Monday, July 29, 2013

Test one, test two. Syphillis. Syphillis.

Friday, June 08, 2012

New Post?

I haven't posted in so long that the blogger interface looks like some sort of futuristic gaming device. AM I Q-BERT?

The short answer is no. Actually, the long answer is no also. Don't be an idiot.

So I sit here watching the United States soccer team beat up (slowly) on Antigua and Barbuda and I can't help but wonder if Barbuda is a made up place. I mean, I'm in my goddamn thirties and if I haven't heard of Barbuda by now I'm guessing it's bullshit.

Or horseshit.

Some type of shit.

And I'm typing my first post in a while, fueled by wine and boredom, but I don't really have anything to say. I just feel like I should be writing. I've occasionally felt this way but recently it's been tugging at me consistently, making me feel as if I'm missing some important opportunity.

What's the opportunity, you ask?

I don't know.

Maybe it's simply the chance to write BOOBIES in all caps.

Maybe it's more. I don't know.

All I can say is that it does feel good to jump on the old porn box and write a little something. Even if BOOBIES isn't the BOOBIES, or BOOBIES won't BOOBIES.

You know,  BOOBIES.

That is all.

Friday, September 23, 2011

Claw, Hammer

I almost started this post with, "Listen..." but realized that if you're somehow listening to this post you're doing it all sorts of wrong.

(And possibly hear voices in your head. You should get that checked out.)

Instead I guess I'll just ask you to read more intently, and read more intently good.

I am going to get down to my fighting weight. It WILL happen.

And when it does I will fight you. I mean, that's what you get to your fighting weight for, right?

With that out of the way let's talk P90X for a minute. Well, I'll talk and you listen. Fuck, I meant I'll write and you read. On a quick side note I'm forced to occasionally watch Kathy Griffin doing standup on tv every so often. The old lady seems to like her and, I kid you not, there is a new special on every third day. All year. It's on more than Say Yes To The Dress. Oh, that's a show about bridal dresses. You'd know if you had a woman in your life.

The point is she's apparently a comedian but she starts every "joke" off with "I think it's time we talk about..." and then she inserts whatever lame topic the country seems to have a boner for. And the crowd immediately goes nuts. There's no joke and they eat it up. I guess that's why that old saying is still around to this day: Men are from Mars and women are borderline retarded.

So I ask my computer savvy lady to download P90X for me. I don't want to take the 90 day challenge or start mixing things up in the message boards, I just want to have something that will work for me if I'm too lazy to go to the gym but still need to burn off the 7 slices of pizza I had for lunch. I settled upon the Kenpo Karate DVD. It starts with stretching, but quickly moves into yoga. Because why wouldn't it? Then, once you're good and warmed up in the gayest way possible you get to start pretending you're Bruce Lee.

I mean, who wouldn't want to pretend they were Bruce Lee, right? I even took my shirt off and sharpie'd some scratch marks on my chest in anticipation. The problem is, it's really more like Gilad from Bodies In Motion than Bruce Lee.

So I'm in the second bedroom doing punch and kick combinations and feeling like a jackass because Gilad's workout tights are way cooler than mine. All while my girl is asleep on the other side of the apartment. I'm praying she doesn't wake up and come see what I'm doing because I look full retard. "Claw, hammer. Claw, hammer. Double-time it now...HUH, HUH, HUH, HUH..." 

It's ridiculous. A good full body workout and all, but ridiculous.

So we get to the final quarter of the program where you get in "horse stance" to do blocks and punches. It's basically standing with your legs wide and in a little bit of a crouch. Then you do all sorts of blocks which reminded me of Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber during his dream sequence. Before he rips the dude's heart out though, because that was clearly badass.

I'm in the middle of blocking when I hear the other bedroom door. I hear some footsteps and wisely begin to pull out of my horse stance. Just as the door opens I grab my water and act as if I'm taking a little break. She sees I'm doing the workout, I inform her it's quite gay so she can't watch, she agrees without argument, and I've maintained my manliness (in her eyes) for another day. 

But nothing, and I really do mean nothing, I've done in the privacy of my own home where nobody would ever be able to see me has ever left me feeling so embarrassed. 

That said, I've done it a number of times to offset pizza and keep myself from having to leave for the gym. I'm feeling pretty good about my kenpo skills. In fact, I'd say that at this point in my training if you were to attack me on the street I'd be more prepared than ever. If my horse stance doesn't scare you away, perhaps occasionally blocking one of your punches or my gentle sobbing might confuse you and save me any further beatdown.

It's progress.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011


Caught the tail end of Cyrus. That's the Cyrus about serial killers and not the Cyrus about Jonah Hill cockblocking John C. Reilly. Which, speaking of the Hill/Reilly Cyrus, you should check out. But back to the shitty serial killer one...

I've seen serial killer movies before. The killer is always a deeply disturbed person. Look, I'm not a moron. I understand you'd have to be disturbed to kill people, eat people, or kill then eat people, or bang then kill then eat people, or dress up in the skin of another person, tuck your penis between your legs, and pretend you're your sister. All quite disturbing. I get it.

(And it won't work, by the way. You can tuck it all back but it's impossible to stand up straight afterward)


(I hear)

But watching Cyrus I was reminded of how similar the craziness is with all of the killers immortalized in film. They're always that scary, psycho crazy. Never, just odd crazy.

Like, for once I'd like to hear about how the serial killer would abduct people and force them to play scrabble for hours on end. Maybe he only kills them if he can't beat them. One that makes that bitch he just yanked from a deserted park wallpaper his house and dance to ABBA with him. They can't all be the exact kind of fucked up, can they?

But the worst part of the movie was the young man and young woman interviewing some dude who knows all about Cyrus (Who was never found) and he offers to take them to see the house Cyrus used. In the middle of the night. And they agreed! And, surprise, he was in cahoots with Cyrus!

Oh, and how did we watch that movie?

On our Apple Tv.

Suck it.

If I get off my ass this week and rewrite it, I'll post the story of how my fiance and I accidentally committed a hate crime.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Tuesday > Monday

Yesterday sucked.

Besides being Monday, which in and of itself is a shitty day, it featured one of the most delightful cappers to terrible day I've had in quite some time. (By "delightful" I mean "dreadful". I like to say one thing and mean another. It's a writing thing and I'm trying to expand my writing things. How, you ask? By writing more things that mean other things, among other things.)

Clear? No? Solid.

Moving on...

My soft contact lens decided it wanted to stay in my eye. 10 minutes of focused efforts on pulling that bastard out had failed and left my eye swollen and angry. Sort of like a penis, now that I think of it. Only my eye wasn't about to do the ol' in-out, in-out and if an off-white substance were capable of shooting out of my cornea I'm pretty sure you'd have seen me in Vivid's EyeGasm 1 (thru 25) by now.

So at first I was like, "Aww, that's so sweet contact! You want to stay in and help me see better!" But then I realized that it wasn't being sweet at all. It was being a total douchebag.

So you're thinking, "What's so bad about a contact not coming out of your eye easily?" And I'm thinking, "Why are you asking me so many questions? Are you a narc? You know you have to tell me if you're a cop, right? This is my blog, compadre!" And you're thinking, "Hey, this is a blog I'm reading and I will NOT engage an inanimate object in a conversation. That's ridiculous. And neither of us are Hispanic." And I'm thinking, "Ohhh, that's right bitch! I'm in your head now and I'm never coming back out. Prepare for a mental Braceleting all day, every day. I have no filter, nothing to do, and my number one priority will be undermining your confidence! Plus I like tortillas and know a Puerto Rican (ka-KAW!) so we're good." And you're thinking, "This is getting really weird for me. I just googled 'Rick Fox Herpes' and stumbled upon your site. I'm not looking to start anything." And I'm like, "Then why did you just show up with your fancy one-line quotation thingy around what you googled like you're some kind of Harvard math wizard?" and you're like, "You mean english, not math, right?" And I'm like, "I will cut you, ese."

So it's stuck. And if you have contacts you'll know that the standard way to get those assholes off your eyeball is to slide them to the corner of your eye and it causes them to bunch up a little and gives you better grip with your thumb to unsuck them from your eyehole. Only, if the contact doesn't really slide to where you think it is and you then use your finger and thumb to pinch a contact out of your eye all you're pinching is eyeball. You try it and know right away that you didn't get it out because it's pretty obvious when you have a contact folded between your fingers. So you try again, assuming that contact is sitting right there just being stingy. You grip it a little harder and feel something start to pull up but your fingers slip off and you're left with nothing. You try this a bunch and then realize that your contact isn't really sliding over to your spot and you're just yanking on your FUCKING EYEBALL!

*whole body shudder*

So after coming this close (I just motioned with my hand but you couldn't see it) to putting my fist through the door from the heebie jeebies I had my lady friend come pull it off my eye for me.

Today my contacts came out easily and I had a double deuce of champagne quality beer (High Life) hanging out in the fridge waiting for me.

So yeah, yesterday sucked. Today, not so much.

I'd write more but I'm contractually obligated to something or other...

Sunday, May 01, 2011

Oh Really?

Go ahead and try to book a venue for a wedding/party on a Saturday in Wine Country, but prepare your asshole for a workout. I'm not talking the kind of workout you see that old skinny woman in the gym having where she appears to have not eaten in a week and yet you see her rocking the elliptical every single day for two hours. No, I'm talking about the type of workout where you're sure you've pulled both achilles tendons and something in your knee is burning. We're talking the kind of asshole workout that comes from 4 days of diarrhea and access to only 1-ply hippie toilet paper made out of bark mulch and tiny glass shards. Plus you finish up with a shower and have to dress next to some old naked dude who never made it out of the locker room AND never made it into any clothes at any point.

Go ahead, choose a place or two that you like. Then, you can bask in the awesomeness that is preferred vendors. Yes, for the low low price of $10,000 you can reserve ONLY the space and then be forced, FORCED, to use only approved caterers. Not to mention half the places mandate that you employ a wedding planner. That's a minimum charge of $1,000, a maximum of unlimited, and an ass-raping threat level ORANGE!


So I took a break from blogging just now, though you'd never know it, because a Lady Gaga commercial came on and a debate broke out. The woman here doing Wheezy's hair mentioned that two guy friends of hers recently had a long argument about her and I figured no two guys I know could have a "long" argument about here because it would go like this...

GUY 1: I really think Lady Gaga is a trailblazer/great artist/modern day Madonna/anything positive

GUY1: But seriously, if you look at her...

GUY 1: Alright, alright. But all I'm saying is...
GUY 2: That you're a homo?

GUY 1: Well, it isn't as if...

And the simple fact of the matter is this: If you think Lady Gaga produces great music, and you aren't gay, than I just don't know you as well as I think I do. Which is fine. I'll just have to call you a homo more often. We can make this work.

So back to the ass-raping...

If you've committed to a really expensive site fee and are being forced to use only preferred vendors I have a little mental game I play that may help you.

Usually I use this game for when I'm blowing massive amounts of money at the casino. You tell yourself that the thousand you just lost wasn't really yours to begin with because that last bonus was unexpectedly high. Then, you remind yourself that the second thousand you lost is money already spent because you didn't need to get that root canal you thought you'd need. Then, the last five grand is just money you weren't going to put down on a house anyways because you're fucking lazy and not moving anywhere anytime soon. You'll make it up later.

So that extra 2k for the wedding planner is really just money you would have saved for your first child. He didn't need to go to a real university. Phoenix is just fine. And that 5k you're dropping because a week has gone by and it isn't April any longer? New cars are for fags. You didn't want to own a car where every door worked anyhow.

But you can rest assured that you can still catch a fantastic fucking deal no matter where you go in Napa or Sonoma for at least one thing.

Every, and I mean EVERY, hotel graciously offers free local calls.

Seriously. Is that a selling point in 2011? Free local calls? Does anyone give a shit? Who doesn't have a cell phone these days besides my grandfather. And he's not going to make it much longer let alone travel to wine country and need to make local calls.

So thank you, Redwood Inn. Your free local calls have balanced the budget.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Die Hard

I destroyed a team of scout ants this morning.

They came in our third story pad from either the deck door, which does end up open throughout the day, or through the shoddy craftsmanship in the walls. Tiny buggers, and apparently expert climbers no matter the way they arrived.

I may have jumped a bit when I noticed them because I'm not a lover of stinging insects, and when I notice out of the corner of my eye something mobile that shouldn't be there I immediately think of the gigantic wasps we saw in Belize.

They are the size of hummingbirds, but clearly have stingers and wasp-like qualities. We named them hummingbees.

How we came across one was luck, because apparently they keep away from people and to themselves. However, they do come out to sting and paralyze tarantulas before dropping off some eggs inside the spider for use as a live host. Awesome, and fucking scary as all fuck.

So I notice the ants, squeal a bit, possibly pee myself. Then I vacuum them up and go about my day. Until I start thinking about how these advance ant cells work.

Do they scout out an area before reporting back to their brethren and then all converge on the area to take over like Arabs with gas stations and Dunkin Donut's?

(Donuts? Donutses? Donuts's'es?)

Or, and the reason I'm running out to grab some attack chemicals, does their lack of a return to base camp after a specified time signal to their posse that it's time to roll out regulator style?

(Mount up!)

All I know for sure is I don't want a repeat of my childhood home in Utah where we came in one day from school to a few flies lazily buzzing around the stairs. Then, as we head past them to the basement for a little original nintendo action we see the entire double-wide downstairs windows covered in flies. Not 40-50 flies buzzing around in a little game of insect ass-grab, we're talking thousands and thousands of flies clinging to the windows. It was some sort of fly species that travels in packs searching for specific temperatures to chillax in. Apparently that time of year and our unfortunate luck brought them into our basement. All of them.

Side note: It took my dad 2 hours to set up the original Nintendo to our television when it first came out. If I'm not mistaken it was two cords with a total of 4 plugs, one of those plugs clearly a wall plug, and the other three clearly matching input/output plugs on either the Nintendo or the TV.

Have a good day. And if you know what's good for you you'll shake your shoes out this morning because there's probably a brown recluse in there.