A Day in The Life

Some of my favorite weekends are those that I don’t have plans. Let’s be honest; I never have plans. That is unless you consider drinking too much and somehow living with otters for an extended period of time plans. One thing about getting older is the inability to sleep in. I used to be able to stay passed out like I slept in one of those Avatar machines, but not anymore. I usually lie in bed and go over a list of things that I could be doing to be productive, but am obviously never going to get around to. After that, I usually find a nostalgic movie on TV, and pick it a part scene by scene. Then, I have my obligatory hour long cry break before seamlessly transitioning into lunch.

Lunch typically doesn’t involve eating at all. This is more of a get dressed period, and the beginning of a countdown til I can start drinking without the accompaniment of shame or guilt. Keep in mind that’s next to impossible, but one can only dream. Wow, I’m really lame and depressing. I’m now regretting documenting anything I do. Yikes.

Things start to perk up come mid-afternoon. I pour a delicious cocktail, and then send unwarranted rare bird pictures to my friends. They LOVE this. That puts me in a good enough mood to start gambling my entire livelihood on some college team from somewhere like Manhattan, Kansas. If I win, riots. If I lose, riots. That, my friends is what we call a win-win, OR a class b misdemeanor. This all culminates in me passing out in what can only be described as a national park dressed like an animal that could never survive in that habitat. I don’t know why this makes me laugh. The eco-system is funny shit. It’s not? Oh. Okay. Anyways, this brings us full circle, and the vicious cycle continues. That is unless I am incarcerated for an extended period of time! Have a great weekend, people! I’ll see you around the bend.

I'm Not Funny

I’m having one of those unfunny days. This happens to me a couple times a year, and there’s nothing that can be done to stop it. I’m just not funny today. I wrote a cumulus cloud joke for crying out loud. When jokes start involving barometric pressure and moisture, it’s all downhill from there. It’s science. Literally.


On normal days, I laugh at names of rare bird species, or whatever disaster of a clothing ensemble I came up with in the morning. On top of not being funny, I have an Ashton Kutcher-eque rat’s nest of a beard on my face. I seriously have the facial hair of a Hungarian woman. Granted, they are pretty hairy. I digress.


I almost wrote last night, but remembered that I had to make a frozen pizza, drink a handle of rum, and berate pre-teens on X-Factor. Look, I’m not proud of it. It just has to be done. These asshole kids need to hear a bitch-slap of truth. Parents have to stop telling their kid that they’re the greatest. All this does is deliver a false sense of entitlement, and an unrealistic grasp on their talent…or lack thereof. I mean, don’t ruin their dreams or anything; just knock them down a peg or two. It wouldn’t hurt to tell them their voice sounds like a mix of a hissing possum and a Vietnamese automated bank teller. It’s for the greater good. Actually, I don’t care. You’re going to fuck them up in the head one way or the other.


Okay, back to me not being funny. It’s affecting my text game. I’m the master of funny texts. Not being funny renders me useless. I’m running out of animals to paint my junk like. I’m sure nobody appreciates my zoo of dick pics. Anyways, I have to get back to crying. BYE!

Writer's Block Party

I’ve had brutal writer’s block* the last few days. *Got real high and replied to missed encounter ads on craigslist. I feel like it’s important never to force anything. Writing uninspired spawns uninspired words, go figure. Confounding, I know. There are very few cures for writer’s block, but I’ve found a few remedies.


1. Have passionate hate sex with a Ukrainian. Their ice cold Eastern European demeanor makes them especially easy to hate in the bedroom.
2. Go read YouTube comments on a Lil’ Wayne video. Those retards could give the worst of writers confidence.
3. Cry uncontrollably inside of the recycling bin.
4. Watch Batman Returns, and laugh about how ridiculous his suit looks. Seriously, look at that thing real close.
5. Put on a One Man Civil War musical.


Sometimes, that stuff doesn’t even work. That’s when I move on to hallucinogenic plants, and laser light shows. Actually, that’s just being a hippy, but it somehow applies. I try to imagine what Twain or Steinbeck would do, but then I remember that they’ve written classics, and my best work is arguably a bathroom stall in a Valero station off I-45. I don’t see how some people can just go post up at a coffee shop, and write for hours. I would end up writing about my disdain for hipsters, and try to guess what percentage of their clothes is made of hemp. I can’t have any distractions, unless those distractions happen to be boobs or various gummy candies. Even then, I’m not getting any writing done.


I’ve thought about trying out one of those speech-to-text programs, but I know I’d just waste time trying to get it to type the most unspeakable things ever, and then laugh about it. I’m a pillar of class and maturity. What if I was just tricking everyone and my book was a political thriller or the next popular wolf lit series? I know, not possible. Shut up. Well, I have some shrooms to harvest. Until next time…

Best of Tweets Part 2

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Best of Tweets Part 1

A lot of my blog readers don’t follow me on twitter, and for good reason I might add. I thought I’d give you guys a glimpse into the atrocity that is my twitter account. Prepare yourself for a lot of shaking your head in disappointment and disgust. Oh, and this is like a 15 part series. It’s like The Lonesome Dove of bad comedy. Please direct your hate mail to Obama44@us.gov


• I drank about 3 bottles of red wine last night. Aside from my A-Rod-esque purple lip, I can't think of a good reason not to do it again.
• Watching Celebrity Wife Swap and questioning my sexuality. Typical Tuesday.
• I just don't have it today. By it, I mean my flask
• Is bulge essentially wiener cleavage?
• I just casually called a black guy "dog" in a conversation. I hate myself.
• So my drug dealer just died. I'm thinking about going to his funeral to, you know, network.
• A guy just asked me where the closest Wal-Mart was, and I replied, "I don't know, I'm neither fat nor foreign."
• Dear Black Guy with the license plate, "LAWLESS," You're not making it any easier on yourself. Might as well make it PULLOVR.
• If Budweiser is inherently American, why does a brown paper bag make it so Mexican?
• Fighting a black guy at night is like fighting Predator.
• The day is always better when it starts with a blow job, so I better get back under the bridge.
• Hello booze. What do you say we team up and hopefully wake up naked and bruised in a ditch in Lima, Peru?
• I'm looking for one of those basketball leg sleeves for my wiener.
• Margarita and put it where you want night! Much better than Dorito stained shirt/American Idol night!
• I'm so confused today. I've realized I hate white people too.
• Who wants to go round up some stray dogs and let them loose in a Whole Foods?
• What does it mean if your piss is light blue?
• I'm glad I don't have anyone checking my search history at the office. I'm not sure what they'd make of "dragon rape," and "dick denim."
• I imagine being stuck in traffic is a lot like getting a hand job from a wolverine. Not The Wolverine, that'd be amazing.
• I thought Google+ was a search engine for fat people.
• Being a writer isn't as romantic as people think. I have my hand in my pants and a bag of skittles in the other. Ahh, brainstorming.
• Who wants to come help me write my book? This means drinking 'til we're speaking Gaelic and watching Lethal Weapon 4 in Spanish.
• Oh hi heartbreak! Nice to see you again. I pick girls about as good as I do horse races. Gratuitous beejer anyone?
• I'm miserable, so I'm gonna make you all miserable. That being said, I made everybody shrimp brochettes
• I'm having severe hand pain. This better not be ANOTHER Stigmata.
• Easy with the judgment, Target lady! Tissues, gummy bears, lube, and US Weekly are normal. NORMAL!
• I think if Obama announces the grand opening of Jurassic Park, he'll get a pass with most Americans.
• Severe thunderstorms all day! Now I can turn off my noise machine while I masturbate!
• Is it a prerequisite as a sign twirler to dress exactly like Jesse Pinkman?
• Whenever I cut somebody off in traffic and they give me the finger, I throw up the roc.
• It's pouring! I bet it's like a hobo locker room out there!
• I've been on Rumspringa for about 12 years
• Who wants to be my Valentine...s day massacre?
• Turn down my Jay-Z? OH! You meant beat you mercilessly with my car phone charger! Gotcha.
• This day keeps getting shittier. I had to talk to a guy named Diego for 5 minutes while keeping a straight face.
• It's 4 p.m. I must be drinking- Washed up Rob Thomas
• What a pretty day to drink like a grown up orphan and pass out under an overpass!
• Is there a manly way to apply chapstick?
• I hate it when you put on Mariah Carey's Always Be My Baby on repeat and drink until you wake up in a Juarez jail.
• God, I hope I don't have to throw up my solja rag today!
• Do bum's float? I've wanted a hoboat for years now.
• I'm sorry! I should NOT have called those two fat friends, "diabesties."
• I haven't been around this many horny people since yesterday at Discount Tire.
• In case you're wondering Big Leagues, I've got my at-bat music all picked out, so let me know where to send it!
• The only thing your new Audi says is, "I probably call my white friends my ninjas."
Good day, kind folks.

Book Update/Chicken Almadine Recipe/Suicide Letter

A wise man once told me to capture the dream. At first I was inspired, ready to take on life in the metaphorical octagon. Ready to become the next President of Def Jam records, or have my own wildlife show on Animal Planet. Ready to pecker check a TMZ reporter, and call him bozo. Ready to make my mark on society. You know? Then, I realized I was in a Navajo gift shop purchasing a dream catcher, and that all seemed silly.


So, I'm elbow deep into writing this book. Also, I will never use elbow deep to describe anything ever again. I'm sorry (lie). It's abundantly clear that I have no idea what I'm doing. I literally wrote an entire chapter about how terrible of a writer I am. Only I could manage to discredit my own writing in my own book. They didn't call me captain sabotage in college for nothing. Okay, nobody ever called me that, but you get my point. I can honestly tell you that writing a book is ridiculously hard. The writing is probably the easiest part. It's getting the motivation after drinking seventeen crown and cokes and eating not one but two plates of homemade nachos that makes it tough.


What's taking me so long you ask? First off, shut your mouth. Secondly, I can't write the next great American classic overnight. Though my work ethic is undoubtedly in question, I'm still a writer...of the highest caliber. What was that? How am I a writer? HOW AM I A WRITER?! Um, did you not read Barstool magazine circa 2006? Yeah, that was me. I've been jizzing out quality literature for years now. Hell, I even bought a tweed jacket with elbow patches. I'm the epitome of a writer. Sure, I lost my way a bit when I tried to dabble in witch porn, but that never stopped me. I'm what the French call "resilient." So my publicist threatened to sever my penis with a hole puncher if I didn't turn in a manuscript soon. And? You think that's the first time my penis' safety has been in question? Hardly. Actually, my penis is on the most wanted list in Uruguay, but we won't get into that.


I love how people think writing is easy. I guess I don't blame them; they'll give a book deal to just about anyone. This includes an out of shape 30 year old that likes bird jokes. In all seriousness, my book is going to be the manifesto of a culture, the script of a generation dying for someone to step up and be their voice. Sure, one chapter is comprised of only emoticons, and the prologue is pretty much a love letter to the band, O-Town, but that's neither here nor there. Just read the fucking thing when it comes out. Deal? Now, go back to gratuitously "liking" Facebook statuses.

Retiring From Dating

I am officially retiring from dating (*Steps up to the microphone). Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth. It’s with great pleasure and regret that I must leave this great game called dating. We had a good run. Didn’t we? There was that girl with the dead tooth and scoliosis hump, or that really hot girl with the jungle cat tattoo on her left boob that molested me in a Denny’s parking lot. Maybe that one wasn’t so bad. I’ve been on good dates that went awful, and awful dates that apparently went well. Also, I may or may not have gone on 3 or 4 dates with what turned out to be a Japanese business man. I miss you, Kayato. The point is, I’m through with it all, and am ready to become the crazy cat lady I was meant to be. Women, you guys suck. I mean that figuratively and literally. You don’t want a sweet and funny guy, so stop saying it. I would respect you a lot more if you came out and said that you wanted a rich guy that’s hung like Lurch. There’s nothing wrong with wanting that. If you really wanted a sweet and funny guy, I wouldn’t have 13 whores locked in my laundry room while I cry tirelessly into my chicken fried rice while simultaneously mouthing the words to P.S. I Love You. Look, it’s my cross to bear. I’ve purchased an old run down home from a nice Turkish man that is already infested with cats. They’re led by a particularly large Savannah Cat named Glen. I figure I’ll seamlessly slide in and start battling the department of health. Voila! I’m crazy cat lady. Rest assured that I won’t be bitter for long. I just ate an ungodly amount of mescaline and bought $13,000 worth of whiskey. If you need me, I’ll be on cloud nine (cat infested shithole) writing my series of pornographic literature. Peace be with you.

Patrick's Guide to Being Awesome

I’ve been pondering and digging through old trunks in my mind all day in search of an answer. The quest for this answer is critical to adequately furthering my existence on this dear planet the locals call earth. I’m going to take you on a journey into the abyss of my mind. Let it be known that this abyss may or may not be inhabited by those scary fish with the light on their heads. It’s a risk, but a necessary one. So, pack your hemorrhoid cream and possibly a hoodie or some thermal underwear (Is it me or does thermal primarily suck ass?). I understand it may be warm, but does it have to feel like sand paper and accentuate every part of you that you want concealed? I look like a fucking apricot when I put on a thermal undershirt. I digress. It can get chilly in the abyss of my mind. The hemorrhoid cream is merely precautionary. You never know…seriously…you NEVER know. The question desperately needing its answering counterpart is one for the ages. Why am I so ridiculously awesome? I just can’t figure it out. I’m pretty sure I’m related to Zeus or Jesus, and possibly Clapton since he is allegedly God. If he ends up being the Anti-Christ, I’m going to be severely pissed off. Although, they all had really cool beards, and the closest I can get to a beard looks like The Uni-Bomber if he shaved for a Christmas party a few days before hand. I’m probably related to someone more like Batman. I’m very Bruce Wayne-esque, yet I can inexplicably disappear into the night wearing a utility belt. THEN, there’s all this talent I have to deal with! It’s almost too much to bear. God doesn’t like us to waste our talents, but I just don’t have the time to do everything. Listen to my words of wisdom, my children. Sure, I’m a famous Internet celeb, and I dress like I’m in an Indie Rock group called The Ethernets; I don’t want to even get into my boyish good looks or how I invented Sudoko puzzles. It’s harder than it looks…being all awesome and everything. Grab a pen; you’re going to want to write this down. If you follow this list of things, you may be on a path to a better you, or a replica of me, which is just as cool if not better. 1. Read a lot. It makes you smarter. Reading Rainbow had a real impact on the man I am today. 2. Have weapons. Not only am I protected, but I can say things like, “don’t make me grab the fo’ pound and send you straight through the ER, or you better stop the vendetta, I’d tell you in sign language, but my translator’s a Beretta. Sure, I’m from the suburbs and my flow is absurd, divide my 9 by 3 and all you got is a third.” I really should put out a rap album. 3. Listen to music that doesn’t suck. You might say, “hey, isn’t that a matter of taste?” No, it is not. Music either sucks or it doesn’t. Choose wisely. 4. Don’t cheat. Loyalty is a lot hotter than Britany Spears heartburn after a night at Ryan’s Steakhouse. Guys, listen. You aren’t cool if you “bang” chicks on the side. That makes you a ball of filth. Ladies? You’re not off the hook either. Stop slutting around for goodness sake. If you don’t like that douche you’re with, then break up and then go star in your own sex tape that will inevitably end up on craigslist for a few bucks. 5. Respect large cats. They can and will maul you if the opportunity arises. My fear of jungle cats exudes a vulnerability that drives women wild. Try it out. If I’m wrong, then your fate lies within the belly of a mean cougar. 6. Buy a blazer or two. I’m no writer for GQ, but the sport coat is always in style and can even make a plaid polo button up from granny look decent. In addition, with a blazer you don’t have to iron. Chew on that taffy of info a bit. 7. Be confident at all times. Women hate pussies. Redbook may want you to think sensitivity is the right approach, but punching out a Rabbi while simultaneously copying everything Patrick Swayze did in Dirty Dancing is much more appealing. If a senile man with a mullet can land a 14 year old, then you may have a chance. I know what you’re thinking, and NO! The legal age is 18, and in my mind that’s just as creepy. Now ladies, stop all the bullshit. Stop holding out for some rich dickwad with the personality of the 1411 robot lady. Money is awesome, there’s no denying that, but I’d rather be in love living in a shanty than masturbating for the rest of my life in front of a plasma, because my wife spends the whole day shopping while trying to make her skin a mandarin color that eventually ends up looking like OJ’s bloody glove. Love beats materialism every time. 8. Pick up cooking. It’s not only cathartic, but very sexy and self-fulfilling. I may write a cook book for guys that think Basil is a country in South America, but probably not. Cooking is an art. This art can go from Van Gogh to paint-by-number with one wrong move. 9. Keep a journal. You don’t have to keep up with it, but have one. I flip through mine, and it brings back good and bad memories. It’s still history. For instance, on July 26, 2004, I wrote, “I think a pet spider monkey is a bad idea, but a few bats could possibly rock. Then again, I don’t want them flapping around through the night looking for fruit or blood. I think a sloth is my best bet. Yeah, a sloth. My left teste feels like Paul Bunyan did the electric slide on it. I’m going to sleep. Journals blow.” See, you can just ramble and look all mysterious at the same time. 10. Disregard every single thing I wrote. Being awesome is a state of mind and self assuredness. Nobody can teach you how to be awesome. I mean, I don’t even know how I got this sweet. I want to say it’s from the $50 I slipped the baby Jesus at a nativity scene, but it turns out that it was the baby of a manager at The Buckle. I may never know what makes me so much better than a large percent of the population, but I’ll never quit searching. The answer lies somewhere. I’m thinking it’s in the vicinity of the Arc of The Covenant and the Holy Grail, so I’ll probably find out on the Discovery Channel. This whole “advice” blog was written on the fly, so cut me some slack. Remember, the first cut is the deepest. Cat Stevens says so. Keep an eye out for my debut book. It’s almost complete, and it may be the best thing to ever be written, or an abomination to American literature. Only time will tell…unless time leaks it on the Internet before the release date. Time can’t be trusted.