The Pills to Pay the Bills

It's 7:14am. I'm still awake. Feeling half alright and half guilty that my sleep pattern has been this way for close to 9 years. 9 years. Maybe I'm not cut out for the 12 to 8 slumber cycle. Maybe all this failure to commit to a proper bedtime has been in vain, and I'm just beating myself up for nothing...

...I should go to sleep. Hopefully, I'll have that dream about the river of caramel again.

How to Lose 5 Pounds of Superstition

Religion baffles me. As a child, I would ask the Hebrew school teacher questions like, “How exactly do we know that this Noah’s Ark story is true?” and “Why does god need to be praised constantly? Does the lord not know that I’m on his side? Even my mom knows that I love her and I’m a complete prick. Yesterday, I spit milk into the dryer and hissed at her, but we’re still cool. Explain that, Mrs. Pearlman. With your precious Torah.”

In conclusion: I am an asshole, ignorant of faith.

(via Tessa Farmer)

Work That Forehead

I possess an endless love unknown to most people. And I could be giving that love unconditionally to someone right now. But nobody asks. So, I'm forced to focus this cask strength love on myself. I wish this wasn't the case. I'm too good for me. You should see the cakes and lavish breakfasts I've made for myself. And all the flowers and jewelry I've received over the years. From me.

All because nobody has ever come up to me and straight up asked, "Will you love me?"

Never happened. I'd fucking do it, too. If you see me on the street, simply request my love and it shall be yours. Seriously. My kisses will rain upon you like your own private waterfall. But you won't drown. Oh, no. I'll make sure you take a big breath every 20 to 30 seconds, ensuring your survival. Because I love you, baby.






I'll buy you camping equipment. We'll go camping and shit. I like ghost stories, so we'll take turns telling them. Then we'll get creeped out and run to the tent really fast and hide in our queen sized sleeping bag. Then we'll giggle and start making out. 20 minutes into making out, I'll show you my boner, and you will scream, because there is a knife where my penis should be. Then I'll stab you with my crotch blade. Then you'll understand that my love is reserved only for me. Always. Mine.

Baffled Big Cheese

I just woke up, and after some light stretching to make sure my exo-skeleton was properly aligned, I watched a music video that made me somewhat happy. He she is...



It's by Thievery Corporation. I knew nothing about them or what they were about, but I liked the hazy southwestern visuals, the woman's voice, and trip hop vibe without all the lyrical bleakness of Portishead.

I wanted to know more about Thievery Corporation, and without a second thought, I popped open my laptop and went web hunting. This has become second nature for me. Made aware of something potentially awesome, I instantly check the internet, obtaining pertinent information easily. That's the problem. It's too fucking easy. The time between enchantment and deflation has become mere minutes.

I got some Thievery Corporation songs off Hype Machine and searched google for images of the band. Talk about disillusion. The songs kinda really sucked. New reggae electronic horsecrap! And the "band" was just two regular looking douchey schmoes in leather jackets, surrounded by DJ equipment. Lame. Where was the girl with the voice? It turns out she was a guest on that song. A delicious aberration.

In 10 minutes, I went from imagining how boss their other songs must sound like, and wondering if all their videos were as cool as that one, to completely dismissing the whole operation as a sham to dupe handsome gentlemen like myself into believing that summer is just a state of mind or something.

I blame the internet.

...But then again, the internet also has this...





I'm torn.

Haiku Hideaway

dog baby skin sac
licked clean by mama doggie
Christ is born again





enjoying DuckTales
on a sunny afternoon
everything is fine





dirty nuns smell bad
holy water won't clean them
they sleep in coffins

Watched Total Recall, Popped a Total Boner

Thought a lot about what it takes to be a champion today. I've always been a winner, and now it's time to give back to the community. Here ya go...

Mornings with Drowsy Douche: Woe My Boat

You know what your girlfriend doesn't want for Valentine's Day? Dennis the Menace DVD's.

I know what women want. They want Italian food and low lighting and pink flowers and ponies and Kix.




Right now, my hair is the longest it's been since I was 13 and into grunge. I had Cinnamon Toast Crunch for breakfast everyday back then. My hair reached my mouth, so I used to dip it into the leftover cinnamon milk and siphon the sugary concoction from my bangs. That was a high point in my life, in both hair length and maturity.

I'm having it cut this this week, but before that happens, I'm taking some pictures because I don't think I'll let it grow this long ever again...

Thanks for reading about my hair. Come back soon.


(via Robin Schwartz)

Mornings with Drowsy Douche: Mega Lethargy

When one takes Dramamine because of an ill encounter with some Chinese food the night before, the sluggish effects carry on most of the day afterwards. Heavy-lidded and headache-hat wearing, I awoke yesterday at 2:45pm. Since Dramamine takes all the liquid out of one's stomach, I spent the day moistening my insides once more.





A wise man once told me that if the swimming pool is too cold, one must start a fire inside the skull. His name was Buttercup Slim and the more I think about him, the more I miss his gentle insanity. Why am I drawn to the insane? Probably because I'm super logical and often predict what someone is going to do or say when prompted. Insanity is an escape from this tired world of clarity and reason.

Most citizens behave generically... "Duh, I'm going to work. Buh, I'm buying a sandwich. P'nuh, I'm traveling in a motor car to a destination place." Despicable. Why can't they be more like senior citizens, minus the decrepitude? I want everybody all demented and full of memories. Sniffing cars and laughing at the sidewalk. Screaming about rice and sewer daughters.





What impresses me is the erratic and bizarre. For instance, if I were to ask someone on the street, "Hey! What's inside your oven?" They'd say "nothing" or "a cookie sheet". Predictable. Now, if they tell me there's a cocoon in the oven, and inside that cocoon is a baby viking, that's when things I start enough to care good about.

Mornings with Drowsy Douche: The Blues

Hey depression frog! What's up?




Stricken with sadness and not wanting to move is way rad. Not knowing what to do with myself and contemplating the useless things I could occupy my time with so I don't just stare at the fucking rug or at the ceiling fan from the rug is a wicked way to crawl through winter. My apartment is a well furnished prison, and I hate prison.




Movies? Not really feeling it right now.

Books? Oh, please.

Internet? Give me darker circles under my eyes why don't you.

Coffee? The crash has become unbearable lately.

Pills? Pills beget more pills, so no.

Enema? Hmm... I think we're on the right track here, but squirtin' goop in my bunger reminds me of Arby's.

Music? Nothing with words, thank you.

Take a walk? It's -11 outside. If I take a walk outside, I'll stay outside until someone discovers my body. They'll probably break my nose off and say it was like that when they got there. And flap my lips to make it look like I'm talking. Asshole carcass finders.

Mornings with Drowsy Douche: Icicles and Bubbies

There's a huge icicle hanging from the roof of my apartment building. It's at least 5 feet long and has a sharp point, as it should. How fucked up would it be if you were killed by a falling icicle? Think about it. Besides your grieving family, the news of your daffy death would spread to ancillary acquaintances, your entire home town, and local news outlets. You'd be the schmuck who got cut down by a fucking icicle. It would confirm the meaningless chaos of life to some, while others would chalk it up to god's will...

"It was his time. God designed a sharpened piece of frozen water to fall upon the flesh of this youngling as a warning to us all. We must erect a statue in his honor. "

"A statue? Fuck that! I heard he was in blackface when he died. If you ask me, motherfucker got what was coming."





I'm glad to be writing regularly again. I kinda took a break after I went down to Miami on the 15th of December. I stayed with my Bubbie. No internet access there, which was a tremendous relief. It's comforting to know that there's nothing I can do but resign myself to books, dvd's, and Bubbie. Sure, I watched some news to figure out the weather and check the score of a Blackhawks game or two, but other than that, it was Bubbie and sun during the day, books and dvd's at night. The vastness of the internet troubles me sometimes, and staying plugged in makes me feel stranded with infinite choices. Infinity scares the shit out of me.

Good Work, Detective

Mornings With Drowsy Douche: Native Americans

Why do I wake up most mornings with a fucking headache? Who needs this shit? Why can't I just be a pulsating brain with eyes, ears, and a single hand? That's all I want. Fuck a penis. Fuck a torso. Fuck a tongue and a nose. Why must I be a prisoner to this supple, attractive body with all the hairy fixins? Bluh.




It's 11 degrees outside, and it's supposed to get colder as the day wears on. On Thursday, the high is supposed to be -2. I wonder how Native Americans managed to survive through the brutal winters in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Physically and mentally, it must have been way worse than anything we've experienced. Maybe they found refuge in caves underneath the mountains and told ghost stories to entertain each other. A cave is very conducive for scares. Or maybe they held yo mama joke competitions...

"Your mama smells like that of a horse, and possesses hair like that of a buffalo." SNAP!

"How would you know, Chief Choking Beef? Unless you have made corn squeezins with my mother in the tepee of urges. In which case, you are my father, and I honor you." ...Snap?

Bag My Beans Gently

Starting tomorrow, I will have a new post up every day. I will start each one at 10:30am and end at 11:30am. All week long. Let's call it Mornings with Drowsy Douche.

This is a dual purposed endeavor. One is to get up at 10 every day. Make coffee, turn up the heat, and write. Discipline during winter, the season when one false move can spark a depression cycle, is my first purpose.

I've been slipping lately. Since Thursday, I've gotten up at 2 or 3 in the afternoon every day. When that repeatedly occurs, it's hard to disrupt the rhythm. Missing most of the day's sunlight really fucks with my head. And waking up late makes me feel rushed, like I have to catch up, even if there's nothing to do. It usually doesn't go away until around 10 or so, when there's officially nothing to do except my thang. I feel relaxed after I become aware of my lack of obligations, and thus, don't want to go to bed. And I don't. And then I wake up at 3 in the afternoon.

You understand my hardships now, don't you? My struggles. Mein kampf. Summer kampf. Kampf Krusty.




The second goal is to produce a week's worth of lousy morning writing. And maybe provide a glimpse into the mind of a renegade cyborg.

I will be cranky. I will be tired. My morning personality is like Stripe from Gremlins. Most mornings, I find myself unimpressed with being alive. Big fucking whoop. I control some arms and legs, who cares?

Nobody should be around me after I wake up. For everyone's sake. I just need some quiet time as I calibrate my consciousness for the 9,850th time. My loved ones know the score. Just give me some time, and, well, the time you give me will be gone forever. Sucker.

Anyway, the experiment starts tomorrow.
Smell ya early
-Kid Douche


(via Dan Mumford)



P.S. Has anybody ever tried light therapy during the winter? Anybody bought a light box and sat by it for however long you're supposed to? If so, please to tell me if it works.


P.P.S. ...I wish I had a button that denied ice cream to orphans.

10 Things I Enjoy

1. Calling milk "cream juice"


2. Transplanting my skin onto a car. Car becomes friend.



3.




4. Showing up early for a 9:30 tea-bagging


5. Saying baffroom instead of bathroom



6.




7. "Squestling" - squirrel wrestling


8. Pinning down a priest, aggressively feeding him cotton candy



9. Howling at the moon with a mouth full of hot dogs




10. Swallowing dice, shitting winners!

Golda, My Ear

...2009...
A whole new year to fritter away.

Dirty Lips, Lucky Wife

I thought my father was a disembodied spirit, but the old man said, “I never died. There were nineteen of us drowned in the river, all of whom were eaten by the fish-goblins except myself."




It further appeared that my family was under fox influence, many strange things of this kind having happened before. Once, the mouth of a mule closed itself tightly, with a bulge visible from afar; and it was only when I cut it open with a knife that I saw my father curled up in it like a dog. I then helped him out, and asked him how he managed to get in; but this he was unable to say.




It is customary in my village, when any one is sick, for the womenfolk to engage an old sorceress or medium, who strums on a tambourine and performs certain mysterious antics. She stretches forth her neck and bounds several feet into the air, saying, “The spirits have come to eat” and immediately all the candles are blown out and everything is in total darkness.





Should there be any unbelievers among the party, the spirits are at once aware of their presence. “Disrespectful mocker! Where are your trousers?” upon which the mocker alluded to looks down, and lo her trousers are gone—gone to the top of a tree in the court-yard.

And should any daring fellow try to peep in while the séance is going on, out of the window darts the spear, transfixes his hat, and draws it off his head into the room, while women and girls, young and old, hop round one after the other like geese, on one leg, without seeming to get the least fatigued.




In the middle of their fun, up came a stranger with a face about three feet long and a very tall hat; whereupon the others were much alarmed, and cried out, “The hill spirit! the hill spirit!” running away in all directions as fast as they could go.

That night, I dreamed that the judge of Purgatory appeared, and, reproaching me with his base ingratitude, bade the devil-lictors seize me and scald my feet in a cauldron of boiling oil.



I then woke up with a start, and found that my feet were very sore and painful; and in a short time they swelled up, and my toes dropped off. Fever set in, and in agony I shrieked out, “Ungrateful wretch that I was indeed,” and fell back and expired.




A woodsman returned to the village, and when he arrived there in the dusk of the evening, he found several men holding lights to the ground as if looking for something. On asking what was the matter, they told him that while sitting together a man’s head had fallen from the sky into their midst; that they had noticed the hair and beard were all draggled, but in a moment the head had vanished.

Subsequently, another man was carrying a basket when someone saw a man’s head in it, and called out to him; whereupon he dropped the basket in a fright, and the head rolled away and disappeared. Such is the story of my head.