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.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Thursday, September 20, 2012
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!
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!
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
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…
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…
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
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.
• 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.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
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.
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.
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