Soliciting E-Mail

Dear Houda Orenstein,

I'm not sure if you know who I am, or not, but you wrote me a nice little message earlier regarding savings on Cialis and Viagra. I'm Pat McLellan, you know, the writer? I can't help but wonder why it is you chose me to send this to. What are you trying to say? It's actually quite presumptuous of you to assume that I am in some need of performance enhancing narcotics. Let's be real, you know very well that I don't need Cialis, and that I'm really not that interested in attaining a 4-hour long erection, which would subsequently leave me embarassed in an emergency room, freaking out the parents of the kid that broke his arm skateboarding.

I don't know you, Houda. You may be quite a philanthropist, but I must say this letter makes you come off like a real son of a bitch. It would be one thing to maybe include some drugs that I might actually need, like Nexium, or morphine, but E.D. pills? You may as well have sent menopause meds. I found your message very offensive, and I will be reporting this to your superiors ( al-Qaeda). I will not allow you to solicit me, offend me, and contribute to terrorism all in one fell swoop. Not in my country, slum dog. As I write, I'm getting slightly more perturbed by your arrogance. You don't even know me, and you have the audacity to write me a letter trying to "hook me up," with boner pills? I can understand sending this to your crew, or whatever, but not people you don't even know. I mean, I forward penis enlargement e-mails to my friend, Rob, pretty much every day. I'm just looking out for his best interest. Are you looking out for my best interest, Houda? You prick. What kind of name is Houda Orenstein, anyway? Were you the love chiild of a Nazi and Princess Jasmin from Alladin? Did your friends ever go, "Houda man? Youda man!!" I sure as hell would have.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this, but I DO know that I don't like your approach, or your attitude for that matter. You have a disingenuious quality that I only find in fake watch merchants. You better watch your ass, Houda. I'm sure I'm not the only one upset by your terrorist antics. Why can't you get into illegal arms dealing like the rest of the turban warriors? You make me sick. I hope you get savagely raped by a Panda.



Best Wishes,

Pat McLellan, Astronaut

Getting Old

I've had it up to here with all the Spring Break talk (Here is right around my Sternum if you were wondering.). Why is it so heavily publicized when the majority's Spring Break consists of the same rigorous routine PLUS more traffic caused by drunken teenagers in loud colored Nissan Xterras? There aren't any beach parties featuring oddly dressed DJ's playing songs featuring T-Pain. There aren't any cocktails served in exotic fruits, and the only wet t-shirt contest involves me sweating while taking the trash out (It's a long haul to the dumpster, got it?). There is literally nothing different except for the fact that every asshole with time off will constantly remind you that they're having a blast while you update your Twitter page.

Why do students deserve time off? Is their stressful life of Pac Sun and Student Council meetings deserving of a week of debauchery? Don't even get me started on college students! "Here's a free week to just keep doing what you do every night, drink like Charles Barkley and spread communicable diseases." As you can see, I'm fired up like a pack of jackals in a rabbit pen. F it! I'm going to get hammered at work and dress like Zack Morris at Jessie's Dad's wedding in Hawaii. I will play loud offensive music that I don't understand due to the use of that weird robot voice effect every artist on earth uses. I will never, NEVER take off my sunglasses...EVER!!! You haven't seen fun yet! Tank tops? You bet your ass...

I'd totally throw a hula party if 24 weren’t on tonight. Tomorrow? Nope, American Idol. Wednesday? Maybe...no, American Idol results show AND Lost! Thursday, then? HA, The Office, Grey's Anatomy. Surely Friday? DAMNIT...Friday Night Lights. FINE! My life is boring and I LOVE IT! While you Spring Breakers are out acting like Tweeter and Billy Bob on Varsity Blues, I'll be watching WHATEVER I WANT on demand. Chew on that a bit, you hell birds. I'm going to go copy something, and fax it! Try doing that on a beach, Slum Dog! I'm OUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Battle With Disease

I suffer from a rare and deadly disease called Acid Reflux. I think I contracted it ten years ago in Montevideo, Uruguay, but it’s possible that it was just Malaria, or Equatorial Goat Fever. I’ve been able to maintain my careless lifestyle of Canadian whiskey and pasta up until now. I understand that given my diet and my love for booze that Acid Reflux is somewhat deserved. Just because it’s deserved doesn’t mean it’s any less debilitating. In fact, it really, really sucks ass. Imagine going to let out a huge burp, and instead of grossing out a bunch of girls and instantaneously gaining the adoration of your friends, lava comes up your esophagus and your stomach becomes a psychotic arsonist who dedicates its life to setting your insides on fire, and you wake up in Bangladesh with a man who bought you on the Internet (Okay, I made up that last part, but it is that bad).
I must say that a large percentage of doctors would call my way of life “completely unhealthy.” Some doctors would even say that surviving this long defies medical science, and recommend I go on that show Mystery Diagnosis. I talked to my doctor about this. My doctor is very cool. When I went it for an STD test, his first question was, “So do you have anything weird on your dick or your balls?” (Using that language). He prescribed some Nexium, which works sometimes, but he also said that I’d have to change my lifestyle if I wanted the heartburn to go away (I also asked if he could prescribe some Percocets for me, but he told me to get the hell out of his office).

This was confounding for me (the need to change my lifestyle, not the refusal of Percocets, although both were pretty confounding). As a relatively spoiled person who, despite being in terrible shape, considers himself nearly invincible, I said to my doctor, “Um, no. I don’t want to change anything. Can’t you just give me a pill or a shot or something and make it go away? No? You’re telling me we can put a man on Mars, but we can’t cure heartburn? We can create super babies that are capable of flying an airplane, running a marathon in under three hours, and building giant robots that in one fell swoop can easily destroy a whole city, but you can’t cure my acid reflux? What do you think I am, some kind of jerk? You know what? Screw you. How about that? Did you like that? Because here comes another - screw you. Wait, hold on, I think I hear someone coming. Oh, here it is: Screw you. Asshole.”

Some say laughter is the best medicine. To them I say, “You guys are gay.” Since I’ve never been a big believer in “medicine” or “condoms” or “treating people the same regardless of their race”, when I came face to face with my old friend, Crown, I decided to imbibe as usual regardless of how unencumbered by pain I was. Huge Mistake. I can honestly say that I know what a dragon feels like, and it is not nearly as cool as it was it my dream where I fly around setting cities on fire, eating a ton of cheese, and making dragon lairs in baseball stadiums that are filled with dragon loving playmates that are willing to dedicate their lives to serving me (Sorry, I blacked out for a second). I’ll cut to the chase. Acid Reflux is ruining my life, and I’m quite displeased. Good day.

Ramblings

I’m sure everyone is now familiar with the 25 things about you list that has circumnavigated the intricate highways of the facebook network. After finishing my own list, I first thought that if it was that hard to share 25 things about myself, then I must really not be that interesting. That’s really all we want is to be interesting. I don’t have to be liked, in fact I actually like ridicule and disdain. I guess that makes me somewhat masochistic? If everyone widely accepted me as being awesome, then why work hard at anything? A small remark like, “you suck monkey lint,” tells me two things; 1. I in fact suck monkey lint and 2. You can’t have everything, Patrick, so get back to work. I had no intent on making this blog thought provoking, or even serious. I really wanted to share a few more random things about myself and what’s going on in that brain of mine.

Who is the guy that made Kelly Clarkson so angry? He seriously must have stolen her identity and killed her pet the same day he broke up with her. Carrie Underwood took to criminal damaging of property, but Clarkson is taking it to a whole other level. She wants
this guy to drown in an eel tank, or die of thirst.

I get some of the funniest random text messages from my degenerate friends, and I’d like to share a few. Here’s a quick exchange between and buddy and I.

Friend: I was an extra in Twilight.
Me: You were an extra in Philadelphia.
Friend: You were a fluffer in Milk.
Me: You were the lead in Coyote Ugly.

Retarded, right? The worst part is that I still laugh when I read it. I think it’s funny. Denial can be so sweet sometimes.

I’m officially on the down slope. I can now say that I have back pain. My lower back feels like I had 1500 consecutive butterfly tramp stamps tattooed in a Mexican border town.

I’ve been dying to write a screenplay. I was watching an old movie about Sam Houston the other night, and after weeping for a few hours over the independence of Texas, I got inspired and wrote a sad but inspirational film entitled, “Fast and The Furious 4: Cheetahs in Brooklyn.”

I want to be sponsored by something. Anything, really. Trolli Gummy worms, perhaps?

Almost 27 and I still create myself on video games.

Get the hell off Michael Phelp’s case. The guy brings nothing but golden glory to the country, and if he wants to light up some hippie lettuce then so be it. Oh, by the way, HE’S AN F’ING SWIMMER!

The Super Bowl commercials were terrible. Why don’t the Budweiser Clydesdales play football anymore? They’ve reduced to frolicking and canoodling with horse carnies. I had no idea that horses had Irish accents. Can anyone confirm that the voice in that commercial was Gerard Butler? I would’ve loved to see the horse scream, “Spartans!”

I really hate any highlighter that is colored differently from blinding yellow.

Does anyone know somebody that has made a rubber band ball? How in the hell do you begin?

That’s all for now. Good day.

The Beach Saga

I bet you’re wondering where I’ve been, huh? No? Why not? I would’ve thought you’d be concerned? It's been quite some time. Still a no? Fair enough. Well, I’ve been at the beach with some buddies doing absolutely nothing but gallivanting drinking beer, and eating red meat. Patrick-1 Lameness-0. Okay, okay, we're tied at 1. Middle school, am I right?! Speaking of lameness, I did, however, fall asleep on an innertube in the middle of the canal for a few hours, and woke up looking like the Cleveland Indians logo. Meaning I was red, not a racist caricature of a native American. Look, I understand my Irishness, and the proclivity to burn from anything resembling sunlight, but my chest seriously looked  like it got submerged in the vat of acid that the Robocop guy fell in. Not to mention, I felt just like Cru Jones did when he was trying to do land the bmx back flip in Rad (In pain and frustrated FYI). Sure, I was 64% more likely to get Melanoma now, and my liver was functioning like the Pittsburgh Pirates, but man did I have a good time. I hadn’t been out of town in a while, so the relaxation was long overdue. And, by relaxation, I mean completely embodying John Daly letting loose at a Hooters happy hour. 

 I got to picture-esque Galveston, Texas around seven p.m. on Sunday (What day even is it?). We immediately went to the store for our precious rations, and then dropped a couple hundred dollars on just meat and beer, which is both a cliche and still somehow extremely awesome. I don’t know why beer tastes better on vacation, but it most definitely does, and science will back me up on that. Maybe it's the freedom and a cool beach breeze, maybe it's the sweet scent of AIDS soaked seaweed mixed with dead bikers in the gulf, maybe it's Maybelline; I just don't know. I DO know that me and Schmitty ended up getting absolutely hammered and drove the golf cart to the beach at 4:00 a.m. and proceeded to go in and out of the surf like maniacs. We should've absolutely been arrested and/or joined those dead bikers at sea, but we were just two bad kids in their prime refusing to be held back by sobriety and societal standards. We were truly thriving.  Also, I've been trying to make Schmitty stick as a nickname for my buddy Rob, because I liked those commercials, but I continue to be the only one saying it, and frankly people are sick of  me saying it, but I do happen to be a bad kid at the end of the day, so Schmitty it is. Schmitty can back me up on that. 

 We decided it would be a grand idea to start drinking about 11:30 the next morning, and get directly into the AIDS water. HUGE miscalculation on our part. Keep in mind, my skin is normally the color of the breasts of an asexual Puritan, which is kinda redundant, but hey maybe you're redundant, so shut up. Basically extended periods of exposure to maximum sunlight was literally always a terrible idea, but bad-kid is my middle name so I proceeded to lay on an inner tube, and bask. Three hours later, I woke up in the middle of the AIDS canal in an exorbitant amount of pain, and I looked like PETA had caught me wearing a chinchilla coat and dumped red paint all over my body. Given the amount of beers I had consumed up to that point, I wasn't too concerned about the preliminary signs of skin cancer, but I for sure already had it. It's surely a new AIDS/Melanoma hybrid that would probably take my life at any second, and now I completely regreted every decision I had made up until that point. Sun burns SUCK! After hours of being ridiculed for being sun burned and answering to the name, "lobster bisque," which my friends thought was hilarious because they are both retarded and incapable of being funny or clever. I had heard enough from the Carrot Tops. I needed a change of scenery. It was at this point I knew I had to rally and go to the bar just to avoid more ridicule. Lobster bisque... morons. We arrived at a local dive bar named Buck’s around 10 p.m. It was a Monday night (Here I go with the days again), so it was pretty dead, but at the same time it wouldn't have shocked me to see 250 bikers and some beach scum sharing heroin and yelling about minorities. Anyway...

 ...Sorry, I blacked out for a second. How long was I out? Do not answer that. So I was sitting there at the bar incessantly mentioning that I was a famous comedy writer, destined for stardom, because the bartender was hot, but I failed to realize that I was better off introducing myself as I. Have Heroin to a beach criminal like that, but again, I'm a bad kid and I play by a different set of rules. 

Then, this familiar looking guy walked in. He was a very tiny man. He legit looked like he got hit with a shrink ray on half power. I knew him from somewhere, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Maybe I was hallucinating from the AIDS Cancer eating my brain, but I also couldn't care less who it was, so why am I still going on about it? I decided to bless these beach felons with a nice little mix on the juke box which included Jeff Buckley, Pink Floyd, Stevie Ray Vaughan, The Muppets and some others I don't feel like listing because frankly I don't remember. So, we were minding our business, enjoying the tunes when the bartender comes over and says, “don’t look, but there’s someone kind of famous here that doesn’t like the music," and I'm trying to get tipped, so I'm going to change it and refund you and buy y'all a round or two for the trouble. I was  pretty befuddled. Anyone who doesn’t like Jeff Buckley or SRV should die of Aids Cancer. I still contend that Grace was one of the best albums of the 1990’s and remains one of my all-time favorite records, but I digress. Who do I think I am, Kurt Loder? For the record he actually complained during Texas Flood playing IN THE STATE OF TEXAS! What a fucking bozo! It was at this moment I realized who that "kind of famous" person was; it was none other than ole football time himself, Clay Walker! If there was one rule I lived by as a bad kid, it was never cave in to Clay Walker for any reason. If he hadn't had M.S., I would’ve broken a chair over his little witch doctor shrunken head, and then mockingly sang, “I just want to live until I die, or Then what, whatcha gonna do...” while he writhed in pain and bled profusely. Relax, I was kidding! I'm a bad kid, not a meth crazed biker! I don't support violence nor did I care about his M.S. Why would I care about his Microsoft? 

 At this point my body temperature was at least 150 degrees. I continued to do the prudent thing and take shots like they had aloe in them, and then the bartender made me some special shot for criminals and beach degenerates called the Demotivator, which happened to be my nickname in college. Wait, or was it El Diablo de Verdad? I forget. The shot pretty much hit my diseased body instantly, and I was hammered and happy again, and became demotivated about murdering Clay Walker.  After all, love is the rhythm of two hearts beating... moron.

We made it. Somehow.  I left Galveston Island the next day as an Aids Cancer survivor, and decided that I should return to the beach as much as humanely possible despite the red flags waving all around me like a parade for Yao Ming in China. I felt at home there drunk in the sand with the beach crooks on meth lurking nearby with metal detectors, or barely avoiding getting the first maritime golf cart DUI with Schmitty, the name we all know him by. After all, I'm just a bad kid.

Mormony Mo' Problems

I have had many encounters with the Church of Latter Day Saints, or the stormin’ Mormons as I like to call them. I applaud their effort in rigorously recruiting people to join their church, but if they’re going to come to my door, best believe they better send their brightest.

I had the unique and glorious opportunity yesterday to converse with two young men, one of them being predominantly Asian. I was enjoying a beer on my couch while watching the tiresome coverage of A-Rod when there was a knock at my door. I was hoping it was a singing telegram by a barbershop quartet or Publishers Clearing House, but I was sadly mistaken.

Mormon 1: Hello sir, how are you this afternoon?

Me: (drinking my beer) I’m having the best day EVER!

Mormon 1: That’s good, sir. I was wondering; do you believe in Jesus Christ?

Me: You mean Hosanna? Indeed I do.

Mormon 2: We’re here with the Church of Latter Day Saints. Have you heard of the Book of Mormon?

Me: Is that the new Harry Potter book?

Mormon 2: (utterly baffled) Um, no…it’s the…the…the um…way to eternal life.

Mormon1: Yes…it shares the prophecy of… (Unintelligible babbling).

Me: Yeah, I think I read that on the john at the library. Good book. I love when the dragon sets that town on fire, and the only guys left to save the world are Carlos Boozer and Mehmet Okur.

Mormon 1: You must be confused; may we step inside and share with you the wonders of our church?

Me: Did you just say the wonders? Awesome. Sorry guys, I just put my leopard to sleep, and he can’t resist a high quality white dress shirt for a snack.

Mormon 1 and 2: (silence)

Me: Let me know when the sequel comes out! Tell Brigham Young he still owes me $100! Peace be with you (door slam).

Random notes: Doesn’t “The Stimulus Package,” sound like the name of a porno?