Monday, February 29, 2016


When I was a teenager my parents told me I had to get a job. They weren't expecting me to make a killing or help support the family, they just knew it would be good for me to understand what having a job was all about. It was a smart decision as I was far more interested in drinking SoCo and finding girls interested in also drinking SoCo, if you're picking up what I'm putting down. 

So I figured I'd apply at the local grocery stores and fast food joints, hoping to get hired quickly and get my parents off my back. The first stop on my job search was McDonald's because I had a serious addiction back then. So really I just wanted to get something to eat. My addiction was so bad that when I walked in and got in line the person running the register would see me, nod, and by the time I made it up to the counter they'd already have my "#2, plain with extra cheese" ready to go. Always supersized, and always with a Coke. 

Upon filling out an application I was immediately asked if I could stick around for an interview. I said yes, proved I wasn't a moron, and was offered the job on the spot. Knowing I mostly just needed to satisfy my parents, I accepted. The discount on food didn't hurt.

I watched the videos, kept my new uniform looking toight as a tiger, and quickly learned each work station in the place. I had fun working there, enjoying the time I spent with the rest of the staff, but I was never meant to be a lifer. 

After working my way through the bun station, burgers, eggs, pancakes, fries, drive-thru, and nuggets, I found myself working the counter. This was where the best of the best worked. Sure, it took a little practice to crack two eggs at once and rock out the egg station. Extra concentration helped the drive-thru team maintain a good pace and keep things rolling. Hell, there was even a talent to crushing the fry station during peak hours. But the counter? That's when you knew you'd arrived. You could officially look down on your coworkers without remorse. Everyone wanted to work counter but very few were capable or qualified. You were the shit and you needed to act like it. Tip of the spear, if you will.

One random day of employment I happened to be absolutely crushing it on the counter when a middle-aged woman came in with her special needs daughter. She was probably on the wrong side of the autistic scale but back then Autism wasn't a thing. She was "retarded". Yeah, yeah, I know. You live and you learn. 

In this particular encounter she was asked by her mother to order for herself. Clearly it was important to the mother that she attempt to be normal. She clearly wasn't, but I respected her mother's efforts and worked very hard to understand what she was ordering. In the end her mother usually had to help out but we all gave it our best shot and it felt good. 

Then, once we got the order in, the girl started excitedly saying, "BAG! BAG! BAG!".

Her mother clued me in and explained that her daughter really loved paper bags. So that day I decided I would give the girl a paper bag and, hopefully, make her as happy as it appeared she'd be. I turned toward the spot just below the sandwich queue for a small paper bag and when I spun around to give it to her, saying "BAG???" she excitedly shrieked "BAAAAAGGG!!!" and ran to her favorite booth, bag clutched in her sausage fingers.

(Kidding. She probably had normal fingers. Cheap shot.)

This happened a couple times a month. The mom would always select my line and attempt to let her daughter order before helping her out. The "BAG! BAG! BAG!" excitement never ended and when she showed up a couple days after we'd just received grocery sized paper bags I knew it was my chance to blow her mind.

She tried to order and it failed miserably like normal, mom jumping in to order the correct food on cue. When it was time for the girl to start chanting for a bag she didn't disappoint. I felt like she may have anticipated how amazing the bag was going to be this time. I may have been more excited than her.

I turned around, heading for the spot where these large bags were kept, thinking how ridiculously awesome this was going to be. I mean, this girl would be forever changed. Hell, maybe one day she would also tell the story of the big bag, describing to her mentally challenged acquaintances all about the kindhearted counter kid who changed her life one large bag at a time.

I milked it as much as I could, spinning around to her chants of "BAG! BAG! BAG!" and held up the gigantic paper, grinning wide as I said "BAG???" hoping to make her so excited she'd pee herself. Not that I actually wanted her to pee herself, I just wanted her to be that excited.

Turns out my grand plan backfired and upon seeing the big bag I presented she screamed "BAAAAAGGGG!!!" and sprinted over to her favorite seat. Bagless. I never did see her again but I like to think that's because I helped her get over her bag obsession and not because I forever traumatized her. Somewhere there's either a fully functioning autistic woman or a man-child incapable of transporting anything more than what her two hands can carry.

Wednesday, July 01, 2015

It Figures


You'll never believe what just happened to me. Well, my real friends will. Anyway I was just walking down the street, minding my own business, when a homo tried to gay marriage me! R U KIDDING ME?!? So I tried to get out of it but the supreme court made it legal so I was FORCED TO. Now I've gotta go buy flannel shirts and cut the sleeves off, which will cost money I don't have, AND require me to finally buy scissors.

Fucking scissors.

Plus now I have to download every Cher and Barbara Streisand album by court order. When will this stop, Obama? When every single one of us is legally gay married?!? What's next, blacks don't have to be slaves and women get to vote? C'MON ALREADY!!!!!

Alternate Post:

It's been about six days and this new gay marriage thing has been great for me. I've lost a few extra pounds while quickly sidestepping all the new gay marriage proposals being slung my way. I sleep better knowing that my alarm system was updated to go off for intruders as well as gay intruders thanks to the most recent firmware upgrade. Compliments on my shoes have never been more abundant. All in all it's been a great few days since the judgement except for that entire time where nothing in my life changed.

Oh, wait.

That was pretty good too.

Now for the search-term/hashtag/hit-count frenzy:


Monday, June 01, 2015


I saw this picture hanging out at the top of the homepage...

...and I thought, for the briefest of moments, that there might be pictures of someone trying to stop me from letting girls hit on me through my blog back in 2006. Then I remembered that nobody intervened and I now have a story titled "Fatty McLiarson: A Hefty Catfisher" that I can someday tell my kids.

Then I thought that maybe there would be pictures of someone stopping me from taking the Italian Stallion home from the Bash at the Boathouse back in or around 2007. Let's just say that upper thigh stubble is unbecoming of a lady and leave it at that. Turns out, again, that nobody intervened and I have a story titled "Sophia LorOHMYGODWHATHAVEIDONE?" to tell my kids.

Lucky bastards.

I could go on but alas, this post had nothing to do with me or my drunken exploits. That being said, I still got hit on by a D-List actress while partying at the Playboy Mansion. So, you know, it's not all bad.

Monday, May 25, 2015

Growing Old

A few nights ago I attended a going away party. One of my wife's coworkers was moving out west in the morning and a shindig was being thrown in her honor. At her parents house. Where she still lived.

Ok, so there's nothing wrong with that. It turns out she is still quite young and the house is quite nice and why wouldn't you take as many massive drags off the parental teet as you can until the support stops flowing because of menopause or whatever? I'm pretty sure that's how bodies work.

Anyway, we arrive and the sound of people leads us around back. There we are met by the guest of honor and it finally clicks who it is. I can never remember any of these peoples names and relationships to my wife. Coworker? Yoga? Fellow MHAAGA (Meat Hater And Anti-Golf Association) member?

In fact, I usually remember her friends and coworkers for random things and none of those random things involve names.

  • There's Boobalicious, The Girl From That Party At The Pizza Place Who May As Well Have Worn A Shirt With Arrows Pointed At Her Tits. She's also Serial Abuser of American Apparel High-Waisted Mom-Shorts Girl.

  • We also have Girl Who Threw The Party I Had To Drive Us 45 Minutes To On A Sunday Night. That's pretty self explanatory.

  • Then Girl Who Dates Or Is Possibly Married To, I Can't Remember For Sure, The Guy Who Looks Like Top Chef's Richard Blais.

  • Black Girl Whose Daughter Sells Cutco Knives. I suppose she's clearly old enough to be called Black Woman Whose Daughter Sells Cutco Knives. I'll make note of that in my binder.

  • New Tall Girl, Pretty, Had Her Boyfriend At That Party With The Cards Of Humanity Knockoff.

  • Jeff? Chris? You Know, The Only Guy Who Works At The Store.

  • Girl With Indian Boyfriend From Canada Or Something Like That, Maybe He Wasn't Indian, I Don't Remember.

And on and on. I do remember a few names of those who I've either been around enough or have some sort of lucky neural pathway connections to remind me.

Anyway, as we said hello and I thought "ohhhh, this is who's leaving" she offered us a drink. We chose red wine and after standing around drinking it for a few minutes I couldn't help but feel like I'd had the wine before but couldn't decide what I thought it might be. It was tasty. So I went inside to take a peek, and let's be honest here, pour another glass. I mean, I'd been at this party for like, 5 minutes already. It was time for another drink.

I make my way into the kitchen and locate the wine, which I've never had before. So don't go entering me in any sommelier contests any time soon. But while there I got to talking with this girl's mother and father. Who were delightful lovers of good red wine, good bourbon, steak, and curse words. Then, as if they were lobbying for my endorsement, they brought out an unopened bottle of tequila a "rich family" in Mexico had produced and given to them during a business trip.

It also was tasty.

And later I'd find myself realizing that, for the first time in my life, the words "your friend's party was fun. We should see if her parents want to hang out" almost came out of my mouth.

I guess I'm finally growing old.

As two of the greatest poets of my generation wrote:

"Fat titties turn to teardrops as fat ass turns to flab
Sores that was open wounds eventually turn to scab
Trees bright and green turn yellow brown
Autumn called 'em, see all them leaves must fall down, growin' old

- Outkast

Thursday, May 21, 2015


So, uhhh...


We'll just pretend like I've been writing here nonstop since 2005, and we'll also just go ahead and pretend that there are more than 2 of you out there who will receive some sort of alert that there's a post here. I'm guessing it'll be Al, keeper of AOL email addresses and Level 12 Soco Whisperer, and me, my biggest fan. I'll certainly be notified that I wrote something here, likely consisting of the first google alert to hit my inbox since hitting boxes was something I was way more concerned with. Hear that, ladies of 2005?

Good times.

I think about writing all the time. I also have lots of time where I could write, but don't. So if I want to write and I have lots of time to write, why don't I write? 

The answer was inside of you the whole time.

(Wait, what?)

So today was a day of karmic payback. I wish it was the universe rewarding me with a lottery win what with all the holding of doors for ladies, agreeing to attend stupid stuff I'm invited to when I'd much rather stab my eyeballs with a shared needle, and pretending to like Swedes. But no, this was a much more subtle type of payback.

You see, a few days ago I was asked to take a picture of someone who was contorting themselves in a specific way.

(No, not porn. Perverts.)

Anyway, during the 3rd or 4th attempt to catch the best version of this pose I was rewarded with an unexpected fart from our contortionist. It was, as you'd expect, hilarious both in timing and in the way farts are just always hilarious.

So, me being me, I made a point of bringing it back up a few times for my own enjoyment. I'm nothing if not a beater of jokes to death.

(Also a terrific lay, believer in kegels, and 5-time Hit It & Quit It champion)

Now, before I go on I should note that I'm not a huge farter. Don't get me wrong, I find it hilarious. I just don't do it in front of my wife and I honestly don't even do it that often.

(Thanks, mostly cheese diet!)

Ok, so that being said I do find myself with a wicked case of the fawts (Boston medical term) and as long as nobody is around I'll let em fly.

Today was one of those days. I was driving between appointments and found myself with ample amounts of gas just ready to pass. In between amazing rhymes, obviously. So I let fly. Repeatedly. Then I pulled up to my appointment and locked the car per my usual routine. No big deal, I thought. I've farted in my car many times over the year. In fact, I never even gave it a second thought.

Until I sat back down in my car and realized that somehow, through this unprovable concept of karmic payback and some sort of gastric magic, it smelled exactly like my least favorite vegetable, Brussels sprouts.

Fucking brussels sprouts.

All that kindness I've displayed over my 27 years on this earth and this is my reward? I hotbox myself with brussels sprouts? I don't care how blind, I'm never holding a door for another woman.

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.