All My Friends Need Blue Star Ointment...



I'm kind of disappointed with their schedules. The rare times that I stop by their houses, they're either not home or are doing things that can't include me like laundry, dates, and masturbation. Sometimes all of those things combined. I hate it. I'm on strike. Today was my day off. I stopped by one friend's house to borrow that copy of Lost In Translation that she has because she's a SAG hag. She wasn't home. I stopped by two friend's houses, but one was going to go return things from Xmas and then go grab a hamburger. The other was waiting for a girl to come over. Nobody wanted to play poker with me. I mean, c'mon - it's like, free money I'm giving you because I suck at it!Two people I called didn't answer. Now, I know that everybody might potentially hate me. You all just let me know if that's the case. I'll go live on that leper island or that freak show town in Florida or in the Ewok Village on Endor.

Every single time that I want to do something - nobody's around. But guess what happens when I'm working a lot or busy as hell or trying to think about writing.? Hee. Think. Everybody sucks. I'm done with all of you. Yeah, you too. Everybody needs to work according to my schedule. Now. Work it out. You need to be available when I want you to. I'll buy you all Palm Pilots or support you when you quit your jobs. If I'm not in the mood to hang out - you all just need to crawl in your cryogenic tube and chill. I'll call you when I'm ready. Be ready to play poker and to listen to me talk about Fat Free Milk, Paris Hilton, and Comic Books.

Thank you.

Now go away.

I'm thinking about writing.

While My Pen Gently Weeps...

Headphones. Got some for Christmas. Now I need to crawl down underneath the table and plug them in...good. Done. I'm using a lot of periods lately. I must be on my period. Or this is my period period, maybe. Because this is all art now, isn't it? No. It's not. But that's good. Eees Okay, Seenyore.

You know, with these headphones on - I can't hear my girlfriend. She kind of wakes up sometimes in a panic and screams. She's like my retarded cancer patient. Ooohhh, maybe he shouldn't say that because that's cruel to the mentally disabled and maybe he's jinxing himself and now she'll get cancer. Suck it. I know what I'm doing - otherwise, Great-And-Powerful Jeebus would've struck me down with lightning or had a plague of locusts burst forth from my butt a long time ago.

I used to write to music a lot, a long time ago, but that was before shared living with another who studies hard. So I usually write when alone or during snippets of conversation. I can't blare the music like I used to, it disturbs the birds - so these headphones are cool with me. I asked for them. I got them. I will now enjoy fucked-up, loud music. I will now enter that zone again...now all that I need is a blindfold, and I'm set.

Funky Pants...

And it's cold. And My fingers are numb. And Tony and Tom just got done singing a song about pants when I was over at Tony's house after work and I can't get it out of my head. And Tony spilt beer all over his bed. And yes, it was a long night. And I am glad that all of my friends come to the bar because if they didn't - then I wouldn't make any money. And is it wrong to take money from them? No.

And it's time for bed.
And for you to go to work.
And that's all folks.

Merry Christmas...

Stepped In...

Dog poo at work. Came home to a cat poo house.
Cleaned the turtle poo filter in the tank.

Poo.

Dear Paris Hilton...



I’ve never written to you before – but since Christmas is coming - I better get this letter in soon so that it can get to you in time. I hope I’m not too late, but even if this doesn’t, I know that somehow, somebody will read this and put it into your hands. First, I just wanted to tell you that I think that your new show is great. I don’t even watch TV shows on a regular basis. I didn’t even see that second part of the new Battlestar Galactica thing that I thought was pretty good. It’s hard for me to remember to change my pants. Let alone set up a schedule for TV programs – but I have for you, Paris. Oh god(s), yes, I have. I have watched every single episode of your TV show. I haven’t done that since Saturday morning cartoons used to be sort of okay. I think right about when Batman Beyond and Freakazoid left – that was the final nail in the coffin. I was holding on for a long time, Paris – but the networks ruined it. I wish that your daddy was the king of cartoons instead of the king of hotels – that would make me want to meet you even more.

Paris, don’t listen to everybody else. Block them out. You’re great. Serious. I think you and me should hang out. If you ever came over to where I lived, I’d show you a good time. I don’t like to golf, so you’re safe – but I do like comic books. I don’t talk about them much in public because nobody else likes them anyway, and I learned early on not to talk too much about totally geeky stuff because that won’t get you laid. Talk about books and poetry and pain and paper cuts. That makes you mysterious. The chicks eat it up. Talk about poets and small kitties. I don’t like sewing. I don’t like football. Hey, isn’t it funny, I just grabbed a couple of comic books to read while I smoked in the backyard and I thought that it wouldn’t be enough, but I only got through the first couple of pages of the Robin comic before I started getting distracted, and by that time my cigarette was over. Funny, huh? Hee haw, said the chuckalicious donkey.

Paris, don’t listen to me. Everything that you just read was crap. I think your show is the best show that I’ve ever seen because it strikes me funny and sad on a million different levels, I feel like a tool for watching it – it’s just like The Iraq War Coverage. Tool. Home Depot. That’s what we’ve become. So, now that it’s late – I’ve turned it off, but it’s too late to “kick up the jams� because my gal needs her sleep for more finals tomorrow, so I’ll be the cucumber. Refrigerated cool. Hoth cool. Like a Wampa meal. I’m gonna listen to The Capricorns, NIN, Sonic Youth, The Beach Boys, and Atari Teenage Riot at a respectable volume. I’ll keep it down to a dull roar. All praise Aslan.

Paris, listen…you’re super hot in that waify, model way. Just like I am. People like brooms. We’re useful…and kind of cute if you use us enough. Paris, it’s okay if you can’t hold a job and don’t understand the concept of money. I can’t. Nobody can. It’s all relative. I won’t clean my room for you, though. Deal with it. I’ve got other stuff to do. Oh, and please remind me that I have to make sure to collect my seventy bucks for writing for that Aerospace company and collect the fifty bucks for the real estate newsletter that I turned in on Monday. That’ll help later on in the month when I’m trying to come up with rent. I have to get a move on and also do a considerable amount of work on that cartoony scripty thing because that guy’s waiting for it and he said that the end of January would be fine. That gives me about a month to complete seven episodic scripts, running at about 23 minutes long…that’s more then a feature length film. Balance this with working, writing on Fat Free Milk, fighting off rats, friends and comic book reading, and I’m pooped. Oh, and by the way, Paris – can you believe that Marvel Comics is still going through all of their submitted material? Wow, I was, like one of the first people to catch that they were accepting new writer submissions. Six months. They said…that was…like…six months ago, I think…

Oh. And hey, Paris? I’d like to come for a visit. I can party like a rock star and won’t embarrass you. I’d fit in. I wouldn’t hang all over you or anything, and I like to dance. If you want to go make out with somebody else on the dance floor – I’d be cool with that because, I have a girlfriend and all. I’ll just talk to the cocktail lady about Fatfreemilk and about comic books. I can ask her questions about drinks, cuz’ the more that I know – the better I’ll be. Actually, like I could give a rat’s ass. I’m a pretty damn good bartender. You should stop by. Just don’t bring your friend, Nichole/Nicole. She seems okay, a little smarter than you – but unless she’s gonna sing some of her father’s songs - than I don’t care.

Christmas is almost here, Ms. Paris Hilton…what are you wishing for this year? Me? Really? Awww…honey, that’s so nice of you to say…but we wouldn’t last. I have my crazy-ass moments, but I’m getting old. I’ll out-drink and out-fight you one half of the week – but the other half, I need quiet. I need to write The Great American Novel. I need to conjure up a new generation’s-worth of Holdens. This type of crap takes time. This is anti-social stuff. Just ask Salinger. Ask The Dust, said John Fante. I’m totally okay with you going off and doing whatever you want – just remember that…I’m always invited…

For Christmas this year, I want…

A bow and arrow set.

A big barrel of toothpicks and glue. Serious. When I was in first grade, we did a project like this and we were all encouraged to build as big of a tower as we wanted. I loved it, and have wanted to do it again ever since – but toothpicks are too expensive and I don’t understand how we got to have so many, but this was the eighties and everything was different then anyway.

More comic books – but only the good shite. Anything Spiderman is fine with me.

A Cuisinart thing to help me cook.

Porno by Irvine Welsh.

PS2.

A New Laptop so that I can write this drivel from bars.

One of those huge carpeted tower things for my kitties to sleep in, but then terrorists might knock em’ down – so fogetit.

A travel ticket to New Zealand, Amsterdam, Japan, Australia, Alta Loma, Cincinnati, Austin, Narnia, Naboo, Krynn, and Ender’s Battle School…

Thank you, Paris.
I love you.
Be good.

Fat Free Milk, fatfreemilk, fatfreemilk.com, fat-free-milk, and Fatty Arbuckle...

Tonight, I am bigger than Neve Campbell and the daughter of Tommy Hilfiger's teeth combined.

I rule.

For you. For Christmas...



I am giving out email presents.
Presents made of nonsense, but better than nothing, right?
This means that I will write a bunch of gibberish to you on, or close to XMAS.
Give me your email address, NOW - before I erase this post later.

Or forget about it when I wake up.

Today...

Is go-to-the-comic-book-store-day...

(for me, at least)

Nerd!

I Hate Money...

Let's go back to bartering chickens and shiny beads.
But then I'd probably hate chickens and shiny beads too then, huh?

This Is What It Feels Like To Finally Get To A Writing Assignment That's Due On Monday That You Wont Be Able To Spend Time On On Sunday Because You'll Be Serving Drinks To Drunks But Hell What'ya Going To Do You're Starting A Vodka Redbull And That's Okay Because You Need To Get The Crap Done And To Make Yourself Feel Like The Freak That You Are Because When You're At Your Highest Peak Of Insanity The Rest Of The Robots Are In Hibernation But It Doesn't Matter Because There's Anti-Matter And That's As Cool As Magma And It All Boils Down To My Tendency To Put Of Deadlines And My Inabilty To Actually Put My Nose To The Writng Whore Grindstone But It's Better To Have A Nose Than No Nose Micheal Jackson Said And Right About Now Me And Skeletor Feel Like This...



Shake it like a Polaroid picture, sleepy...

Best Present That You Can Give Me...



Is a whole lot of nothing - so that I can do a lot.

Bantha Poo Doo...

Time slows when one is waiting to go out to have a drink and the girlfriend is talking to her mother on the phone...

Write A Story About This For Me While I Try To Finish Some Other Crap That Is Due Tomorrow................................................................................

It Makes Me Sad To See The Last Post On The Bottom Of This Page Go Away To The Archives...

Because then maybe nobody will read it, you all know what a chore it is to actually get in somebody's archives and start reading things...yeah...so hard. Don't answer that phone, man...don't because you had things to say...oh yeah...I've realized what's been missing in my life lately...FUCK THE GoDDAMN PHONE...okay and now I'm back and my girlfriend got all offended because I was pretty curt with her and told her that she interrupted my writing and my horrible spelling but I only answered the phone because I thought that it might be an emergency or something, which it never is, and that's the reason why I don't answer the phone, and all of my friends know this, and look at what you get now - a piece of crap, but that's okay because there's a lot of crap out there, and sometimes it's okay to do your part and contribute, y' know? So, anyway, I was going to say something like, Oh yeah, I miss READING. Like I used to. Like, all the time. Like, totally, fer sure...I got three new books at the library even though, I have tons to get to at home, but I got them anyway, one is the new Nick Hornby book, which I can't wait to read, and I've liked all that I've read of his, but didn't really like that one about the guy who was into soccer or something like that but High Fidelity and About A Boy kicked my ass and I just realized that they made both of those into movies, and now you're probably thinking about your opinions on both of those movies and I don't really care about your opinions on movies or Hugh Grant or other actors, it's like how when I say that I liked Stephen King's IT, and then you tell me how the TV movie sucked. Well, you suck for giving me your opinion on a TV movie based on a work by Stephen King and I suck for telling that you suck and I suck for leaving out commas and hyphens. I dont know why I stopped. Oh, yeah I do - it's because I'm lazy, that's why. The other book that I was reading before I started writing this was A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers. I read most of this before, and liked it, and almost finished it - but for some reason stopped. Maybe I was too busy or too young to really appreciate it, and I've already started to like it better than before. Books and people are like that sometimes. And I picked up The Grapes Of Wrath by Steinbeck - which I've never read. Surprising, because I've liked and read a lot of his shite, but was, once again, too lazy to tackle it...If it was titiled The Grapes Of Khan and was written by the guy who played Mr. Rourke on Fantasy Island, I bet even more people would read the book - especially nerdy, overweight, white guys in their early 40's...Oh, and I was going to say that I wasn't going to write here until I have reread the first 100 pages of Egger's book AND finished the Real Estate group newsletter that I'm getting paid to write. That's due on Thursday. It's going to suck. Hackhackhack says the coughing real estate newsletter writing whore. Christmas is coming, though and everybody spreads their legs a little farther in December...

No Spell Check...

Never Leave The Fireplace Flue Open...



That's all I have to say.
Many thanks to my friend, Ijaz, my two cats, and my girlfriend for their assistance.
Yes, the fucking critter was spared.
Yes, it creeped me out.
Yes we had fun.
Yes, it's late.
Yes, I will have nightmares.

Why aren't you reading this?

Honky.

Spaceman Spiff...



Y' know - it's great that I have the friends that I do. They're all weirdos - but I am too, and that's why it works so well. I have, like, a million and five of the best people in my exclusive little club. That's enough. So, don't apply - you won't get in. We don't want to exhaust the resources that we have. We have spent years diggin up, stockpiling, and hoarding all of precious ha ha's and good times. Go find your own, Bub.

I like that I can call Tony in a second while he's at work and tell him that my washer's broken and maybe can I do laundry - even though, I already got a roll of quarters and knew that he'd say yes. It's nice that I already have a key and could let myself in there any ol' time I felt like it, but if you have the opportunity, one should ask anyway, there's always the possible naked girl doing naked things to my naked friends in their house factor. Most of my friends are single. How did I become the GUY IN A RELATIONSHIP anyway? Last time I checked I was the single guy doing whatever and whomever I wanted? Now I'm buying dish soap and bedsheets? But I love it. The relationship - not buying a bunch of crap.

But, see...maybe I should explain...my friends are great...they're my support system, like an endoskeleton of sorts. I exist on this symbiosis-type thing that we've always had going...and have been for awhile. Everything is sweet, slimy jelly. They understand me as much as they can and vice-versa. It's like having a dog.

What am I saying? Oh yeah, I have a key because Tony AND Chris, both friends - live together. We used to theorize who would be the first two to be roommates when we were in high school. But I guess I ruined that whole deal by getting kicked out nine days after I graduated...so they live together. That meant that when I was done traveling around like the homeless lout that I was, that I had one of the only places we could kick back at. It sure beat wandering around grocery stores, public parks, and sitting for hours at McDonald's sharing one extra large coke arguing over who had to get the refill. So, when I wasn't home they could use their key. This applied to the five other places that I would live in until they finally did move out and get their own places. Having a key to their place was a given, even though I rarely use it. Sometimes when I'm running around, doing errands and stuff, important stuff like going to the toy store or buying comic books - I'll stop by their house, and will have to use my key because they're still asleep. I'll sit down and read a magazine, wake them up, or just write an obscene message on their chalkboard and just leave.

One time I came home from a three day camping trip and found a Koosh Ball on my coffee table. This wasn't mine. I was sure of it. One remembers if they own a silly toy made of rubberbands or not. They were there the night before doing ecstasy. Oh. I was only angry because there was a gay-ass toy in my house. That was it. I remember another time that I came back from a trip in San Jose and found four of them kicking back smoking pot on my porch. Okay. No problem, Hippies. I've had about six friends stay at my place too. For free, when they needed to or got in fights with their parents. Cool. I was poor. Still am, but was poorER.

What's the point of this whole diatribe? No point. I'm doing laundry tonight. Drive me home when I call, okay? Cuz' I'll be drunk as a skunk. Hopefully I'll have puked on their couch or broken something...

Weird Smells Aside...

It's nice to be home...

Ichabod Crane, Nearly Headless Nick, And Victims Of Vlad...



Usually I'm just filling in space here, I know that a lot of it might not make sense. It's like Blog roadkill, or verbal poopy in a baby's diaper. Sometimes I might write something that'll grab you. Sometimes I think that this is the ultimate time sucker. Yeah, and that's true - why wasn't Tom Cruise's name in the credits for his cameo in Young Guns? And does it make me even lamer than before that I'm working my night around The Paris Hilton show thing again? By the way, she has no butt. Not that I think having a big ass is great. I hate when people say that about me, maybe I shouldn't say that about Paris. I mean, like what?...do you want me to have a fat ass then? Yeah, that'd look great. A thin guy with a really fat ass. But Paris' behind looked like a tent stake shoved into a pair of thousand dollar jeans. Not cool. She should stick to wearing skirts, homie.

Meet me at The Batcave, Robin...

Fat Free Word Association Game In The Comments #1...

Okay, you sick bastards...
Here we go.
Go now.

Plucking Chickens...

So, does it make me super duper gay if I rushed home after work to watch The Simple Life with Paris Hilton and that other girl? Maybe it just makes me a complete tool. Then I watched Celebrity Poker on Bravo which was okay, I guess, and then I watched The Real World Reunion thing on MTV. This means no writing, but as far as horrible TV goes - this was it. I feel guilty. But you can eat your chocolate, and I can eat my brain away...

So there.

I Feel Like One Million Hugo Weavings...All Sneezing At The Same Time...



Next person that doesn't cover up their mouth when they cough will get punched in the face by me. It's hard to wrestle people to the ground over the last 40 dollar DVD player with a 20 dollar mail-in rebate when you're down with the flu. No, I haven't been bargain shopping. I'm just kidding. The last thing that I want to do is to go bargain hunting with the rest of the slow-marching, fat lemmings. You can have all of that stuff. I don't want it. I'll stay at home and watch my Netflix movies instead.

This morning when I was in my post-bartending midday zombie state, I tried to watch Blues Clues so that I could maybe catch a glimpse of Mr. Salt, Mrs. Pepper, and Paprika - but Dora The Explorer was on before. It's got to be the worst cartoon I've ever seen/heard. Yeah, I get it - she's probably great for bilingual kids or hispanic kids trying to pick up English, vice-versa or whatever - but this was some annoying shit. Even more annoying when one is falling back asleep. It was like listening to a high-pitched exorcism. Not cute. It was televised death. It was like a picture of cartoon poo on the screen that shoots out painful lightning bolts to your temples.

So, I didn't make it to Blues Clues and switched it to infomercials instead.

I Could...

Write about everything that I've been doing lately, but I'm too lazy.
So is your left eye.

Goodnight.