Teddy Roosevelt said:



"It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes short again and again, who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause, who at best knows achievement and who at the worst if he fails at least fails while daring greatly so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat."

And my worthy cause will be to get very drunk tonight.

Thank you, Teddy. *clink*

Reverse Medusa Meets The Man With The Achilles Brain...

Girl cut me off this morning. My car almost slammed into hers. I started cursing at her and ended up at the same light as her. She was going to make a right at the light and I was going to go straight.

Her window starts to go down. I start to get excited because I think that for some reason, she’s going to say something to me. Yell at me. Why? I don’t know – but I’m about to whip up a verbal shit-storm when –

I see her and…she’s really pretty.

Doink.

And she says, “Excuse me. Do you know where I can find Chapman Street?”

And do you know what I did? What I said to this distracted, horrible bitch of a driver that only seconds before had put my well-being and maybe my whole life in jeopardy?

You got that right. I totally changed in an instant.

Before I knew what was happening, a big smile crept up on my face, my voice changed and I became very, very helpful. I even apologized because I couldn’t give her better directions.

Yeah. (sigh)

Now...there’s nothing wrong with me. This is wrong with all of us. You, me and everybody, dogs and cats included too.

Pretty people get away with EVERYTHING.

And we let them.
We run faster to help them.
We pretend we’re interested in what they’re saying.
We marry them.
We have kids with them.
We watch movies with them in it.
We let them cut through us with fiery swords.
We let them walk all over us.
We let them into our lives and we love it.

We let them.

Yes, we do.

And I must not be that pretty then...because people give me shit all of the time.

In Da Office. Word Up, Sucka.

I am doing so much nothing today that it's messing up my shit.

The Slow Assassination Of Kevynn Malone...

I swear to Zeus that the girlfriend and the various domesticated animals in the house have conspired to not ever let me have a proper sleep. I'm an insomniac, Restless Leg-syndrome Nerd, and all together Mr. Nightmare-sweaty-scream-in-your-sleep anyway, but...how many times can a guy be woken up when he's savoring that last two hours before he has to get up?

Throw a pillow by my head?
Fucking cats using my head as a Twister mat?
Dog burrowing in the sheets Like Cheney does for Oil?
Landlady measuring windows outside?
Girlfriend deciding to ask me questions? Now?

I AM ASLEEP.

Was, actually.

It's hard enough to get anything that mimics human speech patterns when I'm awake.
When I'm asleep? You get what it sounds like when live baby piglets get thrown in campfires...

Go away and let me be Jabba The Hutt.

Fuckers.

The Sky Looks ILM Fake...

he checks his pockets for scraps of paper
he swears he had things to do
but there were no papers

so now what
he thought
what am I missing

will these things
hit me in the head when I'm at home
will I have to get back up

are they that important

no
no no no

out of sight
out of mind
or out of mind
out of sight

no

no no no

ATTENTION:

Men over 40 that wear colognes that smell like fish, ass, grass and the cigarette smoke of dive bars?

STOP IT. Thank you.


Also, I earlier had put my half-eaten submarine sandwich in the office fridge. Later on, I went back to grab a Coke and noticed that the whole fridge now smelled like my sandwich. I wondered if anybody had taken something of theirs out of the fridge and then were grossed out by the now over-powering smell of my Sub.

I felt like I had just silently farted in a crowded elevator.

At Least They Have Jillian Barberie...

You wake up this morning from having horrible nightmares to Kevin Federline being interviewed on The Fox Channel. You try to go back to the nightmares. The day can only get better.

1,2,1,2,3,4
[whistle]...


It's kind of funny.

I've been bored at work and reading, reading, reading various crap on the internet.

I think to myself, "I should write something, but then I'll have to go back to Blogger, type in my password, wait, and then blah, blah, blah, It takes too much time."

So I go to Blogger anyways and...Oh shit - DON'T have to type in my password because last time I was on it, I checked the little box that asked if it wanted it to remember me. Which, apparently, I guess it did.

And so there I was with a blank space in front of me, no delays, everything that I complained about in my head didn't exist and...so I typed...this.

This?

Hmmm...It's kind of like somebody giving you a free pass to Disneyland, but then when you ride the Tea Cups - you shit your pants.

The White Mountains...

The phones are acting weird today. Calls disconnect. I can hear a click when I get on the phone – kind of like somebody else is getting on the line right after me. There is also a faint hum in the background that I never noticed before. The computer’s are sluggish and I can see the silhouettes of shuffling feet from beneath the door, but every time I yank it open, there’s nobody there.

When you drive home tonight – watch out, try to keep your eye in the sky, avoid being tailed, lock your doors and turn out the lights when you get home.

My Car Smells Like Cat Pee Too...

It’d be convenient if I had a computer attached to my head. Then I could write about stuff while it was happening instead of sporadically firing away when time allowed.

But considering how much I fall down when I’m drinking – I guess my Head-Computer would be broken a lot.

I also never carry eggs or light bulbs in my pockets for this reason also.

Bees Make Honey. Cows Make Milk. Couples Make Babies. I Make Messes…

For 29.95 you can have unlimited calling to my heart, and for just 9.95 more –I get unlimited access to your pants.

My head is burning up. My brain feels like last nights charred campfire remains. If I shake my head around a bit, little flame tips poke out of my ears.

Two of my fingers on my right hand – the ones that you make a “Peace” sign with – are numb. Am I having a stroke? Or is this God’s way of telling me to stop being a Hippie?

The Chinese are starting another Space Race. Bin Laden’s hiding in a cave on the moon. Jason Todd and Bucky shower together. Ra's Al Ghul bathes with The Cosmic Cube.

You give me everything.

I give you nothing.

This is how it works.

Jesus Gave Me A Twenty Dollar McDonalds Gift Certificate And A High Five...

Christmas would be a lot more fun if people were only allowed to give each other only certain things. Like, you would only be allowed to pick gifts that fell under certain categories like:

WILD ANIMAL
ROBOT
DISGUSTING, YET STILL INTERESTING PORN
EXPLODING THINGS
SMELLY
DEAD

Deus Ex Machina Piece Of Crap...

Writing will be infrequent due to my computer always shutting off by itself whenever I try to start it up. I guess I need to have it looked at. Geez, take the TV instead.

Ten Years Ago I Was Jumping From Moving Cars Onto Front Lawns And Hurting My Ankles...

So I guess my type of activities hasn't changed much even if I have a little? Maybe this means that I've been drinking for too long? BUT, I did used to hurt myself sober also. I used to climb tall things and then fall off or have friends hold me over great heights for no reason. I used to sleep with random psychotic women. I'd always be bandaged up because of doing something impulsive and stupid. Not with the women, I meant. Well...maybe that too, I guess.

So, if I were to ask the ME FROM TEN YEARS AGO what he thought about the ME FROM NOW - what would he say? Would the ME FROM TEN YEARS AGO be so disappointed that he commits Hari-Kari? Would he vomit all over his horrible Hawaiian shirt? Would he hit me over the head with his Coors bottle?

Or would it all make sense to him? Seriously. If I sat down with the ME FROM TEN YEARS AGO, would everything that I’m doing now make sense to him? Most of the same friends, living relatively in the same area, five year relationship with an amazing girl, drinks too much, still thin, still collects comics, talks too much, writes a bunch of crazy and useless crap on the computer, two jobs that both suck…

Would ME FROM TEN YEARS AGO be disappointed?

Nah, I guess not then, huh? There’d definitely be some things that surprise him but overall I don’t think that I’m doing anything today that is totally out of the ME FROM TEN YEARS AGO’s future predictions or speculations.

Now…is this a good thing? The fact that I can’t overwhelm or surprise the ME FROM TEN YEARS AGO with what I’m currently doing? Yes, I am going skydiving next week – but that doesn’t count. That’s not like living in a farmers hut in New Zealand studying ancient Hobbit Dung. It’s not being a personal assistant to Joel Silver's personal assistant.

So…is this kind of …sad? Does this mean that these last ten years have been a series of very small adventures, joys, misfortunes and accomplishments as opposed to drastic and bold changes of life?

Am I walking like a foot-bound China Man instead of taking Yeti-like strides?

I guess the ME FROM NOW will have to be asked this by the ME FROM TEN YEARS INTO THE FUTURE. Heh. Who knows? Maybe he won’t even bother to ask me anything. Maybe he won’t care. Maybe he’ll be too successful to spend time questioning past choices. Or maybe he won’t be around to ask, if you get my drift.

Anyway…so if I was TEN YEARS OLD and then asked the ME FROM TEN YEARS AGO from back then these same questions…would I have to ask them by shouting into the crotches of my parents?

Just wondering.

The Hands...

of tragedy have big, fat, fucking sausage fingers.

Dead Like Me...

So, I confirmed my skydiving trip. In nine days exactly I will be plummeting to the earth after ejecting myself from a plane. I will also be shitting my pants and screaming like a weaned-but-still-wanting-to-be-breast-fed-by-mom-Maddox-Jolie.

This will hopefully, be one of the smartest things I've ever done.

Next to marrying my life partner, Danny, of course.

An Ambitious Lucifer Morningstar Creates A New Cosmos Modelled After His Own Image...



Attractive lady with a kid stopped by my office asking for my help to find a medical office somewhere in the building. First thing I did was make an obligatory cheesy joke, worry if she saw the comic books by the stapler and then get up and trip over my lunch that was on the floor by my feet.

I showed her a couple places that could be the office that she was looking for. The whole time trying to help her out even though I know absolutely nothing about everything and everybody that works here never talks to each other anyway. But what am I supposed to do? Say, “Sorry, I’m relatively new to this complex and I’m still unfamiliar with this place. You can use my phone if you would like, to help you find the location that you’re looking for better?” Perish the thought that I would ever calm down for anything and think things through. Perish the thought that I would not come across like a big dork. Dorkdorkdork.

Her kid was making fart noises with his mouth. I was leading her in the wrong directions. Nobody was remembering about Afghanistan. Nobody was caring about the kidnapped Panchen Lama. Farts and wrong directions. Fartfartfart. We just wandered around until she struck out on her own again. I am writing about this for no other reason than to say that I’m a bored penis and that tripping over my lunch was the only funny aspect of this long-winded story.

Oh, and the medical office that she was looking for is…three doors down from mine.

Goodbye.

The More That I Talk To You...


the more that we'll argue
so I won't
talk
not argue

I wish that we could talk
like the other people do
but that would mean
that we were just like other people

so
if I had a choice of
us
not being able to communicate as well as we should
versus
the communicative bunch of guttural cows
then
I'd rather be the one who stirs the stew
than
be the main ingredient of it

Miyagi Walks...



Girlfriend's talking to me about shopping sales.

I'm pretending to listen.

I think that I was going to talk about Captain America, Hitler, The Red Skull and Kanye West.

The Red Skull hates black people.

Today in almost-gonna-take-a-nap-before-work shift-no.2-world, I was nippy-eyeing a gossamer image of Mike Myers on the television and realized how uncomfortable he must've felt during the Hurricane Katrina telethon. Even though Kanye was wearing his heart in his vocal chords - and even though I loved that he was speaking the truth - it was still fucking funny. Too bad I never came up with the idea of being Kanye West and a friend being Mike Myers for Halloween. All we'd do all night is just stand by the keg at parties and play out that bit. I'd stutter, "George Bush hates black people" as Jocks would try to elbow me out of the way to get to the keg tap.

"George Bush hates black people."

Girl would ask me what I was supposed to be for Halloween.

"George Bush hates black people."

Host of the party would punch me in the face for sleeping with his girlfriend.

"George Bush hates black people."

Cops would show up.

"George Bush hates black people."

Puking afterwards.

"George Bush hates black people."

Why don't I have a keychain thingy that says, "George Bush hates black people?"

Napoleon Dynamite? Feh! Kanye West, baby!

That or Pat Morita.

"Pat Morita hates black people."

On 11/25/05, I Will Be Asleep In A Cryogenic Tube Dreaming About Koi Playing Lazer Tag To The Mos Eisley Cantina Jazz Ditty...






UPDATE: I suck. The end. No, wait - there's more...If the pic doesn't show up above, I'm not gonna change it because I'm unmotivated and technologically inept. So, the red, little cross in the box thing's as fancy as it's gonna get. Question, though...Does buying something on EBAY count? Does prostitution count? Poker? iTunes? Blargh? Feh? Meh? Blah? Oi!

Fight Club...



Fight to stay awake.
Be a cordial host.
Laugh at jokes.
Offer cocktails.
Constantly clean up.
Do not pass gas.
Do not collect $200.
Go directly to jail.

Fight to stay awake.

Be a cordial host.

A Safe Bet...

If you want to get on a bartender's bad side - come to his bar after a major sporting event. Make sure you've had a lot of drinks, yell about statistics for hours and make sure that you tell me repeatedly that you're hungry, even though the bartender isn't serving food.

Okay? Thanks.

GO CHARGERS!!! WHOOOOOO!!!! BELCH! FART! WHOOOOO!!!!!

Found In A Notebook...

Sometimes I'm jealous of the Helen Keller-types.

The deaf might have it easy because at least you know that the only voices that you're going to hear in your head are your own.

Mars...

So dry today
feels like fiery chopsticks up the nose
eyes like wrinkly prunes
it's too bright
my head is the sun
my brain throbs one supernova a second
my mouth is moist like compost

Mars in November

For all of you political junkies...

Kenneth Starr came in to my work today. Wheee! I stole a couple of his french fries before he got his food too. Seriously, if Elvira or even Charo came in - I would've been more excited. Every politician just looks old and white. Oh wait...they all are old and white, huh?