Getting Pissy About Diarrhea

True story time! Also, the second Nest of Grump entry.

Please note that this is a post about my guts. I have written a letter to my stomach. Don't enjoy belly aching? Well, you're never gonna get anywhere with that attitude. And if you're reading this while taking a poo, I love you unconditionally.

(via Fart Party. Love ya, girl)


First, some recent history...

I have stomach issues. Straight up. I had an endoscope put down my esophagus in July. In fact, that experience was the catalyst for this blog. The GI doctor that performed the procedure didn't find anything physically wrong with me, therefore limiting any effective treatment. Official diagnosis, dyspepsia. Essentially, I have IBS of the upper intestines. He put me on some muscle relaxants that supposedly target the intestines, but the results have been mixed at best.

I've also been told (and believe) that 80% of my stomach problems are caused by my mind and the anxieties that dwell within it. Nerves in the gut have the highest amount of serotonin in the body. Serotonin is a neurotransmitter that regulates mood. I'm a moody fucker. Correlation? You bet your cthulhu.

In conclusion, I have the capacity to cause my own physical suffering. Neat!


Onto my letter...


Dear My Stomach,
I know we haven't really talked in a while, but I feel that some things need to be addressed. About us. Please bear with me and take what I say into consideration. You'll always be a part of me, that's a given. But, tell me, how did it ever come to this?

We used to be so close. Remember back in high school, when I fed you grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch and Mongolian Beef for dinner, with a couple Twix bars in between? Yeah, you remember. You broke down all that stuff with the grace of a figure skater. Those were some good times. We had a great love for each other back then. An excess of love, actually. I was fat. Remember?

(2002)

But you were industrious and I was happy back then. Even when I was eating entire pizzas, 4 times a week, you never hassled me. We were in love with amounts and flavors. Chinese buffets and microwaveable junk food. Pop Tarts and burritos. Cheddar Sun Chips and peanut butter. Crab Rangoon! Those were the days.



Sure, I felt bad about my body. Buying larger pants and trying to conceal man-boobs took a toll on my self-esteem. Forever. But you never betrayed me with pain or digestive difficulty. You did your job and I did mine.

Then, about six years ago, you started to rebel against my cavalier eating habits. You stopped breaking down dairy. Pizza, once a source of delight, became an agent of distress. Horrible cramps and diarrhea occurred. I had to sacrifice all lactose. I felt greatly restricted at first. But with a little time and some perspective, I got over it. After all, everything else was still fair game. We were still pals. There was no use lamenting the things I could not change. Tacos without cheese are still delicious. And without cheese in my diet, I was able to drop a few pounds. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise. I went from 255 to 180. Not bad.

(2005)

But the hostility didn't stop there. It grew. Tacos soon brought with them a nauseous wrath. Butter made my belly bubble. Eggs, spicy foods, green peppers, pie. All became forbidden after incurring hefty penalties. And the list of verboten vittles continued to swell.

What exactly were you trying to prove? I mean, what the fuck?!

And lately, you've gotten mean. For the past three years, you have made my life a living hell, not to mention severely limiting my food options. I have discovered that you will not tolerate anything with fats or oils in them. There's not a fried thing I can eat without indigestion, nausea, bloating, and heartburn. Nuts are out. Guacamole? Nope. Chocolate? Not unless I want some Chernobyl farts. No more steak, either. Peanut butter cookies, gone.

You tyrant!

The things I can eat without problems? Cereal, oatmeal, toast, rice, chicken, turkey, dry crackers, pasta, soy milk, and other bland edibles. Woo-fucking-hoo.




If you disapprove of anything I give to you, anything that even slightly glistens, you make the next 6 or 7 hours of my life unbearable. All I can do is drink water and ride it out while watching TV. I can't go out. I can't write or be funny. All my efforts are put into recovering from these erratic bouts of lousiness. Do you realize that my quality of life, our quality of life, suffers from your never ending wickedness? Something has to change. And soon.

I know that I may have overworked you in the past, but those days are long over. There's no need for revenge, partner. I cut a lot of bad shit out of my diet for you. We've hit a rough patch, sure, but without your appetite suppression tactics, I wouldn't own the lean body that I sport today. I'm grateful to you for that.

Sex-machine. Minus the sex.



But, this can't go on forever. It just can't. The future I desire doesn't include agonizing nights curled up in a ball, clutching my stomach. I'm at the end of my rope. If you stop this war right now, all will be forgiven. I want a truce. I want for us to be buddies again. I'm reaching out to you. Please take my hand.

All My Love,
Kid Douche

NASCAR Reading Club

Two more payments and she's all mine.

Homeless People Sleep Outside

This photo made my day. Now I must sleep.

Rambo A-Go-Go

Have you seen the new Rambo? It's all heads being chopped off and exploding shins. And some shaky-cam infant slaughter thrown in for good measure.

How many steroid-filled syringes has Sylvester Stallone popped into his stump? Judging by his monstrous neck, I'd say a duffel bag full. I wouldn't rule out pit bull DNA injections as well. Maybe that explains the mindset of a film where everything erupts in red slop and a child is torn from his father's arms and thrown into a burning house. Jesus!


New Rambo carnage...I don't toss around the word pogrom a lot, or at all, but this is pretty much what I'd expect a pogrom to look like.



There's also some moral hooey about interfering in another nation's misery, and fighting for humanitarian rights, but all that goes out the window when a man holding a small child gets shot in the back and the bullet goes through the kid as well. Social commentary voided. And all these moments I'm describing are edited together really fast, leaving no time to process what you just saw.


If it was up to me, I'd rename this film Zoom Zoom Burmese Guttin' Hut.

Ralph Wilson Stadium

Ralph Wilson Stadium in Buffalo is nicknamed "The Ralph".

8 Creepy Pick Up Lines

Over the past week or so, Lee and I (with some collaborative help from Monty, Lindsey, and Rob) have been brainstorming a bunch of creepy pick up lines. Lines that convey a slippery grip on sanity, and an utter lack of human communication skills. We wanted to prove that one sentence, spoken with the awkwardness of 5 senior proms combined, can strike fear and uneasiness within the hearts of women worldwide.

Warning! If you actually say these things to a woman, you'd better know how to take a punch in the dick.

But two things first;

1) These also qualify as things you don't want to hear while walking alone in a dark alley. Boy or girl.
2) Use a gruff, axe-murdery, unsettling interior voice when reading them. Trust me. Way better payoff.

Also, whisper one of these lines to your dad, and send a picture of his reaction to me at shutyourcunt@yahoo.com. You will be rewarded with Cheez-Its.

Here's them gems...



1. "Time to look at my jammies."





2. "Do you like soft things?"





3. "In 15 minutes, we won't even be here."





4. "You smell cultural."





5. "Milky Pete wants his bologna."





6. "They found ticks in me."





7. "Hostage party!"





8. "Wanna take a ride in my giggle buggy?"






Well, I'm off to the bars, ladies.
Smell ya later.

Take Your Goiter To Work Day

Got a few things to ramble about this evening/morn...

Haven't had internet for a few days, hence the lack of postage. I was at my folk's house in the burbs, where I average 14 hours of sleep a night and pound my drum set like it owes me money. I cherish these two things. I take 3-4 days every month to visit my family, the executive producers of Team Kid Douche. It helps hone my brain bone, and keeps me grounded.

Although I always seem to come up with Carl Winslow scenarios when I visit. I don't think this is a coincidence.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The craigslist missed connections are getting pretty weak these days. No intrigue, no stories, just pathetic crap like, "Hey, I saw you walking your dog and you said hi to me as you picked up poop in a Best Buy bag. Drinks? :P"

How come there aren't any homeless gentleman getting miss connected? They're out in the streets all day, talking to females. No connections? Really? That's sad.



W4M- To Rowboat Leroy from Spare Some Change, Sexy? - 26 - (outside 7 eleven)
"You were blinking your left eye rapidly and coughing into a bouquet of flowers you stole from the cemetery. Your right eye was bloodshot and transfixing. You told me that you'd humped somebody in Texas that looked like me, but it was a long time ago. I was flattered.

Then you tried to sell me a rolling suitcase. I said OK only because I was smitten and wanted to hear you talk some more. You unzipped the suitcase, revealing a staggering amount of pee bottles, but I didn't care. You were ashamed and ran away.

I like you, Rowboat. Come back! I hope you see this ad when you use the computer at the library tomorrow, while not so discreetly rubbing your pants.
Ciao!"

I've Got The Arthritis In Atlantis (Sung To The Tune Of Cinderelli In Chord D)

If you think it through it works well, I think.

Sung to the tune of misery.

Am I the only person who sees a vein of nihilism in every conversation?

Everyone I know is on the brink of total collapse.

By everyone I mean me.

And by me I mean all of us. Douglas Coupland is an amazing writer. He shot his wad too early. He pegged Gen-X as the dejected and over educated. Bull Shit. What about Us? The completely rejected and over educated not because of money but because we seek reason in a world of madness. Raised in broken homes and lonely times, Origami does not a friend make.

When I was a kid I spent a lot of time in libraries. Not because of a need for learning but because I sought a companion. Craft books make great friends when your only true companion is a hobby. When I needed friends I would read harder. I would work more to avoid the fact that in middle school loneliness is not common, or fun, or hip.

I don't get current nerd chic. I learned and read because I was too awkward, too un-socialized to be a birthday buddy.

I love pop music because it provides those feelings foreign to me.

Take from that what you already have.

I know I'm not the only pessimistic person from birth. Being dealt a bad hand today doesn't mean blues. It means standard. Everyone has it hard because being aimless and hopeless is no longer a John Hughes fantasy. It's something we all face. The degreed and serving.

How many people do you know are more intelligent than the people they serve?

How many times can I get drunk before it's old? How about you?

We all exist somewhere between mild breakdown and complete nervous system overload. Is that healthy? No. Does anyone in advertising care? No. Your free time is up for sale. Every blank thought should be filled with consumerist need. I have my addictions. You have yours. We all have one. It may not be chemical. I'm horribly addicted to music that makes me feel "OK".

Not for fun or enjoyment. As a mid-twenties nervous breakdown, I need it. I need to know something will be ok. Otherwise, I'm lost in my own internal neurotic rambling. The desperate fear of being totally isolated because my social skills are intensely uncomfortable. For me and anyone in a point five mile radius.

What gets you through your day? The mild hope of a human interaction not marred by fear and crippling self consciousness? That's our hope. Being hyper aware of you, yourself, all the millions of scenarios played by pop culture for you,

This moment brought to you by Sony, BMG, Zach Braff, and pseudo-involved interactions with everyone.

Do yourself a favor. Walk away. Take a breath. No one can take the time you set for yourself. Dream the dream of a life not wrapped in pain and fear. The burrito of our times. Good Day.

It's Getting Later Earlier Nowadays

Scotch and Salad homage...



Wake up at 2:30 in the afternoon
Heart beating fast
cheetah's pulse
Look out the window
gray and getting dark

Urge to do something
Anything
I'm missing precious moments out there
My happiness
my future
my Malibu honeymoon

Nah
I'm fine right here
watching wet leaves
fall off the tree
outside my apartment

All I need
is a dog
to sit beside me
and look out the window
while I eat his
heart worm pills

Kamasutra Maneuvers: Terminator T-800 Edition

CALLING ALL ROBOSEXUALS!!!

Terminator sex is the new werewolf sex, or so says Us Weekly. Here are the maneuvers involved and what they go by among robots in the post-apocalyptic streets.


The Lumpy Helicopter




The Laser Penis Surprise




The Icicle Goes In, and Never Comes Out




The Maximum Vacuum




This one's called Eating Lunch at a Picnic Table By Myself, Crying



The Irish Taco



The Paul McCartney Special




The Ejector Seat




And finally, The Bologna Pony




Roborgs, they're just like us!

Smell y'all later


(all photos via cszar's Flickr)

Jim Cramer's Woe Scope

Jim "Mad Money" Cramer, financial expert, was on Conan the other day. Here's his solution to the housing crisis...



"FDR was a pig killer?!"
"Yes he was!"

I've found my calling. I am sending multiple applications and resumes to Jim Cramer with the intent of joining his wandering torch squad. My name will undoubtedly be added to a government blacklist just for applying, but fuck it. Sometimes you have to gamble when your dream hangs in the balance. And if I'm not accepted, I'll freelance. Emphasis on the free.

You don't even know how many times I've thought about setting Tampa Bay on fire from a helicopter. My favorite movie character is the flame thrower wielding Fireball from The Running Man. Jim Brown's best role.



Side story, true story... During our freshman year of college, me and Sugaragus broke into our friend Ben Brockman's dorm room via the window. He was out with his girlfriend for the night. We watched The Running Man on his TV and stole 4 beers out of his mini-fridge (the beer was Natural Light, is that still considered stealing?). After the movie was over, we left through his front door, all casual. I never told him about it, and he never mentioned the missing beers. The funny thing is that I had a TV and some beer in my dorm anyway. We just thought it would be funny, and it was. Sorry, Ben.




Back to my torch brigade ambitions...

Hell, I don't even need to get paid, just the health benefits, thank you. Smoke inhalation is a bitch, and skin grafts don't grow on trees.



My only concern is that when the ashes settle in the burn zone, and I'm sent back home, maybe I won't be the same guy. Like a returning war vet, I'd be itching for more action, something only my inferno brothers would understand.

I'd get real quiet when birthday candles were lit. I'd stop conversations mid sentence and say, "It smells like kerosene in here. Do you smell kerosene?" I'd fly off the handle at the slightest provocation, go missing for days, and come back with dirt and blood caked upon my clothes. When my fiancé asks me where I've been, I'd respond in a low, even tone, "I've been at the library."




Seriously though, I remember when my friends discovered Mad Money during the winter of 2006. Monty, Kellie, Lee, Erik, Lindsay, (regrettably) Steev, and I used to gather round the TV with various intoxicants and watch Jim Cramer do his maniacal thing. He was throwing chairs and had a sound effect button for each emotion he felt. All 20 of them. It was inspiring to see such passion wildly directed at the stock market. And hilarious. But a 5 day a week show loses its novelty pretty fast, and about 3 weeks in, our gang broke up with Mad Money. Mr. Cramer was devastated.

Getting back to the people I mentioned above. That 1 year period was the most fun I've ever had in my life, and it was over too soon (I know, I'm cornballin' out right now). And it will never be the same because time pulls people apart. Couples break up, alliances fade, friends move away. I have fond memories of that era, but the fact that they are just memories is a bummer. For the past 3 years, I've been chasing the high of being with all my friends at once. That probably explains a lot.

But, I went to a pot luck dinner tonight and it was great. I felt sort of like I did back then. This is very encouraging. I hope the good vibes continue.

MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN'://.orgcom, Tim(Burton)^RobToThe>>>>>HAHAHAHAH

Hey kids of the fireside!.

We aren't frenz. We should be barring one event short. Waaaittt; a second.


You've never told a story huh?

I've told one.

My dear Zordlings// \start

**************

\end west


You've turned west.!

Why>?


Help \ c:\help.txt not found



A damn shame.


You're reading this right?

Geniuois shit. Not reallllly. The buttons is broke. The eternally missing help file. We all kind of want one. The idea that we have to function is kind of weird.


Eh.

Do you remember one year ago right now? Tell me please. radbombz [at] yah oo .com.

k? thx! You have to love when you know the crunch of defeat,

the sound of end times!

For your honor/dignit-ee.

Slam poetry. I kind of giggle when I say that, only because everyone else fucked it up.

I woke up. The eyes I have were wet and heavy. ATM. Someone had made the paper unicorn floor tiles. The origami james Hetfelf. Field? Always capitalize. Kidz.

Do you feel marginalized kids?

Like you aren't worth more than the products you're marketed two?

Sucks right? You still kid of talk like Willis. B.T. Willis. Bruce The Willis.

Get it? The ole Look Who's Talking/Talkin joke.

I'm Monty'sd Baseball Soup people.


That guy.

I left that d there. I'm sorry D.

Those bells ring. That jeep you rode as a kid. It's ok. I find it's ok to remember childhood. Being terrified of life is ok, apparently. In an age where fear is not only expected but feared if not there. How can you relate to someone not scared? Fear is the great joiner, right?

The thing every single person ever has felt is fear. No matter what we are united in that fact. The target is irrelevant. We've all been absolutely terrified.

Late nineties Trip Hop is cool. So fucking good. The faster you admit it's good the sooner we move on. And rip it off unrelentingly til it's mined of class and good beats.

Then My Bloody Valentine plays. It's ok. OK.??

That's all we/me/all want. To be OK. For a second. A minute. A day.

To feel like it's All Right. A moments peace.

-Soup

Fantastic Voyage to Bummer Town

True/personal story and depressed misanthropic rant time! This type of post shall hereby be called Tales From the Nest of Grump, or just The Nest of Grump. I haven't decided yet.

I'm gonna try to write what I'm feeling as I feel it because I'm losing it fast. I'm a moody fucker and I never know when I might lose my nerve and let my thoughts fade into the night unreported. But I'm in a peculiar way right now, and I sense that I really need to write what's inside my head, however fleeting the sentiment is.

I saw AA Bondy tonight. Just him, his guitar, and his harmonica. It was one of the most intimate and memorable performances I've ever witnessed. He just poured his heart out and was completely humble and gracious. In my opinion, talent and modesty are the best traits one can possess. Here he is, doing his thing backstage in Nashville, again.

Jesse Jackson Crying

Me too, Jesse. Me, too. How's Vada gonna cope?

Lately I've been hearing all this shit about saving the bees, because bees are dying in massive numbers, blah blah blah... Fuck them bees!

Take Me With You

According to the site tracker for this blog, people came across it by searching Google for:

"Ol' Dirty Bastard"
"spike lee huff paint" (seriously? is there something I should know?)
"Arnold's kid images"
"douches iceberg"
"india freespiritman*" (glad to have him aboard)
"baseball baby and names"
"a lorna doone obama" (I want one)
"gum drop soup" (gimme)
"Anthony Hopkins"
"suckosaurus"
"douche ball"

"Encore!!!" You got it, homey.

Suckosaurus Rex

Saw this in The Onion today and couldn't stop laughing:



Get well soon, Mr. Orton. Use your bearded wisdom to vanquish this talentless stepchild.

Anagrams!

Anagrams are words with the letters switched around to make new words, you fucking idiot! Whoa...I'm sorry. I flew off the handle there and I apologize. Let's start again.

I've chosen to rearrange celebrity names as an excuse to find their most unflattering pictures, and bask in some absurd word combinations. Let's do this shit!


(Better get used to this photo, folks. It's my favorite thing in the world right now. You'll be seeing it again, soon)

Mike Tyson
ink my toes
kite, my son
tiny smoke




Vladimir Putin
invalid rum pit
mini drip vault




Hulk Hogan
honk laugh
Ghoul Khan
klan hug, ho!




Quentin Tarantino
non-tit quarantine




Lou Reed
dour eel
ole rude

side note: Look at Lou Reed. This is how a Jew ages. Apparently, when God was making the chosen people, he forgot to check the "age gracefully" box. This is what I have to look forward to? Oy vey!



David Letterman
Milt, Dad Veteran
damn tater devil!




Fidel Castro
idle sac fort
steroid calf
slit rod face




Sarah Palin
I, nasal harp
Rash Lip Ana




Marlon Brando
lard born moan
bad nor normal




Anthony Hopkins
yank this phonon
phony honk stain
oh, thy napkin son

Obama, Chicago, Street Dancing, and Grant Park

True story time!

I'm burning the midnight oil to churn out this important blog post... Actually, I'm just awake and this post has no significance whatsoever. Here's the scoop...

I've been pretty edgy the past few days because I wanted the election to be over with and for Obama to be crowned already. I texted people jokes about voting for butterscotch and tried to appear stable, but inside my stomach was a knot that would surely kill me if this fucking election dragged on any longer.

That was until around 9pm Chicago time, when I checked the election results and saw that Obama was winning, and Grant Park was going nuts. So I put on my press hat, took along my shitty camera, and went to join the ruckus. Who knows? Maybe I would end up participating in some historical history time. And possibly host an Obama victory orgy (No dice).

Got on the L to the Washington stop, and was quickly absorbed by a dozen or so jubilant black youths chanting "Obama!" and "Yes we can!". It was truly a great scene and I had a smile on my face the whole time. Here's a sampling of our trek from the L station to Grant Park.

I was getting high fives and woo!'s from across the street. There was a tremendous sense of excitement and anticipation. We march on.


Stop...dance...march on

My favorite!


Along the way, I saw 50 people camped out on the stairs of the Art Institute. This guy was among them, and from the look in his eye, I could tell that he was their leader. And yes, that's a fucking pizza box!

I had to take 3 photos of this guy because my flash was all fucked. He stood there grinning in the same spot for a good 45 seconds. I also noted the distinct aroma of marijuana wafting around.

There were hucksters at every corner, selling t-shirts and hats. Some guy was selling cardboard Obama stand ups. There was also a guy selling Obama slide whistles. I'm not kidding!

What's going on with the lady in the lower right corner? Is that a smile or is there a scorpion in her blouse?


There was a little pot party going on in a garden along Michigan Avenue. Dudes with dreads were waving a big black flag around. I have no idea what it means or represents. Are they stoned pirates, white skinned Black Panthers, or anarchists who smoke drugs? I couldn't tell and didn't get a picture of them. Whoever they are, I probably don't cotton to their nihilistic bike messenger ideology, and I hope an Obama victory doesn't embolden them. We must end the scourge of honkey dreads.

This guy came up to me and said, "Take my picture, man!" So I said, "Okee-dokee." He was overjoyed.



I turned into the park, only to spot theses two exhibitionists who were more than happy to pose for a picture.

Maybe my memory is fuzzy, but was Abraham Lincoln a squat faced, husky drifter with two black eyes? I forget. The other one has the right idea, though. She's purdy. Too purdy. She's hiding something.


When I finally got to Grant Park, I found it to be fenced off, forcing me to watch the Jumbotron with thousands of others who couldn't get in. This was actually pretty boring, and anti-climactic. There were 40 minutes of wandering before Obama gave his speech. People were standing on porta-potties, climbing trees, and even sitting on top of gazebos to try to catch a glimpse of the action inside Grant Park. A LOT of people were smoking dope and talking on their cell phones. But that speech was cool. Everyone got real quiet when he was talking, and roared when he said something uplifting or whatever. I wish I could have been inside the fence, but my journey was awesome anyway.

On the way back to the L, hordes of people filled the streets of downtown Chicago. You couldn't move, but the atmosphere was still very charged. People started getting tired, and then some cars rolled by honking their horns and everybody started getting psyched again. High fives all around, and more Obama chants.



I'm glad I went, and I'm glad Obama won. Relieved might be the more appropriate word, actually. I'm optimistic, sure, but not 6 hours after the election is officially over, I'm just happy to have it all wrapped up. Now I can focus on my other worries. Like finding the right table cloth for my wedding. And draping it over my wife's cage so she stops squawking.