

Anyone can rap
Any lass, any chap
And if you can talk
And if you can clap
Then you can tap
Into all the crap
That white people love
That’s where
The money’s at

(it needs work, but not bad for a few hours of writting/actually doing work at my job)

Homeless People Have Shit to Say About Stuff

It’s true. These guys like jabber on and on and on and on…usually regardless of whether you want them to or not.

There are no bums in northern Virginia, so this conversation obviously took place across the river in smelly, bum-town DC which used to belong to smelly, bum-state Maryland. The man I talked to was none other than the legendary Charlie Scraggs, a man as epic as they come.

Charlie Scraggs: Hey my brotha! Brotha brotha brotha hold up a sec.

Me: Yeah?

Let me ask you a question

I don’t have any change, man.

Nah, man. See I don’t get off on that racist shit. We all just tryin’ to get by, you know what I’m sayin’? I don’t care if you black, or white, or Chinese or any of that shit, you know what I’m sayin’? You my white brotha, ya feel me?

…

What’s your name?

Tom [I lied]

Tom, you my white brotha-

Somehow I doubt that.

-see, thas the kinda shit I’m talkin’ ‘bout. See, when I was down in New Orleans after all that Katrina shit, and let me tell you, son, it was like a whole different scene, man.

How so?

Well for one thing, I didn’ have this here dog wif me [he does not have a dog with him]. I saved him from a burning boat that was burnin’ like a big ol’ BBQ just whooooosh! Ya feel me?

Where was this boat?

Shiii…9th ward, son. I was tryin’ to save this bitch I be fuckin’ but you know, I love her an all that but she lit one of ‘em big fucking *hand gestures a torch* [he’s talking about a flare] but this big fuckin’ wind came an’ knocked her out of da boat and went bam *claps* smack her head on a Texeco. Blood an’s shit an’ all that.

What did you do after that?

I climbed my ass in the boat wif this dog and all the water from God put it out. We stayed in that fuckin’ boat for 3 fuckin’ days, livin’ off catfish I catch wif my bare hands let me tell you. ‘Till finally I paddled that damn boat all the way to Houston.

That’s pretty far. Then what?

I opened up a hotdog stand. Yessirie. “Duke Ellington’s World Famous Hotdog Stand and Beer”. You can get a hotdog and a beer fo’ 2 dollas and just be sittin’ ‘round goin’ “Man, check me out. Ain’t I just the king of fools?” It was real good, son. Real good. ‘Till Duke Ellington showed up. He was like, “’Ey! Charlie Scraggs! The fuck you doin’ here in my town selling hotdogs and beer wif my name, nigga?” And Lord as my witness, that muthafucka may be blind as shit but he’s got a hook as straight and true as I’m here standin’ in Time Square with you here right now.

Right. Right. So what are you doing here in Time Square?

Thas the thing, man. I been to churches, to homes and ain’t none of these muthafuckas can get me any donations, ya feel me? ‘Cause like, my cousin was here startin’ all sorts of ruckus and shit, and like all he got me was this metro card thas got like 30 bucks on it, and I can’t eve use it at MacDonalds (sic) so if you give me 30 you can get this metro card.

I don’t have 30. I don’t even ride the metro all that oft-

Thas fine, thas fine. 20 then, but you gotta know you be fuckin’ over ol’ Scraggs here and I ain’t no bitch, ya feel me?

Look, I don’t have money to buy a metro card. I’ve got some change. You can have my change. That’s all I’ve got. Here.

Thank you, my brotha. God bless!

I Already Broke My New Years Resolutions

I wish life were like the movies. That way I can be like Jim Carrey, my hero, and resolve to change my life for the better, forever. Just like my hero. Jim Carrey.

Jim Carrey is my hero.

And that’s what life is all about. You’re supposed to wake up one day, lets say New Years day (waking up, by the way, from your 4 hours of gut-retching, delirious sleep you got on the floor of your friends bathroom), look through the puke encrusted mirror into your soul and say, “you know what? My life is FUCKED and I’m going to do something about it!” It’s tradition; you throw off your pair of soiled, hole filled underwear that is 2008 and pick up a fresh pair of all cotton 2009 snugness from Target and promise not to shit in these until, at the earliest, October. Well I may not have shit in 2009 but I definitely got a few skid marks in them.

I have to make several resolutions per year because I know I’m going to break a lot of them. This is in the hopes that at least 1, God willing 2, will make it past my error and I actually become a better person. It’s the “throw enough shit against the wall” theory of self improvement. Here’s what I broke and why. Most of these, I think, begin with the word “stop”, which just shows you just how good my habits are.

1. Stop Looking Like Jeff Goldblum Fucked Harry Potter. It’s the same resolution I make every year, and every year I make it exactly 0 seconds past midnight.

2. Stop Trying To Have Sex With Lesbians, Girls Who Want to Get Married, and Crazy Girls in General. Self explanatory, even if it’s a bit redundant. I tried to have sex with a lesbian in my car in front of the bowling alley. It’s the first time I ever saw a chick with mullet.

3. Stop Making My Mom Cry. I told her about the lesbian experience.

4. Stop Saying “Nigger”, “Nigga”, “My Shnegro”, and “Coloreds”. This one was not fair. I went to visit my friend Anthony, who lives in Georgetown and goes to GW med school. On the way over I was listening to my Richard Pryor comedy tape. Yes, tape. Title of the album? “That Nigga’s Crazy!” I’m over at Anthony’s and he’s introducing me to his med friends. The whole time I’m thinking, “Oh God, don’t say the word Nigger. Don’t say Nigger. Please…don’t say the goddamn word Nigger…” I get introduced to exchange student Christian from Ghana. “Whas up, my friend?” he asks me and sticks out his hand. I grab it and respond, “Nothing much, my ni-colored.”

5. Be Nicer to My Puppy. That huge fucker. He’s a Great Dane, 7 months old, over 100lbs and stupid as hell. He’s a about as smart as the people who appear on the Steve Wilko’s show. That monster ripped open a bag of garbage and went to town. What would you do? Pet it? Try to explain in human words why he was naughy? No you beat the shit out of it. Of course I felt bad but he forgot about the whole incident after like 20 minutes.

6. Stop Harassing Student Drivers. Hard habit to kick but its just soooo fun. If they don’t like getting cut off or tailgated then they should get off the road or learn how to drive like the rest of us.