Kid Douche

Cousin Pernice Is Dead

2012-01-31T18:46:00.005-06:00

What up in the kingdom, yo? This is your lovely fat cousin Pernice writing from beyond the grave. That's right, I'm dead. Deal with it. Pernice is a ghost. So what? I'm still your cousin, okay, so shut the shit. Just because I died this morning, that doesn't change our relationship. I like you and I know that you like me and we're cousins so we'll always be together till the end. And the end has come, because like I mentioned before, I'm not alive anymore.

The way I died was pretty typical for a fat fuck like me. Heart attack. Crushing pain in the chest and ribs. Dropped to the kitchen floor. My heart stopped. It'll happen to you one day, so keep that in mind, but not all the time, because that's a terrible way to live... I'm getting off track here.

There's something I need to tell you, that I only learned about after my death, from beyond your current sphere of existence....

In heaven, where I am right now because I was a pretty decent guy and that's all it takes... In heaven, girls' titties are off the motherfucking hook! Perfect bouncing boobies everywhere forever! Booty booty booty! Get up here, playa! Spend eternity with me and these babes and their bazongas, Boromir! Tight shorts and glorious asses spilled all over the floor like dog food, but instead of dog food, it's A-plus butts. Heaven is a giant sex party. I fucked Eleanor Roosevelt in the mouth, man! She was dressed up like a storm trooper. Heaven is fuckin' dope!

(Two down, one to go)

You should try to have a heart attack. And soon. Eat cheeseburgers, smoke cigarettes, and don't walk anywhere.
Love,
Dead Pernice

Orthodox Jews in Los Angeles: A Criticism

2012-01-23T18:40:00.002-06:00

Last month I moved into a guest house located in the center of LA. There are a lot of Orthodox Jews that live in my neighborhood. They got the kosher markets and the synagogues and the Hebrew schools to teach the Jewish children about Judaism. Welcome to the wonderful world of traditional miserablism, kiddos. Ancestors be proud!

JEWISH MOTHER SAYS:
"Your cousin Marty bought a boat! Wouldn't you like to be able to buy a boat of your own? He took his family to Israel last spring. What a good provider. Maybe he could get you a job? The investment firm he works at is why most people despise the Jewish people, but he makes good money...What's wrong with you? Don't you make that face!! If your father were alive to see you now, he'd be so ashamed.... What's for dessert? Cheesecake? Oh, that's too rich for me. Just a coffee. Decaf. And a danish. Let's eat and be uncomfortable and let the resentment sit like a loveless force-field between us until one of us gets diarrhea. Fine, I'LL get diarrhea. I ALWAYS get diarrhea... Stop laughing. Joy is a private matter. Keep it to yourself. "

Jews are miserable most of the time. And Charedim, a popular sect in LA, with their mandatory 1800's Polish outfits, don't stand a chance against the tidal wave of woe. Seeing a full blown Orthodox Jew walking around LA in July makes me laugh and then feel heartbroken because it's so ridiculous, and so easily remedied by a fucking tank top. When it's a blast furnace outside, why not be comfortable? Stop martyring yourself for sweat. Go ahead and live a little, Isaac.

Maybe they're ashamed of their bodies, so they cover up. Jews aren't known for possessing attractive physiques, but Mexicans are just as bloated and hairy, and they're cool with a t-shirt and shorts like sane people and don't feel guilty about it. It's hot and you're not that special, so stop walking around town like a sad viking with a good tailor.

Bursting Out The Cocoon

2012-01-15T22:28:00.002-06:00

I've decided to write for public consumption once more. It's part of my commitment to do at least one creative thing and one physical thing every day. I've been slacking for the past year. That's a no good. Must remedy. I'm gonna be writing on this blog more frequently, for better or for worse. At least I'll be busy doing something more expansive than what I do on Twitter, where my ideas often get boiled down to an inedible paste. Don't get me wrong, I like Twitter. But this blog has always been my weird baby, and I'm gonna swaddle it in a web of pulsating veins and ligaments until it grows strong again.

I've also been digging through my archives and posting photos I've taken over the last 5-6 years to my new FLICKR page. It's alternately interesting and onanistic.

The original reason for the Flickr initiative was the LA arsonist that struck over 50 times during the week between Christmas and New Year's Day. One attack occurred less than 2 miles from where I live. Me.

This made me really paranoid. Not for my life, but for the things I've created and captured. I've got all that shit backed up, but that's just in case my computers crash. A fire would destroy everything, including the back up drives. So, safely depositing my photos (and forthcoming videos) online has become an important task (a little less important since they caught that arson cocksucker). Yes, I'm being motivated by fire annihilation fantasies.

As a delightful side effect from looking through all my media, I've rekindled a latent passion that's been missing from my life for a while. Looking at old photos of myself makes me feel guilty for all the time I've wasted. I can't let young me down. Or Yung Midown, for that matter. He Chinese.

In other news, I miss my friends terribly. Especially now that I've been sifting through hundreds of photos of them. I'm not good at communicating how much you all mean to me, but know that I think about y'all all the time.

I'm not even that great at letting my parents know how much I love them. Probably because they'd never shut up about it. They're hungry for all the details about my life, and I've learned to give them limited access because they have no boundaries and ask a million follow up questions. Sure, parents are the envy of every orphan, but orphans don't understand the constant nagging involved with parentals. All they know is the nagging hunger in the pit of their malnourished stomachs. Lucky bastards.

Copernicus: All About Ol' Cus

2012-01-09T18:44:00.008-06:00

Copernicus, astronomer circa 1512, was the youngest of 4 children, and lived in the Kingdom of Poland. Poland was a swamp back then. Crocodiles were plentiful, and much smaller than they are today, growing only as big as your arm. Copernicus spent his days catching and cooking crocs for sustenance and fun. Other animals didn't exist yet. A lot were created by this one guy in 1635. I think his name was Jason. Jason sucked dick, boy. Jason sucked all the dicks.

Copernicus admired the night sky and especially the stars, which he called "God sprinkles". He enrolled at the University of Krakow to study astrological medicine, which was considered to be a hot career field at the time. He was an inquisitive and dedicated student, often staying up all night reading books on how to manufacture cocaine. He had a dog that accompanied him. He called him Rolaids.

BACK STORY: Copernicus found Rolaids all fucked up under a willow tree one afternoon. The dog had gotten into a local farmer's apple silo and stuffed himself stupid. Rolaids was puking up apples. Dozens of apples, covered in translucent gooey gross. His dumb dog stomach rejected the sweet fruit-rocks. Rolaids could barely move, so Copernicus had no choice but to carry him home, where he was tended to by little nurse demons that shat blood in the chimney. Charming creatures.

Anyway, Copernicus lives in a casket now, and he's probably not getting up anytime soon. Once you die, you don't come back. It doesn't work that way. There's consciousness and then there is nothingness. Just oblivion. No more dreams forever.

My Life In Slices of Video

2011-11-08T00:59:00.006-06:00

"One can live only so long as one is intoxicated, drunk with life. But when one grows sober, one cannot fail to see that it is all a stupid cheat." --- El-T (aka Leo Tolstoy)

If I ever grow up, it won't be because I tried to.

Secret Lover

2011-08-26T21:45:00.000-05:00

It has always been a secret dream of mine to mine dreams, secretly. OOOOHHHH SHHIITT!!!

What Happens When You Take Acid

2011-06-25T16:55:00.000-05:00

I don't care how high this girl is. I want to have sex with her and have her keep talking afterwards. After the sex.

And then when she's all talked out, I take a nap and dream about a beach with no one around but me and maybe a sea bird, looking out to sea on a sunny day.

And then I wake up and the high girl is gone, and the money in my pocket is gone, too. Ugh. I can't believe I fell for that calculating cunt.

The Larry Chronicles: Part III

2011-05-08T00:42:00.002-05:00

A brief biography of Larry Landon:

1975. In the back of a Birmingham church, Larry Landon bursts forth from the shell of a tortoise and into the arms of an 11 year-old orphan named Jippy Jappy. The church burns to the ground a week later, claiming Jippy Jappy's life. Larry is unscathed. Some say he set the fire. Some say hot dogs taste good. The tortoise also survives, with a slightly charred body and a bloodshot left eye that bulges whenever he breathes.

Larry and the tortoise travel through the south for a time, soaking up wisdom, sunshine, and adventure. Just a newborn and his tortoise creator, living life to the max.

Christmas Day, 1979. The tortoise refuses to wake up. He's had enough of the constant traveling and stays in his shell until he lives no longer. This makes Larry very sad, but he marches on with life, and in time, stops thinking about the tortoise altogether.

1989: Larry develops a creamy rash and fucks your sister. These events spark "The Asshole Years", a ten year period in which Larry behaves like a dick and loses all his friends.

On the next Larry Chronicles... "The Asshole Years"....

I Love My Wife. She Hates Her Feet.

2011-03-08T08:26:00.002-06:00

She had the body of a dancer, and feet like trashcan lids. Boy, what stompers! People crossed the street whenever she wore flip flops. Big, big fucking feet. Size 34 quadruple wide. But she was my wife, and like I said before, she had the body of a dancer, which turned my peeny into throbbing salami.

We had serious talks now and again, about having her feet cut off and replaced with regulation sized prostheses. Attaining the fake feet would be easy. My cousin Randy is a master whittler, and had already carved and painted a batch of sample feet.

The difficult part would be finding someone willing to chop her goddamn feet off. Every doctor and surgeon we consulted wouldn't have anything to do with us. They were understanding of our grief, but weren't willing to risk their careers for a cosmetic, non life-threatening condition. Even Dr. Patel, whom I've known for 12 years, was deeply insulted when I asked him for a referral. He shooed me away. Seriously, he waved his hands at me and said, "Shoo!".

So we ended our search and I told my wife that I loved her no matter what her feet looked like, and she did a backflip because she was overjoyed to have such a supportive husband. Did I mention that she does awesome backflips? Anyway, we made love twice a day for the next week or so, which was a strange but welcome change, as she hardly ever feels attractive, even though she's got a gorgeous face and her ass is the bomb. I'm always down to fuck, but she'll only indulge me about once a week.

Then came the incident at Walmart. Two teenagers followed her around the store, hitting her feet with hammers, laughing their asses off. After that, we launched another search for a foot butcher. This time, we sought out alternative practitioners, and other underground healers. I found a guy on the Internet who seemed legit, until I got him on the phone. Total creep. He got breathy when I described how big her feet were. Then he asked if he could keep the feet for research after the amputation. I prodded him about what kind of research he was doing, and he whispered, "I wanna hollow them out and wear 'em. In the woods...I'm an asshole." I hung up, and curled into a ball of furious submission.

The fruitless searches and overwhelming despair began to affect our marriage. She started going to pet stores late at night, bringing home tarantulas, and flushing them down the toilet. It was the only thing that made her happy. At one point, she was spending $200 a day on spiders. We were losing money, and I was losing respect for her. Instead of graceful perseverance in the face of failure, she resorted to impulsive behavior. Not to mention the awkward conversation I had with our plumber, explaining why our pipes were clogged with hundreds of tarantula corpses.

Then one night, she didn't come home. I felt relieved. A couple more days passed without communication. My relief turned to concern, which quickly turned to panic. I didn't eat or sleep for 3 days. My body shut down sometime on the 4th day. I woke up on the kitchen floor with a note stuffed in my shirt-pocket. It was from my wife. She was leaving me, leaving the life she knew to follow a higher calling. She was going to protect apes in Uganda and kill rare spiders on the side. I called bullshit on that, and found her a few hours later in a park 3 towns over, eating hot dogs on a picnic table. I retained a lawyer, and we got divorced a month later.

She never did get her feet fixed. On occasion, I'd get an e-mail from her letting me know what she'd been up to. Sandcastle competitions, shaman stabbings, relaxin' in a rowboat. She was living her life without me, and I had to accept it. I kept telling myself that she wasn't the same woman I had married, that our life had become a fiesta of affliction. But no matter how I rationalized it, it still stung. I still loved her.

I got a phone-call from the sheriff the other day, telling me that my ex-wife had died. Apparently, she ate poo and died on a freeway off-ramp. She had eaten too much poo. Don't eat poo. It'll kill you.

Go Home, Jew-Face!

2011-01-16T23:08:00.000-06:00

"...It's something horrible. They ram cop cars in broad daylight. Front-end collisions. To explode the air bags. Doughnuting. Heard of doughnuting? Doing doughnuts? You haven't heard about this? This is what they steal the cars for. Top speed, they slam on the brakes, yank the emergency brake, twist the steering wheel, and the car starts spinning. Wheeling the car in circles at tremendous speeds. Killing pedestrians means nothing to them. Killing motorists means nothing to them. Killing themselves means nothing to them. The skid marks are enough to frighten you. They killed a woman right out in front of our place, same week my car was stolen. Doing a doughnut. I witnessed this. I was leaving for the day. Tremendous speed. The car groaning. Ungodly screeching. It was terrifying. It made my blood run cold. Just driving her car out of 2nd Street, and this woman, young black woman, gets it. Mother of three kids. Two days later it's one of my own employees. A black guy. But they don't care, black, white doesn't matter to them. They'll kill anyone. Fellow named Clark Tyler, my shipping guy - all he's doing is pulling out of our lot to go home. Twelve hours of surgery, four months in a hospital. Permanent disability. Head injuries, internal injuries, broken pelvis, broken shoulder, fractured spine. A high speed chase, crazy kid in a stolen car and the cops are chasing him, and the kid plows right into him, crushes the driver's-side door, and that's it for Clark. Eighty miles an hour down Central Avenue. The car thief is twelve years old. To see over the wheel he has to roll up the floor mats to sit on. Six months in Jamesburg and he's back behind the wheel of another stolen car. No, that was it for me, too. My car's robbed at gunpoint, they cripple Clark, the woman gets killed - that week did it. That was enough."

- Philip Roth, American Pastoral

Hell of a book. Great Jewish writer. I saw A Serious Man again the other day. Love it, and kinda want to watch it a turd time. Lotta Jews as central characters among Jewish communities. American Pastoral in New Jersey, and A Serious Man in Minnesota. East Coast and Midwest Jews. Metropolitan Jews and Prairie Jews... Dr. Zoidberg is a Jew.

Jews aren't good fighters - except for Israelis, those motherfuckers are tough. Although you kinda have to be tough if your first name is Fishel.

Dog Hungry

2010-11-12T04:14:00.001-06:00

You ever meet a dog that is so loving and trusting and allows strangers to rub its belly? They're the best, right? Well, the reason they're so openly full of love is that nobody ever fucked with them. Nobody taunted them or beat them or neglected to feed them. They're not tough, but who gives a shit about toughness when you've got rainbows and birthday cake.

On the other hand, have you ever looked into the eyes of a rescue dog that's been abused or neglected? The darting eyes and submissive posture. They've been fucked with, and because dogs aren't psychologically resilient, a lot of them have been permanently ruined. Breaks my fucking heart.

In conclusion, dogs are awesome.

Hang In There, Man!

2010-08-26T23:26:00.001-05:00

UPDATE: I'm doing better now, eating rice and pretzels and Gatorade on my couch, watching TV, wearing sweatpants. Although, I recently found out that I'm hypersensitive to Vitamin D, which caused excessive urination, nausea, and nearly a sudden bout of vomitus. I only took 800IU of that shit and it fucked me up! Don't you see why I hate my body now? I've regressed from the fun-loving fatass of my teen years, to the anxious skinny sickling I am today. And now I hate Vitamin D, but Vitamin D doesn't even care.

Moving on to more health related crap, because that's all I've been thinking about lately...

Last week I had a blood test to make sure everything was okay, and all my levels came back fine. Went to the GI doctor today and he says that I have some post-viral gastroparesis that should go away with time and probiotics. Scheduled a gallbladder ultrasound on Sept. 15. Got a ride home from a taxi driver who smelled just like you'd think he'd smell. Getting cold feet about LA, but I'm in too deep at this point. Plus, when I think about spending another winter in Chicago, I get really sad, really fast.

I'm anxious and I need a hug.

I've Lost 10 Pounds on the "What the Fuck is Wrong with my Innards?" Diet

2010-08-19T23:44:00.001-05:00

I'm writing this right now because I am scared. My health is really bad right now, and I need to express what's been going on. I'm not gonna go into the gory details, but I will be stating the basic facts of my body's decline. So bear with me on another voyage to the Nest of Grump...

My stomach has been fucked up in different ways since July 4th, when I gave myself gastritis. That night, I foolishly ate some chicken drenched in a cayenne- pepper-rich BBQ sauce, topped it off with some chips and spicy salsa, and promptly went to bed, letting all that crap disintegrate the lining of my already sensitive stomach.

That fucked me up for a week with nausea and heartburn. Stomach acid made its way back into my mouth, giving me the pleasant taste of cat shit mixed with pennies. I ate soy ice cream, drank coconut water (which I discovered is a natural laxative...cocksuck!), and munched on crackers. I lost a little weight, but I managed to get by.

By the end of the month, my stomach was on the mend and I was feeling optimistic about my semi-full recovery. I also had several creative projects (playing drums in a band, re-editing a Gandhi trailer, projecting a video collage for a big ol' gay dance party) that made me feel ambitious for the first time in awhile.

Then, on the 8th of August, I felt the first symptoms of a stomach virus that's still fucking with my system as of today. Extreme nausea, cold sweats, low-grade fever. I rode the worst of it out for 3 days with nothing more than Gatorade, ginger ale, and herbal tea. Started feeling better on the 4th day, so I added some soy milk. Mistake. More nauseous fun time. Anxiety and panic attacks ahoy!

By the 6th day, I felt good enough to go without Dramamine, although I was on edge, interpreting any stomach gurgle as a potential regression to the hellish first 3 days. But I made it through the night with a bucket and old linens beside my bed to contain a potential toxic episode.

7th day. Felt better. Added some soy protein drink to my diet, with some Ensure as well.

8th day. Weighed myself. 173lbs. I've lost 7 pounds. Panic attack. Recovered in about an hour and tried to make myself eat something solid. Almost threw up. Back to sipping ginger ale.

Today is the 11th day. I've eaten some crackers and some applesauce, along with a soy protein shake. I weighed myself before I took a shower and the scale read 170 pounds. That's the lowest I've ever weighed as an adult and it freaked me out.

I need to gain weight, but I can't rush it or else I'll just puke it up. I've had diarrhea 4 times in 6 days now. I have no confidence in my stomach, and I'm losing strength. My anxiety is through the roof, and to top it off, I'm going to LA to find an apartment on the 31st. I need to get better by then, or my plans will be derailed.

I feel like I'm stretched to the limit emotionally and physically. I know I'll get over this sickness eventually, but the future seems out of reach because the present is horrific.

I feel better just by writing all this down. I'm seeing a regular doctor tomorrow morning, and a GI doctor on the 26th. We'll have a lot to talk about. Meanwhile, I'm watching The Simpsons, Futurama, Roseanne, Everybody Hates Chris, and My Name is Earl. Sitcoms and cartoons kill time like nothing else. And that's what I'm reduced to, killing time while I try to keep food down.

I hate my genetics, my Jewish immune system, and I wholeheartedly renew my absolute hatred for my digestive system. Fuck you all. I should dig up Andre the Giant and make you suck his dick!

I'll post an update soon...

Viva Racismo!

2010-07-04T19:10:00.001-05:00

Oops...

Oh, Indeed Mr. Omar

2010-05-16T18:42:00.001-05:00

Saw this picture of Michael K. Williams, aka Omar Little from The Wire, and all my memories from the show came flooding back. I'm not usually one to publicly proclaim the genius of a particular TV show, because I don't enjoy hearing about people's TV boners, but The Wire is the best show ever made. And Omar is the most bad-ass character ever created. He's cooler than the Fonz and has more heart than Braveheart.

If you haven't seen the show, watch it now. Maybe you haven't gotten around to it, or perhaps you think it's just some shitty urban-police drama. Well, what if I told you that Omar Little is a gay gangster that robs drug dealers, and gets grumpy if he doesn't have a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios in the morning? Yeah.

"The cheese stands alone."

"I robs drug dealers."

I'm Sick Of It

2010-05-04T05:35:00.002-05:00

After my latest stint in illness prison, I got to thinking about how many times I've come out the other side of sickness a little weaker physically, but with more perspective on my mortality.

Now, I wasn't gonna die, nor do I believe I will ever die, but when I get sick, I think about how I wouldn't have made it if not for medical science, antibiotics, and anatomical research. If I had lived in the 19th century, I would have died at 22 from unclean drinking water or a bad case of candle-hand. But I'm alive in the present day, so the point is moot.

The mind/body connection is fascinating to me. I usually get anxious at the start of an illness, observing the indicators of imminent despair and panicking about how long I'll be fucked. I purchase the provisions I'll need once the symptoms go full blast, and worry about whether or not I'll need to see a doctor. But once the sickness takes hold of my body, I accept it. Like most things, the buildup is worse than the event. All I have to do is medicate myself so I'm not terribly uncomfortable, and just wait. That part has become easier over the years, and I wonder if that's how old people cope. Health-crisis-cruise-control kicks in automatically after having been through enough rough shit to know what to expect.

Sometimes I think about the number of weeks I'm out of service in a typical year, and how many more sick days I'll spend during my lifetime, knowing that I'll get through them all somehow, until I don't. It's rather amazing, the amount of time spent nursing this carcass back to health.

But then, as a typical neurotic Jew, I worry about my body's elasticity. My eyes are getting worse, same with my stomach, but my brain is getting sharper with experience. Or at least more adept at pattern recognition and getting a better grip of what to expect. That's the trade off, I guess. People seek the advice of the village elder for a reason, and it's not to admire his wrinkles.

Lately, I've been imagining a scenario where I've been shot and about to die. When I think about how I'd like my last moments to go, what would comfort me is the presence of a person, any person, whose eyes I could look deeply into, hold their hand, and let go. I'd reach out to anyone at that moment. It could be my worst enemy, or a bum, or the guy who shot me. Any human connection would be welcome.

I have a fear of dying alone in a car or having a heart attack late at night on the sidewalk, without anyone around, clutching my chest with one hand, reaching out with the other for contact. That's probably why people believe in Jesus - so they won't have to worry about dying alone, even if they do. Once again, the buildup is worse than the event itself. They assuage their fears about death by believing that the Magical Emperor of Sky World will take their hand and guide them into paradise.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, I'm Jewish and I had bronchitis last week.

Built Cosby

2010-04-30T05:50:00.002-05:00

I received the lovely gift of bronchitis via our lord and savior Bill Cosby the other day. What a generous man. I feel guilty for all the things he's given me. All I do is take take take. So I've decided to throw some love his way. Ladies and gentlemen, Built Cosby...

...It's been weird around here. The antibiotics I'm taking are making my farts smell like dead chimps fucking in a sewer. And I've been sleeping at least 10 hours a night. And my energy level has been fluctuating hourly - from "Yeah! I'm gonna do sit-ups while researching cold fusion!" to "Nurse! Put them sweatpants on my legs. I'm cold."

I'm tired. More later.

The Larry Chronicles: Part II

2010-04-28T01:35:00.002-05:00

II.

Looking back, that was the turning point in our relationship. Call me a fuddy duddy, but I don't think it's cool to shake your dick at a Rastafarian. I'll admit that his behavior was often unpredictable, but the things he ended up doing were usually harmless and whimsical. For example, when we were staying at a hotel in Atlanta, he rubbed chocolate syrup all over the TV and complained to the front desk that BET was coming in blurry. We almost died laughing when they sent some poor schmuck to replace the soiled television.

But boner exposure? That's some gross pervert shit. People get locked up for less, and Larry's not built for prison. He's barely built for bookstores.

The Larry Chronicles: Part I

2010-04-26T04:24:00.001-05:00

I.

Larry and I used to do everything together. At night, we dreamed about the same things. We hated Puerto Ricans and mustard because they both ruined hot dogs. On the weekends, we would play Battleship with dread-locked homeless men by the lake. Well, we played Battleship while they played chess. They gave us shit about it one time. Called us "fuckin' idiots" for playing a strategically inferior board game. Larry responded by pulling out his rock-hard boner. They received his gesture poorly, and we had to surrender a perfectly good Battleship set.

Prologue to The Larry Chronicles

2010-04-23T04:19:00.004-05:00

Hello all. I've been quite sick in the nose/head/throat/body department for a few days now. I kinda burned myself out with 3 consecutive nights of partying over the weekend, which is something I rarely do, setting the table for an oozing virus to feast inside my skull. I usually follow a personal code of never doing the same thing two nights in a row, because something that was splendid one night almost never carries over to the next one. I'm talking about sex with someone new, smoking drugs, drinking booze, or burning down a motel with my imaginary friends. It's never the same a second time around, let alone a third.

By Sunday night, I was physically exhausted. But due to certain obligations, I had to project my weird videos all night long at a beauty parlor themed bar...No, your eyes don't deceive you, I said beauty parlor themed bar. I gambled with my health, and lost, all at an establishment I wouldn't use as a shelter during a Mongolian Death Worm attack.

But I take full responsibility for my mistake and for the war currently being waged in my sinus cavity. On to other matters...

I'm gonna try something new. I'm gonna write one long story in multiple posts, serial style. A paragraph or two every other day. It'll give me some focus and a point to start from each time, because I never know what the fuck to write about, hence the sporadic nature of my posts. Oh, and I'm calling the story...

THE LARRY CHRONICLES

Until then, here's an Asian kid doing a mediocre bike trick...

Beard Growth Profit-Loss Projections

2010-04-06T00:12:00.001-05:00

The problem with facial hair is the maintenance it requires. It becomes another obligation to grapple with, another source of anxiety. I thought having a beard would simplify things, and it has to some extent, but I still have to trim the bitch, otherwise my mustache starts advancing on my upper lip, and it feels like I'm being tickled with bear grass. And the urge - THE URGE! - to shave it all off gets overwhelming after a while. I met a girl with dreadlocks who said she thinks about cutting 'em off all the time. I told her she should go with her gut and 86 those dirty skull tentacles.

Whenever I plot my shave, I look 3 weeks into the future for any important event in which having a beard is necessary. A Jewish holiday, a job interview, or a hot date are taken into consideration, as they all require minimal facial hair experimentation. I have neither a job interview nor a date in my near future, and Passover was last week.

So I shaved my beard off yesterday, but left the mustache, as a fail-safe - because my mustache grows at a slower rate than the rest of my face hair - and some sideburns for good luck. I look like this now...

But back to my original point about constant maintenance... There is never going to be a time when everything in my life is organized, cleaned, and taken care of. I have to realize this basic fact more often, and learn to let go. Perfection is bullshit. I don't know how it became a goal of mine to have everything the way it's supposed to be. It's impossible. Getting things in order is mostly busy work masked as progress. I'm never gonna figure it all out, and sometimes I'm totally cool with that, but other times it grinds my potatoes. I'm content when I'm hanging out with people I like. Time flies and I don't care. It's wonderful. But, when I'm by myself, I get frustrated with all the chaos I perceive... I need to stop hanging out by myself all the time, and start hanging out with this lady...

ChangeThat Diaper

2010-03-30T01:42:00.007-05:00

I was walking down Milwaukee Avenue on another gray day in Chicago. My mission was to find a store that carried blue shoelaces. Little missions are good because they're easy to accomplish, and achieve results that are tangible and satisfying. Anyway, as I was walking around the neighborhood, I asked myself if I'd miss this place if I moved away. And my answer was... a little bit.

I just got back from 18 days in Los Angeles. I feel confused and in limbo. I plan on moving to LA sometime in the next 6 months, because I really want to be an editor, and there are more opportunities for me to get a job out there. And because the weather is nice in LA, I can't use the "It's cold and miserable outside" excuse to stay in my cocoon.

The goal of my westward trip was to lay some groundwork for my eventual move, take in some sun, and reconnect with a good friend of mine. I succeeded in the latter 2 goals. Getting people to return emails is rough. Getting people on the phone is fucking impossible. I have no delusions of instant success, but a little encouragement would've gone a long way. During my last week there, I kind of half-assed my attempts at getting sit-downs with editing folk. Bad habits and motivational issues stifling progress once again.

Right now, Chicago doesn't feel like my home anymore. LA certainly didn't feel like home, either. But that could change. Perhaps I'm getting myself psychologically ready to abandon this city after 4-plus years of nothing special. Except the first year, which was really fun -- like Slip n' Slide fun.

My opportunities are elsewhere. I have no concrete ties here. No job. No girlfriend. The lease on my apartment ends in August. This is the perfect time for me to grow some balls and make a move. The only things giving me doubt-fits are leaving my family & friends, the shitty job market, possible failure, and the loss of my comfortable nest here in Chicago. Besides those things, I'm not worried...

...Hey, is it a bad sign that I already envision myself talking to somebody at a party 2 years in the future, acknowledging what a horrible mistake it was to move to LA?

Cookies and Lottery Tickets

2010-03-23T17:08:00.002-05:00

I woke up stupid today. And not from a hangover or overexertion or anything I might have ingested. Just heavy and lifeless. A complete and utter lack of motivation, wherein even the notion of going back to sleep is met with a resounding "why bother?". Coffee must be absorbed and magazines must be skimmed, killing time until this dull malaise washes away.

I'm taking the passive approach to rid my brain of the terrible stupid. No jumping jacks in the shower or headbutts to the fridge. This stupid will learn that it can't just take over my brain and settle. I am going to bore it to death. And if that doesn't work, I'll smoke some pot...no! That's what the stupid wants! What's the opposite of smoking pot? Performing surgery!

I will find a hobo living in the Lower Wacker skid-row villas, and I will take out his appendix. Yeah! One doesn't really need an appendix, so he won't miss it. Plus he'll have an awesome scar on his abdomen. Chicks love scars. Chicks also love dudes with jobs, so I guess it all cancels out.

And since every scar has a story behind it, he'll earn many a bowl of porridge recounting the tale of the ski-masked white boy who chloroformed him and cut up his belly. My actions will confirm the conspiracy theories he so desperately clings to in his daily battles with poverty and mental illness.

After he wakes up, he doesn't have to worry about his appendix flaring up ever again. However, he'll definitely have to worry about a serious infection, and the ever looming specter of being kidnapped and cut up again. But that's his problem.

Wow, I feel better already!

Because I Suck at Email

2010-03-20T15:45:00.002-05:00

MORE DISPATCHES FROM THE NEST OF GRUMP...

I suck at email. I can never get the tone right and I obsess over words and syntax. But obsession yields no results, and it still comes out all wrong. It's common for people who receive an email from me to misread a sarcastic sentence, or mistake a compliment for condescension.

I also suck at text messaging, although it's much more forgiving because of the accepted use of sentence fragments. But I still can't type anything over a sentence without questioning what I'm trying to say and how it will be perceived.

Perhaps it's the formality I impose upon myself. I never know if I should start with a "dear so and so", or with a quick name-check like -
"Hey Herbert,
Just lettin' you know that I'm sittin' in a lawn chair in front of your house right now, holding a really thick carrot. See ya!"

I'm just bad at the whole thing. I come off as either uncaring, creepy, or overenthusiastic. I've tried my hand at internet dating, too, and oh boy what an abortion! Apparently I have no business making kisses on a lady. Internet dating makes me feel like I'm trapped in a dusty psychic crypt, while weird reclusive women with impossible standards measure and judge me from the other side of a two-way mirror.

I've only had one email buddy in my life. She was a friend who moved away from Chicago, so the tone and subject matter of our natural conversation was already established. And we mostly complained to each other about our lives, which wasn't that much different from what we normally talked about. Perhaps you've noticed that I'm more comfortable writing about things that bother me. It's easy, cataloging petty annoyances, and something I'm good at.

Maybe I should preface all my emails with this header: "The email you're about to read is inconsistent and nervous in nature. Please forgive me."-- Yeah, nobody is gonna delete that on principle.

I just need to face the facts. My self-doubt is noticeable when I write and unavoidable when I talk. It'll probably be that way forever. Shalom.

Carl Winslow Stars in All New Videos!

2010-03-18T18:02:00.001-05:00

I've been sitting on these new videos for about a month now. Why? Because I've been busy, out of town, and haven't felt like writing in months. I just got back from Los Angeles, where I struggled to get some groundwork started on my eventual move out there. Yes, barring a cataclysmic catastrophe of tragic misfortune, I'll be moving to LA in 4-6 months. Good weather year round + better opportunities in my field = stupid not to at least try it out. But more on that in a later post...

This here video was a year in the making (1 night random thought scribbled on a post-it, 11 and a half months bed-rest, 2 weeks finding and editing together Family Matters footage). Instead of portraying Carl Winslow as insane, which I've gotten a lot of mileage out of, I portrayed him as clinically depressed/suicidal, and used Gary Jules' "Mad World" to seal the deal. It was really easy to acquire footage of Carl Winslow looking down and out. You might not remember it this way, but Family Matters is essentially a TV show about how much Carl's life sucks...

Carl Winslow - Too Sad to Eat Breakfast

This is just a song I like, paired with random footage I like...

No Age - "Eraser"

Expect more posts coming up, as I'm going to write a little bit every day help jump-start my write-bone. It may be just a few sentences, but I'll have something written and posted every other day. Until then, kids...

Be My Baby

2010-02-11T16:15:00.000-06:00

I made a new video. Music supplied by The Ronettes. Best song ever. Should be the national anthem.

Be My Baby from Kid Douche

It Hoits When I Pee

2010-01-19T08:02:00.001-06:00

Saw "The Hurt Locker" last night. Wow... just, wow! The most visceral movie I've seen in a while.

My only complaint is that there weren't enough hurt lockers. I actually counted zero hurt lockers throughout the entire film.

I mean, come on! This guy needs work...

Erik Threatens All Comers - New Year's 2010

2010-01-16T18:45:00.003-06:00

Rise up against the tyranny of restraint!

Thunder Spook Juice

2010-01-15T07:33:00.003-06:00

True story time!

I went to a loft show/party last night called Go Folk Yourself. It was less of a show and more like an uncomfortable smoky speakeasy in a building situated 20 feet away from a gas station. The performers had nice guitars and courage, but couldn't sing for shit. I tuned them out and struck up a conversation with a weird loner girl. Her hair was greasy, dyed red, and chopped all over the place. I noticed a picture button on her filthy satchel and asked her what it was.

She said, "That's the Hindu god, Ganesh."

There's a woman on the button as well. I ask about her and who she's supposed to be. She answers, "Oh, that's Ganesh's mother."

I respond, "A woman giving birth to an elephant? That doesn't happen too much these days."

She asks me what I mean, and I reply, "The way I understand it, with the world as it is now, it's impossible for a woman to give birth to an elephant god. No way. Not happening."

And she says, "Well, maybe you're limiting the way you experience life."

After she said that, I got scared and wanted to run away so I never had to talk to her again, but that would have been a breach of etiquette, so I hung in there. Who am I to violate the sanctity of human interaction?

She stared at me and I went silent. Her big fuckin' crazy eyes were burning a hole through my head. This went on for a minute and then I saw her lips move as she said something. I asked her to repeat what she said because I couldn't hear with all the music going.

She looks at my forehead and says, "Do you have any change?"

I say, "What?"

"I need some money for the bus. Can you give me a nickel?"

I reply, "No. I don't carry change around. I don't like the weight of it in my pockets."

What I wanted to say was, "Fuck you, shitty idiot!" And I wanted her face to melt away, revealing some intergalactic bird head. I'd like her to sprout wings and fly out the window like a psycho buzzard. I really wanted some supreme moment to occur.

But she just awkwardly shuffled away from where we were standing. And I couldn't have been more relieved.

Because of Loopy Feelings, Brainless Ramblings

2010-01-06T00:03:00.007-06:00

Late last night, I took a look at some of the stuff I had written over the summer. Most of it was written in August, when I tried to reform my sleep schedule by getting up at 9am everyday. I should have known how hard it was going to be, and I've never had a lot of faith in my ability to change without external motivation anyway. And the reward for getting my sleeping habits on track was this: an optimistic mood that I might feel. That's a vague and stupid reward. Plus, trying to change behavioral patterns is an awful idea for a person who prides himself on never deviating from a personal code of arbitrary limitations. And staying up all night is really fun.

So, I got up at 9 everyday, but I also went to sleep at 5am every night. Altering your sleep schedule doesn't work if you're not sleeping very much. It just leads to brain ghosts and foggy journeys of low grade suffering.

Tension and mental unrest were my companions. I felt dizzy all the time, a nervous breakdown wasn't entirely out of the question, and I had intense cravings for hoisin sauce.

It turned into a horrible failure of a time, filled with panic attacks that eventually lead me to seek therapy - but that's another story.

Here are some slightly edited paragraphs and poems written during that period. Slightly edited because the raw material scared the Polish right out of my DNA...

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

boom boom!
bath house poundings
bam bam!
human growth in a foul place

Poltergeists threw up inside my van. My van is your van. Poody poody hoo! Do as I say! I will ruin you! Suck my cocks! Do you suck dicks? Do. You. Suck. Dicks?

Farts smell bad. She gots lots o’ cousins. Can I have some pills, please?

Sylvester has a ball containing the meat of splendor. What fury it must arouse!

Heed this: Once the destruction starts and the lumber crumbles, it will be easier to find a mate who is more afraid of the end than you. Calm that person and take them underground where the sun is collected through stories and rumors.

Gun black glistening night.
Satisfied smoke.
Is sister alright?
No.
Sister is dead.
Long live the smoke from
father's gun.

Shit, I gotta go, man. I just microwaved my Sega.

Because He Pilfered My Bliss

2009-12-29T23:12:00.004-06:00

My cousin threw a Christmas party the other night, and I initially didn't want to go, because he has a drug problem, and is often in the company of vaguely dangerous men. I was gonna blow it off and tell him I had a migraine, but feeling somewhat reckless from the built up boredom of winter, I put on my thrash face and went over.

Upon arriving, I felt overwhelmed by the amount of people already there. Dozens of beautiful women were walking around, and I could tell that most of them had drug problems, too, which somehow made them even more attractive. On the flip-side, a gruesome slut gauntlet guarded the kitchen, glaring at me through overly made-up eyes as I grabbed a beer from the fridge. I was able to avoid a conversation with them, but couldn't avoid their smell, which could only be described as a vortex of swordfish and rubber cement.

I stood by the stairs, drank my beer, and spied on a passionate conversation between a terribly skinny girl and a coked up Korean man. He kept yelling at her about not being respected, and how he couldn't stand it. She just stood there and took it with a weary face.

"No! I need more money! You still owe me 6 dollars for the meatball sub you threw in the fireplace!" he frothed. I couldn't control my laughter. The 'Rean dude saw me laughing at him, came over, and mumbled something in my ear about how much pain he could inflict upon me, about honor, and some other abstract macho bullshit. His face was bright red and glowing with sweat.

He poked his finger hard into my chest, which triggered the instinctual rage he desperately wanted me to feel, and I took a swing at his head. My fist connected with his left temple and his eye popped out. It didn’t even bleed. The eye just lay there on the hardwood floor, while the party-people stared. Time stood still and everything went quiet for a minute. Then the terribly skinny girl screamed, which caused time to start up again, and the empty socket vomited red gravy. Party over.

I finished the night alone in my apartment, with the lights off, eating ice cream from the pocket of the bathrobe I was wearing.

Carl Winslow's Corner: Mescaline Matters

2009-12-03T01:06:00.003-06:00

Hello dream childrens! It’s your ol’ violent buddy Carl! Carl Winslow! It’s been awhile since we last spoke, and I’ve been mighty busy in the forest with my experiments. So far, I’ve successfully given 12 badgers Crohn's disease and drank a beaker full of meows. Cat meows enhance my animal communication skills, which are pretty good anyway. The other day, a caribou was talkin’ shit, going on about my eye pimples, so I pushed that motherfucker in front of a train. Ol’ Carl knows a thing or two about trains.

Also, I've been shape shifting, baby. Gotta be careful, though. Last time I got caught in a rusty trap. What can I say? The hunters loaded the trap with my favorite food - Dots. I couldn't help myself.

I was in the forest conversing with squirrels the other day, and an itty bitty medicine man tackled me to the ground and force fed me some mescaline he pulled out of a condom. I got high, children. My shirt burst off, as well as most of my back skin. During the first 3 hours of my trip, I suffocated six hikers in my armpit.

I was inside a floating cloud of clear smoke. I destroyed every tent in my path. Met some women whose tents I smashed. When they defended themselves, I laughed. Popped some rattlesnakes at 'em. Wuppaa!!! I’m not proud of it, but also, I am. My spiritual advisor, Neck Bubbles, demands blood. I obey.

Then I ate some sand and had to go to the hospital. Have you ever tried to chew sand? It fucks your teeth up bad. And your insides. My guts were in a state, children. Luckily, the doctors were able to open my stomach up and get that filthy sand outta me. Turns out I ingested four pounds of it. They also found a bunch of super bouncy balls in me, but I made the doctors put 'em back in. Most doctors are shameless thieves. They just want to take what’s inside of you, and those bouncy balls are mine! They can keep the sand.

Let’s see, what else?
-Burned a hole in my bed so the floor can see my ass when I sleep.
-Hid a bunch of money somewhere secret.
-Tackled a polar bear down a flight of stairs.

Oh, I almost forgot! I’ve been writing poetry. Here’s one I call ROBOTS CAN'T GET PREGNANT ...

Gonna dick your coochie hole!

Gonna make your ass explode!

Gonna take a dump, unload!

Gonna bake your face, Nicole!

Time’s up, kids! But don’t worry, I'm in your closet right now, wearing your clothes.

Glue Ghost

2009-11-19T00:27:00.004-06:00

I was full-blown nauseous in the taxi on the way to the airport yesterday. The stench inside the cab was obscene. It smelled like a mixture of sweat, rendered lamb fat, and Nick Nolte's pussy. My interpretation of the stink's origin goes something like this...

...Greasy-haired Turkish man with red rimmed eyes awakens on a cold tile floor, naked. A collapsible poker table sits in the corner, with a brand new box of 64 crayons at its center.

The Turk grunts and tears apart the crayon box, devouring all 64 crayons. A multicolored glaze coats his teeth. He pulls a timer out of his bare ass, and sets it for one hour. He ties a shoelace to the timer and slips it over his head. He walks outside, finds an abandoned taxi, and smashes the driver's side window with his elbow.

Once inside, he sits in the backseat and thinks. He daydreams about lopping the heads off of beautiful geese with a machete at a large family picnic. Women and children screaming. Dogs shitting. Fathers frozen in horror as The Turk writhes in the grass, bathed in goose blood, grinning blissfully.

His thoughts are interrupted by loud beeps from the timer. He pushes a button to silence the beeps, pukes a psychedelic rainbow of melted crayons all over the interior of the taxi, and flees back to his dismal lair.

...2 years later...

The Turk has been getting his shit together. Night school, new clothes, and a part-time relationship with soap. One night, on his way home from class, he spots the crayon-puke cab parked on a curb. It hasn't been touched in the 2 years since he defiled it. His spew is now dried, cracked, and crusty, though the smell is the same. He gazes upon the kaleidoscopic mess. The word "opportunity" flashes through his mind over and over.

He picks off as much of the caked ooze as he can, and sprays the interior down with Febreze. The taxi starts by itself. The radio starts playing the Reading Rainbow theme song at full volume...

"Butterfly in the sky
I can go twice as high
Take a look, it's in a book
a Reading Rainbow.

I can go anywhere!
Friends to know
and ways to grow
a Reading Rainbow."

And then he drove me to the airport.

Kobe Beef Curtains

2009-11-09T03:28:00.002-06:00

I'm experiencing a surge of post illness positivity right now. All the gremlins have left mein digestive system, and I no longer feel like a garbage bag full of catfish. My brain is rejoicing. I don't know if it's an endorphin kick or just the relief of not having to treat my body like a tender foal, but I feel damn good.

I conclude that this positive mood is a gift from some celestial force that's telling me, "Hey there, my special little treasure. It's me, Glappy! You've survived another illness, and I've decided to reward you. Boom! This is what joy feels like. Pretty nice, huh? Don't get too comfy though, because it's not gonna last very long. Go on, eat up while it's still fresh, ya fat bitch!"

Onto another topic...

...I've been thinking about how completing a marathon is now a socially acceptable goal for boring people, and how it's considered to be an admirable endeavor. What a crock of boxcar taco tits! Contrary to what your glue-sniffing cousin says, lung pain isn't "fun". Those aren't smiles on people's faces at the finish line, they're the physical manifestations of torment and regret.

Unless you're training to outrun the apocalypse, I don't see the point. What's the upside, anyway? Epic blisters? Bloody armpits?

And for the people dedicating marathons to their dead relatives, I have some bad news - it isn't going to make your uncles breathe again, claw their way up from the grave, and give you Christmas presents. Even if they did, the presents would just be boxes filled with dirt. Dead people don't give good gifts, which is why I want to be buried with an anchor around my neck to prevent me from reanimating and going to birthday parties.

One more thing...

Smell ya later, my special little treasures.

Dying in a McDonald's Parking Lot

2009-10-29T06:37:00.003-05:00

The sunlight is fading sooner and the nights are getting longer. The nights have been particularly long as of late, because I picked up a stomach virus, and my battles with it have been brutal. I now know what it feels like to have my peaceful village burned to cinders by a swarm of berserkers. Actually, it’s not as bad as the stomach flu I got last winter, but it’s shitty city nonetheless. So that’s my current burden, which will give way to some other burden next week. Right now, I’m not eating anything, and I have all the time I need to feed my irrational fears, and think about stupid things.

One of my biggest fears is dying in a parking lot. Stroking off or otherwise suddenly dying in the parking lot of a grocery store would be awful. And yes, I know that if I’m dead, it couldn’t possibly embarrass me, but I don’t care. I can’t let it happen.

My Hebrew school principal died in a McDonald’s parking lot. They found him slumped over the steering wheel. He had terminal cancer and was fading fast, so it wasn’t surprising that he passed. And even though I didn’t particularly like him (he kicked me out of Hebrew school), I remember hearing about it and thinking it was the saddest goddamned thing in the world. What an undignified way to die. And I thought about who might have found him - A customer? A McDonald’s employee? – And I thought about his family. How could they ever think about McDonald’s the same way again? I know I couldn't. There are McDonald’s everywhere, so the memory would be inescapable. Hell, every time I pass a Brown’s Chicken, and there aren’t that many, I shudder because I’m reminded of the Brown’s Chicken massacre back in ’93. (FYI: The murder site is becoming a Chase bank, which is a fantastic idea because ghosts love money.)

Maybe it’s the thought of dying alone in a flat concrete wasteland that makes me anxious. Maybe it's the soullessness of modern commercial landscapes and the horror of being defeated there. I don’t know why the prospect makes me so sad, but here I am, thinking about it. And it doesn’t make me feel any better.

Eating Sad Cookies

2009-10-12T05:35:00.013-05:00

Another dispatch from the front lines of the NEST OF GRUMP...

Ah, nothing like some depression to kick start the fall. Nothing like waking up to screaming shitheaded children, playing in the streets like dogs. Nothing like the hatred for my neighbors, even though they’re just living their lives, albeit in the most annoying way possible. And the dumpster on the street for construction junk, the one that’s right outside my front door, yeah, having the whole neighborhood heap old furniture and hamburger wrappers upon it to the point of overflowing is fantastic. Smells nice. God, I hate everyone and everything. And I hate that I hate.

Waking up guilty is an awesome feeling, too. Not being able to fall asleep until 7am and waking up at 3pm with most of the day gone makes my heart swell. Not that I had anything important to do anyway. Maybe I’m pissed because all these people are running around like they’re happy and I don’t feel like that at all. Yes, I know that a lot of the people I see are far from happy, but I just can't help projecting my uneasiness around like birdshot.

And yuppies with no visible flaws anger the shit out of my ass. I know they’re just as insecure as I am, but it would be nice if they could at least show some outward manifestations of it. Gimme some sad eyes, slight limps, dry hair, stained shirts, and scars. It makes me feel better.

There are only a few times a month when I feel like everything is alright. When my body, mind, and surroundings are aligned and in order. But it’s short-lived, maybe a couple hours long. These moments include meeting someone new that isn’t full of shit, reading or watching something that causes genuine laughter, hanging out with a few friends outdoors, and taking a refreshing dump on a lazy afternoon. These are my only joys.

It’s amazing that I’m friends with anyone, actually. I’m a privileged moody prick filled with potential that I never act upon. Oh look, over there, it’s a glimpse of the person I could be if I tried harder. He looks happy! That was a fun little exercise! Oh dear, look at the time… I’m due back at the gloomy van of hogshit at 8. You see, I’m taking a three month roadtrip of indecision and guilt-induced diarrhea. It's gonna be more fun than watching a tampon commercial!

Ahh shit. I’m just depressed and bored and don’t know what to do with myself anymore. I don’t want to drink or take drugs. I don’t want to watch a movie or TV. I don’t want to take a walk and get more pissed at the people I see. I’d like to move away deep in the woods, but I’d get sick of that, too. Sometimes being alone is nice, and other times it gets to me and I pace around my apartment like a caged animal.

Depression. It’s a vague term, but it applies to whatever I’m feeling right now. I’ll lay it out in simple terms. I harbor deep hatred for my fellow man. I can’t stop thinking negatively. I don’t want to do anything. All choices are rigged. All paths lead to nothing. Where the fuck do I release this darkness? Inside a cop’s mouth? Honestly, I don’t know what I need or what I want. And it frustrates the hell out of me.

5 Not So Hilarious One Liners

2009-10-09T18:16:00.000-05:00

1. Well excuse me, Condoleezza Rice!

2. I love you more than God loves earthquakes.

3. Here's a photo of me and Oprah in the dark...

4. Opposites attract ants.

5. Reggie White Power!

You Were Like Crack, Randy

2009-10-06T02:15:00.005-05:00

Psst... You need some Randy Rock, yo? Easy, buddy. I'm completely human. Check my throat. No cyborg parts there, right? It's cool, man. But not really. You didn't check my chest, did you? It's all machines, man. I'M A FUCKING CYBORG!!! RANDY ROCK!!!

Tupac: Legacy of Sexual Satisfaction

2009-09-30T20:05:00.001-05:00

I am a cracker. This can not be disputed...

I am a sesame flatbread cracker eaten by Tupac, who is alive and well, wrapped up in a cozy quilt at his cabin in the Yukon. His entourage is small these days, consisting of 3 wolves, 2 Inuit, and a long white bone whom he calls Todd. But Todd isn’t just some random bone. He was once a mighty femur belonging to a headless gorilla that wandered the Pacific Northwest, trying on different heads, going berserk when they didn’t fit. They never fit.

He must have decapitated 300 campers and their families before he died while bathing in a waterfall near Vancouver. You see, his neck hole was always dirty, and it needed to be cleaned regularly. And during a routine hole wash, a sturgeon managed to get stuck in his chuckhole. The thrashing fishtail-headed gorilla choked to death.

His body floated some ways before a group of teenagers found him. They got high and took pictures with the rotting corpse until it wasn’t funny anymore. Then the wolves arrived. They left only bones. The leader of the pack took the femur with him as a souvenir of their rare find. Then it was off to Tupac's cabin.

Tupac likes wolves and wolves like Tupac. And when the lead wolf set the gorilla femur at Tupac's feet, a covenant was undertaken. The wolves signed a 20 year binding contract to serve as the exclusive watch dogs for his Yukon compound. And in turn, the wolves gained studio access and microwave privileges.

Todd received his name on a night when some drunken polar bears were being way too loud, disturbing Tupac's sleep. He grabbed the femur and struck their rowdy bear skulls with graceful flair, receiving oohs and ahhs from caribou nearby. Acknowledging their admiration, Pac bowed courteously and went back to bed, leaving a wake of polar bear blood behind him. Before going to sleep, he thanked the femur for its loyalty, declared it to be his new ally, bestowed the name Todd unto it, and licked the bone clean.

Pac, the wolves, the Inuit, and Todd live in the Yukon to this day, with enough love to fill multiple lifetimes. On the real.

Flashlight Rash Night

2009-09-11T00:01:00.002-05:00

I bought a 10-pack of flashlights yesterday at Home Depot. Seriously. As you can tell by the photo, they have since become a burden.

I saw these babies sitting on a shelf by the checkout lane and thought, "Who the fuck needs 10 flashlights ?" And then I saw the price tag - $10, and thought, "I need 10 flashlights!"

I sat alone in my car afterwards, feeling intense buyer's remorse. In fact, it was so intense that I passed out and began dreaming about a faraway place. A place where I'd never have the chance to make idiotic purchases. A place with waterfalls. And loose native women on horseback.

I smile a toothy grin at them, but my teeth are made of little flashlights that shoot beams of white light into their beautiful eyes, blinding them. Another native woman shows up. Except this one looks like the sound of Mr. T's laughter. Peculiar. Oh great, now there's an arrow lodged in my neck. Here comes the blood...

...I was awakened by a security guard knocking on the window of my car. "You can't sleep here, sir. It's midnight. We're closing."

It's been a weird summer.

Fear the Worst: The Truth About Obama (With Action Figures!)

2009-09-03T02:15:00.002-05:00

Look how quickly Obama turned into an slouchy, obese, shrugging, plastic faced mute...

Nothing says take me seriously like action figures, masks, and horrible impressions.

Hold on... I get it now. These "birther", "death panel", and "liberty" kooks are essentially teenagers. Teenage minds trapped in ugly, flabby bodies. And they really hate their new black stepfather.

Here's some equivalent translations from kook to teenager:

"He's not an American citizen!" = "You're not my real father!"

"They're trying to take away my guns!" = "They're trying to take away my videogames!"

"I miss Ronald Reagan." = "I miss Kurt Cobain."

"Global warming is bullshit!" = "Hand jobs are bullshit!"

Colonial Teen Diary

2009-08-28T04:07:00.009-05:00

Fredericksburg, Virginia

July 18, 1694,

Father put tree sap all over my penis today. He said I was sinning too much and needed to be taught a lesson. So I went out by the creek, stuck my prick in an anthill, and let the ants go crazy. It felt really good. Then it didn’t.

July 23, 1694,

Searching for flint in the cavelands today, I came across a bear's nest. She was feasting on a beehive. I kicked the hive out of her mouth, and ran away. Fuck you, greedy bear!

July 25, 1694,

Father made a bucket today. It holds ever so much water. I put spiders in the water sometimes, and peek at Father when he drinks it.

July 29, 1694

I asked mother why sister smells like farts. Mother said sister is becoming a woman. I think it’s because sister rubs hogshit on her dress to ward off the Indians.

August 2, 1694,

Gathering wood in the forest today, I came across a baby swaddled in a nest of branches. It had a five-pointed star carved into its forehead and was dead. I love gathering wood.

August 4 1694,

Father taught me how to fish today. We stood at the edge of the river and threw our lines in. Father was very quiet. Then he explained to me that he was very sick. I laughed. Father drew his knife and cut my face all bad. I hate fishing.

August 8, 1694

I put oatmeal inside my peehole today.

August 11, 1694

Huggles is my dog. She had puppies today. Misshapen, brown puppies that smelled like sister’s dress. Something was wrong with them. They didn’t move at all. I tried feeding them some milk, but they wouldn’t respond. Father saw me doing this, and stared at the ground for the rest of the day.

August 12, 1694

Last night, Father was whispering to his musket, and Mother told him to shut up, so he went outside and shot himself in the face. I buried Huggles' puppies with Father. Our family is destroyed. Colonial America sucks.

Birthday Party

2009-08-11T06:11:00.003-05:00

Last year, my birthday fell on a Saturday, so I decided to throw a big bash at my folks’ summer home in Wisconsin. I made fliers and told everyone I knew about it. Word traveled fast, and around 50 people showed up. I knew half of them.

The people I didn't know seemed alright, though. Rowdy, but cool. There was this one guy who must have had a dozen vests on. A shirtless teenager showed up with a shitload of amazing records that he played all night. A Mexican girl with a broken leg set up a tattoo station on the kitchen table. People were dancing and getting fucked up and touching each other. The party had an altogether positive vibe that couldn’t be fucked with.

Around midnight, there was a loud knocking at the door. Three strikes, with what could only be a mallet. My guests were startled. They looked at the door, at each other, and then at me. I hesitated until some girl whispered gently in my ear, "Open the fucking door." So I opened it, revealing a 7 foot tall black man. I knew it was Patrick Ewing instantly, because he was wearing a Knicks uniform and his entire head was soaked with sweat. He smelled terrible.

“I heard it was your birthday,” he said, putting on a gracious smile and walking in. “Can I use your toilet?”

“Sure, Mr. Ewing. The bathroom is down the hallway to your left.”

“Thanks, and please, call me Patty Trick.”

“No.” I replied. “Just go to the bathroom.”

He disappeared into the bathroom and the party regained its frenzied energy . Some jackass got hold of my dead uncle’s wheelchair, sat his girlfriend in it, and pushed her right into a wall. Blood streamed down her face as she laughed. And the party continued.

After 45 minutes of toilet time, and still no sight of Patrick Ewing, I knocked on the bathroom door to see if he was okay. The door was slightly ajar, and I had a bad feeling deep in my stomach, but I went in anyway.

Patrick Ewing was sprawled out in the bathtub, dangling his massive legs like he was lounging in a hammock. He was eating peanut M&M’s by the handful. His throat and eyes were puffy and swollen. I asked him if everything was alright.

“Not really. I’m allergic to peanuts.” He tossed another handful of M&M’s down his ever expanding throat. “And chocolate, too.”

He was wheezing badly. I went over to the tub and crouched down to get a better look at him. I could feel an intense heat emanating from his face. I touched his moist forehead. The motherfucker was burning up! I quickly turned the shower on as cold as it went.

Patrick didn’t like this at all. “What the fuck?! Turn that shit off! My M&M’s are getting all wet!”

Then his eyes rolled up into his skull and he started to convulse. Badly. His hot swollen brain must have finally had enough. It was seizure time for Patrick Ewing.

The circuits that controlled his limbs went berserk. His beefy body shook the room. His hands clenched into tight fists that battered the tile around the tub. A wild right foot caught me in the ribs. I curled up on the floor and couldn’t breathe for a while, but I kept an eye on the giant loaf of wet thrash. The shower was still raining on him, and he started thrusting his groin violently in the air. The whole scene looked like an extremely fucked up R&B video.

I got my wind back, and was starting to get up on my feet when I heard something I hope to never hear again. Imagine the sound of a thousand pencils breaking at once. Patrick Ewing had shattered his pelvis.

The pain must have flipped a switch in his bulbous head, because he stopped convulsing and maintained a perfect stillness for what seemed like an hour. His bloodshot eyes remained focused on some far away object that I couldn’t see.

He turned his gaze at me, and the look he gave sent shivers down my spine. I bolted towards the door, but his massive paw grasped my shirt and I was jerked into the tub with him.

The shower was freezing. He clenched his teeth as he spoke, half scared, half furious. “My groin is all caved in! It feels like gravel in there. Did you put kitty litter into my crotch?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t think I can get up. Help me. Please help Patty Trick."

"Believe me, I want to help you." I replied. "I want to see you walk away from this. I want you out of my bathtub. Just tell me how, and I'll do it."

"Bring me a fresh bag of peanut M&M’s!”

I promised him that I would. But I never did. I just kissed his misshapen forehead and left, closing the door behind me. He was too far gone.

I went out to the living room and told everybody they had to leave. With my wet clothes and tense body language, they complied readily. After the last guest left, I locked up the house and drove back to my apartment in Chicago.

I got a call from my dad a week later. He was pissed. Finding a putrefied mound of gargoyle flesh bloated in your bathtub is a bummer. After I explained what happened, there was a brief moment of awkward silence, and then we both started laughing.

I love birthday parties.

Dishonorable Discharge

2009-07-30T03:17:00.003-05:00

Back at the start of 2002, I felt like I had something to prove to myself. So I quit smoking pot, and stopped taking antidepressants. I hoped that without these chemicals, I would experience some sort of clarity.

I knew that it would be hard without these crutches, so I kept busy. At that time, I was enrolled in a film class, and we were expected to produce, write, direct, and edit a short film. This kept me very, very busy. But busy can be good when you're afraid you might fall apart like a Chinese motorcycle.

And when I completed my film "Dishonorable Discharge", about a man whose sperm instantly creates people, I was proud and exhausted. It turned out the way I wanted, which never happened to me before. I set a goal and attained the shit out of it.

Here she is...

Dishonorable Discharge from Kid Douche

And yes, I'm making a new film.

Cops Porn

2009-07-13T00:48:00.001-05:00

One lonely night, watching Cops, I saw a drunk obese teen declare that he was Superman. I felt inspired... to watch a dozen more episodes of Cops, pull out the best bits, and make it into a short video. After 10 episodes, I had roughly 45 seconds of great footage, so I decided to watch 90 more episodes. Yeah.

No human is built to withstand 100 episodes of Cops. For every one comical drunk you visit, there are 3 battered women, 2 drug addicts, and a depressing hooker to spend time with. It does things to your mind. Jungle things.

Anyway, I ended up with a shit ton of hilarious footage, a video I'm proud of, and a headache. Here she is (play it loud)...

After I showed this to Mike, he said, "You have a pretty low opinion of humanity, don't you?"

Mike comprehends my gospel.

My Death, Funeral, and Afterlife

2009-07-08T04:40:00.003-05:00

I’m sure that in this blog, and to my friends, I’ve mentioned a few scenarios about the way I’d like to die and what my funeral will be like. And recently, with Jason Crombie’s post about his ideal funeral seared into my skull, I felt the need to write it all down. Here she is…

Death of a Jewboy

Some November, years from now, on the outskirts of Chicago, I will build a castle made entirely of ice. Life will be splendorous and gay at the ice castle, with weekly parties that attract an ever expanding group of friends and well wishers. I will become a minor celebrity.

Months will fly by in a frosty haze of sex, drugs, and unstable footing. Yes, some guests will be injured. But they will feel honored to have earned their concussions at such an exclusive residence. I will be featured in People Magazine under the headline “Chicago’s Mr. Ice Comes Clean: ‘Yes, I’m an uncle’”.

Come March, I will notice the walls drooping and make plans to leave shortly. But I won’t. One morning, the roof will collapse, and my body will be sliced open by hundreds of jagged icicles.

After several days of sorting through the frigid rubble, city workers will not be able to locate my body. Flamethrowers will be brought in. Afterwards, my body will be seen floating in the subsequent puddle, slightly charred, wearing a chain mail bathrobe, a gift from Nick Nolte, who visited frequently. I will be on the cover of People Magazine accompanied by the headline “Mr. Ice is Dead: There is No God”. Time for the funeral.

The service will take place on a gravel barge off the southern shore of Lake Michigan. It will be an open casket funeral. The coffin will be small. Fun-size small. My body will be crammed inside at violent angles. The mortician will have removed my scalp, and replaced my hair with thousands of raisins. Bees will be released upon my raisin fro. Angry bees. A young Swedish boy will play the organ solo from “Runaway” by Del Shannon over and over on a Casio keyboard. He will be decked out in the fully licensed NBA uniform of his favorite team, the Utah Jazz. A grubby homeless man clad in a striped referee outfit will preside over the service. He will try to smoke his whistle.

Those attending the ceremony will be given crab legs to munch on as a final gift, and as a symbol of my generosity and class. They will not know that the crab legs have been marinated in formaldehyde. Many will perish. Like my dad says, “There’s nothing more satisfying than needless, unmotivated revenge.”

The Ref will be given a huge gilded bible and he will read from it silently, moving his lips as he goes along, a cigarette bobbing up and down from the corner of his mouth. 15 minutes into his silent prayers, he’ll start laughing maniacally, close his eyes, and cum in his pants. Funeral service over.

There will be one pallbearer, a competitive weightlifter. He will raise the coffin over his head, pose for three minutes, and toss it into the lake. It will sink… Then it will rise to the surface resting on a black air mattress. A motor on the mattress will start by itself and my casket will travel north at a leisurely 5 miles per hour. Destination: Summer Island.

3 days later, my coffin will arrive at Summer Island. The ghosts of fishermen will pull me ashore effortlessly, routinely. They have handled coffins before. The bees will be gone by then. The raisins will have melted. I will look like a ghoul covered in shit.

Carried into a small hut, my casket will be opened and placed on a raised platform in the center of the room. A fat, flannel-clad man will emerge from behind a curtain. He will place his soggy mouth upon my lips, and breathe forcefully into my deflated lungs. My eyes will open and I will scream. My screaming will stop with the aid of a woman, blowing me, calming me. I will look into her eyes and know that she is my wife. And as I ejaculate into her ghost mouth, I will accept my new existence as a member of this tribe of dead fishermen. And I will reside blissfully in this island fog-world, with my shadow brothers, and my wife beside me, for eternity.

World's Greatest Employee

2009-07-02T04:02:00.003-05:00

They hired me to answer the phones, but I didn’t. I don’t take my life seriously, so it’s hard for me to take a job seriously. I wore tank tops to work all the time and was repeatedly sent home, which is what I wanted anyway. My boss ended up keeping a set of clothes for me in his office, to wear while I didn’t answer the phones.

The pants were itchy, and I removed them often. I’d wear them at my ankles as I walked laps around the office, drumming a complex rhythm on my belly. The other employees thought I was retarded, and never spoke to me. I’d stare at them blankly, eating plums in a loud manner. It made them work harder, it made their lives harder.

My boss liked me. He told me stories about his dead brother, George. He said I looked like George, if George had grown up. But George drowned when he was 7. I was being kept as the living ghost of his lost brother, for whatever feeling that gave him.

One unremarkable Tuesday, I took some acid before heading into work. I had see-through vision that day. Most people call it x-ray vision and when I say most people, I mean the three Hispanic children that lived inside my face for a few hours. They had balloons. I never saw them again and I never got to ask them what their ice cream tasted like. This angered me, and I pushed Phil from sales out the window, using super drug strength. The power felt nice.

I didn't go to work the next day, and I haven't held a job in 4 years.

Jew Boo

2009-06-25T12:38:00.001-05:00

I saw Fiddler on the Roof the other day with my family. And yes, there were Jews. So. Many. Jews.

There is a character in the play named Lazar Wolf. And with the fake peasant-Jew accent everybody uses, it sounds an awful lot like Laser Wolf, a character the writers should have considered. I believe that the addition of Laser Wolf -- an intelligent, powerful, and vindictive machine -- would make this musical more dynamic. Consider the facts.

Fact: A bunch of Russian Jews hiding a cybernetic wolf in their village, an outcast like them, is fucking heartwarming.

Fact: A mechanical wolf wearing a yarmulke is adorable. And a lucrative merchandising opportunity.

Fact: An old Jew assaulting Laser Wolf for drinking his kerosene is slapstick gold! Plus, it teaches children not to trust robots around fuel.

I look forward to meeting Laser Wolf. I know we'll become fast friends. But until that day, I will be very sad.

Bowels In Charge

2009-06-24T12:18:00.001-05:00

I'm gonna be in St. Louis through Monday. I'm visiting my sensei, Larry. Smell ya later.

Take Your Kids?

2009-06-22T01:44:00.000-05:00

Does your son like kangaroos? How does he feel about a kangaroo watching him sleep? ... Come on down to Raging Waves! Water slides!

I Have a Crippling Fear of Being Crippled

2009-06-18T03:15:00.006-05:00

I’m 27, still a long ways away from triple bypasses and deathbed harmonica solos, but that doesn't mean I don't think about death. Life passes pretty quickly, and soon enough I'll be dead. No more me. Cause of death: torso failure. I wouldn't have it any other way. I mean, have you seen this shit? What a torso! My rib cage is HUGE! You think you can touch my heart? Fat chance! It’s gonna take more than a screwdriver driven deep into my thoracic cavity to damage that shit, buddy.

…I’m terribly sorry for the harsh language and bravado. I don’t know what happened. Perhaps we can discuss it over drinks in my hotel room. No, I won’t try anything. I promise. We’ll have a blast! We'll drink teeny bottles of gin and read our favorite Bible passages. Then you’ll pass out from the drugs I drugged you with.

I’ll cast off my fake beard and get down to business. What’s that? You don't like being propped up in a chair and having hot chili thrown at your chest? Too bad. People who are asleep don’t have opinions.

...I'm a weirdo.

Animated Perfection and Birdy Nam Nam

2009-06-16T05:35:00.001-05:00

This is my favorite thing right now. Just watch...

BIRDY NAM NAM - THE PARACHUTE ENDING from Steve Scott on Vimeo.

For those with slower computers, here's the slightly less detailed youtube version...

My eyes just sent divorce papers to my brain.

I Love Sonic Youth, but I Hate Kim Gordon

2009-06-12T03:51:00.001-05:00

Her voice sounds like a bear having an orgasm while taking a shit (it's possible).

To love a band, yet abhor an essential member of that band is frivolous, no? Kind of a waste of time thinking on it. Same goes for writing about it... I'm ashamed of myself.

Sonic Youth - Teenage Riot

Sonic Youth - "Sunday" - Starring Macaulay Culkin. Directed by Harmony Korine. Seriously.

Different topic... There's an artist that goes by the name of Skinner. His paintings are psychotic fever dreams of multi-colored monsters stabbing each other inside a prismatic chaos realm. I'm a fan.

Find more at his site, The Art of Skinner.

Celebrities About To Sneeze

2009-06-10T19:43:00.005-05:00

Celebrity Allergy Archive
is a real blog and despite what you think, not useless at all.

Right, Curtis "Booger" Armstrong?

Hot Dog Day

2009-06-09T15:05:00.006-05:00

Honor the fallen ones. Honor the cheese injected, chili covered, deep fried, bacon wrapped, mustard splattered, mayonnaise blurted, Casio keyboard activated, chandelier dangled, poison tipped, ketchup hemorrhaged, Fred savaged, dolphin nuzzled, toffee tested, balls deepened, Chinese checkered, half breaded, Tokyo drifted, bird nested, and laser guided hot dog brethren.

I'm talking about all the hot dogs you've ever eaten, lined up before you in anger and judgement. For their time has come. And your days are numbered.

Señor Lonely Pony

2009-06-05T04:15:00.007-05:00

Last weekend was one of the loneliest weekends I’ve ever had. I’m fine now, but only after some serious effort to get back to the cheerful mental state I was in before (cough). Let me back up a little bit… I attended a wedding in Michigan. Alone.

Rule #1) Never attend an out of state wedding by yourself.

I leave Saturday morning on shitty footing. I get very little sleep and am awakened quite viciously by loud thumps. Apparently, they're renovating the roof on my apartment building. Awesome. If you haven’t woken up at 7:45am to biblical-scale hammering, you haven’t truly lived. I drink coffee and try to shit but can’t, what with the barrage of yelling and pounding. So, I hit the road all backed up. (How do Iraqis shit with the all the tension and violence going on? If I lived there, I’d have 53 pounds of feces stuck in my colon by now. Just saying.)

Rule #2) Never start a road trip while constipated.

Onward to Michigan, listening to Tom Waits along the way. Mr. Waits doesn't help. Check into the hotel, situated within a commercial complex, complete with a Buffalo Wild Wings, a Starbucks, and an Outback Steakhouse. The complex is strategically placed in the middle of nowhere. Loneliness is a foregone conclusion.

Get dressed. Go to the ceremony. Make awkward chit-chat with the just married. Don't talk to anybody else. Eat a sandwich. Go back to the hotel. Watch “The Invasion”. Try to take a nap. Fail. Go to the reception.

At the reception is when the alienation digs its claws into me. I don’t speak to anyone, nor am I spoken to for most of the night. I’ve been around people all day, interacting with none of them. I try to converse with the bride and groom, but they are very busy with wedding crap. Add music and kids running around, and I’m completely disoriented and uneasy. I end up watching hockey at the bar.

Side note: The people who got married read this blog. Or at least one of them does. So I must make it clear that they hold absolutely no responsibility for my despair. It was a set of circumstances that sucked a mean dog dick. Not your fault. I love you guys.

That being said, attending their wedding was one of the worst decisions I’ve made recently. Weddings are stressful, phony, and crush the spirit of love that brought the couple together in the first place. Weddings are not enjoyable for the people getting married, being paraded around like livestock for all to behold, and they're not particularly enjoyable for the people attending the wedding either. What brainless monster created this bullshit?!

Rule#3) Marriage fine. Wedding bad.

I get back to the hotel, exhausted from the whole day. A baby repeatedly screams in the hallway at a measured rhythm. I get out of bed and go to the grocery store to buy some candy. A guy wearing an Insane Clown Posse shirt is smoking out front. Inside, half a dozen pregnant women dwell. Everyone is unhappy. I buy gummy raspberries and get the fuck out of there.

Back at the hotel, I eat my stupid candy and watch “Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay”. It’s not funny when you’re all alone, and possibly not funny at all. An Indian couple argues in the hallway. I fall asleep at around 1:30am.

Wake up at 10am. Hit the road at noon. Blinding sunlight and traffic. Get home at 4. Flick the light switch, but no lights turn on. No power. Dudes tearing up the roof on Saturday must’ve blown a fuse and never replaced it. I have to throw away most of the food in my fridge. I call my landlord, who is sympathetic and agrees to reimburse me for the spoiled food. This is the first conversation I’ve had all day, and it’s a short, businesslike one. I watch TV for a few hours and go to bed. Weekend over.

Being brutally bored and having no one to talk to is one of the worst feelings possible. Last weekend, I felt like I was 15 again.

Future Fustigation

2009-06-01T18:45:00.000-05:00

For some reason, I know that I must prepare for something horrible. I don't know what or where, but it's coming, no doubt about it. Ever get the sense that it's a short time before something goes terribly wrong? I got that shit right now.

Carl Winslow's Corner: Free Meatus

2009-05-25T20:08:00.002-05:00

Hey gang! It's your ol' buddy Carl Winslow! Long time no ssseeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...

Derangement has re-nestified in my skull, folks. Gotta keep the turban on or else rat-thoughts spill out of my ears like wild rice. I just paid a visit to the sky doctor, LePete, and the outlook is very poor for ol' Carl. My symptoms are...

Collapsed left nostril.
Hazelnut-creme filled moles where my nipples should be.
Burning sensation when I shit piss...

Prognosis: Super lupus.

LePete prescribed a size 7 medicine hat and some cracker amulets, but that shit don't work. And he ate my fries when I went to the bathroom, too.

(sigh)

Been watching The Bozo Show on DVD. One episode over and over. Crystal forcefield protects my fridge. Haven't eaten in 11 days. I beat myself all across the head because of the hunger. Need to replenish or I'll die soon. My life flashes before your eyes...

Here's me as a young murder-honky...

Here's me dead...

Here's me midgetized...

Here's me in the astral realm. Met my wife there. Murdered her. Had to. Her neck was filled with circuits...

Oh yeah! I'm invisible. The freedom of invisibility allows me to stick things into other things. I can smoke PCP in the sewers freely. My love sprays forth. Chocolate sprinkles. For the first time in my life, I am content. Walk a mighty walk, Carl, for this is your day. Sleepy, though. Very tired. Asleep...

I'm awake again. This is a red and barren world. A place of torment. In the distance, a dark figure moves swiftly. A giant strobe light pulsates strongly in this realm. It's disorienting. And here come the whispers! What!? I don't believe in those ghosts! It tickles. My cargo shorts are soaked with a red liquid. My blood? No, it's just pigeon blood. Everything is alright. I just rained deathblows on some pigeons. Nothing new. Typical Thursday for Carl.

Other things to report...

1. Glass omelette turned nephew's insides into shredded garbage.
2. The price of slacks has risen.
3. I found a Chinasaur egg on the bus.

Glue glue sniff sniff, right? Simple beauty appears in the center of all things. Always.

CIA put a tracking chip in my arm. Loppin' it off tomorrow. Who cares? Not me.

That's all for today, Carl fans. Remember, I love you! Take my hand. Dream with me.

Dismissive of Portals Guy Says...

2009-05-23T18:52:00.003-05:00

"Meh. I've seen better portals."

Sink or Swim

2009-05-12T00:14:00.000-05:00

How come fat rockabilly chicks and aggro-lesbos are into roller derby, but not water polo? Ladies, instead of boring-ass rollerskates, I humbly suggest you give the fine sport of water polo a try. Here's why:

1. You can show off all your bitchin' tats in a revealing bathing suit.

2. Chlorine from the pool will clean your filthy skin and armpit hair. Your dad doesn't love you.

3. Water polo is way more dangerous than roller derby for the simple fact that you can drown. Drowning can cause death. Death is pretty dangerous. Just picture it; fat Betty Page lookalike #7 is floating face down in the water like she had too much chili. Awesome!

4. You can psyche out your opponents by spraying menstrual blood in the pool, re-creating a Jaws nightmare. Better yet, give birth when nobody's looking, throw the baby at a bitch's face, and score the winning goal!

5. Cheeseburger beer farts make tickler bubbles in the water, and create an impenetrable noxious forcefield. Take advantage of your gaseous nature, hoglins.

See? Water polo is way cool. Much cooler than this...

Actually, that looks really fun. But the girls are all ruddy-cheeked sacks of flesh, right? The roller skates transform them into giant dumpy wheelbarrows, correct?

...Nevermind.

Raising a Healthy Brood

2009-05-10T02:59:00.002-05:00

"Family meeting. In the attic. Bring the dog."

San Diego Part 1: Soup Splode

2009-05-07T14:06:00.001-05:00

I'll start with the end result. The money shot.

I feel better. Now, here's the story behind the splosion...

My friend Solomon resides in San Diego. He is a man of peculiar smells, probably from all the vitamins he takes. He strongly encourages me to take the same supplements as him, but I'm not falling for that shit. The lord gives me all the nutrients I need.

He works security in an upscale condo building, and rich bitches are always trying to hop on his bandwagon. Oftentimes they attempt to seduce him with food, ranging from delicacies like lobster ravioli to ordinary containers of leftovers your mom sends you home with.

On the last day I was in Big Sandy, Solomon received a ziploc bag full of squash soup from a female admirer. It looked like a sack of gremlin vomit. Bitch, please, supplying a bag of soup is not how you win a man's hard, pulsating love. At least not an American man. Perhaps a Slovenian man would appreciate your grody liquid gesture.

Needless to say, the soup sat untouched on the kitchen counter for at least 12 hours. Around midnight or so, Solomon asked me if I thought the soup was safe to eat after sitting out for so long. I told him it wasn't. He asked me what I think he should do with the bag of slop. I told him to whip it out the kitchen window, which is my stock answer to most questions. He agreed.

Grasping the bag, he backed up from the window and gently began swinging it like a horseshoe player readying a toss. I found this amusing. Then he looked me in the eye and asked if I thought he should take a running start. This confused me, because even though the whole operation was stupid as hell, his question was really dumb. This wasn't an Olympic event, a simple toss would suffice. But before I could answer, he was off and running. Pop! I saw an upward explosion of yellow slime followed by a sickening splatter sound. He had missed the opening completely.

There was a brief moment of stunned silence before the laughter began. For a good five minutes, we laughed like the idiots we were. Then, after our best chuckles were spent, he got to cleaning. I watched and took pictures.

Shit was everywhere. It was all over the ceiling, the plants, the blinds, and the fridge. Not to mention Solomon's clothes and hair.

I'm still impressed by the sheer ridiculousness of it all. And to have witnessed such an event, I am honored. All I can say is bravo, sir. Bravo.

Battletoadz

2009-05-05T16:06:00.004-05:00

..."Classic-Style" Kid Douche posts from here on out, kids...

Meet My Lawyer

2009-04-29T06:00:00.001-05:00

Meet My Sisters

2009-04-28T06:00:00.001-05:00

Ride the Gondola of Pain

2009-04-27T06:00:00.001-05:00

Peter Gives Me The Willies

2009-04-26T06:00:00.001-05:00

Ovens Warm Because Children Dream

2009-04-25T06:00:00.006-05:00

Knuckleheads

2009-04-24T06:00:00.003-05:00

Thirsty

2009-04-23T06:00:00.002-05:00

Ducktales, Whoo-ooh!

2009-04-22T06:00:00.001-05:00

Heavy is the Head

2009-04-21T06:00:00.002-05:00

Radical Sabbatical

2009-04-20T01:02:00.001-05:00

This particular young man is going to be in San Diego for the next 10 days. No consistent access to the internet. So, in order to quench the tremendous public thirst for photos and unimportant ramblings, I will program the blog publishing mechanism to fire off a post at 6am every day until I come back.

They will be simple posts, just a photo, a title, and labels. Feel free to start comment wars to combat the crushing boredom. Or read a book and slap around your Jenny Tulls. Your love is never wrong.

Be back with a Jew tan in 10 days.
Smell ya later homeys.

That's Creepy, Bro

2009-04-17T02:29:00.000-05:00

Misery = Human Interaction

2009-04-16T04:55:00.003-05:00

Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you another installment straight from The Nest Of Grump.

A couple weeks ago, I was tapped to find footage for a charity event video thing. It's to help fund an organization that trains inner city kids to do computer repair work. A noble cause. The themes for the video I'm helping with are positivity and communal connection, two things I spend zero time thinking about. I mostly think about the inevitability of an all-out spider war. I'm out of my league with this life-affirming crap. I actually typed "cheesy bullshit" into the search box of Youtube.

Also, as an artist/contributor for this charity, I've been invited to meetings about the event. Whoop whoop!

This is where I struggle. I don't talk to people I don't already know for any length of time, ever. And I especially don't talk to people who want my professional opinion about anything. I'm a simple cave troll. Don't touch me.

When I absolutely have to interact with people, like the ones involved with this charity project, I get really weirded out. The sudden awareness of these alien perspectives thrust upon my excitable brain is almost too much.

Example: There is a party planner/caterer for the charity event, a Jewish one. She's in her 50's, stands about 5 feet tall, and is dressed in upper middle class business-wear (a jazzy pantsuit). While soliciting opinions on what food should be served, she cheerily asked, "How about empanadas? We could do a taco!" And the others nodded and one person said, "Oooh! Now I'm hungry." And everybody laughed. I smiled politely. It was like a Tim and Eric sketch.

And this party/wedding planning suburban Jew-mom was also trying to set her son up with the female video producers. And when I told her where I grew up, she goes, "Oh! Do you know Jordan Goldberg?" Oy vey. Why do Jewish moms think that because I'm Jewish, I know every other Jew in the county? They do it all the time. God, I wanna bite their legs off.

And the producer of the event sends me these texts. Maybe it's me, but whenever I get text messages like "Thanks!" or "Yay!" or "See U soon!", it seems insincere and creepy. The exclamation point is a very delicate mechanism, and used excessively, it makes you sound completely bonkers. OKAY!?!?!

Ya see how ordinary shit gets under my skin really easily? I'm so used to doing my own thing that I forget how people actually behave and communicate. And I'm horrified by what they spew from their evil little face holes.

My life consists of watching movies, building sweat pant forts, and catching catfish. I quit playing honky nice-nice a long time ago.

Hopefully, with the help of a Kapsiki crab sorcerer and a butt load of Wendy's coupons, I'll pull through this dark time of honorable productivity and verbal expression.

Bear Traps and Riffraff

2009-04-15T05:08:00.000-05:00

All Boss Conners saw was a blur of soft fur, followed by crushing sorrow, for the beast had stolen his award winning chili recipe.

Ouch, My Thorax!

2009-04-09T03:28:00.002-05:00

Hiroshi never understood why girls didn't like him. He owned a successful extermination business. He was good to his parents. He was into jazz. He knew where to get Oxycontin. These were the traits women supposedly adored. Yet he couldn't get past the first date with anybody.

So he bought some audio surveillance equipment to record his dates. He studied his conversations and tried to pinpoint where everything fell apart. But analyzing the transcripts from several dates proved fruitless. He was still striking out with the ladies.

Here is an excerpt from his date with Diane, a charmingly obese law student...

Hiroshi: You look stunning tonight, Diane. When we traded photos online, I couldn't believe how gorgeous you were. Not like me. Why would someone like you want to be with me?

Diane: Aww, stop it Hiroshi. Don't be so hard on yourself. You're a sweet guy, and I like your bushy eyebrows.

Hiroshi: Thanks. You should see my bushy asshole.

...God, if you're listening, please help Hiroshi on his quest to enter the bone zone.
Amen.

Gut Check

2009-04-03T03:04:00.003-05:00

Kuato was a really cute baby.

It's a shame that his father wasn't around much.

Jazzy Secrets

2009-03-31T16:55:00.000-05:00

When Harold received word of his daughter's death, he ran barefoot into the forest behind his house. Aided by a flexi-straw, he farted up into a bird's butt hole, and passed out. He awoke hours later, ashamed and miserable. Some say he died of grief shortly after, but others say he still wanders the woods, tooting a funeral dirge on his enchanted sax.

Bisou is a Dog

2009-03-29T16:25:00.000-05:00

So I'm taking care of this puppy, you see. And she is the cutest little fluff of white fur you'll ever wrestle with. And I can't sleep, so I watch her sleep. And when she scratches her ears, her nails get caught in mats. And she looks at me, and I help her untangle. And she crawls up my chest and gratefully licks my face. And then I initiate a long conversation about personal boundaries. And she sniffs her crotch, triggering a mini sneeze. And I call my lawyer.

I Got Drugged

2009-03-27T04:23:00.002-05:00

Personal/True Story Time...

Well, I'm back to normal after some unpleasantness, losing 2 plus days in a maze of narcotic haze. I took a sleeping pill/antidepressant I was iffy about. Remeron. My uneasiness was based upon internet research involving people's experiences with the drug, which were mostly negative. But, being a dumb bastard, I had to see for myself if a little yellow tablet could help me fall asleep. It did. And then it fucked my world up.

After swallowing the pill late Monday night, I slept from 2:30am to 12:30pm Tuesday. During which, my dreams were pure visual chaos. Swimming in fluid behind the lens of a giant eye is one of the scenes I recall. Yeah.

Waking up was hard as fuck. I just stayed still, staring at my sheets. I didn't move until about 1:30, when my bladder bulged to the max. I got up and was unsteady on my feet. I thought my head was too high off the ground, so I slumped, like an old man shuffling to the toilet. My legs were weak.

Every inch of my body was heavy. My blood replaced with Ragu. I didn't feel real, and I didn't feel anything, really. My emotions were removed. I tried to panic, but nothing happened. I figured I would just have to wait until the pill left my system. It couldn't last into the night. I'd be fine by dinnertime. Wrong! I had a whole 36 hours of dazed immobility to look forward to.

Also, whenever I got dizzy and had a falling sensation, which was often, a shock wave tore through my body. A pulse pounding, heart racing, over the top adrenaline rush gripped my chest; only to be subdued by the medicine immediately. Like an engine being revved and shut off simultaneously. It felt exactly like when you wake up from a bad dream. One of those awful nightmares with a fucked up ending.

I felt trapped within my own body and hopeless. Total malaise. My body was so weak, and my mind was so fuzzy. I surrendered and fell asleep again at 7pm. Woke up at 10pm not feeling any more alert. Went to the store to get some ice cream, because I hadn't eaten all day.

I was convinced that a cop would pull me over and send my ass to jail for DWI, or that I'd fall asleep and cruise off a bridge... but I ended up safely at home, spooning ice cream into my mouth feebly. Fell asleep at 6am, woke up at 3pm Wednesday. Still mildly under a spell, I hung out and watched TV, not really focusing on anything for too long. Still emotionally removed. Still heavy lidded. And my left eye started twitching, which sucks because now I'm aware of my eyes. I don't want to be aware of my eyes.

But late last night, I laughed for the first time in days. There was a sketch on Human Giant where some guy's girlfriend is having an affair with a killer whale, so he orders a bunch of fish sandwiches from Long John Silvers and punches the shit out of 'em. That show is funnier than I thought.

And this morning was the first time I felt like myself since the drugging. But I'm quite worried about taking any new drug now. My system is more sensitive than it was a few years ago, and can't handle that much these days. I'm only 27, and I plan on disappointing people well into my 70's. But it seems that the older you get, the more medicine you have to take. Which is a problem. I'd like to think that I'm strong enough to go without meds, but as winter shows me again and again, I'm not that strong. I need a little help sometimes.

So what the fuck am I supposed to do, just deal with the horrible side effects? That's bullshit.
Seek a shaman? I don't trust brown people.
Why do I always project a negative future for myself? God, I need pills.

Also, a word of advice to the general public: Don't fuck around with Remeron (Mirtazapine). On the real.

Minor Beef: Obama Hope Parody

2009-03-21T01:51:00.003-05:00

On my way to the suburbs for my bi-monthly (bi-weekly in the winter) visit to my folks' house, I noticed this billboard. And I shook my head clean off my shoulders. This is a real billboard promoting a local TV station's evening "comedy" block.

I pulled over and cried for a good 15 minutes. A passing motorist stopped by and asked if I was alright. I dried my eyes, shot the driver a homicidal stare, and silently pissed in my pants. Yeah, I'm fine.

ILL EFFECTS

2009-03-18T06:31:00.006-05:00

At midnight, I find comfort in a tall glass of whiskey con carne. Afterwards, I grab my pistol, and walk out into the dark. The weather is medium cool. A stiff breeze causes the trees to sway; the frenzy of windblown leaves masks my heavy footsteps upon the dirt. Down the road, I spy a vehicle partially hidden under a willow tree. I walk towards it casually.

A middle-aged husband and wife are sitting in a Chevy pick up, eating fast food. I approach, tapping on the driver’s side window with my gun. The husband jerks with a startle, looks up to see the barrel of a pistol in his eye line, and stiffens. A strand of shredded lettuce, drenched in mayonnaise, dangles off his mouth. His wife screams. Her burger falls to the floorboard. I let this go on for another 30 seconds, then I calmly tell the husband to roll the window down. He complies, trembling.

“What do you want?” he asks.

He is met with silence, the gun directed at his forehead.

The wife’s screaming subsides, replaced by wide nostrils and wide eyes. Her hands shake. Very dramatic.

“Please don’t hurt me…us.” says the husband.

The wife shoots her husband a hard eye, then fixes her gaze upon the lower half of my face, which is all she can see.

Nothing moves.

A deep gurgling sound emanates from my belly, followed by another. I lower the pistol and hunch over, leaning through the open window. A moment passes, everything is still.

I inhale deeply. And I vomit square in the husband’s face. A generous pool of whiskey and meat gathers in his lap. His face twists into a kabuki mask of repulsion and agony. The wife starts screaming again. The husband glances at his screaming wife, his puke soaked pants, and then at me. But I’m already gone.

Down the road, I tuck the pistol into my jeans, and wipe my mouth with a handkerchief. I head down to the convenience store. And I buy more whiskey and ground beef. For tomorrow night.

Xenadrine Zidane

2009-03-16T07:10:00.001-05:00

Heroes

Fashion Hero

Hero Storage

Hollywood Hero

Old Style

2009-03-12T04:02:00.004-05:00

It begins in November and lasts through March. The cold. The reclusiveness. Leaving my apartment is a struggle. And now it's the bleak month before the thaw. And still, the cold lingers like a fart in an elevator. Throw in a couple nice days of false spring, and then back to misery.

I crave warmth. I long for this...

Yeah, I'm complaining about the weather. I'm a lonely old man in failing health, sitting on the porch waiting for the grim reaper to take what's his. And as an elderly man, I have opinions about everything. For instance...

Gay marriage - Best thing that ever happened to me was when my wife got snakebit and fell dead.

Immigration - If you're cool, come on in. No Filipinos.

Flag Burning - Keeps me warm.

Sean Connery - I bet he smells nice.

Construction workers - Stop building shit. Go to law school like everybody else.

Whiskey - Makes tennis really fun.

Getting dizzy - Falling down.

Want my opinion? Just ask. I've got all fuckin' day.

Oh Wolverine, Why Can't You Be True?

2009-03-10T05:08:00.005-05:00

Squeeze the air out. Blow it back up. Squeeze the air out. Blow it back up. Squeeze the air out. Blow it back up.

Last Laugh

2009-03-08T19:41:00.002-05:00

When disease carves a path through the heartland, and bodies lay strewn in parking lots, who will gather the spent carcasses?

When the time comes for humankind to settle its debt with the Almighty, and bloated bodies of afflicted men choke the coastline, what will survive?

When primeval quietude returns, and feral vegetation reclaims the abandoned cities, the movement of beasts shall cease forever...

Except for the robotic corpse trawlers roaming the empty planet, converting our remains into electric pulp...

(photo found by Sugaragus)

If you think that's ominous, check out what my sister wore at her sweet 16 party...

Atheists with Arthritis

2009-03-05T16:46:00.001-06:00

Go ahead, girl. Lay them eggs!

I'm worried about her nest, though. It offers minimal protection from coyotes and seems to be crafted with unnatural polymers... God, I love nests...

Scuttler's Dirt Wagon

2009-03-04T18:49:00.002-06:00

Yeehaw! I ain't dead from the constipations! Reckon I unloaded 6 pounds of pack-iron in the terlet this afternoon. Damnedest thing I ever saw.

Ain't no grave gonna hold me down. Paw-Paw saw to it that I wouldn't die. He went into the darkness and broughten back a child. Me. I saw him by the fire one night movin' his mouth, talkin' to nobody. He shot me a crazed look and asked if I was ready. I said no. He nodded a thinker's nod and went to bed. He never woke up! Ahahahhaaa!

Smell Y'all Later

Can't Shit for Nothin'

2009-03-02T20:12:00.002-06:00

Waiting

Angry

Unreliable guts
I wish would spill

Little sips of coffee

Waiting

Doing the math

3 days since
plus 2 days laxatives
plus 1 day pleading
equals fuckin' dick!

Why won't this happen?

Forever waiting

Staring at the enema
a last resort
bullet in the chamber
just in case

Still waiting

Dumb
desperate
defeated

Thinking about
the countless days
I've surrendered to my bowels,
an orphan-strength sadness
overtakes me

Jesus Christ!
Imagine what it'll be like
when I'm 20 years older,
stiffly wading in
the shallows of
a park district pool

With a can't shit grimace
that can be seen for miles

That's So Russian!

2009-02-28T02:05:00.005-06:00

Who wants to bet on the number of potatoes consumed by this monster in its lifetime?

Hint: Look at its fingers.

Wicked Nipples

2009-02-26T16:53:00.004-06:00

...Been focusing on my video editing as of late, slacking on the word writing. Videos coming soon.

8 Things I Hate

2009-02-24T00:49:00.000-06:00

Note: I wrote most of this while recovering from the stomach flu. I lost 8 pounds and envied the dead. Thankfully, I feel way better now, but here's last week's positively frothing nest of grump...

1.Opera
I enjoy classical music. I can tolerate fat people. I like vocal harmonies and choirs singing in unison. But. I. Absolutely. Hate. Opera. It's so pretentious. And it all sounds the same. Some porky bitch has lungs the size of garbage bags and howls like a dinosaur. It doesn't delight my senses or lift my withered soul. It's just boring. I'd rather kick pretty flowers. At least I'd feel something.

2.Mustard
The first time I saw someone oozing some neon yellow sauce onto a bologna sandwich, I shuddered. It looks disgusting. The first time I tasted it, on a hot dog, I nearly threw up. It tastes disgusting. The sound of mustard being squeezed out the little jimmy hole of a yellow squeeze bottle? Melts my ears. It sounds disgusting. Mustard is yellow terrorism. Case closed.

3.Subculture aficionados
I actually don't have any beef with people who are legitimately into something, be it cars or comics or beef. My problem is with people who won't give it a rest. Enough about your bike, your workout regimen, your veganism, your cat, your computer, your garden, and your commitment to Christ. See my eyes wandering around the room? I'm looking for a place to cry.

I consider myself to be a pretty big hockey fan, but I'll only talk about it when prompted. Why? Because I believe in America.

4.Having a body
Oy, my stomach! Sausage coils rumble through mein jungle. Dark rivers of hate, dissolving all canoes. I got Satan in my guts. He's got a cabin down there. And he's doing push ups on the roof.

See the stomach flu post. And this. And this.

5.Ceilings
Thanks for blocking my view of the heavens, asshole.

6.Flat screen TV filled bars
There's a sports bar a couple blocks away from me called Boundary. The number of flat screen TV's lining the walls is appalling. Being anywhere near that place is brutal. But hey, dicks gotta eat and drink someplace, don't they? Gotta watch the game, drink $6 beers, laugh at Bud Light commercials, hate fags, eat greasy food, groom the goatee, reek of Axe, rock a bluetooth ear piece, and brag about how awesome your weekend was.

I can drink and watch TV at home. I go to bars to fail at girls.

7.January
January kicks my ass regularly. It comes along in the middle of a good for nothing wintertime filled with depression and freeze. Next year, I'm going somewhere warm for the entire month of January. I'll hit up Florida and California, maybe Texas. I'm leaving January like a bag of shit on my rabbi's doorstep. Shalom!

8.Slavery
I'm going out on a limb here, but I think slavery is wrong.

I know. I know.

Holding Pattern

2009-02-20T18:54:00.002-06:00

Stomach flu ripped apart my life for almost a week, but I'll be back soon, children... as the gaunt specter of a man you once knew.

I Hate My Body: Stomach Flu

2009-02-14T18:22:00.001-06:00

Hola from the nest of grump!

(via Rafa Toro)

I have the stomach flu. My body temperature is 100.5 degrees. My muscles ache. I'm all diarrhea and nausea, but no vomiting, although there have been a couple close calls which involved me leaning over the bathtub, waiting for the custard to spurt. And gas. My entire torso is bloated with malevolent air.

All I can think about, besides wanting to sleep through this whole ordeal, is that I need to be careful about what I eat, drink, and watch.

Hear me out on this...

In 2002, I had a two week stomach episode and ate nothing but Club crackers during that time. I can no longer eat Club crackers because of the negative connotation they hold in my sensory bank. Which isn't so bad. There are other crackers in the world. Like my Uncle Barry, for instance. But it sets a very dangerous precedent for future sicknesses.

I gotta be wary. I don't want to accidentally eliminate any favorite food and drinks from my diet forever. And I don't want a likable movie or TV show to get ruined with poisonous flu memories.

Example: When Masters of the Universe came out in the theaters, my parents took me and a friend to go see it. I was 5 at the time. Little Kid Douche (not talkin' bout my penis) gave it 4 stars. On the ride home, my friend power puked inside my dad's Camaro (yup). A few years ago, the movie was on TBS. I wanted to see it again, but I had to change the channel. All I could think about was my dad retching while he scrubbed the soiled car seats. He sold it a month later. And my friend blamed popcorn for the barf. Never ate popcorn again.

You see what I'm getting at? I need to rest and watch TV to take my mind off my ill health, but the potential for a tragic association stalks my thoughts. Therefore, I can't see new movies, only old ones. And TV shows I've watched a billion times.

I'm also going to be carefully consuming off brand versions of the food and drinks I like, just in case. Nothing from my regular diet. I will ingest Powerade, Canfield ginger ale, Eden soy milk, and Carr's water crackers. With these items, I hope to nurse myself back to health.

My body is a prison, and until I get better, I'm going to watch The Simpsons over and over again. And maybe Robocop.

Spreading the Thighs of God

2009-02-13T06:37:00.004-06:00

Here's animation #2. It's about a woman and her local butcher...

The last line pretty much sums it up.

Whiskey Juice

2009-02-11T16:33:00.000-06:00

It might be my birthday today. I might be turning 27 or so. I might take a huge dump and masturbate in front of my window, one leg up on the sill. I might play Carmen Sandiego at the library amongst the soggy homeless. I might wonder why I hardly see any homeless women at all. I might shrug and proceed to an old timey monkey knife fight in Humboldt Park.

I might break my legs off and throw them at a cop. I might try to scurry away on my bloody stumps. I might feel a sharp pain in the back of my head and black out. I might wake up in a landfill. I might find an abandoned ukulele amidst the rubble. I might play a ballad set during World War I about a soldier who threw bread at enemy soldiers and ate grenades. And I might laugh so hard that I don't hear the rats approaching...

Birthdays are very rad.

8 of My Favorite Jokes

2009-02-10T01:55:00.000-06:00

What did the hobo get for Christmas?
Nothing.

How do you know when it's bedtime at Michael Jackson's house?
He yawns and says he's tired.

How many Hindus can you fit in a BMW?
5.

Three men walk into a bar. They're alcoholics.

How do you keep your wife from reading your e-mails?
Ask her nicely.

How come black people are so good at basketball?
Because they practice.

What do you call a Japanese man with arthritis?
Jason.

What's the difference between a Jew and a sausage?
One is food and the other is someone who believes in Judaism.

Abraham Lincoln

2009-02-09T00:39:00.002-06:00

He's still got it

I'm in Love...

2009-02-05T16:36:00.002-06:00

...with an online animated movie making application. Here's our first child...

We're getting married in the spring.