Wednesday, June 30, 2004

rules for hitting on women,

from an actual woman, and not 'Maxim'.

1. first, ask yourself these questions. and be honest: do i live in my parents basement? do i have a job? do i ever, in any context, make use of the word 'holla'? if you answered 'yes' to any of these questions, you have a damn sight more things to worry about than a piece of pussy, and should not be wasting any of my time with your entreaties.

2. your jokes usually aren't that funny, so if you detect what appears to be a grimace on my face, you might want to back off with the hilarity. if you know youre not funny, yet she's laughing anyways, she's probably humoring you. she's what they call a keeper. think of all the other ways she might want to 'humor' you.

3. look at that first question again. are you sure your being honest. seriously.

4. if you are riding in a pickup truck with 3 other dudes in the cab, random sex will almost never occur, no matter how many times you yodel, honk or yell salacious things to female passers-by. our kind do not go on runs, bike rides, or walks for the purpose of attracting lawn-monkeys or truckers. when is the last time this strategy worked for you? i will have sex with you right now if you can prove to me that at any time, some woman on the street who got honked at immediately stopped what she was doing and said, 'thank you kind sir for letting me know that the junk in my trunk is attractive to your discerning eye, my place or yours? there's a urinal right over there...'

to be continued...

Tuesday, June 29, 2004

must write.

been busy. brother married. house not found. elephant not eradicated. hairs not cut. sleep not had. eyebrows going unplucked for what seems like weeks.

fuck blog.

Friday, June 18, 2004

crap-tasm

ever walk into an old navy store and see some dipshit with a head-set on, and wonder what the fuck could possibly be so important in an old navy store, that requires up to the minute communication? its as though theyre all feverishly dedicated to the strategizing of ways to get performance fleece to you, as quickly and conveniently as possible, so as to avert the disaster of your leaving theyre store without buying any crappy, misshapen jeans.

are there old navy elves sweat-shopping in the back of the store? seriously, does some dude squawk into his walky-talkie, 'yeah...um, we're running out of extra small ribbed boatneck cargo pants. could you get the oompa loompas to knit a little faster? m'kay?'

i so totally dont get it.

'dude, code red in area twelve. code red. we have a soccer mom perusing the tank tops with the built in bras that dont do shit for your boobs. we are out of periwinkle. i repeat. we are out of fucking periwinkle.'

je-sus. get over yourselves.

Thursday, June 17, 2004

heaven knows im miserable now.

i loathe confrontation.

id rather tip-toe around the ginormous pink elephant in my living room, than risk making it feel sad by telling it that things just aren't working out, and that it is too pink and too big and i cant take it anymore, and will it please leave. cause i dont want to make anyone feel badly. especially not an elephant. but for serious, i dont know how to make both the elephant and myself happy. obviously things cannot continue on in this way. i will go insane. the elephant will go insane. we will end up hating each other and i will get stampeded.

sometimes you just wish you knew what elephants think about. theyre always just kind of sitting there, mostly not talking. and in the absence of any real conversation, you invent heinous things in your head about what the elephant thinks of you. you wonder why the big bastard is always in your living room. you wonder why in hell he's pink. youve certainly never asked him to explain these mysteries, because youre afraid of what he'll say. maybe he's pink because he knows you hate pink and oh my god with all the pink. or maybe when you ask what is up with the huge-ness and pink-ness, he'll think youre a total basket-case paranoid and that your capacity for over-analyzing things is muchly off-putting.

and what if you cry like a little bitch because the elephant makes fun of you. what if the elephant thinks youre annoying because, while youre jabbering away, he could be watching the goddamn NBA championships, (fuck the lakers). cant there be some way to read an elephant's mind? i need some odds, some percentages, predictions. i think i might have to put my hands over my ears and sing that 'henry the VIII' song as loud as possible, in lieu of confronting the elephant and risking the giant elephantine shaft.

stupid complications that dont need to be complicated. stupid silent elephants being pink all the time. stupid me for allowing the mt. vesuvius in my gut to fester and vomit all over the internet.

Monday, June 14, 2004

nerd-gasm.

i dont like stephen king.

not even a little. i think his books suck ass. all except for the dark tower series.

i read the new book, in all its four hundred page glory, in less than 24 hours. and in the middle of that i might have gotten somewhat drunk, thusly killing yet more time.

my nerding has been going really well.

im usually not afforded the time to nerd so exclusively and strenuously on one thing, but dude, two days off in a row. a row i say!

Thursday, June 10, 2004

a van down by the river?

ive got nowhere to live. im pretty sure my roommate and i have to exit the premises, with our tons of crap that we dont need, in the next month. i might be living out of my car, or slobbing on someone's couch. this sucks.

eh. not really worried about my prospects in the finding a new place to live department. there's a million little shit-hole shanties in my town, and ive never been afraid to live in one, no matter the numerous crack-heads i have for neighbors. i like the wee house we live in now, but i guess its time to move on. Crackton ho!

Wednesday, June 02, 2004

old lady with a dog in a small town.

the mutual affection dogs and owners share makes the world, and waking up in the morning, suck less.

a woman was cruising down the road in a wheelchair, with her big hairy dog beside her, and i was jealous. of the woman in the wheelchair, who lives in the nursing home across the street.

this struck me as an apt metaphor for the seemingly endless desire of people to acquire more and more shit to fill up their increasingly empty lives.

uh. that sounded harsh.

allow me to elucidate. i have more money than i know what to do with. i would say im poor by most people's standards, but as i dont having any huge drainage attacking my checkbook, (kids, ball and chain, etc...), im doing just fine. im not a cripple. i dont live in the old folks home. i have my whole life ahead of me.

'said i used to, make a pretty good living. but you must make a killing' ~ani difranco

and yet, i can find something to envy in someone who, by every standard americans hold dear, has less than me.

say the what now?

so. i think there needs to be an amendment to the american dream:

old dream~
make as much money and buy as many toys as is humanly possible in your lifetime. this will make you happy. screw the unfortunate bastards who are poor, because, obviously they deserve to be. they clearly did no amount of pulling on their bootstraps, and praise the lord, (who is obviously a capitalist lord), that bootstrap pulling always works.

new improved dream~
make enough money to live comfortably and not have to worry about bullshit problems like medical bills, kids burning down the house, etc. do what you like doing, regardless of what it pays. a rich miserable fuck is still a miserable fuck. try not to do stupid shit that requires you to live beyond your means. kids can be cute, but not when youre fourteen and that kid happens to be yours.

in no way am i condoning a hippie lifestyle. hippies still suck. im merely suggesting that whether you make millions or hundreds, you should enjoy what you do, enjoy the people you have relationships with, and enjoy every stupid little innocuous thing that makes life worth living.

and enjoy the dogs that make sure its safe to cross the road.

i do love my lists.

things that are bothersome to dudes:

1. calling them, like, ever.
2. taking an interest in their goddamn lives.
3. looking sideways at a baby.
4. poking them with your finger.
5. poking them with your finger even when they tell you to stop, for serious.
6. getting good and drunk, making fun of their shitty taste in music, and then pleading with them to get over themselves.
7. dropping a shit-ton of f-bombs in honor of the moment.
8. telling a silent, pensive bastard that, 'we need to talk'.
9. asking 'complex' questions that require them to utter more than two poly-syllabic words.
10. farting on their heads. maybe now they'll listen.