He's sitting shot-gun, doing this trick that makes the beer disappear, rapping on something in his clicky-clack't staccato. They're calling her Holly Golightly- not cos she looks like Audrey Hepburn, more cos she kinda looks like Holly Hunter. He tries to give her this line from Sep Sunday, and she goes all mental about how it isn't really applicable.
He's talking in circles, knives out, using unuseable slang to explain hisself. The new girls are wondering if he's friends with his friends for the verbal lashing he dishes down. He makes it up by saying something cute about stockinged capped jones being a winner.
She talks in music, running on sentences, hitching hold to whatever part of the conversation is dangling her way. She's pulling the party back toward the apartment. They're conspiring over cupped shaped fingers about how to get the other two to kiss; the other two kick them out so they can make-out in the renovating apartment.
He goes your less like Holly Hunter; you're more like Irene Adler. You might be the life of me. She mumbles back, I'm married.
He's walking back home; she's getting driven back to her home. His buddy drops something like you okay? And he goes, Yeah, well, I guess... What was her real name again?
If I keep holding out Will the light shine through
Under this broken roof Its only rain that I feel Ive been wishing out the days
Come back
I have been planning out All that I'd say to you Since you slipped away Know that I still remain true
I've been wishing out the days
Please say that if you hadn't gone now I wouldn't have lost you another way
From wherever you are Come back
And these days they linger on And in the night I've been waiting for The real possibility that I may meet you in my dreams I go to sleep
If I don't fall apart, will my memory stay clear
So you had to go, and I had to remain here
But the strangest thing today So far away and yet you feel so close And I'm not gonna question any other way
There must be an open door For you to come back
And the days they linger on And every night when I'm waiting for The real possibility that I may meet you in my dreams Sometimes you're there and you're talking back to me Come the morning I can swear that you're next to me
think i'm going for a walk now i feel a little unsteady i don't want nobody to follow me 'cept maybe you i could make you happy you know if you weren't already i could do a lot of things and i do
tell you the truth i prefer the worst of you too bad you had to have a better half she's not really my type but i think you two are forever and i hate to say it but you're perfect together
so fuck you and your untouchable face and fuck you for existing in the first place and who am i that i should be vying for your touch and who am i i bet you can't even tell me that much
two-thirty in the morning and my gas tank will be empty soon neon sign on the horizon rubbing elbows with the moon a safe haven of sleepless where the deep fryer's always on radio is counting down the top 20 country songs and out on the porch the fly strip is waving like a flag in the wind y'know, i don't look forward to seeing you again soon you'll look like a photograph of yourself taken from far far away and i won't know what to do and i won't know what to say
except fuck you...
i see you and i'm so perplexed what was i thinking what will i think of next where can i hide in the back room there's a lamp that hangs over the pool table and when the fan is on it swings gently side to side there's a changing constellation of balls as we are playing i see orion and say nothing the only thing i can think of saying
Seen all good things and bad Running down the hill All so Battered and Brought to the ground I am hungry again I am drunk again With all the money I owe to my friends
When i'm like this how can you be smiling Saying How can you be sure? How can you be sure?
If you walk out the door Will I see you again? If so much of me lies in your eyes I am hungry again I am drunk again With all the money I owe to my friends
When I'm like this how can you be smiling saying how can you be sure? (I don't want you anymore) How can you be sure? (I don't want you anymore) How can you be sure? (I don't want you anymore) How can you be sure?
I don't want you I don't want you anymore I don't want you I don't want you anymore
the thing about dogs is they can lie down anywhere and be ready to die. i mean this literally. my dog has an uncanny knack for plopping himself down in the exact place where, if i roll over in the middle of the night, will virtually guarantee his death.
he doesn't seem to mind that he's a bad dream for me from the end of it all. he likes the heat. likes to be part of the pack. so he's willing to put up with occasionally hairy moments like being launched from the bed and down to the floor if mom needs more covers. it's not clear if he understands, but it's clear he's going to be there in the mix no matter what.
i don't point these things out to show how admirable dogs can be. or to imply that they know what they're doing. i don't know if he does or not. but there's something good about having an animal that notices when you're gone. it makes sense. i don't know who first domesticated dogs but the next time i have a drink i'll try to remember to make a toast to 'em.
First day walking through Wrig Town, jones wearing a Twins cap, offered him a beer. Bets said: This is too close to Boystown, but that's cool- jones didn't take it. Walking by the Newport on Southport, where it should be. Costellos was like that tonight.... Why? Why? Why?
Bitch Sux fans at Costellos. Cool, cool. They were at Tuman's- I was at Tuman's. I might've bought them a beer at Tuman's, while they were at the mercy of El Presidente. Before Cleo's. 2007 double header on the Southside, Morneau hits 1500 (low estimate) RBI in a double header. Best way to leave... in a sour way. Go Twins.
That perfect sunlight hits the North Side. Walking by the stadium in the winter. Touching something that is alive. Guthrie's on a cold night. Bad food, pricey beer, a porch to smoke, room enough for all your friends. Friends, friends, friends. Best times, best times, best times.
I just texted Ho: i dot thnk i couln live anyhere besides the nrthsid. These are stale cigarettes from last year. Chris texted that he's having twins, moving back to Chicago-can't get hold of him. He's teaching his kids to be Stealers fans. Please grow up Twins fans, please grown up Twins fans. Best fans in the world.
Ma is watching us do bar tricks at the Port, Irish Carbombs, and then advises where to pee in front of Northwestern Hospital park prior to going to the Blue Stem. Let me get back to St. Paul.
Ohn says something, two years ago on Marshfield, after the Bears lost, like: there is a saying we have, "There is Always Next Year". He used full caps to make it feel more poignant than the Jamison, on the rocks, Audra left an hour ago at Costellos that I drank.
There are few things more derelict in the world than a writer realizing the entire labor is complete and utter crap. That this stupid jones has somehow strung together a semi-redundant story over now 109 double spaced typewriter pages which only seen has fit to repeat and repeat and repeat itself.
Oh for a fire, Prometheus, some wayward flame, some more poignant burn than this cigarette, something to torch it all! Would it be but better for the world never to have known them than for me to have to return to this shit; to this variable puddle of words shit onto a page that must be dealt with tomorrow.
And this isn't the most hefty of writing assignments. No dear coituser, this Friday, I'm cast as this Man of Honor in the play of my sister's wedding. Thus I find myself called upon to make a speech on marriage. This venerable institution that I find little evidence or want to believe in.
Speak. Speak from the God blessed heart. Let the heavens ring with the sounds of you solidifying all. Oh but the weight of the Morning Star is upon us all. That utterly romantic tale of being in love so much that you're blinded to love en totale.
How are we supposed to exemplify love? What is it? Love is only regret... on repeat.
Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation or any nation so conceived and so dedicated can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting-place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead who struggled here have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that this nation under God shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth.
I light a cigarette prior to explaining neo-conservatism to Balddee. While perhaps all political parties are in part to blame for the no smoking bill, at least these folks I don't mind if I offend.
"You see Bald-O," Says I, clenching down on the end of my cigarette, letting the smoke roll deliciously out my nose, "They believe in the Republican idiom of don't tread on me. Or: Don't take my money even though they're not thinking of it from the big picture."
"I don't get it." Balddee says.
"You commie bastards. You think just because we don't want to give up our money, the money we worked for no less, that we don't care. We give more money to charities than your tight liberal asses do; it's just we get to choose who we are giving our money to."
"I don't get it." Balddee says.
"So are you saying that we're supposed to trust everybody to give to charities? Like we're supposed to trust in businesses to 'Do the Right Thing'?"
"But they're gay?" Balddee says.
"Yeah, but who gives you guys jobs? You get jobs from the businesses that we give tax breaks to."
"But you're gay?" Balddee says.
"True, but that mattered something before businesses acted like they were doing us a favor in giving us jobs then started moving those jobs overseas. Not to mention that they stopped paying the 40% of the taxes that they were paying back in the 1950s. You people make everybody afraid for their jobs, instill fear in people that the government is trying to take their money rather than help them, and then tell me I'm not American because of it."
"Who are you calling You People?"
"Oh go suck a cock."
"You'd like that wouldn't you?"
"No, because people's sexual preferences shouldn't be contingent upon their beliefs."
"Exactly. Now there is the meaning of a being a Gay Republican."
There are times in history when the human condition takes a turn for the extremely odd . No one can explain when or why or how this happens but it does, you read about it in your history books , Hell it happened Nationally when Bush won his re-election all those many moons ago. That I thought would be the last time I personally witnessed this phenomenon until Last night I leave the Political comments to Killer Smurf so I won’t go into which candidate I choose but I will talk about what the B-Love knows best the stupidity of Man /Woman .. I am in Minneapolis/St Paul Killer Smurf dragged me here for the Republican Convention , seems Fair cause Mule and Harmon took me to the Democratic one a couple of weeks ago I am standing outside the Daddy Yankee concert that’s right little old DY is a McCain Supporter go figure .. So there I am amidst a bunch of Scantily clad Latinas and eager young republicans ready to dance ? and Party ? Republicans REALLY ?...
Don’t worry kids I have no intention of going into this show one I can’t stand the Music and more so Whenever I see a picture of Daddy Yankee his whole persona seems to utterly asinine but as usual I digress. Instead we head into Downtown Minneapolis cause frankly St.Paul looks like a scene from Escape from New York or some other Futuristic Movie where there is a heavily Policed State you can just see the tax dollars being tossed away to protect the one Party who has had 8 Years to destroy our Economy after a surplus. But again I digress…
Downtown is buzzing , Palin just got done speaking and all the young Republicans all 10 of them are fired up . These ten young men resemble your average Frat boy, except they wear suits if there was some Magna Cum Laude pageant these guys would fit right in there amusing to watch their prancing around in a circle kind of like a Pagan Cult would dance around a raging Fire pit . But this is sad cause there is no Fire Pit just ten guys making noise while dancing around there imaginary Christian fire pit . But the saddest thing I have ever seen not more than 10 feet away from the big group, were two guys doing their own circle dance. I was puzzled and asked them “Hey your Group is over there” . They smiled and looked at me and said.. “ They don’t want us in there group” I was taken aback. “ why ? “ I asked .. “Cause were Gay. “ They replied . I was puzzled then it hit me. “ Wait your Republicans”? I replied . They kept doing there Fire pit dance “yep” one of the guys replied. All at once I had images of the wagon train scene from Blazing Saddles .
I began to laugh hysterically while pointing at the two outsiders grasping for air I exclaimed “ You too are celebrating a Party that hates you are you Fucking Kidding me.” I yelled out They stopped dancing and began to frown I could see I hit a nerve and I could sense their rage that they were going to try and unleash ..
I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.
Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.
But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.
In a sense we have come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds." But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. So we have come to cash this check — a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quick sands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.
It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.
But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.
We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force. The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. They have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone.
As we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied, as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their selfhood and robbed of their dignity by signs stating "For Whites Only". We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.
I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.
Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair.
I say to you today, my friends, so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.
I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal."
I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.
I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.
I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
I have a dream today.
I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of interposition and nullification; one day right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.
I have a dream today.
I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.
This is our hope. This is the faith that I go back to the South with. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.
This will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with a new meaning, "My country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrim's pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring."
And if America is to be a great nation this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York. Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania!
Let freedom ring from the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado!
Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California!
But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia!
Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee!
Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.
And when this happens, when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"
Peter asks her, while listening to the end of the mixtape, Is there anything more sensual than a cigarette while listening to that one song?
She was drinking wine, stoned off it. She did something else and has been calling herself Persephone all night, only speaking in syllables, No.
You see, says Peter as the last play of the night winds itself down, Everybody makes this stink about track one, side one. But if they really knew what they were doing, they'd listen to their track.
Persephone laughs, one foot in hell, I know what you mean.
Peter says, I think you're missing the point, almost.
She laughs, holding onto the word 'almost' like it's the desert after a meal she's been slighted for.
Peter sits in silence watching the television blare.
And she says, I'm not going to fuck you.
And he says, after a while, That's cool.
And she doesn't say anything, but lays back. She lets his hands fall on her. Letting his guilt fall onto her. She closes her eyes then goes, What are you doing?
Peter pulls back, feeling like the third blasphemy, lighting a cigarette: apology, apology, apology.
Persephone rings, It's okay they do it all the time.
Peter hates himself more, the couple on the porch is fighting, there is a cell phone that is floating in the rented hot tub.
I begin to panic... I can feel the rage taking over me all the years and Months of Anger Management being tossed to Shit.
I make another call to the only person I know who has the patience to deal with what I’m seeing Killer Smurf after a brief conversation I return to the Living room only to see Satchel , Bel and Harmon playing pass the Ball gag , yeah they were passing it too each other via mouf to mouf .
I was beside myself I yelled “I’m getting the fuck out of here this is fucked up “.
Harmon stopped and looked at me with such sadness it literally stopped me in my tracks. “Sorry men were just relaxing before the main event “he explained.
“Main Event”? I said.
Yup he replies as he moves away from me rubbing his belly “Guess who’s bringing the Sexy? “ He shouts out and grabs the Corona from Bel and slams it down his gullet.
I hear the sound of a loud motor in the drive way I can’t believe it Mule Actually showed up. I can’t even begin to explain to you the dancing that Harmon and his crew got into all I remember is going to bathroom and staring at myself in the mirror , don’t hurt anyone man I kept thinking to myself don’t hurt anyone . In the distance I can hear Harmon and Satchel belting out Mariah Carey’s Touch my Body. I can’t take anymore of this. When I leave this bathroom they are going to die!
I felt horrible for smacking Harmon but it was the only way to wake him up from whatever he was on. You don’t answer the door dressed like that c’mon.
He began to sob this was really starting off on the wrong foot I begged him please do not start crying around me I don’t have a compassionate bone in my body to hear a Man cry it really pisses me off.
I could see the tear begging to form in the corner of his eye as his eyes began to swell I unconsciously my fist began to ball up and form. Suddenly footsteps coming from upstairs it got my attention “Who that “? II ask?
“Satchel he’s upstairs”. Harmon Replies rubbing his cheek
Now since you nice folks don’t understand the only thing that’s upstairs in Harmon’s Place is his master bedroom and his work office. He never and I mean Never lets anyone into his work office so naturally Satchel had to be in his Bedroom...
“What the fuck is going on here “! I yell out.
Nothing Satchel calmly replies
As Satchel walks up to me I can’t help but notice that he is wearing a French Maid Outfit Unconsciously my fist starts zooming in on his head when. Yet again I hear footsteps coming from the Basement It’s Bel and he has a beer in his hand and WEARING Short shorts and a t- Shirt that reads Condoleezza the San Francisco treat .
I reach for my Phone and call Mule he doesn’t Pick up I scream into the Phone "Get over here I’m going to Fucking kill Harmon!!! And hang up.
“Now do you understand?” Mule says “Harmon is the President of the Judge Dredd Movie Fan Club East Coast chapter”. There he is Harmon, Satchel & Bel In full costume dressed as the Cannibalistic Angel Family... You remember them they were going to eat Dredd after his plane crash. (Mule caught me up to speed on all that) Satchel is Link,Bel is Junior and Harmon is the mutated Ming.
I am disgusted, as I look around my gaze catches an enraged and Bloody Balddee staring at me from the corner of the room. I approach him cautiously and quietly ask “Why is Harmon’s finger Broken and why Judge Dredd? “
I was sitting down preparing my famous triple stack Mushroom and Cheese filled Veggie burger when the phone rang. I really contemplated answering the phone because I needed some down time. I should followed my instincts, I picked up the line to hear balddee telling me that I need to come over to Harmon’s, Mule and a couple of the guys from Work were there already and apparently an intervention was in order to prevent Harmon from hurting himself . Now truth is told I can’t stand Balddee he’s a Jerk and Harmon will probably be safer with me looking out for his interest then Balddee.
I don’t even remember driving to Harmon’s I just remember knocking on his door, Mule answers the door begrudgingly he hands me an opened beer clearly he had be sipping on cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth he looks frustrated to say the least . I decline his beverage and make my way past him and continue on to the Kitchen where I hear the commotion but before I can enter Mule grabs my shoulder hey “ Fucker hold up he says you don’t want to go in there it’s really bad let Balddee deal with it “ .
I arrived at Harmon's house around 6:30ish. Not too early so I would have to hang out that late; not too late where he would already be into some of his kinky shit. But judging by the pink hot pants, I had guessed wrong.
"So this is why you haven't been blogging lately?" I said, removing a cigarette and openly smoking in his house. A sin that Harmon largely frowned upon, and a tricky habit I usually was only capable of doing in his bathroom.
I pulled in on the cigarette, what had happened here? Why was there a ball gag in Harmon's mouth? Why were all of his fingers broken? Was one of his cruel live action role playing friends extending the boundaries of the game? Was this some sort of revenge by a co-worker making amends for Harmon's heinous gas? Or was this just some local tough that had seen a grown man wearing hot pants and decided to send a message to the rest of the neighborhood?
I thought of asking Harmon. But as I bandied about my blade watching the light catch the cold, blue steel and stream into Harmon's pleading eyes, I thought better of it. There is something simple and nice about hanging out with a Harmon that can't talk.
Against my better judgment I decided to hang out with Harmon let me rephrase .
In a desperate move I was contacted by Harmon’s Physiatrists who then, strongly urged me to please keep an eye on Harmon as currently he was in a bad mental state .
Who am I to not help someone in need I ‘m like Mother Theresa but with Man Parts
For those of you who may not know ole Harmy you probably read about him in the paper at the Last Star Trek convention he got his beat up by trekkies for Dressing up like a Klingon / Sith Lord yep Harmon bought a Lightsaber to a Star Trek Convention.
Those Trekkies beat the crap out of him but that’s Harmon.
So where was I ….oh yeah so I show up at his place to see how he’s doing .
He answers the door wearing a Pink Charlie’s Angels Shirt , Black Spandex pants and bright red Flip flops upon seeing this my first and only instinct was to slap the shit out of him and I did .
mule - after picking up a bag of cheetos (anything to 1. rid me of this vicious vicious hangover and 2. sober me up should be roughly equated with manna from the Gods) and I have a plastic knife in my hand (because... well, why wouldn't I), when the notion creeps into my head: How many people could I kill with said butter knife prior to being stomped, restrained or beaten within an inch of my life.
This thought crossed my mind as three folk had the indecency to crowd into my elevator, and proceed to talk the entire time we were enclosed together. All three of them were older members of the human herd, and despite their age wise handicap I'm certain that one of them was some sort of Korean veteran or at least a Wiley veteran. So, essay question of Wednesday:
How many groups of three older folk (including one Korean Vets/Wiley Vet) do you think you could take, armed only with a plastic butter knife in a confined situation?
If you think you could take more than the first three, let us assume that an additional 3 would drop, a la the original Double Dragon side scrolling awesomeness, from the ceiling so you could continue. Along with that, you will not receive a new batch until justice has been dispensed on all three of a grouping.
Night Train - I think I could go until the knife breaks.
mule - I considered that, but wouldn't the butter knife then be sharper and more pointy and you would have two, and with dos deuces, the prawn cracker always wins.
balddee - WTF !!!
Unless You have spent any … amount of time researching you would have to know that For the best efficiency of said blade you would have to get some sort of edge and reinforce the blade handle with a lot of tape . I’m not clear .. Are we looking for clean kills or massive Conan style slashing ??
mule - Well, you are using a plastic butter knife so I would say massive Conan style slashing, obviously.
Harmon - will the felled bodies remain piled up on the floor, thus limiting range and access to weak points, as you move through the sets of 3? or do the new 3 drag the previous 3 out prior to submitting to plastic butter knife justice?
mule - I considered this too, because the amount of damaged goods would seem like a Denise Richard's show, but yeah, the footing would definitely play a factor. I think you have to remove the bodies, but I will give you a caveat. You have to justificate all over the current three prior to the elevator door opening, otherwise they remain on the floor while you have a new grouping of three and the time to cleanse the elevator would strike again. Thusly, if you were a slow and unsavage killer the bodies would stack up gloriously and you would probably die.
Harmon - i disagree. if you're a savvy and brilliant plastic knifesman you could (and by "you" i mean "me", because you're incompetent) drop the carcasses in such a way that would protect your exposed side whilst attacking the new set of 3. if done properly one (but not you people) could certainly route your attackers into an even more confined space, where only the business end of a plastic butterknife awaits them. it's sort of a really extreme and more amply clothed version of the battle of thermopylae.
mule - So what, Charlie, you're going to hold the carcass of some dead Korean war vet at your side while you're fighting the next set of three... That sounds like some fuzzy math and yet again, your history fails you. You're going to be expending far too much energy cord stacking old people to have enough to battle the next round.
Besides, what size space are you going for? Like the back of a Volkswagen?
Now who's incompetent... and I mean that like it's an incompliment.
Harmon - i won't be doing any stacking. i'll be attacking in a manner that will force them to fall a certain way. no extra energy used and i've made myself a meatfort.
mule - Meatfort? You can take the Harmon out of gay pride, but you can't take the gay out of Harmon. Your logic still alludes me. You're standing in a 4 x 6 box which we'll generously say it's 10 feet deep... even if you're killing them in such a manner that they stay on their feet, you're still screwed... your kung fu is weak old man. Speaking of weak: Balddee. I can't believe he went to that movie by himself, and oh, look no my phone didn't ring... and get this, they work both ways... jerk... justice will be dispensed on him after he gets back from his tiny manhood therapy session.
Harmon - the box is 4x6 but we'll generously say it's 10 feet deep? uh, no we won't. in this scenario does the 6 represent the height of the elevator? i don't know if you know this but generally when the depth is 4 feet and the width is 6 feet you wouldn't normally then expect the depth to be anything other than what you just defined, which is 4 feet. are you just adding the numbers together and hoping for the best? what year did you letter in high school for your work with the mathletes?
Night Train - Do these people ascribe to 1 particular geographic location? I reason that a chain smoking former vegas cocktail waitress will have more leathery skin, which may impede the mad slashing. You get three of those at the same time and it's game over.
Harmon - true, but if you do manage to puncture their salty hides i think they just explode into a cloud of dust, so there's a big payoff.
mule - What sort of busted ass geography did they teach you at Holy Angels High School? 10 feet from floor to effing ceiling, four feet from door to effing back wall, 6 feet from side wall to effing side wall. Notice how I through cute ephanisms for swear words in there, so you're MTV programmed mind would have the attention span to stick with the entire message. Take that Fall-out Boy!
Harmon - you're right, i'm crazy for thinking that when you say "deep" you're talking about depth, rather than height. So is Lanky Beaver33 6 feet, 6 inches deep? and, for the record, i realize that last sentence demands a dirty followup such as "in your mom" but i'm just too classy to do it.
other corrections from muley's email: I didn't go to Holy Angels, it's spelled "euphemisms", it's "threw" instead of "through" and i have never heard a fall out boy song.
mule 0 - harmayo 2 billion (rounded down).
Lanky Beaver33 - Thanks for the compliment Harm but I'm just the national average plus 3"
mule - Wow, you're deep.
You and your little Scientologist pal Night Train must be laughing all the way back to the alien space craft on this one. Are you sure you didn't go to Holy Angels? Isn't that where all you Southtown Girls go? Although I just threw my queso up through my nose at the picture of Harmayo in a cath-- ugh, there it goes again -- ish PIGTAILS... NO, Dear God No!
Harmon - i think you owe it to america to never fantasize about me in pigtails again. i mean, it's 2 days from the 4th of july, have you no patriotic pride?
mule - Oh, eff no... not, Harmayo in - [vulgar throw up sound] catholic... holy shi-- angels [barf, barf, etc. etc.] hiding [spew] behind the cap'n america shield... [mule throws up so hard he passes out] One of Night Trains' alien buddies revives him... and purges his memory of that uncontrollably evil alien... Maybe those Scientologists are okay after all. I still despise Night Train though...
Harmon - for being so horrified you certainly seem to want to keep on revisiting it.
I was bombing around the local Starbucks, inside an area Barnes and Noble, slurping down their acidically burnt coffee while putting ice on my wallet's balls after it had re-allocated funds for four new tires on the Truckzilla. I enjoy these cups of coffee with the headphones on, oversized numbers, of course, to ultimately discourage any conversation from members of adjacent tables that errantly float in my air space. It should have been good times, but as though life doesn't suck enough, this jones looks over at me, and starts walking in my direction.
A brief aside as ways of explanation to the ensuing events: high-school, my dear coitusers, was some time ago, and by and large a four year point that I have tried, through creative cocktails of alcohol, minor drugs and nicotine, to block out. But my existence with high-school and really college and, well, really life itself is this: They are best times left to themselves. When my ten year reunion rolled around I let the invitation fall stillborn from the letter carrier. It's not that I'm a snob... Well, yes, it is actually that I'm a snob, but in my defense I see all of the people from high school that I would want to see, so why do I need to see any more?
So this jones is approaching, and distant memories come un-compressed: a date at the Science Museum where my special lady friend ditched me for a romp in the wig-wam with some hockey player; my pants pulled down while looking through a telescope in science class, and the ensuing "action/reaction" of the slippery fart passing loudly between my buttocks; thousands of hours spent debating the merits of Xena: Warrior Princes over the Adventures of Hercules-- one show you're staring at the same chick every episode, the other you're staring at dudes, but they give you a different hotty almost ever week (I think there is some correlation between single life and marriage in there somewhere).
So jones goes [in a typical son of a bitch sort of way]: "Do I know you?"
Me [in a polite leave me the fuck alone]: "I don't think so, I'm usually pretty good with faces and names."
Jones [randomly bastardly]: "Roseville alum of 96?"
Me [while turning up the volume on my headphones]: "Sorry, no..."
Outside of being dumped or cheated on throughout my entire governmentally funded academic career, my only other real claim to fame was having a truly fucked up name. It is so egregious that it is capable of producing a wide array of insults and also is kind enough to work into many mnemonic devices so that it is as easy to remember as a soda-pop commercial.
So jones says my name with this proud look on his face, and a sickening sense fills the void like he wants to pull up a chair so we might effectively "catch-up".
Rather than allow him one mucky-from-condensation-from-his-frozen-latte finger from forming a beach head on my precious area of zen, I turn on the smile and say, "Oh, you're thinking about my cousin! I'm Mike from Mahtomedi. Ha, Ha, this sort of confusion is always happening. Wait until I tell my cousin about this!"
The exclamation point at the end of that statement seemed excessive, and as we both shook hands I couldn't help but wonder if I knew that he knew that I knew that he knew it was me...
And then I went back to wondering why I don't have any friends...
After reading the Paper or watching the Local or International news I have slowly and sadly begun to accept that evil doers really don’t get what they deserve. There is a cosmic unbalance in this world and it needs to be countered and set right post haste. There needs to be a return to installing fear into the hearts of those who seek to usurped the civil liberties of law abiding citizens what could that be?
I propose that Forced Rectal Penetration be administrated to First time offenders and Juveniles as part of a rehabilitation program. I also believe that it should be a practice in interrogating people who are accused of a crime. Why torture average American Citizens you may ask?
Why not I say!
Let’s be real we Torture people accused of being terrorists, and honestly You or someone you know(heaven forbid) would sooner have a run in with an average American Degenerate then some Guy from Guantanamo Prison OR Abu Ghraib or a Communist leader or whatever else Bush had you believe harms your civil Liberties . You may disagree I say let’s try it and see what happens.
Heat aside I for one am enjoying myself Fania All Stars begins playing and I’m reminded that the Puerto Rican day Parade will be kicking into High gear soon. My thoughts of Cuba Libres , and Mojitos are Cut short by Killer Smurf, he’s angry cause the Salad didn’t come with a tomato he starts huffing, and pouting he sits there on this glorious day forgetting the fact that he’s in a wondrous City, Beautiful Women all around literally as far as the eye can see .
Families out walking together , children eating ice cream, lovers holding hands all these things he’s missing over a tomato . I am quite glad to remind him in the most condescending tone I can muster that there is a Tomato Recall. Veggie boy is still not satisfied.
I turn my attention away from him return to people watching . My vibe is pleasant my Chi energy is as POSITIVE as I can get and that’s saying a lot kids .( read past Blogs ) KS is just rambling on about the current Political Climate Hilary this , McCain that, Obama this … I for one don’t really care at the moment , I just want to take in the sites . But he keeps going on and on not seeing what I’m seeing even though I point out ALL THIS WONDERMENT SURROUNDING US to him He wants to complain and requests more Brussels Sprouts for his veggie Entre I can feel the rage just bubbling to the forefront when all of the sudden my thought are cut short by someone saying .
“Jezz Son Your Fucking Up HIS VIBE .” To my surprise two Elderly ladies sitting behind me had been watching our pathetic table drama unfold they were getting up to leave from their own meal and one of them placed her hand on my shoulder and thanked me for reminding them to stop grumbling and take in the beauty of their city and with that they left their tip and walked away Rare is it that I’m known for creating Warm Fuzzys . I felt invigorated Manhattan still inspires me .
Several years ago VH1 launched a show where people would talk about songs that had influenced their lives, and describe the emotion they felt because of them. Before the onset, the possibilities were limitless; a show to promote real life situations and tie them to the emotion of music seemed as close to perfection as is humanly possible. But then the show aired, and put on display how shallow and boring people really are.
There is only one story that I recall from that show. One about a jones who had been dumped by his girl and Bryan Adam's song Cut Like a Knife came on the radio. He said it sucked because whenever he heard that song it would always remind him of that situation where they had been sitting in his truck and she told him she didn't love him anymore.
Several years go by and either jones has obviously moved on or stopped listening to Bryan Adams all together. He and his smoking hot new girlfriend enter the local bar and who should be there but his ex-girlfriend, and what song should be the juke box but Cuts Like a Knife. Jones says that he and his ex-girlfriend made eye contact and he just smiled at her. The circle was now complete; he had regained the song.
Now quite obviously anybody that listened to Bryan Adams obviously has issues enough. Likewise any social degenerate that carries that much animosity towards somebody for something as silly as dumping them probably should be seeing a shrink. His explanations of the song and the break-up are surely enough damning evidence to point in his ex's favor in any relationship court; especially if she would've presented evidence that he had a small penis, was terrible in the sack and she had moved on to some muscular Latino lover.
Still, it would've been a lot cooler if he would've played Black Balloon.
To set this clip up it must be remembered all of the free time that we had on our hands. There were five of us living together at the time, and I think only one of us had a "real" job. Left to our own devices this is the best thing we could come up with.
Tricia Walsh -Smith has no class what so ever. If you don’t know who she is she's the Tramp who decides to flaunt her failed marriage on you tube (You tube has replaced the Jerry Springer Show in allowing Classless inbreed people a voice) There's a place for this type of name-calling and humiliation and it begins right here in the Columns of BMC that’s right I said it. I mean C'mon clearly this Chick is looking to boost her sagging Breast and Career here’s to the sucker that's going to give her an acting job, Here’s to the Ass wipe that will defend her, and here’s to You Tube for becoming the Window to the trash of America!! I'm not running for President anymore so I can say what I please ! Killer Smurf oh before I Forget Special Thanks to Balddee for his assistance with the Foul Language
Remo came back from Mad Jacks with frosty brew in stomach, and an enlightened mind in the skull. He posed an interested question, "Given the opportunity to have sex with one woman, celebrity or otherwise, but only one woman how long would you do it for-- the caveat: after your time is up you no longer get to have sex for the rest of your life."
I thought about this with a much furrowed brow. "You mean at the end that would be it? I don't know, five years, maybe?"
Remo watched the television for a second, then offered a follow-up question, "What if you were given the option of having sex with any woman that you wanted, but at the end of the time you couldn't have sex for the rest of your life? So, for instance, you're thinking of a good looking woman and, 'BOOM' there she is waiting for you."
"Wow, the TV would take on a new version of the Home Shopping Network; live television would change as we know it."
"What's the minimum amount of days that you would do that?"
"I dunno, six months?"
"I think I would go even as low as thirty days, hell, probably a day. Think about the opportunities. And it's not like there isn't legal precedence behind this, it's not like we've actually done anything with ourselves for the past couple of years anyway."
"Oh I'd have to kill myself when it was all over. A) I would never be able to accomplish anything so great in the rest of my life, and B) What else would I try to do? Or, snap, best way to do it, bring Salma Hayek over to Balddee's house, and have your way with her."
Remo shot whiskey out of his nose and down the front of his shirt, "Balddee wants to be my dick, Balddee wants to be my dick, Balddee wants to be my dick."
"Just calling him, and asking for the name of various Brazilian girls would be worth it. Hell, for the comedic value alone I would probably be able to go for like 30 days."
Remo and I both slurped silently on our brimful of whiskys, each amassing a list in his head for how we would spend our 30 days.
I am very disheartened to see Saturday Night Live plunge their hat into the Political Ring and endorse a Candidate. I am fairly new to the Code of Conduct for any Television Show but I thought that neutrality was the unspoken word.
This is what the Writers Strike hath rot upon the viewing public? We go months without Writers only to so see them come back and throw their Political point of view down our throats. And SNL is so scared to stand up to them cause there just happy too not Air anymore reruns. The Tina Fey Clinton stomping was cute the Counterpoint from Tracy Morgan was funny as well but enough is enough.
I want jokes not this constant feeble attempt to sway the audience with calculated Acting and commentary in Support of Senator Clinton.
As you will recall I recently put an end to my Campaign for President I had sent a wonderful 30 page get to know Killer Smurf Campaign package to SNL and you know what those Hemorrhoids Did.
THEY SENT IT BACK TO ME SAYING THEY DONT ENDORSE CANDIDATES. Well then what the HELL ARE YOU PUTTING ME THRU EVERY FUCKING SATURDAY YOU PUNCHERED DILDOS!! BY MAKING EXCUSES FOR LITTLE OLD RAP MASTER HILLARY!!!
Sorry I'm Bitter about dropping out of the Presidential Race
That got your attention . If you are new to the haloed halls of the BMC let me introduce myself. My name is Balddee and I am the Love Guru. In the next few days we are going to discuss Sex and America's fear of it. Why? Because someone has to Challenge the status quote on this Subject and who better then me the Love Guru.
Compared to the rest of the World America has the most Conservative Attitude toward Sex we watch Porn in all it's various Form yet if someone is open about their desires they are Shot down faster then anybody telling Bush not to invade Iraq (yeah I said it!!)
So what are we going to discuss the Topics will be.
· Should Elliot Spitzer have resigned for paying for Prostitution? · Legalizing Anal Sex · Why can’t I find a Good Brothel in Connecticut? There will be more topics as this Dialogue continues so stay tuned .
Before I begin. I want to thank all the Volunteers, for all the hard work, and their tireless efforts in supporting this brief but honorable Campaign .
Short lived as it was.
I believe we showed the Nation and the World what a handful of spirited individuals could achieve in such a short space and Time.
With a humble heart I step down and make way for the true candidate who will earn the Place as President of the United States.
With that said let me share with you some things
What I have learned thus Far from the 2008 Race to The White House and the Media
· Nobody takes you seriously if Hare Krishna’s endorse you. · Mc Cain Still can’t raise his Arms. · There are Repercussions for dry humping Furniture. · Smoking while walking down the streets of Berkley gives one a brief glimpse into Nazi Politics (Lighten Up Guys Seriously.) · Hillary Clinton really is a Gangster! She has her Donors Send the Heads of Horses to Nancy Pelosi to ensure her vote. Gangster · If you play an Accordion nobody wants you in there Rock n Roll Band. · Balddee makes a horrible Hot Dish. · Rev James David Manning needs a Hug · According to Fox News Obama has to apologize for any and every Single Comment that any and every single African American has to say. · Why is nobody talking about McCain’s endorsement from Gay hating Preacher John Hagee or more important why isn’t Fox News? · Obama.. Still sounds like a Starship Commander from Star Trek .
I was thinking about that I.N.S Agent you know the one in New York who was just Busted for abusing his Authority. Don't Know what I'm talking about ?
Short Story An Immigration agent would get sex in-exchange for Green Cards . Yes. oh the horror! oh the humanity !!
But Because I have absolutely NO Class what so ever lets look at the Upside to this shall we ??
Seriously you know he had to be happy as hell to wake up in the morning and get to work he couldn't wait .
Could you imagine while brushing your teeth you spin the Globe and stop it with you finger and where your Finger Lands that's the piece of Ass your tapping ? Imagine his works Schedule Monday : Brazil Tuesday : China Wed : Colombia
Say what ya want there is a bright spot this go ahead tell me I'm wrong.
Which leads me to this was he really wrong ?
Isn't there a time during your work day that you don't wish you could Meet Debbie by the water cooler for a little BJ and all you had to do is make an Office run to Staples ? Isaac Biachu is my new hero he put's the Sle in Sleaze the best part is he got Punished with Pay talk about getting away with it all .
I want to toss my hat in the Political arena! Tired of the Political Right ? Tired of the Political Left ?
Tired of the fake politicians saying whatever they can to win you vote, and then once in office your needs are forgotten .
I have an exit strategy for any situation in any War torn Country that includes Iraq , I have a plan for Health Care , I have a plan to stop Cat Juggling ( Just want to see if your Paying attention. )
I have a plan that consists of a plan that includes a Solid Plan . I am the most qualified to represent this great Nation look at my competition .
Nader is Running as an Independent but he's on the Republican Payroll ( nuff said )
McCain, if someone walks up behind him he will have a heart attack. He cant fully raise his arms can you really trust someone who cant raise there arms fully ?
Barack Obama sounds like a Star Wars Character not a Predsident .
Hillary Clinton she should be running a Hip Hop Label.
Huckabee I just hear the Dueling Banjoes whenever someone says his name
My name is Lucious Evil Smurf and I want your vote
After the blithe romance ended, we mixed Scotch and American whiskey to see the effects. A rookie, with the right intentions, threw in a pinch of Minnesota's finest shwag and we all ashed an American Spirit just to see the effect-- then we waited.
The waiting is, as always, the hardest part. What, dear reader, was the wait of mighty Zeus in observing his Athenian headache before asking the cuckolded Hephaestus for hammer and chisel to relieve the pain? Or was it even the pain that lead him to render his skull asunder? Was it the curiosity?
An area witch doctor, Hecate, who had been observing the entire proceedings with a keen interest and wary eye, finally stepped into the proceedings. Grabbing hold of the concoction, she gave it three turns, shook it, then decanted a slight bit of bile while queuing up track eight from the Screamin' Cheetah Wheelies seminal album Big Wheel.
A partial, guttural question was induced over the acrid potion- "Why is their no handicap parking at the special Olympics?" -before a glorious mist of smoke was given forth.
The office of the BMC sat in awe and mixed wonder. Not so much for the magic at hand, but with deep respect for the smoke and mirrors that causes our simplistic minds to stop for traffic accidents and the self-inflicted pain brought upon by others.
And up from the depths, 30 stories high with his head in the sky was birthed the Rehab Prophet. Critics of the BMC were skeptical at first siting the BMC's inability to accept rehab in the past (we say nooooooo, nooooooo, noooooooo). But critics agreed, an ombudsman and fellow faithless compatriot is a good idea amongst the savagry of our ranks.
Hailing from the North Country, it has been mentioned in some socialite circles that he is the illegitimate son of Ignatius J. Reilly though this has only been proved by a mutual love of Boethius. A steppenwolfe, a scholar, a creation to bring an end to to the phony hipster movement that currently blights our fair country.
It's been a while since I graced the BMC office to be honest, I have been ashamed to show my face, once my fellow comrades read of my failed exploits in Europe the mockery was too much my trip to Europe had left me a broken man.
I did finish my trip however, I went to Paris and stayed there for the remainder of my time .
There I was walking around one the most lovely cities in the world sulking like a jilted lover my Mojo had been broken no getting around it .
But fear not your hero will prevail I am now inspired, how you may ask what shook me out of my funk ?
You can thank the Kim Kardashian Sex Tape for that there I sat, watching a dismal performance from her then Lover and then I had an epiphany .
I need to record my exploits for all the world to see .
War? A war! I wasn't aware of a war! I've read the postings of the first two days though, and find myself conscious. Perhaps if I were in the metro area with all you lads I could join the allies. The fight of a sedentary unsummer lifestyle is testing my belt and you gentlemen have the right idea. Bully! As it is, maybe I'll up the defenses in the Lakes Area?
Let me introduce myself; I'm a friend of H.'s from Duluth. I think that I know other contributorz too, but I'm not 100% sure. I've been reading this blog for a while and enjoying it. I'll check back frequently throughout this war and maybe write an outsider's perspective based on the bloggy dispatches from the front. "The Red Sweatpants of Courage". Forgive me a double pun upon the idea of sweat pants, but I really think that humor can be sustained here. Be good.
It is another cruel day in Minnesota. After a warm-up granted a simple reprieve, Winter has re-emerged from its' bivouac to re-declare the battle. There is something mildly depressing towards the thought that 27 degrees is warm, but right now it is this side of paradise.
With the temperature dropping back down to a balmy seven, and the wind chill assisting with spiraling negative delirium, any sojourns into the hinterland for purposes of the 100 Day War were left to the treadmill in the basement.
Ah, the sweet bliss of the treadmill! Walking in one place for forty minutes on end, and not moving anywhere; that swayful sea-sickness of leaving it, that feeling as though you are moving at a million miles per hour yet still standing still. But first there is the epic battle to correctly adjust the height, a battle I lost yesterday, and thus was unable to work-out. In retrospect, it might have been one of the finer ab workouts my body has ever has had as the derivative of curse words that were hurled towards the treadmill were both numerous, loud and not prone to let this person breathe.
Instead Sully and I went and grabbed a beer at the new hangout, then went grocery shopping.
Grocery shopping after a beer is a fine thing. Between the exposure to the elements, the lack of dinner and the soothing elevator music there is the manic need to get in and get out with as little time involved as possible. Booze is not like other, more illicit drugs that give a man time and pause to wonder over the certain merits of the word "rutabaga", nor wanton dropping to one's knees to give thanks at the snack food isle before turning into a complete savage and purchasing the entire stock. No booze dresses you up, gets you in and gets you out.
Other Items:
Sully did want to add to his work out regimen the following announcement: That along with only doing weight lifting he will NOT be doing any cardio workouts nor stretching prior to.
The official first weigh in:
Greggy's weighed in at 261, and has added a new caveat to his 100 Day War goal: Being able to dunk a basketball.
Sully came in at 196. His side goals are: run 3 miles in 25 minutes.
Jord is 206 though most of that is probably his jerk weight. He has no side goal, but he could improve his attitude.
Consumed yesterday:
Peanut Butter and Jelly toast (with Vegetable Juice) Rice and cheese tossed in a barbecue sauce Bean, cheese, broccoli and tomato Burrito in a spinach wrap (beer)
Past Diet: Salt Bagel with plain cream cheese from St. Paul Bagelry (Cup of Coffee, Gatorade) 1/3 pound pepper jack cheese burger from Champps (consumed over two sittings) with, of course, fries and the seasoned sour cream (bloody mary, several Guinnesses)
There is nothing that makes a person cringe more than discussions and blogs about losing weight. Somewhere down the road, when our lives are put into perspective there will be ill feelings of contempt and subtle hatred for those that have polluted the net with the trials and tribulations of their slim down programs.
And with that in mind, BMC is proud to announce the first ever Slim Down Program! A 100 Day War of epic proportions pitting friend against friend, cunning against guile, and sheer sweat and determination against the laziness that plagues our everyday lives.
This is a statement borne out of the sheer inactivity of four former high-school Jerks (not quite Jock, not quite Nerd but somewhere in between = Jerk) who seek to find themselves in better condition, and not the slobs that make up the lowest denominators of society. Years from now (well, probably not) scholars will ponder how this conflict began, but even as we stand on Day One of this savage conflict there is no one to blame... but ourselves.
While watching the finale last night, Greg, Sully and I exchanged texts to see how much of a head start Greggy would need to keep American Gladiator's Eliminator competitive between him and his wife; the panel roundly agreed upon 30 seconds, and even then he would need to have the run of his life. Not that anybody else in our little quartet would have a shot at beating her, but... Greg's goal is to drop about 15 pounds.
Greg's tactics: A hybrid of jogging and weight lifting.
Being in relatively good shape with none of the vices supported by the rest of the group, Jordan is, more or less, along for the ride. He brings a competitive spirit and severe acts of spite. A father to be, his motivation seem stringent upon personal betterment and being a complete asshole. Jordan's goal is drop about 10 pounds.
Jordan's tactics: Being a complete asshole and playing more World of Warcraft to displace need for food. (Actually, I can't back any of this up. He's being very closed doored, and strictly hush hush on his work out and self improvement regimen. Therefore being a complete asshole is only being surmised by this writer despite the more or likeliness of it being true.)
Sully, is the only one trying to put weight on. Having the sort of body where it looks like a hot shower would cause him to lose weight, Sully has been in the position of trying to add muscle to himself for the past ever. Prone to wearing girlie shirts that are a size too small in an attempt to give him a more robust size, Sully's reward for completing the 100 Day War is to buy new clothes. Sully's goal add 6 pounds.
Sully's tactics: Russian Bear, lifting and ogling Arnold Schwartzawhatever.
My participation is the next logical step towards becoming some sort of sainthood. With quitting accoutrements, cutting back on the booze and resolving not to talk to women for a year, the only other logical thing to further cut out of my life is food. My goal is to drop about 10-12 pounds.
My tactics: Jogging and eating correctly. May turn bulemic if necessary to beat Jordan.
The results from the initial weigh in should be coming through this evening, then the game shall be completely under way.
It is not often bizarre for me to have the trust and confidence of women over their bathroom escapades. Perhaps this is my non-threatening, asexual nature, or my love of good/bawdy humor, or maybe it's just the fact that I have a propensity to wander around, and these are stories that need be told.
Stories that have been told to me in the past:
The hygenical means and non-dietary uses of baking soda
What really happens with soiled feminine napkins
Women's secret fears of others knowing that they are pooping, and how they will go so far as to catch stools in attempts to avoid a splash
While walking back into the office this afternoon I bumped into Katie, the new BMC intern, that quickly sped by me with her arms folded.
"Are you cold?" I asked, more out of politeness and as a rhetorical question-- the temperature here continues to hover around negative ten with a windchill approaching death.
She unfolded her arms and came back to me, speaking in a hushed whisper loud enough for everybody to hear. She spoke, "No, I didn't want you to shake my hand. I just went to the bathroom, and -- I don't know who it is -- but that was the worst smell I've ever come across."
"Like farting?"
"Yes!"
"Hangover or Fast Food?"
"It was like something that I've never come across before. It was a combination of both of those along with a third element. Maybe a condom fart?"
My Adam's apple bobbed to force the vomit back down. I attempted to lighten up/end the conversation, "Maybe you should go grab one of the respirators, go back in there so you can, you know, finish tidying up?"
She looked around her before commencing, "I think some of it seeped into my clothes."
I edged away.
Now there are strange things we come across in the human experience, the Freak Show complex being one of the most subtle and hardest to ignore. It's a simple thought process that bores into the brain where nasty, disgusting and often embarrassing things enamel themselves to the core of our being and makes it so that we need to blow somebody else's candle out so ours shines that much brighter.
And so, as I wandered into a break room to buy her a can of V8 (honestly, this was not for the potential humor that was involved with it, it's because I couldn't get my hands on the gasoline that we keep locked up here, and the fact she needed to douse herself in something.) I heard the door to the woman's bathroom open, and I paused.
I knew that I could go into the break room, hide myself there so that I wouldn't be able to see the shame of the person that emerged from their den of filth. I could even, maybe, crack the door open or stand there long enough so a sideways glance could be thrown, and I could see who the perpetrator of the nastiness was.
Or I could just turn around, jaw agape and let my basic, stupid instincts take over.
Which I did.
There are several happy poop dances. As alluded to in previous articles, I grew up raised by and large by dogs. Having said that I consider myself to be a bit of an officianado when it comes to the delicate footwork that comes with such glee.
And there, dancing in front of me was Ellen, my employer. Strutting her stuff while careening through the air. She caught sight of me mid pirouette and came to a stop, adjusted her pantsuit (which in a disgusting moment I found myself contemplating: had touched the bathroom floor) and walked back down the hall to her large office.
In this day and age it is difficult to come across such joy as the poop dance, or the reward of having accomplished or made something with you day. It is high time that we all cut the poop dancers some slack and let them have fun they so richly deserved.
There is magic in the air, and the notion that what we are doing is right is palpable at every instant. The crowd waits in line with the crackle of sheer electricity flying through us. After three long years -- seven if you want to be technical about it -- we are making a difference; change is finally at the forefront.
The throng of people, semi-confused by where they are supposed to be, smush together. Neighbors exchange nervous chatter as we wait to see how the caucus works. At last papers are signed; volunteers have run out of the official form so people are putting their name and address on blank sheets of paper.
Tonight it is Mom, Dad and I making the trip back to my old high school. Despite the fact that I have lived at six or seven different addresses (plus a couple of states) over the past two years, I still have yet to change my legal address. So tonight I go home and vote with my parents.
The three of us are in agreement to vote for Barak. Mom has a more defensive stance as she feels he represents the best chance of winning; Dad likes him more for his charismatic nature, and the fact that he could unite the country. Over a dinner of overly done pot roast we have discussed his takes on Health Care, his values and his past voting record-- is there any time better to be a political junkie then now; it's basically on par with spring training being over, and going to the ball park for Opening Day.
The line of cars to reach the caucus started half a mile away. By the time we find parking spots people are walking out; knowing, friendly smiles are exchanged with these veterans. The ability to participate in our civil and democratic duty has never tasted so sweet.
Four years ago, Minnesota had 50,000 people, across the state, come out to vote. Tonight DFL'ers were hoping to have 100,000. In all actuality the total amount of people would more than double that. Crossing the threshold of my high school, which typically sees graduating classes around 500 kids, will be over 20,000 people. My Dad had wanted to be part of the actual caucus, but by the time we enter the classroom we see that the entire room is swamped, and we won't be able to sit down.
Despite the fact we are only forty-five minutes arriving after the caucus officially opened, an exasperated woman informs us that they have run out of the formal voting ballots. Instead we are given little squares of paper (Ma, was quick to notice that they at least had patriotic red, white and blue stars on them) to write in the name of our choice for the next President. A few quick strokes with a pen and the name is slipped into a cardboard shoe box with a slit cut into the top-- after thanking the woman behind the counter she told me it was my perogative whether I folded my ballot or not.
These past years, it has been easy to be discouraged over America, and the direction that we've been headed. Tonight, seeing this many people instills a sense of pride in our democracy. That there is still something good, that there are still people that believe, that what we're doing is worth fighting for.
A single vote may not seem like it matters much, but tonight we are an army.
Marcy again takes advantage of my situation and makes another swing at my Manhood . " What the Fuck is wrong with you!" I yell out
"Oh your little friend told us everything " Marcy screams as Barry and Stacy keep her off of me.
With that Marcy lets me know that Barry in passing told them both my true reasons for visiting London .
I'm enraged, more importantly I am in Pain, Frantically I make my way for the door Once I'm free I fall to the Floor there I lay crying, my balls are on Fire I lay on the floor in the middle of there hallway with my pants down to my ankles and my Cock totally exposed I am ashamed, I just lay there still erect and sore it could get worse. Someone could walk into the Hallway see me, then call the cops then I would truly be Fucked I couldn't run it took all I had just to make it out the door well at least I'm free from Marcy Kung fu Kicks .
I am caught unawares . " Your going to try and have me be your little British Conquest I know what your game is you Fuck you think your on some Fucking sex tour! "
She says in a firm and mean tone .
I feel the blood leave my face I have to try and salvage the situation . " I'm just visiting I didn't mean to offend you. " I replied
"You dirty little Fucker!" she gets up and without missing a beat punches me dead on in the Dick !!
I fall grasping for air "You Stupid Bitch !!"I yell out holding my head, then my Cock NOT KNOWING WHICH ONE TO COMFORT And within seconds she kicks at it again and grazes the shaft with her foot. I scream in pain Barry and Stacy Rush out of the Bedroom naked " What the Fuck !! Stacey screams
Quitting smoking before his ten year reunion is something Miguel considers the biggest regret of his life. He began smoking in order to hang out with the cool kids in high school; what sort of holier than thou attitude does it take to stop four days prior to seeing them again? Also, there would be nothing finer than drowning this stress for arriving unadorned, unemployed and broken-up to the social event of the season, than the silky, sweet inhale of that cigarette.
Towards the door, a cloud of smokers stand, smoking gloriously, in the frozen sub zero temperature. He leaves the car running, warming his gloveless hands by cupping them and exhaling warm, humid air.
His motivation rapidly eroded forty minutes ago when Elisabeth called telling him she wouldn't make it-- "The sitter didn't show up; I'm so sorry. Max, went out with some friends and I can't get him home. Go, though. If I get a hold of Max I'll see if he'll come home, and I'm trying to find another sitter, it's just that it's late. I really want to be there with you."
Fucking Max. Fucking Fuck that Fucking Fucker.
Miguel eyeballed the highway again, looking North then South for a gas station that he could purchase a pack of cigarettes. His mind slipped from gear to gear, and he changed the radio station to sort himself out. A country song came on that solidified the moment.
Mindy O'Neal, of the more popular girls, walks by the car, peaking her head in and doing an awkward wave. Time has passed so that the stratification of popularity has been destroyed; still Miguel knows his place well enough not to do more than wave back. With a certain air of satisfaction he notices that Mindy has put on weight; with an air of loathing he figures it is probably from having children or doing something meaningful with her life.
Miguel drums his fingers against the steering wheel, before taking out the phone to stare at it again. He types out another message of guilt and grief, then folds it back up without sending it. He looks at the bar, and changes the song on the radio again.
There are few finer things than those dewy first drops of morning. Waking up to that feeling of warmth and excitement, blue skies, possibilities and love all around. Sheer bliss, and that raw sensation that you are part of everything.
The opening aria to this beautiful life: a loved one sitting with you at the table, doing the daily crossword puzzle together over coffee while the rest of the house sleeps. The new dog coming up and nuzzling you under the arm for attention, temporarily breaking you away from the paper to look down and address her. The knowledge that there is good in the world, and that there are things that are worth fighting for.
Perhaps these are the delusions that go through the mind of Republicans, and what allows them their unique take on social and fiscal matters.
For the rest of us there are four degree below air temps and negative 25 windchill. Stale toast that you fought the mouse of the house over, and are still not convinced it was a fight worth winning. A check engine light merrily winking from the dash of your truck, and the eerie reality that your only reason to have left bed, and face the raw morning is to go to work.
These sorts of mornings beg for a hangover or something that would at least set the bar for a low point to to the day. Instead there are just morning people. They pop up out of nowhere, spewing their well wishes and morning inquiries to your previous night's engagements. These foul creatures will attempt humor and even use a thoroughlyunnecessary high pitched voice-- they may well even laugh.
I'm not saying they should all die. I'm only saying that we should make broad new social policies that specifically dictate where and when they can talk. If this becomes too difficult perhaps we should move them all to one centralized location, like North Dakota. Because anybody that can be happy in the morning will surely be happy anywhere.
The Starbucks on Fairview and 36 has become haunted by high schoolers. These are the high end models made self-important by mall-purchasable-only attire. These are not normal High schoolers who stay home from Prom, and leave gross messages detailing sexual positions that attendee's, of the dance, parents are doing whilst they are out. No, these are the fucking cool kids. And it is for this reason, dear Coitusers, that I believe they think I am a homeless person.
As you have read in the past, my general apparel is taken from a little known faction of fashion known as "Hangover Chic". The "Basic Look" requires jeans washed within the past month, hooded sweatshirt and a sensible t-shirt with little to medium stainagt; in essence, hipster before people began paying money to look like they weren't paying money, and the hipster look became immediately purchasable.
Studying has ensued to learn more about these pretty people. These common observations develop a hypothesis that everyday grooming and the monetary and time amount spent upon attire leads to a mate; a self evident point as all of the individuals here, on a Tuesday night no less, are ringed by a member of the opposite sex-- in fact one has had the audacity to bring in flowers. Flowers in the middle of winter!
Truly these are fucking high schooler 2.0. These aren't the kids that listened to the 'Mats or the Pixies, or still remember the time Abby Bleaker came over and squished onto a too crowded couch for the entire duration of Benny and June. No these are Frankenschoolers, built for only the operation of getting sex, living off their parents income and eventually having jobs where they will be my boss.
There is no comeback for these fools. There is no dark alley where a switch blade could be drawn, and a throat could be slashed. These are modern times where Jets and Sharks no longer exist, and a more modern caste system has been developed, by parents, to ensure nobody gets hell beat out of them. It probably is forward thinking, but looking out at all these damn fools sitting around me I envy them not-- or maybe I do.
As though my sister life wasn't difficult enough, my parents, as of late, have decided to set her up with a boyfriend. This should be all well and good, and in most circles demonstrates a firm bond between parents and daughter. However, while the gesture is sweet, the real problem with it is my parents infatuation, bordering on religion, with the Sad Puppy Complex.
The Sad Puppy Complex would be an easy enough psychological development to blame on my parents affinity for dogs-- and in many ways it would be a correct assumption. The dogs that have often graced the family household have been the puppies that hide in the corner, or the ones that look particularly sad, pathetic and/or neurotic.
Feona, the current occupant of this position, has all of these emotions down in spades. In fact she is so good she has successfully guilted her way into my parents heartsfar more readily than either my sister or I have enjoyed over the past several years. News on whether my parents have amended the family will to now include Feona has been spotty at best, but a rare Kersto-Hanslican truce may be in development after thirteen years of animosity.
But this is not where the Complex stops. Dad shows his dependancy with a need to swap cars every few years. This is not based on the fact that he wants a new one, rather it is a matter of necessity for him to find one that still runs. His latest vehicle of choice is a Nash Rambler that has no heat, no shocks and an engine that will start only when it's daily breakfast of oil is dangled over its' head. Mom too is not immune. On a recent trip to the grocery store she informed me that she needed cheese. After much hemming and hawing she eventually landed on the most beat up block, telling me that she felt sorry for it.
And so it came as no surprise when my parents brought my sister home a boyfriend. I still don't know his real name, but his level of nicknames has evolved thusly: Chuckles begat NAAd (Non Amusing Anecdotes) begat Ironhead begat Puddin' Head begat Butters. Butters, I'm all but certain, is a nice guy who means well it's just he has little if no ability to socially interact with the outside world.
Case Study #1
Tact
I have often espoused the merits of having any individual show up with booze to be drunk by all [sic me]; this most primative of e-thoughts is what makes this all the more painful. On the night of December 31st, Butters shows up at my sisters house with a case of beer and several bottles of whiskey. Not really having known this young man I willingly accepted the gift, but did so with mixed emotions: what was his motivation in trying to get into my good graces, did this person want to involve me in a heady conversation. Only later did his reasons become apparent; Butters was trying to get me drunk so that I would pass out and he could pork my sister. He, however, had stepped into the wrong dojo...
Case Study #2
He is not funny... really not funny...
This one is more egregious. I still don't know which hell it was that my parents picked Butters up from; my good friend Ohn, a scholar of Chinese Hells, informed me it was probably the Hell of Upside Down Brains. Butters demonstrates this by not being able to come up with jokes. In a sad twist of mental engineering irony, Butters is capable of recognizing points in a conversation when a witty aside could be included however he lacks the mental resolve to say something funny. He still attempts to chuck something up there however it only acts as a conversation killer-- mysterious and silent is not something Butters understands.
Did Butters pork my sister... yes. Did I respond to this in a mature manner by banging pots and pans together at 4 in the morning... yes. Did I make sure that all members were up at 7 in the morning to make me breakfast... yes.
In America, dear Coitusers, we are trained to believe in the little guy, that we actively want him/her to win; the American Dream is our destiny and one day we'll all have happiness and success, and perhaps within all of that is where the Sad Puppy Complex thrives truest. Is it wrong; who is to say. Is it right; most likely not. Still, if it helps you get laid, even at the expense of it being my sister, I think you still have to salute it.
