I Touch Your Food

As the healthcare debate rages on and swine-flu panic escalates into a perceived "national emergency", let's take a second to look at ourselves. Forget that MoveOn.org shit clogging up your inbox about poor little Dudley Dumbfuck with leukemia and AIDS and brain cancer and Lou Gehrig's disease who is wasting away in a hospital right now because CIGNA won't sponsor some experimental treatment that could save his worthless life. Forget the RNC "death panel" apocalyptic scenarios with old people being dragged from their beds and denied treatment because their organs are needed for the young and virile. Forget the swine flu panic, stop biting your nails and worrying about whether or not you should get a virus injected into you at the risk of paralysis to protect yourself from a disease that's identical to the regular flu.

Forget that shit. I want to talk about you right now.

Anyone reading this site has probably eaten at a restaurant within the last week. I want to talk about that experience. I don't care if this was a fast-food restaurant, a Sizzler, or a high-end restaurant. At any given point, if you haven't been eating at home and preparing your own food, someone like me probably touched your food. And I don't just mean before it was cooked, or that they touched your plate while handing your food to you, I mean they probably touched a piece of food literally minutes before it went into your mouth. What does this have to do with health care? Let me explain to you, in a nutshell, how the restaurant industry (FUN FACT: 40% of our nation's economy is made up of the restaurant industry...did I make that up? I can't remember) operates.

If you pay attention at all to eating establishments within the past twenty years, you've probably noticed a lot of young people and immigrants. You may have even waited tables yourself at some point in the past. If that's the case, you already know where I'm going with this. The plain truth is, America's restaurants are operated primarily by today's indentured servants. Now, I don't mean to sound like I'm bitching here, but waiting tables and washing dishes sucks ass. That's why the turnover in restaurant employment constantly hovers around 200%-300% annually. The people who wait tables are either career servers, which means they hate you because they've been dealing with asshole customers for the last ten years and are so jaded to the plight of other human beings that they wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire, or they're temporary servers, which means that they cannot WAIT until they get that callback/book deal/script greenlit/college degree and can quit the living hell of waiting tables. The people who work in the kitchens of restaurants are either illegal immigrants working for less than minimum wage, which means that they really don't give a shit about anything other than working a lot of hours and not getting caught by INS, or legal immigrants who don't give a shit about anything. The restaurant is managed by someone whose job is to be bitched at by his superiors (if it's a corporate restaurant) or to bitch at his employees (if it's a small business) - in both instances, the bitching comes about because the restaurant isn't making enough money.

Now, there's a lot of anger floating around this restaurant, and the cause of this anger comes from a single source: you, the customer.

Waiting tables a year ago was an ok situation. People were coming to restaurants for the right reason: to experience new food and to relax without having to hassle with cooking dinner at home. However, after the "economy tanked", we in the restaurant industry were allowed a rare glimpse into the true nature of our customers: angry, idiotic, greedy, manipulative fuckheads. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure you think that you're a good person. But let's be frank here - even YOU wouldn't want to wait on you in a restaurant. Let's go step by step and see where you went wrong -

Drinks - Don't order water. Instead of ordering water, use the secret, superpals code that all waiters use and instead shout "I'm a cheapass!!" instead of ordering water. Honestly, when you ask for a water as your beverage, all I hear is "No Tip". If you ask for a water without ice, I hear "I went to Europe recently and want to show everyone how cultured I am", "I am European", or "I have such severe dietary needs that I can't handle ice". All of this translates into "No Tip". If you order a water with "extra lemon slices" and then squeeze all the lemons into your water followed by a shitload of sugar (which I have to refill after you've left) in an attempt to make your own lemonade, then I have just labelled you as "knuckle-dragging shitflinger".

Please stop doing this homemade lemonade shit at your table. No one is applauding your frugality here. When we see you do this, and then turn to your date and say "it's just as good and it's free!", then we must ask you - why the fuck are you in a restaurant in the first place? Stay home and make lemonade. That way I don't have to deal with you.

What you should be doing in a restaurant is ordering booze, or at the very least, a specialty virgin drink. If you're eating out, there must be a reason, so fucking celebrate! Show your date a good time! Don't be a cheap ass! Did I mention that I hate you?!

Appetizers - Appetizers and entrees are not, not NOT the same thing. That's why they have different names. Don't order an appetizer as an entree. That's something that Nazis do (FUN FACT: Hitler only ordered appetizers whenever he went out to restaurants. He also killed a lot of Jews). If you're getting an appetizer, then get an entree as well. If not, then get the fuck out and go to someplace where they serve combo meals. I don't need you to sit here and use a table for three hours just to eat some fucking chicken fingers when I could be waiting on people who actually have money. If you're one of those people who likes to frequent a certain restaurant, fancies himself a "regular", and has had to "downgrade" to "only ordering appetizers" because of the "recession", then shut the fuck up because I stopped listening to you. If the recession is so bad, then stay at home and eat Ramen. No one likes you.

Entrees - Stop splitting entrees. I'll let you in on a little secret - the reason some restaurants have a charge for splitting entrees isn't because it's so difficult for us to plate a single serving onto two different plates, it's because it's fucking irritating. Again, you say "split entree", I say "cheap ass motherfucker too lazy to cook for himself". (FUN FACT: I had a couple come in a week ago and split an entree. Then they split another entree because they were still hungry. Think about this for a second).

Entrees are the way they are because the chef or owner has designed them that way. If you don't like it that way, eat elsewhere. You won't be missed.

And while we're on that subject, let me point something else out to you - you are not a fucking chef. I know that you like to watch Bravo reality shows about chefs and probably have a Food & Wine subscription, but that doesn't give you license to criticize or change my menu. Stop asking to have entrees prepared especially for you. I have fifty other people to wait on and my cook has two hundred tickets up. When I punch in "Special Order", he reads it as "Drop This Item On The Floor". You are an asshole and should die. It's not that it's hard for us to make your salad just the way you want it. Honestly, 90% of the time I agree with your changes. It's just that everyone else in the restaurant wants to change their entrees as well, and when you multiply special requests by 200, it slows down my kitchen and I then have to listen to you bitch about why it took so long for your special order to come out. You understand how this could be a "lose/lose" for me.

If you like to change menu items, split entrees, and be an overall asshole, then stay home. It's a lot cheaper. Admit to yourself that you only like to eat out because it makes you feel powerful to have someone else wait on you, then try cooking for yourself. Better yet, go to a soup kitchen and feed homeless people all day to see what restaurant work is like. Then kill yourself

Desserts - I don't care if you order dessert or not, but let's just say this - if you're going to get dessert, get dessert. Don't ask me a million fucking questions about calorie content, taste, what my preferences are, etc., and then decide to forgo dessert. I don't mean to be sexist here, but women are by far the worst offenders when it comes to this. A group of women will be finished splitting their entrees, and the single fat friend they keep around to make them all feel better about themselves is still hungry. All the questions about dessert really get her going, until she's drooling from all sorts of lips over the thought of some awesome dessert, and then the Lead Bitch (you know who you are) will say that she's not going to eat dessert because she's watching her figure. Now this poor fat girl whose only redeeming quality is making her superficial friends look better by comparison has to go without dessert, because she'll be damned if she's the only one at the table macking on some brownies while these other bitches look on in disgust. And all this after you cock-teased her by asking your waiter what the most decadent and delicious desserts are, making him describe it in such minute detail that she can practically taste it before you tore it out of her mouth with your anorexic claw.

No wonder she eats her feelings.

Meanwhile, I've just wasted a lot of time explaining a dessert to you that you won't buy when I could be in the kitchen dropping entrees on the ground.

Get the Fuck Out - Seriously. When you're done, unless you left an exorbitant tip (by which I mean more than 20%), you need to leave. You don't live here, and no one wants to listen to your theories about moral relativism or Kuhn's postmodern works or even what your baby did today. You are done at my establishment. You have paid me, I have serviced you, now you must go so that someone else can start the dharmic wheel of my servitude once again. If there's nothing to eat on your table, then why are you still at the fucking restaurant?

After You Leave - Once you're gone, I or one of my immigrant compadres will pick up your dirty Kleenex off the table, sweep up the Cheerios your asshole kid threw all over the ground, take your half-eaten entree to the dishwasher, who has to deal with your disgusting shit, clean up your spilled drinks, and seat the next person there. You have no idea how disgusting you and your fellow restaurant patrons are. I have picked up snotty Kleenex, cigarette butts, empty containers, children's toys, and a number of soiled diapers from the same table you are sitting at, and trust me, it's as gross as it sounds.

Where Does Health Care Come In? - Like it or not, the food service industry will always hate you. There's really nothing you can do to change this, it's just what we do. You don't tip enough, you don't order enough, or you were rude to us. Frankly, we're impossible to please. But there's some justification to our hatred, and it's this: you probably work a 9-5 job, Monday through Friday, have weekends and federal holidays off, and have benefits.

We have none of that.

In fact, it is impossible to have any sort of physical ailment and wait tables. You need full use of all hands, fingers, feet and toes, and can't be sniffling or coughing when you do it. Waiters need to be impossibly healthy or we don't get paid.

That's why we hide it.

We have rent to pay just like everyone else, so we can't afford to miss work. We don't get sick days. We drink and party a lot, and if that ever catches up to us, well, we have Visine, Day-Quil, Pepto-Bismol, and a whole other host of OTC drugs to conceal our condition from you. A number of us probably have swine flu right now and are still waiting tables because if we don't, we can't live.

We don't get sick days. We don't get paid time off. We don't get holiday pay. We're expected to be working our hardest when everyone else is having fun and relaxing. And if we get sick, we can't afford the $300 it costs to go to the doctor and get some prescription meds for a potentially serious condition. We just suck it up until we get so sick we can't physically make it in to work, or we power through and work until we get better. Going to the doctor is expensive. Health care is expensive. Try paying for that when your only source of income is some shitbrain who tips you $3 on a $70 check because "he didn't bring me my water fast enough". It's impossible without either government help or a change in attitudes about tipping, and I don't see anyone starting the trend to tip better so their waiters can have healthcare.

The next time you bitch about a public option for health care, or think that nationalized health care is a bad idea, look at the people waiting on you in a restaurant. Think about how much we hate you. Think about how we aren't washing our hands because we have to rush to refill you water glass for the sixth time. Think about what we're doing to your food right now.

If you don't believe me, ask anyone who works in a restaurant what their plan is if they get sick. If they don't laugh in your face outright, they'll probably say something like "wave a magic bone over the problem and pray". Do someone a favor. Tip better.

I have spent a lot of time in management in a fast-food restaurant, for those of you who are curious. I want you to know that it's even more disgusting than anything I've described here.

Now come serve me a drink so I can stiff you on the tip.

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The RNC Commentary

(NOTE: This article contains a number of inaccuracies which have since come to my attention. I don't care. The article stays as is, because I sincerely believe that Palin is unqualified to be Vice President. As her record has shown, she is not even fit to be governor of Alaska or Mayor of Wasilla. She is fit to be a hockey mom. Leave the running of the country to the men.

-ADI)

Right now I'm watching the Republican National Convention. I really, really can't function right now, due to the uncontrollable rage flaming within my soul that threatens to blaze its way through my chest and consume my friends and fellow Obama supporters. Honestly, if I think about the insane hypocrisy being touted right now on TV (Romney calling the Supreme Court liberal, the Governor of Hawaii stating that being mayor of a town of 5,000 is qualification for being president, Giuliani dancing around spewing "9/11", etc.) I will go out and crush the first car I see with a McCain sticker on it with my bare hands. Seriously.
So, instead, I have decided to publish a never-before-read letter which I received a few days ago from now-famous tard baby, Trig Palin. Due to the sensitive nature of the letter, I have been keeping it to myself, but since watching the RNC has thrown me into a true ADI alcoholic rage, I figure what the hell.
The country needs to read this. Please excuse the misspellings and poor sentence structure, and keep in mind that this was written by a five-month-old retard Republican.

Deaw Amewica,
Erm, erm, ok, ok, I has to say this about my mommy being the pwesident lady.
Derrrrrr [sic]
Ok, erm, ok.

Pwease elect my mommy Sawa [sic] to be pwesident. I wealize...

Okay, I'm sick and tired of typing this mongoloid shit. Let me just translate it as I type it out.

Dear America,
This is Trig Palin speaking. Yes, yes, I know that my name is retarded, but then again, so am I. I would just like to speak on behalf of my mother's campaign to promote both her and McCain and, in fact, the Republican party at large.
Please overlook the fact that my sister is now pregnant out of wedlock. That's not an important Republican value, and I'd like to say right now that people's families are off-limits. Seriously. (If you want to go debate whether or not my mommy is named Sarah or Bristol, go here.) It doesn't change the fact that I'm retarded, which is really what I want to talk about right now.
My mommy is running on a platform right now which flies in the face of everything she claims qualifies her as a Real American. Her daughter is pregnant, yet she slashed funding for teen mothers in Alaska. There's no need for welfare suckers like those unwed mothers to put a drain on our economy when we're in a liberal-caused recession. I fully look forward to the day when I turn eighteen and my mommy and all other Republicans turn me out into the world to get my own job. I don't want to be a drain on the economy, and I fully expect to have a great living making minimum wage in a fast-food restaurant before I die six months later in the gutter. Yes, I know that my mommy in her speech said that she loves special needs children, but that was after she had a tard baby like myself. Before I came along, she cut funding for special needs kids by 62%.
I want to see my America drilled. I want to see offshore oil rigs off the coastline. I don't want to be taken care of by the government, and I don't want to suck off the taxes of the able-bodied. I expect to get a haircut and a real job, not to be a hippy like those liberals.
Also, please ignore the Republican lambasting of the unions and the subsequent claiming that my father is "proudly" a member of the Steelworker's Union. Please ignore the fact that my sister is pregnant while my mother supports abstinence-only education in public schools. Please ignore the fact that my mother was part of a creepy Alaskan separatist cadre. Please ignore the fact that my mommy supports creationism taught in schools while having a retarded son (proof that God had no hand in my formation). And please ignore the pictures of my mommy wearing a shirt that calls attention to her boobies. That's just creepy.
Please heed the advice of a five-month-old retard Republican. I don't want to be taken care of just because of my disability. That's what hippies and minorities do. I want to chase the American dream, and I want to die in a gutter if I have to.
Go America.

-Trig Palin.


God, I hate Republicans. Seriously, vote Obama.

Bring me a drink. Some malt liquor, please.

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In the Street

The only people for me are the Roman candle people, those flames which consume themselves by their own hunger for attention, the sparkly fire-cracker people who explode themselves in a burst of strenuous energy demanding, craving, burning for validation, who shine across three cubic feet of night sky and make everyone say "ooh, aah" and then are promptly forgotten in the interest of more important matters.
I am America's beat poet.
I am the son of privilege, the self-afflicted martyr, the child with a father and mother who just don't understand him, the brother seeking to belittle my siblings' accomplishments in favor of my own mediocrity, a far distant cousin to the homeless.
I am the ascetic who has taken a vow of poverty and wants everyone to know it.
I am the undiscovered genius, read and favored by other undiscovered genius, special only because of my obscurity.
I have been noticed by the few, and because they are few they can call themselves elite, because in my world correlation equals causation, and by calling themselves elite they can sleep easy at night knowing they are superior, yet I sleep at night knowing I am the most superior of all, because I am singular, misunderstood, thrown aside by a world I have found too challenging, too difficult, too hard for my fomenting genius. I am apart from the rest of the world, yet seek my validation from it.
I sit in coffee shops.
I sit in street corners.
I desperately want you to know that I crave privacy.
Yet I read in public, write in public, sing, play guitar, perform in public, wishing someone would come up to me and ask what I was reading, what I was writing, who wrote that delectable tune on the guitar?
I did.
Thanks for not asking.
I have been educated at the bosom of the obscure institution, a small liberal arts college, where I was shown that Marxism is the only hope for the working class, that Lenin was right, that Castro will succeed if only given the chance.
I became so caught up in my love for the New World Order that I was always looking forward, onward, upward to an impossible tomorrow, where all men are equal, there are no genders, no families, no working class.
I neglect to look behind, to the sweat of my ancestors' brows that provide for this college education, to the structure of capitalism which allows such ideas to be manufactured and sold. There's no need to live in the past.
My stories, poems, vignettes, rondels, free verse, and poetry slam poems are exercises in Attention Deficit Disorder. I see the beauty in everything, and explain it in offensive ways. The butterfly lands on my shoulder not like the kiss of a lover in a dream, but like a piece of ash from the World Trade Center. There is a swelling, intense, engorged feeling in my bowels, and I describe the beautiful releasing of my sphincter as I poop in almost sexual reverie. I write for pages and pages of description, never seeing where my work is going or tying it back to what I have written, only content to be in the moment, to see a snippet of time frozen forever on the page. Devils can take storylines, plots, and character development. This is about what I see, where I am right now. I want you to be me.
I want you to validate me.
I have no need to edit, spell check, or make my work any gooder. I write, freewheeling through the pages, splashing my ink here and there with a memorable word or two, never wishing to oppress this feeling of freedom that I believe I have. To edit is to say that I am not good enough to do it perfectly the first time.
I have a fragile self-esteem. Please validate me.
There is no improvement, no self-analysis. There is only being in the page. I am content to be as I am, now and forever, suckling at the financial teat of my parents long after my college years are done, railing against an iron pig of a society who does not understand what it's like to be me, who won't validate me, who says my words "need work" when all I want to do is be on this page, safe in my nest of insecurity, snuggled against my fellow would-be paupers in a disgusting facsimile of la vie Boheme.
I am America's beat poet.


Bring me a drink.

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Why Don't We Care Anymore?

This might possibly be the most serious thing I have written on this blog as of yet....here goes.


As of late, my new roommate has been deeply immersed in the writing and life of the late Doctor, Hunter S. Thompson. Intrigued by this man, I became involved in his studies as well, reading what I could about Thompson and researching his life (by "researching" I mean I went and saw Gonzo and stepped out halfway through to go buy a pack of smokes). I have been called "Thompson-esque" before, usually due to my affinity for drinking to excess, making outlandish statements, womanizing to excess, and wearing ridiculous hats.

Exhibit A

As you can see, Hunter Thompson and I have a lot in common. But while watching Gonzo, I felt a certain sadness creep over me as the images flickered across the screen. It's not something you can describe easily with a word, or even with a series of words....it's more of a sense of loss. Watching the evens of the '60s and '70s unfold, from Martin Luther King to the Vietnam protests to the campaign trail of '82, there was a marked difference from the footage of yesteryear to the footage of today: people just don't care anymore.
In the heyday of rock and roll, long hair and political angst, Americans would show up in droves to protest the treatment of blacks, the rights of women, and America's foreign policy. Now we watch other people protest on TV. Instead of marching down to City Hall to hear someone talk about their political platforms, we sit at home and watch what the evening news chooses to tell us, at most getting up from our recliners, brushing the microwave dinners from our abundant laps, and waddling to the computer to give our opinion in some online CNN poll. Instead of being part of the news, we accept that news happens Elsewhere, and that it does not affect us. And where has it gotten us?
Now we pay $5 a gallon for gasoline, exported from the countries that we are told are our sworn enemies. Now we watch as our politicians re-enact the high school pranks of their youth in a holocaustic equivalent of egging someone's house. Now we turn to a screen, a monitor, and a keyboard to make our voices heard in an anonymous poll which no one takes seriously. Instead of chaining ourselves to a shop front and screaming for change, we click on "a", "b", "c" or "undecided" in some media-fed frivolous online survey. Instead of learning about a political candidate's policy, or going to their next local appearance to question their policies, we turn from C-SPAN to TMZ because it's more entertaining. Nothing affects US, the US of A, the City on a Hill, the ineffable and chosen-by-God Leaders of the Free World, because we are in charge. Who gives a shit about those left behind? Who cares about the children dying Over There? Countless blogs and essays and articles are written by our armed services, detailing the terrible killing of children and civilians which has occurred in this misguided war in Iraq, and no one cares because it does not affect America.
When the Twin Towers went down, we cared. We remixed a popular song ("How Many People Wanna Kick Some Ass?"), interspersed it with some sound bites from our President, and bought an American Flag. By the time we declared war on Iraq, we were either too afraid of another 9/11 or too apathetic to look at the terrible policy put forward by Bush. I know I was.
I was in New York when we declared war on Iraq, with a scheduled stop the next day in D.C. I was so terrified of another 9/11 that I would have gladly signed any version of the Patriot Act put before me. Hell, I would have endorsed the Malleus Maleficarum if it meant that I could feel safe. I'm not ashamed to admit it.
I am ashamed to admit, however, that as a generation Americans have become so complacent and so inveterate in our apathy that it takes something as severe as 9/11 to get us to pay attention to what's going on in the world. I'm ashamed of my generation, and I'm ashamed that we care more about the fact that Soul Caliber IV will contain Darth Vader and Yoda than we do the genocide that's occurring in Darfur and the political unrest in East Timor. I'm ashamed that right now, there are people Googling Soul Caliber IV because I just said that instead of continuing on to read this next sentence.
Our attention spans now last thirty minutes, with commercial breaks. Look at the way our media has changed: movies now have four or five different plot lines in them to keep our attention, compared to the long narratives of Streetcar Named Desire or Citizen Kane. We can't remember what happened a month ago, let alone years ago. Remember Terry Schiavo? Remember how you felt watching the airplanes fly into the World Trade Center?
Remember the last book you read?
Hunter Thompson's life and legacy continues to inspire me. He was a freak, yes, but we need freaks to push us out of our comfort zone, to make us better people, to help us realize what's truly important. Sure, maybe getting naked and smoking peyote in the woods isn't your thing. But unless someone pushes for the legalization of it, how will you know where you stand and why? What's important to you?
More importantly, what have you done with your life that's so goddam important?
Get out of your house. Climb a mountain. Sleep with a stranger. Find out where your limits are, why they are there, and push them. Hunter S. Thompson was a freak, yes, but I'm proud to be compared to him. I have three fears: that when I die, there will be a beautiful woman unloved, a good dinner uneaten, and I will have caught Bigfoot. We only have a little time on this Earth, and instead of beating Halo 3, I find it much more important to accomplish something substantial. Take a picture of yourself peeing in the ocean. Take a picture of yourself fighting a shark. Write a book. DO SOMETHING!

Now go get me a goddam drink.

Vote Obama.

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Fuck the OC

Until recently, I firmly believed that Claremont, California (town motto: "No Parking") was the worst place in existence. Situated in the eastern part of LA County, Claremont is home to five undergraduate universities, two graduate institutions, and about three bars that all close at ten PM. Oh, and old people. Hundreds and hundreds of rich, myopic, liberal bleeding-heart-until-you're-on-my-lawn-then-I'm-calling-the-cops old people who make working in the service industry a living nightmare and walking across the street a ritual which I fondly refer to as "Suicide Practice".
However, despite all its flaws and odd peccadilloes, Claremont has at least one thing going for it: it's not located in Orange County.
About a month ago, a roommate of mine moved to Huntington Beach (town motto: "Spend Money Then Please Leave"), which may be familiar to those of you who are avid ornithologists, as it is the natural habitat of the North American Poloed Douchebag. Not only is Huntington Beach a pain in the ass to reach, since a large part of getting there involves driving on Highway 1, otherwise known as the Pacific Coast Highway or the Big Fat Tourist Sidewalk, but actually spending time in Huntington Beach is a painful experience which I can only compare to babysitting someone else's children. Is it clear to you yet that I hate the OC? If not, let me elaborate.
The OC is populated largely by young, beautiful people, which doesn't sound so bad until you remember that young, beautiful people often have never taken the time to develop an actual personality and expect everything to be handed to them on a silver platter courtesy of Daddy's Credit Card. Those who aren't young and beautiful either stay inside until nightfall when they come out to feed on the flesh of the living or try their god-damnedest to appear young and beautiful. The result is that any woman over the age of thirty five has spent so much time tanning and constructing her physical features that she bears a striking resemblance to what she really is: a gaping leather receptacle designed only to hold money, otherwise known as a wallet. The men have these irritating, and I mean IRRITATING, effete characteristics which cause them to care about what brand their sunglasses are, the fact that their polo shirt collar is not popped at the right angle, and the condition of their cuticles. In fact, during the time I have spent in the OC, I doubt that I encountered one person who did not appear to spend at least two hours preparing themselves for their daily business. Remember Christian Bale's character in American Psycho who spent about thirty minutes of dialogue detailing how he kept himself looking good? Imagine populating an entire Southern Californian county with that, and you would be close to envisioning the hell on earth that is Orange County.
I have made three trips to Orange County. As I said earlier, my roommate moved there, so my first trip was spent moving him in and sleeping with his new female roommate, who is a natural-born OC girl and a "devout" Christian. (Although I tend to refrain from commenting on the sincerity of a person's religious beliefs, the fact that she hooked up with me four hours after meeting me makes me doubt that "God" should be listed as her first interest on her Facebook page. In a perfect world, "being a whore" would be listed first, then God). The second trip was spent drinking wine until five in the morning and tramping around downtown Huntington Beach with two guys who were picking fights with literally every other man we encountered. Although this would normally amuse me greatly, I was out of cigarettes while this was happening, so it just struck me as irritating.
My final trip to the OC ever was to attend the Official Housewarming Party of my ex-roommate. This just really drove the final nail in the coffin home for me. Everyone at this party was either trying to hook up or fight.
Let me just pause for a minute here and dispel any whispers of my own hypocrisy which may be starting to swirl about the back of your head. Yes, I generally march about downtown areas and house parties looking to either fight or fuck (this can be ascertained by the fact that I'll generally be yelling "I'm here to fight or fuck or both!" between shots of tequila). Yes, I generally do one or the other with a fair degree of frequency. However, I maintain that my fighting and fucking attempts are tempered with a sensible degree of childish whimsy and affability which renders them both unoffensive and hilarious. That being said, let me continue to elaborate upon why I hate the OC.
In Southern California, Land of Dreams and Movies (and Porno, if you live in the Valley), there is always a sense of insecurity that hangs over any given crowd of people, much like the infamous smog that hangs over the surrounding mountaintops. In the case of OC denizens, however, this feeling of insecurity is an immutable thread which runs through the spectacularly uncomplicated tapestry of an OC personality. If no one is paying attention to you at a party, then it must be because you have no value as a human being. Therefore, in order to increase your own self-worth, you should sleep with someone or beat someone up. Sounds reasonable, right?
No. No, it's not reasonable. I fail to see why people always have to pretend that there is a spotlight emitting the light of importance upon them at all times, and if this spotlight, which is powered by the opinions of other people, starts to fade, then their soul will flicker out and die in obscurity. Seriously, nobody cares about you. Ok, let me just write a quick note to the residents of Orange County here in the middle of my rant:

Dear OC Asshole,
Nobody cares about you. You are not an interesting person. You are attractive, yes, and you have lots of money, yes, but that doesn't mean that I actually want to engage in a conversation with you. I would rather watch Ron Popeil infomercials in a sauna while eating a seven pound wheel of gouda cheese than talk to you about how much money you have. P.S., I know you had your boobs done. Congrats. No one cares.
Love,
The Angry Drunken Irishman.

Okay, I just had to get that out of my system. Now where was I? Oh yes, the Party of the Damned.
Anyways, I showed up with a Minnesotan pastor and was sporting a camouflage fedora and a button up shirt with a cigarette burn in it because I am That Classy. Immediately, everyone attacked the hat:
"What, you think you're Indiana Jones?"
"Hey buddy, stupid hat!"
"Nice hat, loser."
Clearly, the hat is to be worn as a joke only. However, I was unprepared to find a house full of people who couldn't take a joke. So I did what I always do in awkward situations: I started drinking large amounts of tequila straight out of a wine glass.
However, the ridicule didn't stop with the hat. I was asked why I was drinking wine when there was alcohol to be had. I replied that I was drinking tequila. They asked what I mixed it with. I said nothing. They called me an alcoholic. End of discussion.
I believe that everyone has a breaking point where they just have to sit back and laugh, so I tried to push other people to that point by drinking straight out of the bottle, making fun of women, and generally acting the part of the harlequin buffoon. No such look. Any scathing comment made towards a girl was immediately followed by a pugilistic reply from some asshole in a polo shirt, and my attempts at white boy dancing to the Gypsy Kings were met with looks of scorn. Finally it dawned on me that people in the OC are just too shallow to laugh at anything that isn't Dave Chappelle or Family Guy. Well, fuck them.
The other part of the party that tended to suck some major ass was the fact that the roommate with whom I slept had decided to hedge her bets and ruin any chances I may have had with any other females by telling all the women at the party that we had hooked up. Fine. I don't care. By this time I had moved on and was dating an awesome woman. The ironic punch in the nuts came after the party when I got a call from my ex-roommate saying that this girl was pissed because I "told everybody at the party that we hooked up." That, my friends, is Christian guilt in motion: let's tell every girl here that I hooked up with this guy so that I may claim him as My Property, and then when everyone talks about the fact that we hooked up, I should act offended that my joke of a reputation may have somehow been damaged. It's disgusting. But why use all these words to describe the situation when two will suffice: hypocritical slut.
I really can't describe any more to you the intense seething rage I feel at the OC these days. It is a terrible cesspool of talentless sycophants whose only thought concerns who might be at Da Club tonight. The only way I can describe it is to ask you to picture yourself in an Abercrombie ad. You know, one of those black-and-white pictures you see around the mall with some shirtless guy staring at the camera. Picture yourself inside that picture. Sounds great, right? Now picture being stuck in that situation for eight hours. Picture being around someone whose only purpose in life is to look good. Picture trying to have a conversation with that person.
It sucks. The OC is fun for about five minutes, then it swiftly turns into a punishment of the human soul that would make Sisyphus cringe.
I hate the OC. I hate it so much that I hereby make the following decree: I ban myself from traversing in, cavorting about in, or otherwise setting foot in the OC for non-business related reasons, seeing as how the OC is a worthless stretch of intellectual wasteland in which no decent people reside.

Now bring me a drink. A Sex on the Beach.

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Vote for Bill Clinton's Wife!

I don’t know if anyone is as concerned about this as I am, but it seems that we have misplaced a lady of some importance. About a year ago, a woman named Hillary Rodham Clinton, Senator of the state of New York, announced that she would be running for President of the United States. I, for one, was excited at the prospect of watching history in action, as this would be the first time a female candidate had what seemed to be a very good chance of becoming the Democratic candidate for office and thereafter, assuming that America was as tired of the Republican party after eight years of Bush as I was, the White House. Huzzah! I thought to myself. Maybe a woman can be elected President! Won’t that be swell?!
I consider myself a feminist, although I do thoroughly enjoy the privileges that society innately provides men, and part of the reason I always thought Hillary Rodham Clinton was a neat person was the fact that she kept her maiden name when she married Bill. She has been a staunch supporter of Roe v. Wade and a longtime advocate of women’s rights, and I always thought that Hillary showed her feminist “fightin’ spirit” by keeping a short haircut, not wearing excessive amounts of jewelry, and by being just as professional and businesslike as the men with whom she was surrounded. I also thought it was impressive how Hillary Rodham Clinton kept her and her husband’s careers thoroughly separate, mostly by using her full name whenever possible. Her books, It Takes a Village and Living History, were both published using her full legal name, thereby avoiding any confusion that might come from someone simply typing “Clinton” into a search engine.
However, it seems that Hillary Rodham Clinton has dropped off the map, and I am VERY disturbed that no one else seems to notice. Instead, the news media and political pundits focus on this “Clinton” character, a wife and mother who cries on national TV, and ignore the absence of Senator Rodham Clinton from New York. Is it too late to issue a missing person’s report? If not, I have one prepared:

MISSING: Hillary Rodham Clinton, Caucasian woman, middle-aged, short business-like haircut, last seen wearing a sensible suit and practical jewelry. May be found fighting unfair business practices in factories and advocating women’s rights in populated areas. Possibly being held captive by snipers at her grandfather's cabin.

Now, some of you out there may call me a “nut job” or a “conspiracy theorist” or even an “unsuccessful satirist”, but I believe that a doppelganger has been employed to cover up Ms. Rodham Clinton’s disappearance. The differences are subtle, but present: “Clinton”, as she goes by, seems to cry whenever politically appropriate, gripes about how long it takes her to get ready in the morning, and tells far-fetched stories about sniper fire in Bosnia and learning to shoot her grandpa’s gun. “Clinton” has issued thousands upon thousands of flyers with that single solitary surname on them without acknowledging Ms. Rodham Clinton’s feminist roots. “Clinton”, in essence, is piggybacking on a former President’s success by running as Bill Clinton’s Wife, and appears to be capable of doing anything in order to gain voter approval. I’m sure that wherever Senator Rodham Clinton is being held hostage by this “Clinton” character, she is not too pleased. “Clinton” is fond of saying that “It took a Clinton to clean up after the first Bush, and it’ll take another Clinton to clean up after the second one.” I’m sure Rodham Clinton would never promote the idea that sharing a surname denotes identical political ideologies; after all, didn’t she keep her maiden name in order to ensure that she and her husband wouldn’t be confused with one another?
Of course, I may be blowing things way out of proportion. Maybe Hillary Rodham Clinton saw the political convenience of being associated with one of America’s most popular presidents. Maybe she decided that maintaining her feminist ideologies might not win her the male vote. Hell, maybe “Rodham Clinton” was just too long to slap on a sign.

Maybe that’s what “Clinton” wants you to believe.

Fans of Hillary Rodham Clinton know, by repeatedly reading her website and listening to her old speeches, that Hillary Rodham Clinton does not back down from obstacles, she does not change her ideals to be popular, and dammit, she is a candidate of CHARACTER. There is no way that the Hillary Rodham Clinton I know would EVER piggyback on someone else's political career, lie to make herself look good, or berate another candidate. After all, that would be blatant, dripping, insincere hypocrisy in its worst form, and it would undermine any moral claim on which she could possibly base her legislative ideals.

Nope, she was kidnapped. That's the only explanation...no one would be that ridiculously brash and arrogant while running for President.

Now bring me a drink.

Click this shit!

Feminist Author or Mental Patient?

That's right, it's time for everyone's favorite contest! One of the following two excerpts was required reading for a "Women and Literature" class I took in undergrad, and the other was included in a psychology textbook as an example of schizophrenia. Can you guess which is which?!?!? Let's play!

Excerpt 1 - "Mick Jagger wants to marry me. If I have Mick Jagger, I don't have to covet Geraldo Rivera. Mick Jagger is St. Nicholas and the Maharishi is Santa Claus. I want to form a gospel rock group called the Thorn Oil, but Geraldo wants me to be the music critic on Eyewitness News, so what can I do? Got to listen to my boyfriend. Teddy Kennedy cured me of my ugliness. I'm pregnant with the son of God. I'm going to marry David Berkowitz and get it over with. Creedmoor is the headquarters of the American Nazi Party. They're eating the patients here. Archie Bunker wants me to play his niece on his TV show. I work for Epic Records. I'm Joan of Arc. I'm Florence Nightingale. The door between the ward and the porch is the dividing line between New York and California. Divorce isn't a piece of paper, it's a feeling. Forget about Zip Codes. I need shock treatments. The body is run by electricity. My wiring is all faulty."

Ok, got any opinions yet? Well, let's see what excerpt 2 has for us!!!

Excerpt 2 - "She swallowed Gore Vidal. Then she swallowed Donald Trump. She took a blue capsule and a gold spansule - a B-complex and an E - and put them on the tablecloth a few inches apart. She pointed the one at the other. 'Martha Stewart,' she said, 'meet Oprah Winfrey.' She swallowed them both without water."


Any ideas? Leave comments casting your vote!

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Now I know what I want to be when I grow up: NOT ANDREW MEYER!!

If you haven't seen these videos yet, please watch them. You may have heard about this on the news, or read a brief blurb on Fark, but I really think that watching the videos has a lot more impact than simply reading about them...especially for an illiterate American audience.


Okay, but for real, stop looking at these boobies and go watch those videos*.

Now I know what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be John Kerry.

Ever since I wrote my "Silencer" post a couple years ago, there's been this nagging feeling that somewhere, somehow, someone was going to beat me to the kill and earn the right to be called "The Silencer" before I would. Despite all attempts to cut out distractions by being school-less, jobless, and single, I have sadly not attained my goal. But leave it to John Kerry to accomplish something before I do.
How many times have you sat in class, listening to some PIGG (Pseudo-Intellectual Glasses Guy/Girl) drivel on and on about some bullshit nickel-store philosophy which has nothing to do with the theme of the class? Oh, you read some fucking Sylvia Plath bullshit in high school? That's fucking great, retard, we're talking about something completely unrelated, so why don't you pack up your Ayn Rand and get the fuck on back to the coffee shop?
It's about damn time someone stood up to these PIGG fucktards and put them in their place. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? You are talking to a UNITED STATES SENATOR, motherfucker, now sit your bitch-ass polo-wearin' self down before the UFPD have to put some hurt on you. FUCK y'all PIGGS.
"Are you in the Skull and Bones Society with George Bush?" What the fuck kind of question is that? If I were listening to this motherfucker and had a taser, I would leap across the aisles and zap the gel right out of his hair too. Fuck him.
"Why did you concede the election to Bush without fighting it?" Because the only thing the last guy who challenged the presidential election results gained was fifty pounds and some bullshit hippie kudos for his documentary ("Hey, man, the cover of that DVD looks like this Van Gogh print I have in my room....let's get baked and watch it in our dorm rooms!"). However, as we can see from these videos, Kerry craftily decides to not answer this question with words, but through inaction:

Kerry - "Hmmm....why didn't I take action against Bush on election day, even though there was evidence that something fishy was happening? Well, let me continue to blather on about nothing while you get electrocuted....maybe this gives you some insight into my character. Hmm, why don't I seem like more of a take-charge guy? I'll have to get back to my study to ponder that, and maybe I'll have a non-committal press release issued later?"
Andrew Meyer - OW! OW! OW!

Kerry, you crafty bastard, I want to congratulate you on a job well done. You, sir, understand the essence of politics - keeping the attention of the masses while the oppressed scream in pain right next to them.
Kerry aside, I'm shocked to see that people have so much sympathy for this Andrew Meyer fuckhead. "Hey, man, let him talk! He has First Amendment rights too!" Not dressed like that, he doesn't. Honestly, I have to hand it to the UF Police Force: they showed more restraint than I would've.

Me - Ok, buddy, you've talked long enough
Andrew Meyer - He's had two hours! I can have two minutes! Waa waa waa!
Me - *pistol whip*

Problem solved. No screaming, no incriminating evidence on camera, just me dragging his "fainted" body out of the auditorium while cracked out conspiracy theorists spend the next ten years of their lives examining grainy footage to prove that I hit him. Plus, I would have planted coke on him.
All hypotheticals aside, this guy acted like a total pussy once they got him out of the auditorium. "They're going to kill me!" he shouts. Yeah, right. Maybe in a perfect world, but when you've got four cameras trained on you as the police escort you out of an auditorium full of witnesses, it's highly unlikely that they're going to "erase" you. Stop reading so much Orwell before bed. Besides, who wants to listen to a bunch of pussy bleeding hearts scream that you were a "person" with "rights"? Not this guy. If I had my way, I would have put a bag over his head "for his safety", driven over bumpy roads for the next two hours with him in the back of my squad car, made him dig a pussy-sized hole blindfolded, and then laughed at him because he peed his pants before depositing him back home with his mommy. Dude, in real life, you can't just flip out every time someone disagrees with you or doesn't want to listen to you. And sometimes people, cops and women specifically, use tasers to express their disagreement. So grow up and get used to it.
I have to say that, although the UFPD did a fine job disabling this threat to our collective intellect, they should have come up with a better reason for charging him. "Inciting a riot?" If that's a real crime, then all the members of The Who would be locked away for the rest of their lives. Here's how it should have went down:

AM - What's my crime?!?! What's my crime?!?!
Me- Being a bitch. *pistol whip*

Although the non-Irish of us seem to have a problem with the way in which this situation was handled, I would like to congratulate fellow Irishman John Kerry for doing what I have never accomplished: having henchmen tackle and tase someone whenever they harassed me with bullshit questions. Life would be a lot easier if I were John Kerry.

Roommate - Where's the rent? Where's the rent?
Henchmen - *zap*
Me - *drink*

And so it is to you, John Kerry, that I bestow the hoodie, pipe, and title of "The Silencer". Even though we may never refer to you as "Mr. President," you can rest assured that you now have your very own secret superhero identity, compliments of the ADI. Life is all about avoiding difficult questions. Thanks a lot, Kerry, for teaching us that we don't have to put up with PIGGs throwing their intellectual shit in our faces. Sure, we know you didn't have "anything to do with it," but if we were at opposite ends of a pub, there would be a wink and a raised glass shared between us.

Now where the hell is my drink?

*zap*


*Gabrielle d'Estrées et une de ses soeurs, by some French dude. Apparently, this is "art". Awesome.

Proof that I'm not alone in this sentiment.

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The Obligatory September 11th Post

(Having just moved in to my new place and started graduate classes, I have decided to turn this post over to my junior interns. They will keep you up to speed as I read feminist ethics while getting drunk by my pool. -ADI)

OH MY GOD, I LIKE, ALMOST TOTALLY DIED!!!1!!
by Aschleighe Roberts

So there I was, right, like totally sitting in class. And then, like, this teacher comes running in, which is really weird, 'cuz like we were in the middle of class learning about some stuff and I was totally like, wtf? and he was like, o my god, you are not going to believe what happened, everybody, listen, like, for real. And I'm all like, o my god, like, is everything ok? Because he was like really worried, so I was like, really worried, and then like, I was hoping that maybe my mom was all right, or like maybe my dad had fell in the pool or like crashed his car coming home from AA again or some shit like that. So anyway, this teacher is like FREAKING out, and I'm all nervous, like, oh shit, my dad found my mom with Julio the gardener, who now I'm thinking is maybe some kind of Mexican from Arabia or something like that, because when it's really hot out he wears his shirt around his head like a turban and when he talks to his friends, they're like totally speaking Arabic. I know it.
So anyway, this teacher is freaking out and says, o my god, you have to turn on the news right now, so we turn on the classroom TV (all the classrooms have TVs in them at O.C. Laguna Beach High School, but they're like, really shitty 32" ones, so you can barely see what's going on, and they don't even have HDTV), and there's like, this plane flying into a building. At first I thought it was like some foreign channel, because I didn't recognize the little squiggly logo in the bottom right hand corner, but then when I turned around to ask Bobby Jake behind me, he was like, I think it's CNN, and I was like, holy shit, and just started bawling. Well, because, I mean, after someone told me that CNN was an American news channel, I was like, OMG, this is happening in California? and was all looking out the window and stuff to see if I could see the smoke, but then the TV said it was the World Trade Something in New York, and I totally saw the Chrysler building in the background, and that's when I freaked out and started crying. Then like, Mr. Dickerson was being a real jerk head, 'cuz I was like, o my god, I have to go home, and he was like, I know this is stressful, but you can't leave school, and I was like, NO, you don't UNDERSTAND, like, I RECOGNIZE those BUILDINGS, I was just in New York like TWO FRICKIN' MONTHS AGO, and I was all like, o my god, I can't believe you're such an insensitive ASSHOLE, I almost DIED!!!
Then my friend Jayemiee, who was also on that trip with me, of course SHE starts freaking out, so SHE wants to leave, and I'm all like, SHUT UP you WHORE, I was THERE! and she's all like, SO WAS I, but then she doesn't get it, right, so I'm all like, I don't think you underSTAND, like, I have a cousin who went to college with this guy that I hooked up with, and like he was dating this girl from JERSEY, so STOP CRYING, because I almost DIED, and then she's all like, omg, we have to go, so we just left and went to the shoe store, like BAWLING, so we could drown our sorrows with shoes, and omg, I got these totally cute pumps.
And that's how I almost died.

The Day America Fell
by Sparrow Woodsong

The towers went down
America did frown
The nation was torn to pieces
We had no more Peaces
The President was baffled
And Michael Moore cackled
And the people from Over There
Who wear towels in their Hair
I just sat and stared
the day americA fell

The day americA fell
Everything was like in hell
When those towers went down
americA did frown
And I sat and tried to Drown
In my bathtub

The day americA fell
I dropped and broke an egg shell
That somehow ended up accidentally cutting my wrists
With a knife, with my hand
Because you don't understand
How hard it is to be me
It burns sometimes when I pee
Girls don't like Me
I'm a total hippie
And then I listened to Puddle of Mudd with two "D"s
and then...
wait....


Oh yeah,

The day americA fell
I was sad
it was bad
the Taliban said "rad"
but it was bad

for americA


My College Entrance Essay on the Badness of September 11th
By Jason Bruce, Left Tackle

Since the beginning of time, man has pondered the great evil of the September 11th attacks on America in New York city against the American World Trade Center by the Taliban Osama bin Laden. What has prompted these attacks? Why were they directed against us? What caused them? Why was America the target? What were the causes of these attacks?
In a speech given on September 11th, President Bush said that "our very freedom came under attack in a series of deliberate and deadly terrorist acts" and that " America was targeted for attack because we're the brightest beacon for freedom and opportunity in the world." This brings up the question, if the American government didn't know about these attacks previously, how could President Bush have a statement prepared to deliver immediately? As we all know, writing a five-minute speech on current events can take two, sometimes three weeks (if given an extension). Why was a speech ready the SAME DAY as the attacks? I believe that the attacks were American in nature, as evidenced through the evidence presented in the online "loose change" video, and again in the "zeitgeist" online video, which I unfortunately did not watch but heard about in the locker room.
However, these videos were later proven false by Internet writer Maddox (whose book, The Alphabet of Manliness I'm almost halfway through), which brings us back to our further questions, why was America targeted in these attacks, and why was the target of these attacks America?
I agree that it is because of our freedoms, because, as a Republican, I believe that America is the most forward-thinking, free republic in the world, and those stupid towel-headed sand n***ers (Edited for content - ADI) can't understand freedom. Since the beginning of time, man has been a Christian animal, always believeing in the Lord Jesus and his saving blood. The President proved this when he said that "I pray [the people whose shit got wrecked] will be comforted by a power greater than any of us, spoken through the ages in Psalm 23: 'Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me'" (emphasis totally mine). As we can see, the Bible has always been with us, and it will always be with us, and even though some buildings got messed up, the Bible is always there, and with Jesus as your Lord and Savior, there is nothing He can't lead you through. When someone doesn't believe in Jesus, they feel a void in there heart, and that void is filled with evil, or the devil. Because these terrorists have turned they're back on God, they were filled with evil, and since America is a God-fearing nation and always will be, they were angered and decided to destroy it. But the devil cannot win.
Even though the devil took over Saddam Hussein, another non-Christian who did believe in Christ. We went after him to prevent the evil in his heart from angering him against America's God-loving ways, and since we saw the effect that Satan had on Osama, we went after the same evil in Saddam. As President Bush said, "Today, our nation saw evil, the very worst of human nature," and "This is a day when all Americans from every walk of life unite in our resolve for justice and peace. America has stood down enemies before, and we will do so this time." because, as we know, God will prevail. Look in the end of the Bible if you don't believe me. You can believe it or not, but it's real.
It's like Coach always says, just go out there and don't fuck up. That's what makes America great, September 11th bad, and non-Christians even worse. And I can run the 40 in 4 seconds.

(ADI NOTE: All quotes from President Bush were found after a five-second Google search at http://www.whitehouse.gov/news/releases/2001/09/20010911-16.html . You will be happy to know that Jason Bruce is now deciding between a business and communications major on a full ride to Arizona State University, and is in his fifth year of coursework.)


WTF?
By Muhammad bin Arab

I'm not here to talk about how you guys should live, and I want to talk even less about September 11th, but seriously, I would like to say something about Jesus. You guys know that a Malaysian newspaper released a picture of Jesus smoking and drinking a beer, right? Oh, you did?
Wait, there's a picture of a Buddy Christ doing the Fonzie pose? And someone depicted Jesus as a WOMAN? AND someone painted Mary using elephant dung? Wait, wait wait...
Ok...
So people are using your religious icons as venues for their artistic crap, and you're not rioting? No people dead, no thinly veiled threats against the Dutch....I mean, American government? Nothing?
Jesus Christ, I mean, for God's sake, did you noticed how pissed WE got over the cartoons of the Prophet in the Dutch newspaper? People died for that. Now THAT'S art. And we fought against the fucking DUTCH! They're just a bunch of peaceful stoners. You guys have Malaysians and South Americans AND Africans depicting Jesus all over, and you're not bombing the shit out of bus stations?
Damn.

Happy September 11th.

(In the interest of fair journalism, I would like to report that I am not a cheerleader, football player, Muslim, or pussy. I did write these posts. If you don't get the point of these, I would just like to say that I am lampooning America's general response to the WTC attacks, which has been, as we all can now agree, laughable. The Arab point of view is thrown in to give a more fair and balanced viewpoint, but not so fair and balanced that I would actually go out and find an Arab to write it for me.

Happy September 11th. Now bring me a drink. Something festive.

-ADI)

(P.S. Dear Hallmark: If you use my copyrighted "September 11th: It's da BOMB" saying for any WTC Attack Day commemorative cards in an attempt to sell more crap, I'll sue you. Not successfully, but I'll consider it at least. Consider yourself warned.)

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Comedy is Dead

About two months ago, I had the fortuitous happenstance to check out the eighth circle of hell. Maybe it was the lack of a Virgil guide, maybe it was the fact that I was entering unfamiliar territory, but this particular circle of hell was definitely the worst...even worse than the sodomite level and the Satan chewing on people level. That's right, I'm talking about the comedy club.
Let me preface this by saying that I was at least driven by the purest of all motives - money. The local comedy club, the "Funnybone", had a contest called "Last Comic Sitting," which (imagine this) was based on a TV show called "Last Comic Standing". The premise was that a bunch of losers would get up on stage, do their best stand-up, and the audience would vote the shitty ones off the stage, leaving the winner to the $250 cash prize. There was a time limit -eight minutes for your act, tops - which meant that whoever won would essentially be receiving $250 for about twenty minutes of work. And all they asked you to do is make people laugh. No problem.
I figured that I'd go in, use some of the material from this site (which, by the way, amounts to over one hundred pages of pure shit as of this writing), make the people laugh, and be on my way with the money. Sounds simple, right? I mean, if you don't count the insults, I get nothing but compliments about this site. So how hard could it be to transfer the material from this site to the stage?
I showed up at the comedy club, signed up for the act, got my place in line, and started going over my material in my head. Okay, let's see, we've got a little bit of the Appreciate Your Parents post, we're going to use the joke about the hippies protesting the war, and we're going to use some classic double entendre metaphors to really nail that subtlety factor. Sweet.
We were all lined up outside while the comedy club manager, a fat man with a lot of bling, explained to us that there was to be no offensive material, no name calling, and when the flashlight was shone at you, your time was up. Blah blah blah. I sat there, silently, confident in my superior linguistic skills and already calculating how drunk I could get with a $250 bar tab. My confidence was boosted even further by the fact that all of the other contestants are certified losers. Seriously. One fat guy was doing nothing but impressions, the few black guys who were there were regurgitating the same "white people/black people" jokes that only black people can get away with, and the female comics were having an out-vulgaring contest with each other....because vulgar females are the height of comedy, apparently.
Now, there's something you need to know about amateur stand-up comics: they are horribly insecure, and by and large they suck. This meant that I had to sit outside with fifteen other people who were all trying desperately to make each other laugh, thus proving their superiority to everyone else. It was like being at a theater major banquet in undergrad: the loudest person is obviously the most successful. Fuck this. I sat off to the side and talked to the only other decent guy there, who was actually really funny in a quiet kind of way.
Finally, the show started, and we all awaited our turn on stage. I was assigned number 13 out of 15 people, which meant I had to sit there for a while. Still confident in the material that I had accumulated over 3 or four years of writing, I decided to watch and smugly judge everyone else. About five minutes later, I realized that maybe I had forgotten a cardinal rule of performance: know your audience.
Let me explain something else to you. Not only is the comedy club a festering cesspool of talentless performers just crying out for self-validation, but it's also a breeding ground for the future middle managers of America. That's right, I'm talking about the college business major. Backwards hats abounded. Beer was two dollars a pitcher. Women showed up drunk and kept drinking, getting louder and louder. I realized too late that maybe the only missile hard enough to penetrate this drunken fog of self-indulgence which surrounds the inebriated college student wasn't necessarily subtle, Oscar Wilde-type humor. My worst fears were confirmed when the fat guy who was doing impressions earlier received the biggest round of applause and the most cheers for doing nothing more than quoting Chris Farley lines. My position in line, which I formerly thought of as an advantage, quickly became a disadvantage when I realized that everyone in the house was too drunk to even see me, let alone comprehend me. Fuck.
I bombed. My first night out on stand-up comedy, I bombed. I was so confident that I could win this thing, and all I got was the typical cricket chirping cheers and tumbleweed applause that normally accompanies an onstage abortion at a Republican National Convention.
Thoroughly humiliated, I went home and thought about what I could do to up my chances during round two next week. Then I realized it: written comedy is way different from regular comedy. While my readers online are lonely asshole losers who are just as bitter about the world as I am and actually have time to sift through my mindless drivel for the few gems of semi-coherence that may pass as comedy, the audience at a comedy club needs a big blast of shock value to make them laugh. It's what America has become: a shock value culture. As someone said, comedy died when the Kool-Aid man crashed through the wall of the courthouse. That's why women comics are successful. It's because they talk about their periods and bedroom antics, not because their material is better. Well, shit.
Next week I went up and outdid myself. I insulted women in the audience, calling them whores, I announced to a room of two hundred and fifty people that I had a small penis, I railed about commitment-less sex, the whole nine yards. They loved it.
I was insulted, pissed and mad at myself for cheapening my material just because the audience was to dim to comprehend it. Is it really worth it to sell out for money? No. Fuck those people.I hated all of them. I wanted them to die. I secretly added another tally mark to my mental list of the benefits of active eugenics. Fuck ALL those people. I walked out the door, vowing never to do stand-up again. No longer would I whore myself out for money. I would stay true to what I believed was comedy, and fuck the drunken retards who couldn't deal with it.
Plus, I was eliminated from the competition.

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And here you thought I forgot...

Happy Black History Month!!!!!!!
That's right, kids, it's Black History Month. The shortest month of the year. The only month that gets a free day courtesy of the leap year dole. The new Super Bowl month. A month when we reflect on all the injustices done to our brothers and sisters of color and laud the accomplishments they have striven for in the face of white oppression.
This year, I'd like to point out a terrible war crime in the ongoing war against oppression. Of course you all naturally know what I'm talking about, but I'm going to bring it up anyway: the noticeable absence of the black man in advertising.
I present for your consideration the ADI's Exhibit A: Advertisements Against Drunk Driving. Consider the following - an officer of the law pulls over a car, filled nearly to the brim with what is presumed to be a martini (as shown by the numerous olives floating in it). A white man (hereinafter White Man 1) tells the officer "I've only had a couple". The next scenes reveals the same situation, only in this car White Man 2 is marinating in beer. In the next scene, White Man 3 is soaked in what appears to be a Cosmopolitan (obviously representing the gay community, because only gay men drink cosmos).
What point am I trying to make? My point is that in none of these situations is the black man fairly represented. The commercial ends with a simple "You Drink, You Drive, You Lose" slogan without even a phat beat in the background to give a token nod to our population of color. This is Ludacris!
Where is the black man in these commercials? What about all the honest-to-god African-Americans and Halfrican-Americans who are out there, day after day, drinking themselves into intoxicated stupors, spending even their last DOLLAR to do so? What about the men who are out there, seeking support from the white community at two in the afternoon, asking for just a quarter to buy themselves a malt beverage, trying their damnedest to make sure that they will be good and soused before nightfall even arrives and Happy Hour be DAMNED?! What about the men drinking hard out in da clubz, wher' e'erbody be gettin' tipsy, who will go the extra mile and inhale controlled substances to ensure that one day, maybe one day, they will be able to lick the brass ring and finally Make It by appearing in an anti drunk driving commercial? Why has the white community forsaken them with its lily-white oppresive patriarchal elitist supremacist advertising when the black man is doing his part so well?
I would like to take this opportunity to thank my brothers and sisters of color for being there alongside their white oppressors at two in the morning, pulled over for going the wrong way down a one-way sidewalk, and doing their part to ensure that the world we live in will never again be afflicted by the Puritanical boredom of a teetotaling society.
The ADI's Exhibit B: Submitted for your consideration, the following advertisement - a white man buys a (fill in the blank: computer, tool, house, dog, cell phone, baby), takes it home, and has no idea what to do with it. You've all seen these commercials. It's always the white man who has enough money to purchase a product he doesn't even know how to use. What about the black man? What are you trying to say, Council of Jews in Charge of the World's Advertising? Are you trying to imply that the black man isn't perfectly capable of purchasing a product he can't use? What about the urban soldiers out there, purchasing phones with mp3 players and blue tooths and Internet options that they can't even AFFORD, let alone use? Are you going to forsake them in your quest to point out the fact that the white man can purchase non-essential items with his vast riches gleaned from the blood of oppressed slaves? Where is the black man in all of these commercials? Why does the white man have to be the one who turns to his wife for help, who will inevitably tell him to go to Geek Squad (Geek Squad, please sponsor me) to get his hi-tech problems solved? Are you saying that only white people have wives? Why isn't a baby momma sufficient? Why am I asking so many questions?

In all seriousness, I'm sick of white men being portrayed as the only bumbling, drunken buffoons on television. It's about time we gave the black man a chance.

Happy Black History Month. Bring me a fo'ty.

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An Episode of "Sex and the City" in Eight Lines

1) HBO theme, Sex and the City theme song and opening credits
2) Title of show , which will also be the driving theme of the episode...something like "Penis Envy"
3) Carrie: "Can New York/modern/today's women succeed in the workplace without losing their feminine softness?"
4) Samantha: "What should I care? I'm just a dirty whore who fucks everyone I meet!"
5) Charlotte: "I'm also a dirty whore, but I giggle and blush whenever anyone says 'penis'!"
6) Miranda: "I'm also a dirty whore, but I have a huge stick up my ass!"
7) Assorted Characters: "You're just a bunch of dirty whores! But you speak to our souls!"
8) Doubtfully happy and thoroughly predictable ending, after a half hour of wanton sex.


And there you have it. If you know what I'm talking about, bring me a drink, faggot.

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An Ode to my Great Grandma

This is an ode to my great grandma, a woman who was truly a great grandma in every sense of the word. Not many people have their great granparents - until Thursday, I had three (which only strengthens my belief that I will never die). She was an incredible lady. Perhaps the hardest part of seeing her get old was watching the fire go out of her eyes. The hands that used to hold me, my mother, and my grandfather when we were children were little more than paper wrapped around bones by the end of her life. Instead of me toddling around in diapers under her watchful eye, I had to be the one to watch her toddling around...in diapers. I went to her memorial service last night and, although it was a very sad situation, was very comforted by the demeanor, the calm, and the overall Irishness of my family (read, alcohol was involved). After the service, I went back to the hotel lobby where a number of my relatives were staying and got to hear some great stories about her. They helped me realize why exactly I am the way I am, so I'd like to share a few with you. I'll start with the more serious and work my way to the funniest.
-My grandmother began by describing how in every cultural myth, there's a trickster who shakes things up. The Native Americans had their coyote, the Greeks had Hermes, the Yorubans had their Eshu, etc. In most cultures, there is a god or spirit who dwells at the crossroads and gets people out of their comfort zones. That was my great grandma. It shocked me to hear her described like this, because that's how I've always viewed myself - sort of a social pariah who pokes at people's weak spots just because I can. It's nice to know that I'm not just being a jackass - I'm following a family tradition.
-During the memorial service, there was a photo album passed around. In it was a picture of my great grandmother sitting at the end of a dock, looking very happy and peaceful. My grandmother's explanation: "Yeah, that was your great grandmother's first experience with pot". She was 58 at the time the picture was taken.
-My great grandmother was once hospitalized with a blood alcohol content of .9. I initially refused to believe this, but everyone with whom I was drinking swears it was true. However, I still remain skeptical...mostly because if I took that anecdote as fact, I would see it as a personal challenge. Something to shoot for, eh kids?
- My great grandmother had no sense of direction. This was brought to light when she drove across the suspension bridge from Davenport, Iowa, to Illinois. Upon returning home (sloshed) at three in the morning, she decided to take the same route back...as in, she got in the wrong lane and drove into oncoming traffic. A cop pulled her over and helped get into the right lane, because apparently my grandmother could talk her way out of anything.
- She even talked her way out of a ticket when she drove into the back of a Moline police cruiser.
-My great great grandfather, whom I didn't really know aout, was born in Kentucky. His father got off the boat from Ireland. James Cornelius Brady, my ancestor, was an Irishman who worked on the railroad (big surprise). From him, my family got a strong work ethic that apparently lasts until 5 PM, when it turns into a strong drinking ethic. My great great aunt told me a couple stories about him over a glass or two of wine.
- Jim Brady was at the tavern one night when his wife called to tell him there was a problem with the stove. Apparently, she kept screaming that the house was on fire. His response? "Grab a couple of pairs of pants and meet me at the tavern. Let the fucker burn." My great great aunt was the one who had to go get him from the tavern and take him home to his infuriated wife.
- At Jim Brady's wake (in 1944), his friends sat up all night with the body, in the traditional Irish fashion. As the night wore on, the men became more and more sloshed. My great grandmother ended up furiously brewing coffee at two in the morning in order to sober the men up. According to my great great aunt, they were so drunk that they were sitting Jim Brady's body up in the casket in order to pour alcohol down his throat. They were all weeping and talking about having "one last drink with their friend". My second cousin's response was as follows: "Those are great friends. Drink together to the death!" to which we all toasted and told more stories.
My great grandmother was a wonderful lady. My world is at a great loss for having lost her, and I miss her terribly. She lived her life as a true Irish person ought to - hardcore right up to the end. She's one of my personal examples. She has been there throughout my entire life, and although I regret the fact that she never made it to my wedding or college graduation, I feel proud to come from such a fantastic lineage.
Here's to you, Grandma Nonie. May the road rise up to meet you, wherever you are, may the wind be at your back, and I bet you were in heaven a good long while before the devil knew you were dead.
I have a picture of a tombstone on my wall (not that I'm a creepo or anything) which has the following etching on it. I quoted it in my senior speech during choir tour (a completely different set of stories once I get around to them), and I believe that it applies here:
"The souls of all the saints, those we have known and loved, ebb and flow in heavenly chords to a song of peace that only those who escape this world can know."

Give 'em hell, grandma. This drink's for you.

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The Drunk Scale

Everyone has their own version of the Drunk Scale. For some people, this scale is very linear, and they never deviate from it. However, for Scary Adam and myself, the Drunk Scale is not so much a path in a forest of barley hops, but rather a web of choices which varies from drink to drink much like a "Choose Your Own Adventure" book. Because I am narcissistic enough to believe that anyone actually cares about my drinking habits, here is the Angry Drunken Irishman Drunk Scale, with the Scary Adam addendum.

1-3 drinks: Gregarious Angry Drunken Irishman. At this point I am completely coherent. I turn into the loquacious life of the party, talking about any and everything with anybody. I keep my scathing inner monologue to myself, do not offend anyone, and am all around a charming guy. But really, who wants to stop at three drinks?

4-10 drinks: Belligerent Angry Drunken Irishman. I start taking jabs at people, thinly concealing them as "tongue-in-cheek" comments. I tell people they suck, pretending like it's a joke. I all of a sudden gain the magical ability to visualize everybody's greatest fears and insecurities and immediately ridicule them for it. Depending on where in the 4-10 drink timeframe I am, I may or may not apologize for my harsh words immediately. I am at my comedic best, but only at the expense of others. No Oscar Wilde wit is left at this point; there are only George Carlinesque one-liners in my repartee, and everyone will get skewered with my rapier wit. However, I am not incapacitated enough to get into fights at this point. I also begin speaking a lot of Spanish at this point.

10-15 drinks: Horny Angry Drunken Irishman. Everything seems like a viable option for copulation. No woman is off-limits, no matter her or my relationship status at that point. Lamps start to seduce me. Trees begin to grow breasts, and sticking my dick in a hole in the ground is not beyond me at this point. It is at this point that I try to seduce women with Latin. However, the phrases "vagina dentata" (toothed vagina: a Latin idiom for a bitch) and "reginella vaginarum" ("little queen of the vaginas") are not generally successful pick-up lines. At this point, I have offended all but the most jaded women at the party, and am usually left without the "insecure girl who has sex to feel loved" option, because she is off crying due to my harmful comments. I also tend to call ex-girlfriends and try to convince them to come over in Latin. All that matters is getting my dick wet...even if it means fucking the Dorito crumbs out of some land beast's chub rolls.

15-20 drinks: Anything Goes. It is at this point that I am severely incapacitated. Trees are no longer love objects but rather victims of my alcohol-fueled rage. Lamps don't want to fuck me anymore - they want to be broken. Kicking cars outside of a bar seems like a good idea, but I am not drunk enough to fall down as a I race my weaving course away from them when the car alarm goes off. At this point I am ready to fight, fuck, or fall down, with any combination of those three being a viable option. And trust me, I will do any of those with equal zeal.

20+ drinks: Very rarely do I get to this state. If I do, it's because something has upset me to the point where I need to take my anger out on my own body. Puking is an inevitable result, and the only question that remains is where and when. Having sex is not an option, because I am too fucked up to operate the keys to my house, let alone my penis. There will be severe consequences the next day, but luckily I am too busy voiding all the contents of my stomach to care. I will do anything at this point: steal, light myself on fire, flip off burly men whom I do not know, etc. Again, I don't care. I am in a special land where tomorrow doesn't exist, people are objects, and some objects are even people. I am fucked in half and will fight you if you're helping me and help you if you're kicking my ass.

While that scale works pretty well for me, Scary Adam's physiology is substantially different from mine. Although he can generally outdrink me when it comes to beer (hard alcohol is my domain), his body does not function in such a straightforward manner. I have known Adam all throughout college, and have lived with him for the past three years. He is one of the best friends I have ever had, so I feel qualified to recount his drunken antics. Here are some of the Scary Adam Alcohol-Induced States I have seen:

Scholarly - No topic is too inane or offensive to debate with Adam at this point. He will exalt the philosophers he likes, such as David Hume and Jeff McMahan, as gods and will demand that Ayn Rand and Catherine MacKinnon be hung naked in public while blindfolded Mexican children beat them until candy spills out. You will not win a debate with Adam when he is in this stage, no matter how many times he repeats himself. Adam is a debating god...if you can ignore the ketchup on his shirt and the fact that he's spilling more beer than is actually going into his mouth.

Retarded - Honestly, if you didn't know Adam as a sober person, you would think his mother began mainlining heroin when she found out that her unborn child was going to be a mongoloid. Adam tends to sit and giggle at everything at this point. When he's not giggling, he's usually spilling on himself, trying to count his money, or watching a sitcom on Fox. His motor skills are severely impaired, and his ability to urinate in a proper receptacle vanishes. The world is his toilet, and he is going to pee on the seat.
As an example of this, let me recount the following story: after returning home from spending the night at some girl's place, I find Adam in the exact same position as I left him - sitting in his chair and watching TV. I jokingly say that his room smells like pee, because I was going to try and convince him that he had gotten drunk enough to wet himself. However, the look of trepidation that crossed his face soon stopped me. I ask what happened, and he pulls two Gatorade bottles from his closet...each filled with an amber-colored liquid that can only be urine. After laughing at him and asking him why the hell his mom didn't finish the job when she stabbed him in utero with a coat hanger, he explained to me his rationale. Adam tends to set up arbitrary rules for himself. These rules have no foundation in logic whatsoever, but he always follows them to a T. The previous night, he had determined that he was going to leave his room under no circumstances. After all, he had everything he needed - Doritos, a TV, and his roommate's beer. However, he neglected to realize that his room does not, in fact, contain a toilet. Although it literally (I measured) takes ten steps to cover the distance between Adam's door and the toilet, the Arbitrary Rule had to be followed. This is how Retarded Adam operates. (On a funnier note, he actually did leave the room...to empty the bottles of urine so he could pee in them again.)

Truculent - This usually occurs when Adam drinks during episodes of The Shield. He will start fights with anyone, including random people in grocery stores. He will also fight inanimate objects to the death. A perfect example of this occurred last Thursday night, when Adam killed a newspaper dispenser that was apparently talking shit to him. No one is safe from Adam's rage...all you can do is laugh. Here's a conversation from Truculent Adam:

(some girl in a bar is talking about something inane)
Adam: Shut up, war (this is how Adam pronounces the word "whore" when he's in his cups...unfortunately, that girl figured it out)
Girl: Did you just call me a whore?
Adam: You heard me, bitch (I should also point out that this girl was still in her karate garb and had a yellow belt)
Girl: I just got back from karate, I'll kick your ass.
Adam: (standing and yelling) BRING IT, BITCH! I'LL FUCKING TAKE YOU ON RIGHT NOW!

Times like these remind me why he is called Scary Adam. Other times Truculent Adam has come out in force include an instance where he threw a lawn chair at a girl (although he was not actually drunk when this happened), an instance where he demanded that we play bloody knuckles, and an instance in which he kicked a car, puked, and then made out with three girls. Scary Adam 10 mode is not something you want to see.

Comatose: There are a few times when Adam just passes out for no reason. One instance in particular drives this point home. Adam had had about three beers (which for Adam is generally considered a light breakfast) and was sitting in front of the TV when I went out to a party. I came back at three in the morning to find him sitting in the exact same position, full beer in hand, but with his head slumped on his chest. He remained in that position until 7:30 in the morning, when he awoke, turned the TV off, and went back to sleep on the couch.

These are our drunk scales. Bring me a drink and I'll show you.

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Stop for a Minute

Where I work, we have an old semi trailer. We use it to store tables, chairs, and scaffolding. It's a nice place to sit during one's break.
On the inside of the trailer, written in what appears to be chalk, are the following inscriptions:
"Love is haven. Haven is love."
Below that, "Love is nothing."

And very faintly, just above the last line, is written in capital letters, "I just want someone to love me."

Interspersed throughout the interior of the trailer are various drawings of what appear to be birds sitting in nests. The birds are crude, with gargantuan eyes and simple wings. One of the birds is smiling.

It makes me feel very odd every time I see these.

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Public Smoking Bans: A Serious Post

As of late, there has been a good deal of discussion in the Bloomington-Normal area regarding whether or not the city council should outlaw smoking in public buildings. While arguments on both sides have been both verbose and time-consuming, I find that neither side really presents a decent argument in regards to this issue. Let me recap what has been said so far:
People For the Smoking Ban: Second-hand smoke is a serious health risk. As such, it should be outlawed in public buildings. And by public buildings, they mean any businesses, not just public buildings like the capitol building.
People Against the Smoking Ban: If you don't like smoke, don't go to a place which allows smoking on the premises.
People For the Smoking Ban: Why should we leave? You guys are the ones causing the problem.
People Against the Smoking Ban: If you don't like it, you can GET OUT!

And so on and so forth. Basically, this whole diatribe has all the veracity and intellectual fortitude of a sixth-grade squabble. Unfortunately, the option of this squabble ending with a fight at the flagpole after school is highly unlikely.
Before I begin lacing into this whole argument, let me state my bias by saying that I am against a legislative act which would ban smoking in any facility not owned and operated by the government. I will get to my reasons in a bit. For the nonce, let's examine the aforementioned argument in a little more detail:
Point #1 People who support a public smoking ban are making a blanket claim regarding the detrimental effects of second-hand smoke.
Rebuttal While it is true that second-hand smoke HAS been proven to lead to health problems, the fact of the matter is that the situations for these studies are completely different from the situations which the Pro-Smoking Ban zealots are combating. In studies done on the effects of second-hand smoke, the study usually focuses on the effects of long-term exposure. To the best of my knowledge, no studies have been done researching the effects of second-hand smoke exposure that would actually occur in a bar setting. If such a study exists (one which would examine the effects of second-hand smoke exposure that would last for two to three hours once or twice a week) Pro-Smoking Ban activists have yet to cite it. The fact is, Pro-Smoking Bans activists have yet to produce a satisfactory scientific study which would warrant the claim that second-hand smoke IN A BAR SETTING is the serious health risk its proponents claim it is.
Rejoinder Since no studies have yet been posited which indicate that second hand smoke in limited amounts causes health issues, let us assume that, until such time as this point is scientifically proven, health is not an issue for the population at large. However, there is a certain percentage of the population, such as people with asthma or people with other respiratory maladies, who would suffer from second hand smoke much more than the population at large. Should these people be ignored? For them, second-hand smoke is a much more significant health risk. Should they be unable to enjoy a bar because of their physical state?
Rebuttal to the Rejoinder I am not going to claim that the desires of a certain minority should be ignored in favor of the healthy majority. I am not going to claim that people with asthma have no rights when it comes to choosing which businesses they should frequent. This argument quickly becomes one in which economic principles are placed against moral ideals. If a business owner wants to attract people who will enjoy a smoke-free environment, then they will place a "No Smoking" sign in their window. If they feel they can afford to lose that business, then they will allow smoking. Excessive legislation should not be the answer to this particular side of the puzzle. If we are to outlaw everything in which certain members of the population cannot take part due to health risks, then we must also outlaw all physical sports, any activities which might cause excessive stress, etc., ad nauseum. While the health of a select few should not be ignored, we should also not seek to equalize all aspects of life (including dining choices) simply because certain members of the population would experience a health inconvenience.
Sidenote to Point #1 If we are to take the Pro-Smoking Ban's premises (in which something is considered a public health risk without sufficient scientific backing), then we must be prepared to outlaw other types of behavior in restaurants and bars. For example, anyone with AIDS must not be allowed to enter a public facility. There is a public health risk associated with having someone with AIDS in the same building as other people. While the odds are incredibly small (and practically non-existent) that this person will give AIDS to another customer in the bar, the fact is that incredibly small odds have already been accepted by the Pro-Smoking Ban people as sufficient reason to outlaw certain activities. Going on their own terms, then, would mean that anyone presenting any sort of health risk, no matter how small, would be banned from a public facility. After all, it's a public health risk. Never mind the scientific data. As we can see, when we accept the "public health risk" argument on its own terms and apply it to other situations, it quickly becomes laughable. This argument does not hold up under scrutiny.
Point #2 While customers are certainly free to come and go as they please, the employees of establishments which allow smoking are exposed to second-hand smoke constantly and therefore placed at a much greater risk.
Rebuttal If legislation is needed to ensure that the employees of such establishments are not put at risk, then it should take the following forms: 1) Any employee of an establishment which allows smoking ust legally be informed of the risks to her or his health 2) The employees of such establishments, if it can be proven that they are not smokers or are not engaging in activities which would cause the same health problems that exposure to second-hand smoke would, would be entitled to a higher rate of pay than employees who do smoke. While it is impossible to put a fiscal value on someone's health, there should be some compensation in order to prevent further legal action on the part of the employee, should any health problems arise.
While it is certainly true that second-hand smoke does prove itself to be a risk to employees, due to the fact that the War on Smoking has become so much more intellectually fashionable, this seems to be the only instance lately in which risk to the employees has required so much legislative attention. Other workers who face health risks on a daily basis (security guards, animal trainers, construction workers) have taken care of their problems with little to no drastic legislation on the part of the government. It is safe to assume that the employees of establishments where smoking is allowed will take care of this issue on their own as well.
Point # 3 If you don't like it, don't go there
Rebuttal In all honesty, this argument is so childish and puerile that I find myself cringing at the thought of arguing against it. It honestly saddens me that so many people who oppose a public smoking ban would resort to such a childish argument instead of attacking the premises of their opponent. As I have shown, the "health risk" that second-hand smoking poses has become nothing more than a spurious Grim Reaper - "take our word that bar smoke will kill you, and pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!" All comments about health risks aside, though, Point #3 now really comes down to an argument in etiquette. When we take away all the alleged health risks of second-hand smoke, the argument now simply becomes a Sartrean discourse on whose interests should supercede whose. There really is no answer to this argument, except to say that if we take a Kantian viewpoint (in which whatever provides the most amount of happiness with the least amount of pain for the general population), then we must do further study. The morality of this situation now becomes dependent on how many smokers would like to frequent a bar and how much pain a smoking ban would cause them versus how many non-smokers would like to frequent the same bar and how badly second-hand smoke would affect them. The issue at this point remains inconclusive, unless a decisive census can be taken determining all the desires of the citizens of Bloomington-Normal. Until such time as a census is taken, I remain neutral on this point.
Legislation is not the answer Until such time as it can be proved beyond any reasonable doubt that the second hand smoke exposure one would be subjected to in a bar/restaurant setting is deadly enough to warrant such legislation, the matter remains one of economic interest rather than political necessity. The environment of a public establishment and its contribution to the resulting loss or increase of business will dictate to the owners of an establishment whether or not people want to frequent a building which exposes them to second-hand smoke. But let's think for a moment what a public smoking ban will open the doors to:
1) Child abuse. Once you have established that second-hand smoke is a public health risk and should be outlawed in all public buildings, it is no logical leap to assume that any home in which the parents smoke is a deadly place for a child. Erego, any smoking parents are willfully endangering their child, and should have their child removed from them.
2) Private home legislation. Again, once privately owned and operated businesses are denied the privilege to allow smoking on the premises, it is not that far of a leap to claim that private homes should not allow smoking. Otherwise, inviting someone into your home would be considered attempted murder, or at least assault.
Once we open the Pandora's box labeled "Public smoking is a health risk", we must be prepared to follow the trail it sets out for us. I, for one, am unwilling to accept both the aforementioned results of a public smoking ban and any unforeseen results which may result from such excessive legistlation.
Conclusion While I have said a lot regarding the arguments of both sides of this debate, my main points remain thus: 1) Second-hand smoke has not been proven to cause the extreme health risks which would necessitate a legislative ban 2) In situations where it does, the choice of the customer/employee will allow them to leave such a facility if they are experiencing health problems associated with second-hand smoke, and finally 3) It is not the government's place to legislate what may or may not go on in a privately-owned facility, as long as such activities do not break any pre-set laws or do not willfully endanger the lives of people who frequent such an establishment. Again, the problem lies in the fact that we are proposing excessive legislation, which will inconvenience a great majority of the population, in order to address an allegedly "public" health concern which may or may not exist. In all instances, it has been my utmost belief that excessive legislation must be avoided. When personal freedoms are taken away (such as the right of a business owner to choose whether or not he wants to allow smoking in his establishment) without any substantial reason, the government is overstepping its bounds. I realize that it's fashionable to rail against smokers, but the fact is, taking away the right to choose is not the answer. Smokers don't take away your right to protest. Please don't infringe upon their rights to conduct their life in whichever manner they choose until such time as you can prove scientifically that it is a serious risk to you as a person.

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Nobody Loves You Because You're Fat

Go clean the Doritos crumbs out of your chins and hit the gym. Stop making jokes about Single's Awareness Day. Stop being loud. Start wearing clothes that fit. Move out of your trailer.

Happy late Valentine's Day, everybody. I got laid. If you didn't, read the above suggestions and really take them to heart. Now bring me a drink.

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It's Black History Month: Feel Guilty

FEBRUARY! THE SHORTEST MONTH OF THE YEAR!
What a great time to celebrate black history. If you're a white person, immediately stop reading and go do something worthwhile for the black community. Seriously. Put up a sign. Distribute ribbons people can pin on their Aeropostale and American Eagle shirts. Raise awareness! GO!!!
For the politically minded, here are some Black History Month Do's and Don't's to help you in your quest to ensure the ubiquitous nature of contrived racial tolerance:

DO - Make sure that every fifth-grader writes a mandatory 500 words on Black History. Make sure the paper mentions one or more of the following: peanut butter, stoplights, ice cream, Harriet Tubman, Jesse Owens, Jackie Robinson, Frederick Douglass, and Thomas Jefferson. (Give the white kids a C on this paper, because hey, fuck them.)

DON'T - Contribute any taxpayer money to poorly-funded school systems. IF you must give out government funds, make sure that they come with stipulations which prohibit said funds from being spent on anything other than Black History Month Awareness Posters, black motivational speakers, or any materials used to make Black History Month presentations. These kids don't need to learn how to read or play instruments, they need to know that it's BLACK HISTORY MONTH!!!

DO - Support establishments such as McDonald's and Popeye's which, through a series of multi-million dollar ad campaigns designed with the black population as its target demographic, really show the ingenuity and worth of black people. When a McDonald's commercial shows a black man treating a Quarter Pounder like an hors d'ouevre by sticking a pin into it, it isn't patronizing...it's black empowerment. (In fact, I would like to parenthetically commend McDonald's for all but excluding white people from their ads. And for coincidentally emphasizing the fact that they now serve chicken.)

DON'T - Support any establishments with any less than three Black History Month posters on the windows. "Big Daddy Ray's House of Bar-B-Q", while run by a black one-armed Vietnam veteran, is not the sort of establishment you want to give your support to. Go to McDonald's. Eat the food. (NOTE: When you go to the bathroom to excrete the McDonald's-induced diarrhea, do NOT say that you are going to "drop the Cosby kids off at the pool." It's Black History Month, dammit.)

DO - Flash around pictures of the black people who were fucked over by Hurricane Katrina. Mention repeatedly that New Orleans is the birthplace of jazz, a "black" musical style.

DON'T - Give any money to Katrina relief funds. You need that money to make posters.
DON'T - Ask why the black people were the ones most heavily fucked over in the first place by Hurricane Katrina.
DON'T - Ask questions. Questions be whack.

DO - Argue for the fact that Ebonics IS, in fact, a real language.

DON'T - Ever, ever, use ebonics. Unless you're black.

DO - Walk up to every black person you see on the street, shake his hand, and say "I really feel your pain. I support you and your wonderful race of people."

DON'T - Run away when he tries to kick your ass. It's your fault for listening to someone with a name like "The Angry Drunken Irishman" in the first place. Dumbass.

Let's all work together to make this the best damn white-invented black-empowering month ever. Just remember, we don't want to fix deep-rooted social issues. We want to make posters and have assemblies. So white people, just shut up for a month.

Oh shit, next is Women's History Month. Someone bring me a drink. Before I whip you.

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Fuck Public Smoking Bans

Recently the homepage for my school posted a poll asking people whether or not they were in favor of a ban on indoor smoking in all public buildings. Out of about 1500 votes, 84% of all people said yes.
What the fuck?
I can understand not wanting people to smoke in hospitals and day cares. After all, you don't want freeloading sick people and infants catching a cheap buzz off of cigarettes that YOU paid for. But why the hell would anyone want to ban smoking in, say, a bar? Or a tobacco shop? Or even a grocery store?
Cigarettes are a way of life for many people. The appeal of restaurants like Steak 'n' Shake is that they HAVE a smoking section. Think about it - why the hell else would high school goth kids go to an establishment that sells shitty food and shittier coffee at three in the morning unless they were allowed to smoke? Why the hell would anyone go to a bar and pay $4 for a shitty cocktail (main ingredient: ice) unless they were allowed to smoke?
As an American and a lover of freedom, I am thoroughly against this proposed ban. However, if such a bill must go through, I suggest that we modify it. It won't be a huge modification - in fact, I suggest that we only change one word. Instead of banning public smoking, I propose that we ban public ugliness. Think about how much greater this would make life for people.
Now when you go out to a bar, you don't have to worry about taking home some behemoth and waking up with your arm pinned underneath eighty pounds of right breast and half a bag of Doritos sitting on your chest. Instead, if you do take home a girl, she'll be attractive, because the very idea of an ugly person being in a public facility has been completely outlawed. And SHE'S got nothing to worry about, because hey, you're attractive too! Everybody wins!
This public ugliness ban will also motivate some of our country's more portly denizens to get their asses in shape. Everyone's always bemoaning the plight of America's obese public, so why not do something about it? Instead of saying that "obesity is a disease" or suing corporations like McDonald's for vending allegedly addictive products, let's just outlaw it altogether. Here's how the system would work:
In the beginning, everyone would be required to submit to a state-funded Attractiveness Screening. The panel would consist of myself, my roommates, and any cool people I happened to meet on the way. No girls would be allowed on this panel in order to eradicate the X-factor of feminine sympathy ( we don't want any pussy bleeding hearts to be sitting there going "Oh, it's ok, you're a complete whale but it's not your fault." That's the problem with America in the first place.) Male attractiveness would be assessed by a few gay guys I know; the reason for this is that gay guys are really brutal when it comes to male attractiveness and thus would be far more effective judges than girls. Everyone would receive a rating on the Beer Scale of attractiveness - they would be assigned a number by each judge which corresponds with the number of beers the judge believes would be necessary in order to sleep with the person under evaluation. Anyone receiving a rating over 10 would be placed under house arrest for six months, after which they would be allowed to receive a second rating. If the number has not gone down, they receive another six-month house arrest sentence. If by their third appeal they are unable to receive a score of less than ten, they would receive a bullet in the head.
I know, I know, shame on me for suggesting that. We shouldn't waste bullets on ugly people. Instead of a bullet, maybe we could simply push them out a window. No, that won't do.....there'd be a huge mess to clean up. Hmmm...well, the particulars aren't worked out yet, but the point is, ugly people would be exterminated.
Any person receiving a score between 6 and 10 would be allowed to walk about during the day, but would have to acknowledge a strict nine o'clock curfew. They would not be allowed in bars, and any appearances they made during the day would only be allowed under the stipulation that they wear a paper bag over their head with the words "I'm Ugly" printed in large Magic Marker and a large siren on their chest that constantly blared the words "Look away! Look away!"
The public might not accept this at first, but they would after everyone submitted to a mandatory propaganda film session. This film session would include several movies, such as an edited version of My Big Fat Greek Wedding where the lead actress does NOT find true happiness but instead is smothered as an infant by her parents because she's so damn ugly and an edited version of Raiders of the Lost Ark where the Nazis all have their skin eaten away and die horrible deaths not for looking inside the Ark of the Covenant, but for looking inside one of the aforementioned "I'm Ugly" paper bags. These movies would be viewed Clockwork Orange style to prevent anyone from not viewing them.
I know, I know. It seems harsh. But such is the way of progress. Stalin understood this, and so did the God of the Old Testament. You can't have a better society without stepping on a few toes and committing some genocide.
Besides, think about all the problems this would solve:
1) Public drunkenness would go down - How many times have you been at a bar or a frat party where the only person hitting on you was a total slug? How many times did you think to yourself, Man, I'm kinda horny and the only person hitting on me appears to be one of George Lucas' Star Wars aliens...better drink more so I can justify sleeping with them? We've all been there. We all know that sometimes you make a poor decision and drink an entire bottle of tequila just so you can "getcha some" from the fat bitch with the lazy eye. With a public ugliness ban, this would no longer be an issue, and you could fuck girls without drinking because, hey, they're all attractive! Think of the money you would save on booze alone!
2) Self-esteem would go up - This seems completely counterintuitive, but that's only because you're an idiot. We all know hot girls who have self esteem problems. With the mandatory Beer Scale in effect, hot girls would no longer feel the need to throw up everything they eat and work out for ten hours a day. Instead, they can walk around, smiling and holding their paper-bag-free head high, confident that they live in this brave new world that has such attractive people in it.
What about the uggos who don't score high enough to merit such an esteem boost? Fuck them. Who cares about their esteem? Seriously. I don't think there's ever been a situation in my life that an ugly person has made better. In fact, ugly people and fat people EXACERBATE every bad situation I've ever been in. Take, for example, the Self Check-Out lines at any grocery store. It's bad enough when you have to wait in line for ten minutes because some fucktard can't figure out that her debit card has to have its stripe facing outwards (information easily gleaned from the screen of the card reader, the hand-printed note taped to the card reader, and the giant flashing sign that says "FACE STRIPE OUTWARDS, DIPSHIT"). No, it's not bad enough that I have to waste MY time in a grocery store because of someone else's incompetence. I have to look at this person with the frontal lobe impairment and deal with the fact that they're UGLY! Goddammit, if you're going to be an idiot, at least be a hot girl with sorority letters on so I can offer to help you. But do hot sorority girls ever fuck up at the grocery store? NO! Because they're hot, and that makes them better than ugly people.
Sorry, I got off on kind of a rant there. I don't think I will ever be able to express through writing how pissed off ugly people make me. Every time I'm in a bad mood, it becomes that much worse if there's an ugly person in the room. Ugly people are just catalysts for bad feelings, and we should ban them. Which brings me to my next point:
3) Public eating experiences would become exponentially more enjoyable - How many times have you sat down in a restaurant, looked at the people next to you, and realized that you've lost your appetite? How many times have you cut your meal short just to avoid the unpleasant experience of looking at your unseemly waitress? Wouldn't it be better if you could just eat in peace? Wouldn't it be better if you could ask for your check AFTER you ate your food instead of having to request (with eyes averted into the menu) that your ticket out of Ugly Town be brought as soon as possible? Public ugliness bans are the wave of the future, my friends.
Public smoking bans are not the answer. Public ugliness bans are. Fuck ugly people.

If you're ugly, bring me a drink. Actually, bring me many drinks, because I'm kind of horny and you're the only one around.

(NOTE: If you're curious, the poll from my school's webpage can be found here)

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Inspirational Story, ADI style

(The following story was sent to me via e-mail. I edited it so that it would be more palatable for everyone. Enjoy)

A cold March wind danced around the dead of night in Dallas as the doctor walked into the small hospital room of Diana Blessing. She was still groggy from surgery.

Her husband, David, held her hand as they braced themselves for the latest news.

That afternoon of March 10, 1991, complications had forced Diana, only 24-weeks pregnant, to undergo an emergency Cesarean to deliver couple's new daughter, Dana Lu Blessing.

At 12 inches long and weighing only one pound nine ounces, they already knew she was perilously premature.

Still, the doctor's soft words dropped like bombs.

"I don't think she's going to make it," he said, as kindly as he could.

"There's only a 10-percent chance she will live through the night, and even then, if by some slim chance she does make it, her future could be a very cruel one."

Numb with disbelief, David and Diana listened as the doctor described the devastating problems Dana would likely face if she survived.

She would never walk, she would never talk, she would probably be blind, and she would certainly be prone to other catastrophic conditions from cerebral palsy to complete mental retardation, and on and on.

"No! No!" was all Diana could say.

She and David, with their 5-year-old son Dustin, had long dreamed of the day they would have a daughter to become a family of four. Now, within a matter of hours, that dream was slipping away.

But as those first days passed, a new agony set in for David and Diana.

Because Dana's underdeveloped nervous system was essentially 'raw', the lightest kiss or caress only intensified her discomfort, so they couldn't even cradle their tiny baby girl against their chests to offer the strength of their love. All they could do, as Dana struggled alone beneath the ultraviolet light in the tangle of tubes and wires, was to pray that God would stay close to their precious little girl.

There was never a moment when Dana suddenly grew stronger.

But as the weeks went by, she did slowly gain an ounce of weight here and an ounce of strength there.

At last, when Dana turned two months old, her parents were able to hold her in their arms for the very first time. And two months later, though doctors continued to gently but grimly warn that her chances of surviving, much less living any kind of normal life, were next to zero, Dana went home from the hospital, just as her mother had predicted.

Five years later, when Dana was a petite but feisty young girl with glittering gray eyes and an unquenchable zest for life. She showed no signs whatsoever of any mental or physical impairment. Simply, she was everything a little girl can be and more. But that happy ending is far from the end of her story.

One blistering afternoon in the summer of 1996 near her home in Irving, Texas, Dana was sitting in her mother's lap in the bleachers of a local ball park where her brother Dustin's baseball team was practicing.

As always, Dana was chattering nonstop with her mother and several other adults sitting nearby when she suddenly fell silent. Hugging her arms across her chest, little Dana asked, "Do you smell that?"

Smelling the air and detecting the approach of a thunderstorm, Diana replied, "Yes, it smells like rain."

Dana closed her eyes and again asked, "Do you smell that?"

Once again, her mother replied, "Yes, I think we're about to get wet. It smells like rain."

Still caught in the moment, Dana shook her head, patted her thin shoulders with her small hands and loudly announced, "No, it smells like Him.

It smells like God when you lay your head on His chest."

Tears blurred Diana's eyes as Dana happily hopped down to play with the other children.

Before the rains came, her daughter's words confirmed what Diana and all the members of the extended Blessing family had known, at least in their hearts, all along.

During those long days and nights of her first two months of her life, when her nerves were too sensitive for them to touch her, God was holding Dana on His chest and it is His loving scent that she remembers so well.

Five minutes later, the thunderstorm came. A bolt of lightning struck the metal bleachers where Dana was sitting, and she died horribly and painfully. Apparently, God also smells like charred human flesh. Shortly thereafter Dana's family lost their faith in God and committed suicide. Everyone lived happily ever after...well, not really, because they made a habit of eating pork and shellfish, and because of this they went straight to Sheol by Yahweh's divine mandate. The moral here is, don't believe in anything.

Happy Holidays from the ADI.

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Fuck You

We live in a country run by the lowest common denominator. From the time one enters the "no child left behind...or pushed ahead" public school system to the time one becomes old enough to go to a shitty bar and watch reruns of shitty shows like "The War at Home" and "Dharma and Greg", one is constantly pressured not to exceed. We push the levels of low brow mediocrity. We strive to blend in with the herd, to stifle ourselves, and to be like every other slack-jawed idiot.
Fuck that.
This blog has largely appealed to the lowest common denominator. Although I use big words so you idiots can feel smart while finally putting that dictionary your crazy aunt gave to you on your twelfth birthday to use, the subject matter has been sexist, homophobic, racist, and rarely funny. It's low brow.
Fuck that.
It's so much easier to be destructive than creative. Although as a writer I adopt a voice who has a rather cavalier attitude toward everything and acts like a lackadaisical scofflaw, I can get away with it because I'm being tongue-in-cheek. But do you know that? No. You fucking sycophants think it's funny. You think villifying others somehow makes you feel better.
Fuck that.
I want to be emulated, yes. Everyone does. But not for this shit. Not for my "Rosa Parks died...did they bury her in the back of the cemetery?" jokes. Not for getting completely shitfaced at 7:30 in the evening with Scary Adam and cackling while he forces a random passerby to his knees by humping him. I want to be emulated because I'm better than you low brow fucks.
After this post, I will be taking an indefinite hiatus as the Angry Drunken Irishman. Although his voice has helped me get rid of a lot of anger in an easy manner and has helped me masturbate my ego by garnering accolades from people who aren't brave enough to put themselves on this kind of pedestal, I don't need him. He's there, yes. His Steppenwolf-esque brooding presence will remain, but I'm better than he is.
I'll leave you with some of Goethe's words for this. The following comes from the prelude to Faust:

Oh, speak no more of motley crowds to me
their very presence makes my spirits flee.
Veil from my sight those waves and surges
that suck us down into their raging pools.
Take me rather to a quiet little cell
where pure delight blooms only for the poet,
where our inmost joy is blessed and fostered
by love and friendship and the hand of God.
...
What gleams like tinsel is but for the moment.
What's true remains intact for future days.

Maybe I've finally grown up, or maybe I'm just being even more immature. But I'm better than this, and so are you.

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How To Live On Your Own

It's true: moving off-campus was one of the best things I've done in college so far (besides fuck a bunch of girls and drink during class). Not only was I able to escape the ubiquitous Eye of Resident Life, but I feel all growed up living in my own house with I-suck and Scary Adam. I suggest that everyone stop pissing their money down the drain and do the same thing. In order to make your move from the dorms to a house a little easier, I've decided to pass on the wisdom I've gained over the past few months.
On Housework - Don't do it. I suggest doing what I did - move in with a neat freak who likes to do weird things like put little dispensers in the toilet bowl. That way you'll have a roommate effeminate enough to remember the little "homey" things your mom used to do, but who won't be effeminate enough to poke your butt with his weiner. Right now there is a Christmas tree in the living room. I've never, ever had a Christmas tree around my birthday, but right now it looks so good sitting out there that I had to put my presents under it. Things like this really make a house feel like a home. I'm so glad I have this roommate; if it were up to me all the house decorations would consist of newspaper held together by pieces of dirt and I would swiftly take up the habit of using the yard as my bathroom so I wouldn't have to face the giant Mold Monsters that would no doubt accumulate.
Dishes and trash and bathroom chores and vaccuuming....don't do it. It's amazing what you can turn a blind eye to. Wait for someone else to do the Cinderella shit. If you have roommates, eventually one of them will get sick of staring at filth and clean it. Why should you have to? If you can put up with a little extra dirt and the occasional weird rash on your feet, you'll never have to do housework again.
On Food - From now on, the word "nutritious" in your vocabulary should be replaced with the word "cheap". If you're walking through a grocery store and you're thinking to yourself, "Hm, I haven't had fruit yet today," then you do not have the right attitude. Fruit is expensive and it's just going to go bad (or get carried behind the refrigerator by giant roaches). What you need to look for is The Deal. You know, the deal that your mom was always looking for. You need to find frozen packages of pseudo-chicken nuggets for $1. You need to learn how to make black pepper, canned beans and hot dogs taste good. You need to realize that Ramen is a staple food. If it's not in a can or frozen, then it's a) going to cost more and b) going to sit around and go bad because your ass is too lazy to prepare real food. Concerned that you might not be getting your vitamins? Take a One-A-Day. Problem solved. If you feel like you need to get more variety in your diet, do what I did. Live next to a Chinese restaurant AND a pizza place. Now you've got all the variety you need.
Seriously, here's what I have in my kitchen right now: a shitload of Spaghetti-Os and generic derivations thereof, cookies, Pringles, chips, frozen meats of various qualities, pickled eggs, and ice cream. Not a vegetable in sight. The only reason I spent the extra couple of bucks on ice cream is because occasionally girls come by and I want to have something palatable on hand for them. I don't eat ice cream, but I keep it around for the same reason I keep a bottle of cinnamon flavored liqueur around - girls like the taste and it gets them in the mood. The end.
Feeling shitty? Drink more caffeine. It's a good substitute for sleep. Feeling like your bones ache? Eat some cookies. Feeling like you have an ulcer of some sort? Switch from spicy salsa to medium. Which reminds me...
On Medicine - You don't need this. All you need are Advil and Band-Aids. If the problem becomes something which Advil and Band-Aids can't cure, then you should be unconscious and you won't care anyway. Problem solved. Your mom doesn't live with you anymore; you can't be a crying pussy every time something doesn't go your way. Suck it up, pop some Advil, and drink a Mountain Dew. You'll be fine.

My birthday is swiftly approaching, so I'm going to cut this post short. Bring me a drink. And a present.

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Dear Abby: Fuck You

On October 17, the "Dear Abby" column in the local paper ran under the headline "Shots a risky 'rite of passage'". In it, a concerned mother asked Abby (aka, Jeanne Bitcherson) about a tradition she heard about wherein a person drinks "21 shots of alcohol" on their 21st birthday.
Abby responded in typical asshole fashion by saying that "your children are mistaken. Binge drinking isn't 'fine' and not everyone does it".
Dear Abby. Fuck you. Signed, Drunk in Ebriated.
Why am I so pissed about this column? Why should I take such a vituperative attitude toward someone whose picture looks like they are about to bake you some oatmeal cookies and sell you some Avon? Because Dear Abby here is attacking one of the most sacred of all rites: the Birthday Challenge.
In order to keep ourselves accountable and to make sure that we are the sort of alcoholics that a website with the name "Angry Drunken People" would want to continue receiving submissions from, Scary Adam and I have adopted the sacred ritual of the Birthday Challenge. The Birthday Challenge consists of drinking a shot or beer or alcoholic equivalent for every year one has been alive during the course of their birthday. Come Tuesday night at midnight, I will be in a sacred liminal stage until Wednesday at midnight, during which I will be ingesting enough alcohol to ensure myself safe passage through the year until my next Birthday Challenge.
But APPARENTLY little Miss ABBY doesn't think this is a GOOD IDEA!! According to her column, "Rapid consumption of alcohol, particularly in large amounts, is extremely dangerous. It has been known to cause severe illness, coma and even death". All I have to say to this is....duh.
Anyone who seriously thinks that they can drink 21 shots in a row is retarded. The only way to do it is to space it over the period of a day. That's why the Birthday Challenge takes up your whole birthday. The liminal stage extends from midnight to midnight. Anyone who doesn't pace themself is going to die. Sure, this is a slight risk, but the Birthday Challenge must be done.
The Birthday Challenge serves a number of useful purposes:
1) The Birthday Challenge helps weed pussies out of the world. If anyone can't handle drinking 21 shots, then they don't deserve to be alive. It's Darwinian, it's beautiful, and I won't have any of you naysayers poo-pooing this idea. How else is the human race to survive the eventual fermenting of the Earth's water supply when the ozone level erodes if we don't prepare ourselves in a stringent manner? (I'm a little fuzzy on the specifics of global warming. Deal with it.) The human race needs to improve itself, and we can't do that by being a bunch of pussies about little things like drinking 21 shots of alcohol in a day.
2) The Birthday Challenge helps you prioritize. Last year, when I had to drink 20 shots in a day, I also had a test in one class, a test prep session in another, I had to run a concert and my family came to town. Did I puss out? No. I got blitzed, got an A on my test, drank in class, did shots during my concert, and finished strong after spending some fuzzy time with my family. Would I have done as well had I not been drinking copious amounts of booze? Probably not. Without the driving force of alcohol to help me get my shit together, I would have fizzled out and died like all the other douchebag pussies who can't handle the Birthday Challenge. The Birthday Challenge worked for me, and I know it can work for you.
3) The Birthday Challenge helps you realize who your real friends are. A lot of people will claim to be your friends, but right around the 15th shot or so a lot of them will be "offended" by your "constant racial slurs" and will act like they're "too good" to "have a threesome with you and the plant". Real friends will stick it out with you. Best friends will do the Birthday Challenge with you. It's clutch times like these that separate the men friends from the boy friends. Wait, that sounded kinda gay....moving on.
4) The Birthday Challenge lets everyone know that you're not to be trifled with. When you're a person, such as myself, who writes a bunch of ridiculous shit about their drinking and fucking prowess, you'll constantly be challenged to prove yourself. People will walk up to you and be like "Angry Drunken Irishman? You're not even drunk! You ain't shit, boy!" Although it gets rather tedious, these people need to be shown up. The last time Scary Adam and Token tried to call me out, I seem to remember them not keeping up, and even some vomiting on Scary Adam's part while I skipped off to go drink at an off-campus house. If you can't fulfill the Birthday Challenge, then no one will take you seriously when you write a blog like this. When you weigh that dire possibility against the slight inconvenience of coma and possible death, how can you NOT fulfill the Birthday Challenge?
Abby concludes her polemic diatribe by saying that "Only a fool or someone very immature would take that kind of risk". Again....duh. That's why people turning 21 do it. Because 21 year olds are retarded. That's why we need to weed the shitty ones out by having them die of alcohol poisoning. God, do I have to repeat EVERYTHING I say?
Abby, I'm sorry, but...wait, I'm not sorry. You suck. Stop railing against something I hold very dear to my heart. You don't hear me lambasting tea cozies and the Cooking Channel, do you? No. So stop mocking my beliefes.

And bring me a drink. Then 20 more. Bitch.

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Rules for Dating the Angry Drunken Irishman

Finding myself single and with a significant amount of emotional ennui, I decided that now would be a good time to write the following post. Although a majority of this blog is devoted to glorifying my random hookups and general mistreatment of women, from time to time I do enjoy settling into a mutually fulfilling relationship. I like to do this because it usually alleviates the responsibility of maintaining a nicely rotated "stable", and I can settle into moaning only one girl's name during intercourse instead of having to remember the identity of the person with whom I'm sleeping. It also means I get presents and nice things and the overall feeling of satisfaction that there is someone who appreciates my penis.....I mean, personality.
While I am not looking to date anyone right now (fuck that), if in the future I should ever find myself in need of an exclusive relationship, I've decided to compile a list of rules which one should follow if they want to be the lucky girl I come home to drunk.
1) Be Beautiful - Although when I'm single I tend to throw all standards of beauty out the window and stick my penis in whatever comes my way, when I date someone I expect them to be beautiful. Let's face it, no one wants an ugly girlfriend. A lot of people will give you all this "beauty is inside" shit, but no one really believes it. After all, if they were a good person, would they be ugly? No. God doesn't allow bad people to be beautiful. All of my girlfriends (post-high school) have been beautiful, and I plan on continuing in this same vein.*
2) Have a personality - Just typing that incredibly hackneyed phrase almost made me sick, but it's true. I don't want to date someone who's beautiful and doesn't have a personality. That would suck. If I wanted to do that, I'd just become a dendrophiliac. Which brings me to my next point...
3) Be intelligent - I don't want to have to constantly explain my vocabulary to you. I don't want to have to explain jokes or puns to you, because if I have to do that then I'm just going to start making fun of you in a manner which you can't follow. The only "32" I want to see affiliated with a girl I'm dating is an ACT score, not a bra size. People who...'scuse me, people that**...aren't intelligent are an incredible turn-off. If you can't engage me in witty banter or even clever puns, then I'm just going to mock you until you have a serious psychological disorder. Why? Because I'm sick of retards wanting things to be explained to them. It irritated me in four years of high school and I'm not about to get in a serious relationship with it. Fuck stupid people. I hate how they all sit around and bitch about standardized testing and claim that they're so much more than a number on a test. You're right, we should have better uses of standardized testing than we do now. We should use it to exterminate low-brow boors such as yourself. Idiot.
4) Be willing to put up with the fact that I will do the exact opposite of what you tell me to do - I don't care what you tell me to do, I will argue with you or do the exact opposite. I do it because I'm usually bored with the fact that we're not having a conversation about literature and because I'm usually angered by the fact that you're telling me what to do. Fuck you. You're not my mom. And if you are, then why are you reading a post about how to date me? That's gross.
More often than not I argue with my girlfriends because I think it's funny. Being a dick strikes me as amusing. Deal with it. I'm not a dick all the time, but if you're going to get on some moral high horse and tell me how to live my life, then I'm going to punch you off of it with my cock. No one tells me what to do...I'm like a two-year-old. You need to come to terms with that if you want to date me.
5) Realize that I am not going to shave or change my wardrobe for you - Yes, I know I dress like a twelve-year old. Fuck you for caring. I've been wearing the same Spider-Man T-shirts since tenth grade, and I'm not going to change the way I dress just to impress your friends at the yacht club, you elitist prick. Some of us are on a budget.
6) Don't insist that I hang out with your friends - This won't end well for anyone. If you have a lot of friends, and if they're girls, then I'm probably going to hate them. If we're at a party where there's alcohol...well, let's just say that I will quickly be labeled as "that guy" and will insist that your friends have a threesome with us (which you should be into if you want to date me). Don't make me hang out with your friends. I'm gregarious enough, I enjoy meeting new people and being social, but again, if I HAVE to do anything, I'm going to be a dick about it.
7) Read this blog - Reading this blog is probably a major portion of being able to date me. I don't want to have to explain it to you after we've begun dating, and I don't want to have to explain to you that I've already hit up most things on the "College Guy's List of Sexual Things To Do" (threesome, virgin, anal, etc.). Just read this blog and realize that this is a side of me which, although it only manifests itself in this blog, does exist.
8) Bring me a drink


*If you're reading this and feel like I haven't wanted to date you because you're not beautiful, don't take it personally. You probably are beautiful, I'm just not in a place for a relationship right now. Either that or you're a man, and therefore not on my "bangable" list.

**That was a grammatical joke designed to exemplify the non-entity of stupid people. If you don't get it, then go put a gun in your mouth.

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Veteran's Day Post

(This post is 24 hours late. Being a social pariah who exists on the fringe of the norm of social etiquette just so I can mock the way all of you live your lives is hard work. Fuck you, it still counts.)

Today we honor the veterans of all wars, foreign and domestic. But let us not forget about those who have served in such unsung wars. That's right, let us remember the heroes of such wars as the War on Drugs, the War on Illiteracy, and the War at Home (just kidding about the "War at Home". It is the most retarded show I've ever seen, and it always makes me wonder: does Michael Rappaport even have eyes?)
I don't think we should honr those who fought to end drug us or illiteracy. No. Fuck those commie elitist bourgeoisie bastards. We sing to honor those who fought to use drugs in the face of oppression. We sing to honor those who looked at words and letters all over the place and said to themselves "NO! I will NOT learn how to read! I don't care to what degree it will inconvenience myself and others; I set out with a dream of working at McDonald's and I will NOT ESCHEW IT TO LEARN HOW TO READ!"
Thanks to all our brave soldiers in these wars. Also, thanks to G. I. Jack, my shining light, my rock. Come home to me soon, baby.

Bring a soldier a drink today. And me.

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National Coming Out Day is for Homos

In case you're an insensitive asshole, let me explain to you what National Coming Out Day is. It's a magical day when people with alternate sexual identities can "come out of the closet" and "be themselves" among us "breeders". It's held on October.....wait, hold on, let me Google it....

Okay, yeah, it's on October 11. Sorry I didn't know it off the top of my head, but then again I'm an insensitive asshole. Let me drive that statement about me being an insensitive asshole home by saying that I think Coming Out Day is completely retarded and should be rendered a moot point by society and religion alike.
I'm a big supporter of gay rights*. Whether or not homosexuality comes about as a result of genetic predisposition or if it's something formed by your childhood environment is really a matter of speculative masturbation; as long as people feel they need to be a certain way and it doesn't interfere with the way I live my life, I couldn't really give a fart in a high wind. However, I do think that National Coming Out Day is completely stupid. No one should have to restrict the way they live their life to one day; people should be able to act however they want for the entire year.
There's really no need to resort to charades and massive displays of color to display one's homosexual tendencies (unless being loud and flashy is part of the gay genetic composition, which very well may be the case). Gay rights need to be argued for in a logical, well-reasoned way that will appeal to the legal powers that be. Either that or we need to pack the Senate and Supreme Court with a bunch of closet cases and have them burst forth in a surprising legal display akin to a stripper busting out of a birthday cake. "Huzzah!" they'll proclaim. "Gay rights for everyone!" Then we can have a national party where everyone wears stylish hats and drinks chablis. Hurrah! Boy, that would make the news. Fuck well-reasoned arguments about the rational choices of mature consenting adults and the fact that homosexuality really doesn't hurt anyone or threaten the institution of marriage**; let's go chalk some campus sidewalks and give ourselves a fake national holiday!
Seriously, though, I think that this whole charade is laughable at best. Instead of throwing big gay rallies and pinning little rainbows to their shirts, gay people need to get themselves a gay version of Martin Luther King. That way they can have great speaking at their rallies instead of some crying pussy weeping about how he almost killed himself in high school when he felt ostracized. They need to adopt the practice of passive resistance in order to get what they want. Wait, maybe gay people have already adopted passive resistance and all of us heteros have been mistaking it as BDSM porn. Now there's a point to ponder.
Moving on....
What I'm trying to say here is that gay people need to integrate themselves into society instead of bitching about how people ridicule them. Stop being pussies and punch someone in the face. If I were gay and a bunch of douchebags in sheets were burning a cross in my yard, I'd just get my shotgun and unload on them. Sure, the judge might not give me the benefit of the doubt because I'm gay, but after awhile people sure as hell wouldn't burn crosses in my yard. And I'd be a gay person in prison. Everyone wins!
Gay people shouldn't put up with any shit; I'm not advocating that. But nobody is going to be convinced by marches and rallies. Don't try and change yourself, and don't try to make other people realize how "persecuted" you are - anyone who's going to take the time to listen to your polemics is already on your side. The only thing that's going to convince people who think violence is a viable solution to solving "the gay problem" is a good swift kick in the nuts. Don't take shit from anyone, and don't give us a bunch of pansy shit. Just be yourself. Goddammit, am I sick and tired of college students telling me how persecuted they are. If I were persecuted because I like to have sex with women, I'd just kill people until everyone left me alone. That's what gay people should do.

And they should also bring me a drink. Something fruity.

*I know that I use a lot of words like "faggot" and "gay" with negative connotations in my writing. They're colloquial terms that have nothing to do with homosexuality - get used to them. If you don't accept that, you're gay. Faggot.
** Yeah, right. Gay people don't threaten the institution of marriage. If white trash bastards marry their cousins and have retarded kids at whom they throw empty bottles of shitty gin, everyone cheers; if gay people want to have a loving relationship and adopt a child in need of a loving home, we all freak out and throw a KKK meeting. Fuck you if you don't support gay marriage. Homo.

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More News From G.I. Jack

The following are excerpts from the journal of one of my best friends, G. I. Jack. G. I. Jack is currently deployed with the Marine Corps in Afghanistan, kicking down doors to drug nests and fixing Humvees and just experiencing the all-around bureaucratic ineptitude the Marine Corps higher-ups have to offer. He sometimes sends me his journal, and although I can't republish all of it here, I've picked out a few highlights for you bastards. While I have made some topical changes to correct his grammar and change names in some places, the words are all his, and the stories are (to the best of my knowledge) completely true. Enjoy.

Wednesday November 9th, 2005

I went out on a very important, top secret, vital to the security of our great nation mission earlier today. Allow me to explain...

Yesterday, a jingle truck got attacked while making its way here to deliver whatever he had in the 20-foot container on the back of the truck. Apparently, the jingle truck got hit with two (count 'em, TWO) RPGs (rocket propelled grenades), and also took some sniper fire as well. In addition to this, in the midst of all this action, the jingle truck ran off the road due to the fire it was receiving. Shortly after this happened, the CAAT (combined anti-armor team) went out to seek out the people suspected of doing this. Holding true to Murphy's Law, the CAAT convoy arrived a day late and a dollar short and didn't get there in time to find these people, and came back to the FOB.... So, today, I went out with the CAAT to go back to the jingle truck site to see what was in the container, and if it was mission essential (i.e. weapons, ammo, etc...) to somehow bring it back to the FOB. Well, the drive out there consists of driving on some of the most horrendous roads known to man kind. I would rather travel back in time to the days of covered wagons that didn't have suspensions or shock absorbers and travel on the Oregon Trail in uncharted lands then drive on these roads. It's not that these roads are just bumpy and dusty, they also go up and down several hundred feet in the mountains, and in several places, if you're a driver like I am, you have to choose between scraping your vehicle up against the mountain, or plummeting down the side of a cliff because these roads are about 2 inches wider then a Humvee... Afghanistan is just a land filled with choices, ehh?
Anyways, we get out there to the jingle truck site, and here's what I saw....

First, I immediately saw a jingle truck with no obvious damage (other than the damage that woud naturally come from years and years of driving on these roads from hell). No burn marks or fire damage, no bullet holes, just a jingle truck that somehow ran off the road. As I sat in my Humvee looking at this jingle truck, I also noticed that it was missing the classic, tell-tale sign that would've shown it was hit by an RPG. A GIGANTIC FUCKING HOLE WHEREVER IT GOT HIT!

Anyways.... A team got out, secured the area, and the seals to the container were cut, and the container was opened. I was expecting to see rays of light similar to what came out of the Ark of the Covenant in Indiana Jones and The Raiders of The Lost Ark. Sadly though, I was let down because all that was in this huge container was a bundle of engineer stakes. Engineer stakes.... Engineer stakes are just long pieces of green metal, about 3 or 4 inches wide, 5 feet tall that are used to fence boundaries with razor wire around FOBs.
Had my Humvee went careening off the side of a mountain, or an RPG hit my truck causing it to burst into flames and killing everybody inside, I think the message the Department of Defense would've sent my mother would've went something like this....

Dear Mrs. [G. I. Jack],
We regret to inform you that your son, Corporal [G. I. Jack] was killed in action when his Humvee went careening off the side of a cliff and/or his Humvee was hit by a rocket propelled grenade. You can rest assured that your son died bravely and courageously on a very important mission to drive out to a jingle truck that went off the road because the driver is a moron to retrieve a bundle of engineer stakes.
You have our deepest sympathies.
Sincerely,
The D.O.D.

Moving on...

Today the local who operates the crane finally got out our 20 foot container down here in the motor pool area. Back in the states, this would've been uneventful, but with Afghanis doing all the work, I knew I was in for a show. Knowing this, I climbed up on top of the roof of our motor-t shack so I could watch the action unfold before me.
Before I say what happened, I'll explain why watching Afghanis do any kind of work with machinery is funny. You see, these people aren't too technologically advanced, so when they have a machine to do the work, they just fuck around with it until they think they have it down. Most times they don't, and hilarity ensues. Also, there's usually 5-10 Afghanis trying to tackle one project, no matter how big, or how small, and everybody is ALWAYS yelling at each other. Today was no exception....
The crane driver managed to hook up the 20 foot container to the crane without incident. However, when he got it hoisted into the air, he didn't really know how to stabilize it, or keep it under control. So, we had a 35,000lb, 20 foot container swinging wildy in the air and a couple Afghanis wearing sandals and "man-jamas" trying their darnedest to grab onto it to try and control it so they can move it to where we want it. Needless to say, things didn't go their way, and a corner of the 20 footer went smashing through the windshield of the crane operator's cab, causing him to run out yelling "DIRKA, DIRKA!" with a confused look on his face.
The 20 footer smashing through that windshield killed 2 birds with one stone. It gave Sgt. [Blank] and I one hell of a good laugh, and it also stopped the 20 footer from swinging, thus allowing them to finally move it to the exact location we told them to put it.
After the 20 footer was dropped and put into place, the Afghanis began to close up shop so they could move onto their next project. This wasn't going too terribly bad and was about to go back into our motor-t shack, and then it happened. The hydraulic line for the power train that powers the crane blew a seal somewhere along the line, and began spilling hydraulic fluid all over the ground. This was funny not because it broke, but for the simple fact that since there's no EPA out here, nobody gives a shit about spilling fluids all over the ground. What was also funny was that the crane operator seemed genuinely surprised that the "seal" or "gasket" he had improvised the last time this happened broke. I wasn't surprised one bit because he was using black electrical tape instead of a rubber o-ring [ADI Note: If you don't know anything about hydraulic lines, the idea of using electrical tape to seal a hose instead of an o-ring is pretty fucking stupid] to make the seal. I thought this was hilarious.

Saturday, November 5th, 2005

Myself [and some miscellanoeous sergeants] are a part of this thing called the OST, or the Operations Support Team. Basically we're here to support Echo Company in the ways of Motor-T stuff. We don't report to them, take orders from them, or answer to them. We're just here to support them as best as we can. Echo company's CO (commanding officer) Captain [Douche], hasn't quite caught onto this yet, but that's another story in itself. So, Capt. [Douche] is talking to Sgt. [Blank] and Lt. [Blanker], who is the OST OIC (Officer In Charge), about Motor-T type stuff, i.e. trucks that need to be fixed, trucks that have been fixed etc, etc, etc. Right in the middle of talking about all that, Capt. [Douche] turns to Lt. [Blanker] and says, "Lt., I had some soft ice cream tonight, and I'm not sure what's going on with that. I'm not sure if it's the freezer it was in, or if we have a bad batch of ice cream. I think it might be a bad batch of ice cream because I've had a bad b atch of ice cream before. So check out the ice cream situation and see what's going on with that..." Lt. [Blanker] and Sgt. [Blank] both give each other looks that say "Is this guy fuckin' serious?" Sgt. [Blank] tells us this story and says,(very sarcastically too) "Maybe he didn't notice the lid to the freezer doesn't line up with the rest of the freezer, so maybe that's it?" He even made a nice little diagram using two chocolate cookies to show the freezer lid in relation to the rest of the freezer, and how the two didnt line up.

Forget worrying about FOB security, or the location(s) of enemy fighters, WE MIGHT HAVE A BAD BATCH OF ICE CREAM!!!!

*shaking my head......*

Wednesday, November 2nd, 2005

A couple months ago when a Humvee was blown up by an IED, Sgt. [Anonymous] had to go up there after it all happened to help load it onto the back of a jingle truck so it could be transported. After they all arrived at the scene and things started getting done, Sgt. [Anonymous] went to work preparing the truck to be loaded. One of the things he was in the process of doing was disconnecting the batteries and the battery teminals and whatnot, so that they didn't spark and cause a fire. As he was right in the middle of doing this, a Lieutenant walks up and says "Don't worry about doing that, it'll be fine as it is." The Lieutenant got no argument from Sgt. [Anonymous], and Sgt. [Anonymous] backed off, knowing full well what was going to happen. So, they got the Humvee loaded up onto the back of the jingle truck, and they started to move. After a mile or so, sure enough, the batteries sparked, causing a fire. The Humvee caught on fire, which in turn caught the jingle truck hauling it on fire. *chuckling* So, because of that, they decided it was in fact necessary to disconnect the batteries. No shit, huh?"

When G. I. Jack gets back, I expect all you assholes to bring him a drink.

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EXTRA!! EXTRA!! College Newspapers Suck Dick!!

I don't know if this is true on every college campus across America, but given my propensity for taking isolated incidents and extrapolating them into universal truths, I'm going to go ahead and say that all college newspapers suck ass. Here's a little rundown of what you can expect to find in such a wanton display of journalistic ineptitude.
Front Page - One of the few parts of the paper not completely deserving of defenestration or ignition. Usually this part will deal with some administrative shit going on around campus. If you're interested in seeing how the bureaucratic monolith of incompetence that is the office of campus affairs is wasting your money, you should read this section. This section also provides in-depth coverage about meaningless campus activities such as "Latino Coming Out Day"*, so if you missed it (as well you should have), you can look at "candid" pictures of your "fellow students" acting like "total faggots". SWEET!!! Fuck that.
Arts and Entertainment - Usually this section will contain nothing related to the arts or to entertainment. The author will spend his or her time reviewing crappy "indie/punk rock" CDs and movies that everyone else saw months ago. Good for you, asshole. No one cares that you think the camera work in Cabin Fever (which gets 80,000 stars on the ADI movie rating scale, by the way) "left something to be desired". You're no more of a judge of art than any other mongoloid at a keyboard. You suck. Burn this section of the paper.
Sports - I suppose that I might actually care about this section of the paper if I went to a school that had any sports teams worth mentioning. But we suck. It wouldn't be so bad if the editors didn't think it would be "interesting" (read: space-filling) to interview an athlete each week. You know, just to affirm the fact that they're total retards (the athletes....and the editors).
Ed/Op Page - When I was a freshman, this page actually used to be pretty cool. People would lace into each other and start petty arguments over stupid shit like whether or not Marxism is a worthwhile theory (it's not), whether or not abortion is permissible (it is, and it's funny), or whether or not the administration was right to blast away the pro-gay graffiti smeared all over the sidewalks before the alumni came back for Homecoming. Now this section is completely comprised of worthless articles whose headlines say something like "Freshman Experiences Some Stupid Shit That Everyone Else Has Experienced" or "Take Time To Smell The Roses And Ignore The Fact That Your Big Stupid Ass Makes A Pretty Good Target While You're Doing It". No one cares that you think you've found happiness by participating in some mindless activity like staring at falling leaves, and no one cares that you're a freshman who's experiencing something that everyone else on this campus has experienced or is currently experiencing. You suck. Kill yourself.

Not only does our campus' newspaper suck complete ass as far as content goes, but the grammatical abortions they let slip into print are enough to make even the illiterate cringe. I suppose I shouldn't care so much, but I just get pissed off that these dipshits are going to be able to put on their resumes that they were "edditers of the school paper three yers" and I'm not. Fuck them.
College newspapers should be used to rip into other people. They should be used to raise issues and address them. They shouldn't be used to let people who couldn't even make it as an English major (that's saying something, because on an intelligence scale of 1-5, English majors rate in at a whopping -40...and those are the smart ones) splooge their intellectual pus bubbles on paper that is being purchased by MY tuition money. People should give ME money to write, not wide-eyed credulous ass munchers who are skating through college on their parents' checkbooks. Fuck college newspapers...they're worthless.

Actually, I take that back. I did find a good use for the newspaper. Once, I was at a frat house and had to take a massive Taco-Bell induced shit. I rushed into the bathroom and, after several strenuous minutes that resulted in a massive endorphin rush to my brain and the feeling that I was several pounds lighter, I cast about for something to wipe my ass with. There was no toilet paper to be found anywhere. Luckily, there was a copy of The Argus (my school's newspaper) lying nearby. Although it was a bit rough around the edges, wiping my ass with that paper was certainly a hell of a lot more pleasurable than reading it.

Now bring me a drink. And be sure to write some shitty human interest story about it while you do it.

*I can't believe this is an actual event at our campus. If you're Latino, shouldn't that be rather self-evident? Why the hell do you have to "come out" of the "Latino closet" (which probably smells like burrito grease and diarrhea water)? If you think activities like these are worthwhile, then I've got a great campus activity for you: Re-enact Jonestown Day.

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Tales from the Proletariat: The Famous Phone Booth Debacle

During the summer following my freshman year of college, I stayed with the family of a girl I was dating in Madison. Madison is an exponentially better city than the one in which I grew up; there were hippies and rich people living in harmony in their mutual hatred of the poor black folks living in Section 8 housing.
It is important to note that Madison has its share of poor black people, because one of my summer jobs in Madison was to be a bouncer at a night club. To give you an idea of the caliber of the night club in which I worked, let's just say that a month and a half after I quit working there, another bouncer was shot and killed by one of its patrons (the crazy bitch in my bed right now informs me that I've already written about this...fuck her).
After one particularly interesting night of work (during which I broke up a fight between a crazy white bitch and a drunk black guy and also got a phone number from a woman who appeared to be twenty years my senior), I decided to go out for coffee after work. Although it might seem counterintuitive to go out for coffee at 2:30 in the morning, I was scheduled to work an eight-hour shift starting at 5:30. Since I'd been doing this all summer, I was accustomed to sleepless weekends, and coffee at 2:30 in the morning is good, so fuck you.
I stopped at a phone booth near the club in order to call my girlfriend's family and let them know that I was getting coffee and not shot to death by some wacked-out drug dealer. As I was trying to operate the incredibly ghetto phone (which apparently didn't accept quarters as a legal tender of all debts public and private), I noticed a guy walking by.
To see him in the daylight would have been nothing special. He was perhaps twenty feet from me, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and was walking in a sort of jocund ramble characteristic of the sanguine and the retarded. I paid him no heed, intent on cursing out the godforsaken piece of horseshit that was the pay phone. Suddenly, I heard the last words any guy wants to hear at 2:30 on a Saturday morning:
"Want a blow job?"
Baffled, I stopped my vain strugglings with the phone and looked at him.
"What?" I asked, hoping instead that the guy had said "Punt a ho slob" instead of what I thought I had heard.
"C'mon, man, I'll do whatever you want. I just want to taste you in my mouth."
"Um, whatever."
The guy passed me by, staring at me with piercing vapid eyes. Thankfully, he kept walking. All I could think of was the fact that I had a baseball bat in my car and I was dressed in full Security Douche regalia; no one would question me if I beat his ass and claimed that he was trying to mug me.
As I returned to my ineffective manipulations with the bastard piece of devilry that was this fucking phone, I noticed that the guy had walked about a block away from me....but now he was coming back.
And now he was wolf-whistling at me and making the universal sign of fellatio with his fist and mouth..somehow simultaneously. I briefly considered what kind of talent would enable a man to do such a thing, but quickly classified such thoughts as "Thoughts You Should Not Entertain Because They Border On Admitting To Yourself That You're Gay".
Finally discouraged with the lack of results from the pay phone, I got into my car and started to drive away. Amazingly enough, the guy started chasing after my car and actually jumped out and grabbed my hood before I got away from him. Fuck coffee, I was going home to bed.
Although nothing really serious happened, that experience changed my life in a couple of ways:
1) Receiving oral sex from girls was not the same for a very, very long time. Every time it started to happen, this voice would come whispering out of the darkness: "Want a blow job? I just want to taste you..."
2) I really started to reconsider how rough women have it. I mean, if this is the kind of treatment they receive when they walk past construction sites or through singles bars, how the hell are they all not complete agoraphobes? I'd sit in my room all day clutching a giant knife while rocking back and forth. It really made me think about the plight of women in today's patriarchal society...then I realized that I didn't care and instead decided to get drunk and fuck bitches to my heart's content.

So now you have heard the tale of the infamous Phone Booth Debacle. Bring me a drink. I just want to taste it....

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Stay Healthy Until You Die

I am a health nut. You wouldn't know it to look at me, but I fully plan on being one of those people whom other people walk up to on the street and say "Wow! You look great for being eighty!" However, I'll probably be thirty or so at the time, so the effect might be dampened somewhat.
There are some things you should know to live a long and healthy life. For starters, if you're not on the ADI health plan, you should be:
Never see a doctor - Doctors are overpriced. Doctors can fuck up. Doctors are just people who happened to go to seven years of school, whereas you didn't. However, by learning a little herbology (wormwood makes you shit worms, belladonna causes hallucination and probably death, etc.) and a little extra nut power in your sac, you can get along just fine without ever seeing one of those goddam quacks. For example, if you break your finger, just pop a few Tylenol and wrap it good and tight. It'll heal on its own. If you're coughing up blood and little worms are crawling out of your skin, you should probably just take a double dose of beer and watch some "Buffy the Vampire Slayer". No matter what's wrong with you, it'll take care of itself one way or the other. Fuck doctors.
Drink - Alcohol kills germs. Surgeons use alcohol to clean their instruments. Therefore, if you have a shitload of alcohol swimming around in your blood stream, no germs will be able to live. It's like Batman - in order to eradicate evil, just make an evironment so terrifying that evil won't be able to survive it. Also, smoke. You know, just to be on the safe side.
Stop being such a pussy - If you have a body part hanging off, or if your elbow happens to be bending the wrong way, suck it up. Nobody likes a crybaby. If you can just stop being a fricking baby about your sliced foot, gangrene will soon set in an it'll stop hurting. See? Problem solved. Little girly nancy boys won't be able to handle this, but that's just survival of the fittest. Darwin was right; anyone who can't handle the ADI health plan will soon become extinct and the world will belong to the super race of Irish beings who live in a state of perpetual drunken happiness.
Never work out - Working out is for idiots who have nothing better to do. Ideally, you should be running from the cops, lifting kegs of beer, throwing bottles and screwing until the sun comes up. If you have any extra weight to get rid of, then just drink 'til you puke. It's not bulimia, it's just alcoholism. If that's not your idea of a diet, then take up smoking. The excess pounds will just melt away. You shouldn't have any time left to loaf around the gym and look at yourself in the mirror because you'll be too busy staying in shape and having the best time of your life.
Always compete with someone younger and less talented than you - This doesn't necessarily make you healthier, but it sure does make you feel good about yourself. Play basketball with a three-year old. Whoop his ass. When he starts crying, point and laugh at the weak-ass game he put up. They say that laughter is the best medicine, and when the endorphins kick in from laughing so strenuously you'll feel like you're on top of the world. For a better result, play a full contact sport like tackle football. Hey, kids gotta grow up sometime.

Perhaps the best exercise, though, lies in the fetching and serving of drinks. I suggest you do that for me.

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Dear Women: The Passing Lane is for Passing

During my driving career, I have spent a somewhat inordinate amount of time on the interstate. A lot of factors have played into this, such as dating a girl who lives in another state, driving to Nebraska to sing with a bunch of talentless flakes, driving to a job an hour away on a daily basis, etc. Now, I always try to be fair-minded and not make blanket generalizations about people based on their sex, race, or beliefs, and....

Wait, no I don't.

Women suck at driving*. Whenever I'm driving on an interstate, late for some engagement or another, phone pressed against my ear and obstinate pipe refusing to light in my mouth, I always run into the same problem: some stupid bitch driving the speed limit in the passing lane. Look, I'm going 25 miles per hour over the speed limit here and I'm barely paying attention to the road as it is; I don't need your stupid ass driving at intolerably sluggish speeds right in front of me.
Driving the speed limit is fine. Driving under the speed limit is fine. I don't care if you do either of those things. But just don't do it in the passing lane. The passing lane is for people like me. The passing lane is for people who are actually going somewhere, not for lackadaisical schmucks taking their time to view the stunning Illinois scenery (some noted points of interest along Illinois interstates: corn. Also, beans.). I'm trying to get to work on time, goddammit. I don't need to see your beige-colored Astrowagon looming in front of me, and I sure as hell don't want to spend the next ten minutes looking at the Jesus fish magnet on the back end and your "My Child Is An Honor Student At Dumbass Middle School" bumper sticker while you drive the exact same speed (45 mph) as the semi next to you. I want to GO! I want to get to my destination! That's why I got in my fucking car in the first place, bitch! I'm sure you want to afford me plenty of time to look at your "Abortion Takes a Life" bumper sticker, but doing so is only taking away precious seconds of MY life. Seconds that should be spent drinking!
The passing lane is for passing.
The passing lane is for passing.
One more time....
The passing lane is (although you would never guess it from its name) passing.
Why am I lambasting women for this behavior? Because my subjective experience has afforded all the empirical evidence I need to say, with complete certainty, that whenever there's some douchebag driving slower than eighty in the left lane, it's going to be a woman.
I hate women drivers.
I hate their shitty little puke-colored Volkswagen bastardized clown cars, I hate their useless SUVs, I hate the way they change their tampons while they're driving (I assume), and I hate the way that they monopolize the passing lane. I hate it. I also hate their stupid bumper stickers. "Earth First"? Who the hell says something like that? Fuck the Earth, what has it ever done for us? Oh yeah, that's right - Hurricane Katrina. And for Christmas last year we got a huge tsunami. The Earth has been the biggest white elephant gift giver lately.
Where was I going with this? Oh yes. Women drivers suck.
Last year I was driving home from work on an icy road (where I live, all roads are either icy or under construction year-round). I was approaching a threeway stop, going very slowly, and my car started to slide into the intersection. Now, it's not as if I had just slammed on the brakes right at the stop sign. No, I had been tapping them for a good hundred yards or so before the intersection - the roads were that shitty.
As I began sliding into the intersection, another car (which had been at a complete and utter stop) starts driving into the intersection. This dumbass, who had seen that I was unable to stop and decided to start driving straight toward me ANYWAY, then decides to slam on their brakes, making them start to slide. Luckily, I am the World's Best Driver and was able to pull myself out of the skid, but the person coming toward me slid straight into a pole while trying to avoid me.
You get three guesses as to the gender of this driver. That's right, it was a woman.
Normally, I would assume that someone who would do such an idiotic thing was trying to fuck me out of some insurance money; however, since it was a woman driver (god, that term gets more and more oxymoronic the more I type it), I can only assume that she was on her period or pregnant, or possibly both**.
Moral of the story: keep women off the roads. And bring me a drink.

*As the old joke goes, the only reason Helen Keller couldn't drive was because she was a woman.

**I realize that I have a lot of female readers who are going to be offended by this. Realize that I bear no special grudge against women because of their lack of driving abilities. This post is tongue-in-cheek, so don't get all pissed off at me because right now you should be in the kitchen making dinner and babies.

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Riots are the shit

When the Sox won the ALCS, pandemonium broke out at Illinois State University. Apparently there were crowds of people in the street, cops, riot gear, etc. Unfortunately, I missed it because I was working on some academic shit (read: jerking off to gay porn).
Tonight the White Sox swept the Astros in the World Series. Not to be slighted, I saw this as an opportunity to participate in some decidedly ADI-like activities. Fuck academics (gay porn can wait for another day). Despite the fact that I have been a lifelong Cardinals fan, I decided to go support my Southside Homies in their various destructive activities.
I hitched a ride with some girls. We arrived just in time to see a glut of people making their way through the middle of the street. We followed them to a nearby junior high school, and were there just as the crowd pulled down the north field goal posts. Whenever your night starts off with a field goal post being destroyed, you know it's going to be good.
Mob mentality swiftly overcame me. I didn't care where I was going; I just trusted the ol' Irish luck and followed groups of people that appeared to be moving in a determined direction. The goal post was carried down the middle of the street and deposited at a (normally) busy intersection. Street signs and construction barriers didn't stand a chance; anyone with a mind to was breaking whatever he wanted at will. I was so happy that I couldn't even participate. All I could do was watch and smile. This was heaven.
The crowd moved to the ISU quad, where there was a stage and a DJ set up. Soon the place was filled with at least two thousand people. People were body surfing. I kept screaming my support for gay rights (I was informed later that this wasn't a gay rights parade by a rather large black man...so I started screaming my support for "colored people's rights") and moving with the crowd. The girls I came with nancied out and decided to go home. Not me.
Soon the cops were on the scene. The flashing red and blue lights, along with the flashes from hundreds of cameras, created a veritable cornucopia of strobes. It was like being at a rave, but with drunk redneck college assholes instead of creepy greasy assholes on ecstasy. The cops ushered everyone off the stage and stood there, impeding any future attempts at crowd surfing. I gotta say, they certainly stood their ground, considering the fact that they didn't have any protective face gear and there were bottles of all kinds flying at them from indignant college students.
After the quad was broken up, someone started chanting "To the streets! To the streets!" It doesn't matter who was chanting this - at this point we were all sheep.
We returned to the streets, hundreds strong, and stood in the face of traffic. More cops showed up. These cops had riot gear. Fuck them.
We ressurected the goal post and carried it on our shoulders. It was like one of those riots you hear about in places like Rwanda, except that there was really no justifiable reason for ours and we had a broken field goal post, whereas they only had Maltov cocktails. Rwanda sucks compared to us. We returned to the quad, depositing the post in a giant empty bowl-shaped fountain and spun it around. This was stopped, once again, by the cops. Fuck them.
Luckily, I ran into a guy with whom I work somewhere amidst the writhing mass of people. He reeked of beer and was carrying a Sox flag. I joined him mostly because his dad's a city cop and he is therefore immune to consequences.
Once again, amidst the cries of "Let's go White Sox!" and "Fuck the po-lice!", the cry "To the streets! To the streets!" was raised. We returned to the main thoroughfare and began marching. I don't know who started it, but the mob soon began shouting that we should walk to I-55, which goes to Chicago. So we started.
Did I mention that I-55 was about three miles away?
We continued walking down the middle of the road. Nothing could stop us. Every street sign we encountered was demolished. One image which sticks out in particular to me is that of a group of perhaps seven college students all pulling in tandem to destroy a street sign. It was a sort of fucked up Iwo Jima snapshot in reverse. This was paradise.
People started destroying fences to houses we encountered. Pumpkins were smashed, lights were put out, and Halloween decorations were destroyed. This all came to a head when a random guy put a freshly plucked street sign through some window in a random house. I felt bad for those people, but mob mentality demanded that I cheer for this act of wanton barbarism.
Scary Adam calls me. He is not checking on me, knowing that I am participating in mob action. He is not concerned for my well-being. He wants to know if he can borrow my headphones. I yell "Fuck you, nigger!" ignoring the fact that I am standing next to about four blacks guys. They laugh. Scary Adam returns the sentiment, then starts talking. I hang up. He sends me a text message which says "Fuck you." Fuck him.
We are almost to I-55. The cops have been with us the whole time, watching as we walk down the middle of one of the busiest roads in town. There is an altercation between a black lady trying to drive through the crowd and some asshole in a tank top who is dancing in front of her car. She gets out of her car and goes to the trunk, presumably to grab a blunt object of some sort. He walks away. College students are pussies.
My co-worker and I have almost reached 55. He informs me that his dad and pals have tear gas and mace and will not hesitate to use it. We decide that he should drive me home.
I am home now. Riots are the shit. I suggest that we have one every day.

I'm tired. Bring me a drink.

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A Day of Magic

One month from today, the world will celebrate a momentous occasion in the history of mankind. All people will join hands, circle around, and sing of the moment when, twenty-one years ago, God took a giant shit on the world. That's right, it's a-gonna be my birfday.
I'm writing this post now so that all you cheap-ass lowlives won't have an excuse not to get me a present for my birthday. Because I will be turning twenty-one (the Last Great American Birthday), I am going to do a couple of things:
1) Reflect on how I've changed over the past year.
2) Think about how I'm going to improve myself in the coming year
3) Get shitfaced
4) Forget about numbers 1 and 2
Also, since it's my birthday, I expect everyone to get me a present. Seriously. Now that you've been informed of this, here are some of my favorite things so you'll know what to buy me:
Favorite Whiskey: Jameson. Or Knob Creek.
Favorite Scotch: Glenlivet. The older, the better.
Favorite Beer: Killian's Irish Red. Or Guinness. But mostly Killian's.
Favorite Books and Media: This one's a little harder to nail down. Basically, if you get me anything that has to do with witches, demons, or the occult, I'll be happy. Although pop culture fiction is good (no Ann Rice or Stephen King - Ann Rice sucks dick and I own almost every Stephen King book written), the older shit like Masticationes Mortorium or some demonology treatises would be fricking amazing. I'm a sucker for that shit. Also, I need to pick up bilingual Latin works in order to work on my knowledge of that awesome language. A Latin Bible, a bilingual copy of the Aeneid, or a copy of the Malleus Maleficarum would be awesome. And any movies with puppets. I fucking love puppet movies. Muppet movies, Fraggle Rock, anything like that. Buy it for me.
Favorite Sexual Gift: Threesome. Or a striptease. But preferably a threesome. Actual sex need not be included, just three people gettin' naked and having fun. Always a good birthday gift.
Favorite Gifts: Spontaneous, hilarious, useful ones from the heart. Like a sword.

If nothing else, do this for me: come to my house on my birthday and drink with me. That would be present enough for me. And bring me a drink.

One month and counting......

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Leave the Pettiness in Grad School

You'd think that when you come to a liberal arts university that calls itself "the Harvard of the Midwest" (completely ignoring Washington University, University of Chicago, Notre Dame, and other schools more deserving of that title) that you wouldn't have to put up with a lot of bullshit from professors. I'm not talking about academic bullshit - in today's wacky postmodern age of women drivers and male nurses, I suppose anything goes. I'm not talking about "bullshit" the way a retarded frat guy would talk about a professor's bullshit; excessive homework doesn't bother me, and I like to be challenged.
I'm talking in particular about a professor on this campus who seems to have a problem with me. This in itself is baffling, since I tend to get along well with everyone, especially professors, and have only talked to this particular professor maybe twice in my life. I was told by a couple of people that this particular professor (for privacy's sake, we'll refer to hir* as Dr. Maniac, after a Jerry Spinelli character) was "really pissed" at me. Why would such a professor be so angry at me if I've only talked to hir* a couple of times?
Oh yeah. This blog.
The only thing I can think of is that somehow Dr. Maniac got ahold of my writings (particularly those lacing into particular philosophies held by weakasses on this campus) and got all sorts of riled up. I guess all I have to say about the fact that this sort of hullabaloo is being raised is this:
Fucking get over it.
Seriously, how much of a loser do you have to be to care about what I write? You're a goddam professor, for God's sake.
Get.
Over.
It.
Without even appealing to arguments regarding free speech and the Constitution and a bunch of other hippy bullshit (these arguments, in case you haven't noticed, are usually used by neo-Nazis and rednecks who want to fly swastikas and Dixie colors in the yard of their trailer), the fact that a professor would get angry about an undergraduate's personal webpages is laughable at best. What kind of influence am I going to wield over the student body? What harm am I going to do? None.
If it's not going to hurt you, let it be.
I know that I somehow have this reputation from people who don't know me as a sort of baby-eating ogre who kicks the walkers out from under old people and blows pipe smoke in the faces of cancer victims. In reality, I'm just a fellow lover of knowledge who happens to be way funnier than you, Dr. Maniac. I believe that everyone is an individual and should function as such in a society of individuals who should be judged by their accomplishments and not their external biological features. I believe that gender roles should be eradicated and that everyone should be left to do whatever they want as long as they don't hurt someone else. Ideally, we would live in a world without gender or race.
However, our world is gendered and colored, and I also happen to think that it's really funny when someone makes a black joke or a joke about women*. Why do I think it's funny? Perhaps it's because the disparity between socially held norms and my ideal vision for the world is so great that it's actually humorous. Perhaps it's because a joke is a joke, no matter the subject material. However, this is not a discourse on the philosophy of humor. This is a rant, goddammit.
I'd appreciate it if everyone would sit down and repeat two things to themselves:
1) "The Angry Drunken Irishman is a fictional character." It is a pseudonym. It is a voice adopted who occasionally says things that the writer might not actually say himself. (For more on this, read Stephen King's The Dark Half or any of his writings about his pen name, Richard Bachman).
2) "It doesn't matter what someone writes." I have no power. I'm a goddam undergraduate student. You can say that the pen is mightier than the sword, that I'm affecting the way people think, that I'm promulgating a bad mentality, and any other horseshit you want. It doesn't make it true. People who think that I'm being a bad influence on the world are the same sort of people who claim that anorexia is caused by the media: morons. Sure, there might be some sort of influence...but that's only because I'm already appealing to something that was inside of my reader. I'm not putting new ideas into someone's head, I'm simply bringing out what was already there and making it funny by putting it into a tongue-in-cheek context, albeit a harsh one. If those notions weren't already held by the audience, then the jokes wouldn't be funny and the audience wouldn't be able to relate to my adopted voice at all. People wouldn't read it.
If you have any sort of justification for telling me why I shouldn't write this shit, please, tell me. Don't go badmouthing me to your fellow professors like a coward. If you want to get a hold of me, it's not that hard. I go to this school. If you want to have an intelligent, adult conversation, then I'm your man. I don't appreciate passive-aggressiveness, and I sure as hell don't like backstabbing. You'd think that, as a professor, you'd have more important things to do (such as your job) than read some undergrad's leisure writing. Maybe you could contribute something original to your field. Maybe you could help a student who's in one of your classes. Maybe you could do something, I don't know, that ACTUALLY MATTERS. I'm only going to say this one more time: get over it.
To everyone else, I'm sorry that this post isn't that funny. When I'm legitimately pissed, all humor seems to go out the window. I could have really made this post humorous and laced into Dr. Maniac, but I've tried to be adult and restrain myself. Don't worry, I've got more shit in the works that should get us back on the Funny Train.

In the meantime, bring me a drink.

*This isn't a typo. This is a gender-neutral pronoun, for all you dumbasses who didn't know. I encourage their use.
**Q: How many women does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: None! Bitch can cook in the dark.

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Appreciate your parents

There comes a time in the life of everyone who writes this sort of material when they must reconcile with themselves the fact that their parents are going to read their stuff. It happened to Maddox, it happened to Bunny, and now it's happened to me. I think my mom's exact words were, "As a mother, I'm mortified." However, she followed that with, "but the writing is really good, and I'm proud to see what a good writer you've become." Although I have conflicted feelings about my mother reading this blog (do I continue with my filthy language and stories and stay honest to the mood or do I clean it up now that I know my audience entails my mother?), I'm very happy that my mom at least was able to look past the facade of the ADI and see that it's just me ranting away and adopting a voice that's not necessarily mine. As such, the following post is dedicated to my parents:

"I don't want to eat my vegetables!" "When will you be back?" "There's a monster in my closet!" "Are we there yet?" "Why are boy parts different from girl parts?" "I hate you!"
Although I don't have any kids (that I know of), parents have to deal with a lot of stupid shit from their progeny. The problem with today's youth is that they don't appreciate all the different kinds of hell they put their parents through. As such, I advise every parent to adopt the same attitude I do: be an asshole to people so they'll like you that much more when you're nice to them. Let's see how the above statements should be answered so you don't have to deal with a bunch of crap from your kids:
"I don't want to eat my vegetables/dinner!" This is an easy one to take care of. Simply answer your kids, "Well, mommy put a lot of time and effort into making this food, and if you don't eat it she'll die." This ought to shut them up. If you say it with a completely serious and concerned expression on your face, the initial shock value will be enough to wipe that bitchy little whine off their faces. With any luck, they'll start shovelling food into their mouths so fast that they won't have time to complain about food you spent a lot of time preparing. However, this doesn't work on some kids, and if you continue using this line you'll eventually lose the element of surprise. That's when you have to kick your game up a notch. If your kids remain resolute about not eating their veggies, then you should get a pained expression on your face, clutch your chest, pretend to have a heart attack and fall over onto the ground. To make it realistic, don't move at all. Don't even move when they're crying over your motionless body. As I always say, "Tears wash away the brattiness". If you don't think that you can pull off lying motionless on the floor while your kids cry, then you should have a friend burst in the door wearing a hockey mask at a predetermined signal. Have them fire a blank gun at you or pretend to stab you with a retractable knife before they run back out the door. Your kids will be too busy screaming to notice you convulsing with laughter on the floor.
"When will you be back?" Another easy fix. Whenever your kid asks you this, simply crouch down to their level, put a hand on their shoulder, and say with a completely serious face, "Daddy's not coming back ever again." Then walk out the door without so much as a backward glance. It may seem cruel, but any guilt you feel will quickly be eradicated by the joy your kids express when you come home at night. Again, the shock value of this might wear off, so you should probably spend some nights away from home just to keep them on their toes. Plus it'll give you a nice vacation.
"There's a monster in my closet!" This is probably the easiest and most fun little kid-ism to fix. The next time they wake you up and tell you that there's a supernatural predator in their closet, act really scared. Grab them by the shoulders, slap a hand over their mouth, and say "Shut the hell up! If you keep calling me in here, you're only going to wake it up and piss it off!" Then throw a worried look toward the closet and run out of the room. Make sure you turn the light off and slam the door shut when you do. If you really want to drive the point home, run all the way to your car, start it up and screech out of the driveway onto the street. After that, floor it and drive to the nearest motel. Spend the night there and watch porn while you raid the mini-bar to drown any guilty sentiments you might have. This should guarantee you a few nights of good sleep while your kids sit up in their beds clutching a baseball bat. If they start to get wise to your antics, you should probably hide a small stereo with some growling noises recorded at random intervals on a cassette tape in their closet. That way they'll be too scared to come wake you up in the middle of the night. This will ensure that you get the rest you need to go to work and earn enough money to pay for their therapy sessions.
"Are we there yet?" The next time your kid asks you this in the middle of a long car ride, just say "Yep!", slam on the brakes and usher them out of the car. It doesn't matter where you are. You could be in the middle of the freeway. You could be in downtown Harlem. If your damn kids can't make the entire car trip without making a noise, then they don't deserve to be in the car. Drive off without them and don't give them a second thought.
"Why are boy parts different from girl parts?" Every parent has to face a question like this sooner or later. If they ever ask you, just tell them that everyone has different parts because everyone's different. If they push the subject, just look them in the eye and say, "If you ever see, talk about, or touch boy/girl parts, you'll die and go straight to hell with the witches and vampires." Then make the sign of the cross, mutter something in Latin, and leave the room. Kids should learn about this shit in school or by watching porn, not from their parents. A lot of hippies nowadays will tell you that kids need to have sex put into context by loving parents who tell them what goes where, teach them about safety, show them videos of their honeymoon, etc. etc. blah blah blah. Fuck that. No one wants to talk about sex with their kids, and if you don't want to do something then you shouldn't do it. End of story.
"I hate you!" Every kid says this to their mom or dad now and then. No matter when it happens, whether your kid be six or sixteen, you should say the same thing: I hate you right back and twice as much. Tell them they were an accident. Tell them that you tried to sue Trojan because of them. Tell them that they ruined your life because you can't have any fun anymore due to a little snotrag running around being ungrateful. It might seem mean, but hey, they started it. Besides, it'll make an "I love you" that much more potent.
Every kid needs to realize how good they have it. Why should they get to do whatever they want while you go to work all day to provide them with food and toys? The hell with that. Raise your kids right. Remember the three Bs - Beating, Berating, and Humiliation (ok, so the last one starts with an H. Fuck you for caring). Kids should always obey and appreciate you; after all, you earned it.

Make them bring you a drink.



(I love you, Mom and Dad)

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Baby T's? Yes, Please!

Man, do I love it when chicks wear baby T's. I'm not talking about hot chicks who might actually have a chance of looking good in such skimpy clothing; no, I'm talking about walking leviathans with enough rolls to start a goddam bakery in their love handles alone. You know what I love even more than seeing a fat chick in a baby T? A fat TWELVE-YEAR-OLD chick in a baby T! With the word "Slut" written in rhinestones across her fat chest! At least, I assume it says "Slut", because the shirt has been stretched out so much that many of the rhinestones have flown off with enough velocity to punch holes in the wall while the remaining ones have been condensed into a meaningless line. Who knows? Maybe it says "Trouble"! Maybe it says "You're jealous"! It's a mystery.
In all seriousness, the real mystery lies in the motive of such a fucking manatee to wear something so skimpy. I'm not against skimpy clothing and I'm not against fat people. Well, I am against fat people. But skimpy clothing is cool. I am for everyone trying to look their best. As a result, I am completely against lardasses in low-rise jeans and baby T's or halter tops. What the hell are you trying to prove? That you've got enough excess flesh to create an entirely new person? That your daily planner has "Krispy Kreme" written in it six times? That every time you've ever said "I'll get to the bottom of this," you've been holding a can of Crisco?*
Fuck fat people trying to pretend like they're beautiful. It's disgusting. I know girls who are a bit heavy who are perfectly attractive, and they don't pull it off by dressing in clothes that look like they've been purchased at Baby Gap. If you're going to wear a shirt that says "Half Angel, Half Devil" on the front, then why don't you just condense the two words and write "ANVIL" in huge letters across your chest? Then go shoot yourself.
But not before you bring me a drink.

* That just made me think of a new "Eating Disorder vs. Eating Problem" joke:
Eating Problem: Every time you've said "I'll get to the bottom of this," you've been holding a can of Crisco
Eating Disorder: Every time you've said "I'll get to the bottom of this," you've been standing on a scale.

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My Funeral

As of late, I have noticed that a considerable number of people with whom I have had contact or who have affected my life in some way are now dead. While attending memorial services and funerals of various kinds, I noticed a few things. There was way too much talk about Jesus and God and other fantasy bullshit and not enough talk of the deceased. There was an emphasis to portray an image of the deceased that may or may not have been real. And, all in all, funerals just suck.
In the interest of providing my surviving relatives and friends with an atypical experience when I am gone, I have decided to record here the manner in which I would like my final farewell to be conducted:
To my favorite brother, I leave sole charge of my estate and financial gains, but my financial debt I leave to my parents, because it is their fault that this debt exists in the first place, since they are miserly old bastards. My brother may have anything of mine that he wishes; however, any property which he does not desire is to be gathered in a giant pile outside of a homeless shelter. I hereby request that all indigent and destitute peoples that can be found should be summoned to this pile of my worldly goods, at which point it shall be burned to ashes while they look on. The video tape of them trying to grab flaming goods may also be sold commercially to help alleviate the cost of funeral expenses.
My body is to be cremated. I have no need of it, and neither do you. Burn it, and pour the ashes into the largest whiskey bottle you can find.
At my memorial service, I would like the following things to be done:
Somewhere among my personal effects is a leatherbound journal containing some herb knowledge I have acquired. Any drink recipes found in that journal are to be mixed and handed out as refreshments. Since the ingredients are all perfectly legal, and since they have a rather....shall we say, "hallucinogenic" quality, this should be quite amusing.
Also in that journal is a list of all the women with whom I have slept. It is to be read aloud. Twice.
Among my personal effects is a stash of love letters and other notes I have received from various paramours during my life. They are to be placed about the funeral home in lieu of collages. Actually, make collages, since most pictures of me involve one or both of my middle fingers, and I'd really like to flip the bird to people one last time.
By the whiskey urn which is to be my final resting place, I request that two shot glasses and a bottle of Glenlivet scotch be placed. Any who wish to do so may join me in a final toast, which shall go thusly:
"He may have been surly, he may have been mad, but now he's just ashes, and boy am I glad."
At which point the shot will be ingested by both my corporeal remains via the hole in the top of the whiskey bottle and by the surviving alcoholic bastard friend of mine who would actually do something so inapprorpiate as this at my memorial service. All who wish to may do this as many times as they please.
Even though my body is now ash, I would still like to have a headstone of some sort so as to provide a place of urinary relief for all the people who imbibed at my funeral. In fact, I demand that all friends of mine, G.I. Jack, Scary Adam, Wopper, Dave, I-suck, Token, St. Patrick S. Grant, Keef, and any others I may have forgotten, piss on my grave.
This do in remembrance of me. And bring me a drink.

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I hate hypocritical whores....part deux

Since my last post (of which there have been regrettably few as of late, due to a number of factors which I intend to explain in a later post), I thought that women couldn't possibly fuck me over any more. After all, I've been recently dumped, recently told I wasn't going to get a threesome, and (as a result) recently drunk. However, I was recently wrong.
Last Saturday night took every ranting lunatic conspiracy-theory horseshit claim I've made about the female gender and realized it. Here is the story:
9:30 - Tom, Jeff and I go to a hookah bar. I talk to a neopagan douchebag (who neatly juxtaposed his criticisms of every other form of neopaganism's claims to legitimacy with the phrase "everybody needs to find their own way, why can't Christians understand that?" without realizing his own inherent hypocrisy) and we smoke hookahs. Fun level is high
10:30 - We go to Boz's house, an off-campus place affiliated closely with the Best Frat on Campus. We drink. There are girls.
11:00 - I am getting drunker. I call out this girl, whom we'll call "N" (that's not her real name....her real name is Nikki), and say she's a poser because all night she's been talking in this goddam Jennifer Lopez wannabe accent, wearing a Fred Durst-style red cap that says "Bronx" on it in Gothic letters, and saying she'll "kick my ass". Whatever, bitch. I could have you crying in thirty seconds. I invite her to kick my ass. Our repartee for the evening largely consists of a call-and-response to her threatening me and me threatening her. Her friend "Becky" decides that discretion is the better part of valor, and simply stares bleary-eyed into the distance while trying not to fall off of the couch. She wasn't so sober. Beh.
11:30 - We play Circle of Death. I get really drunkish.
Sometime around 1 - We decide to go to ISU to a party. The girls go back to their apartment. Thinking that the ISU party might suck, I give my number to the girls against my better judgment.
1-ish - We arrive at ISU. The party does suck. I call the girls. They come pick me up and take me back to "Nikki's" place. Sadly, the only girl worth talking to had to teach Sunday school in the morning, so she drove home. Asshole.
I resume my previous banterings with "Nikki", and decide I've had enough fucking around. Becky comes into the room, so I ask Nikki if she can kick my ass while making out with Becky. She does not succeed, but she sure as hell tries. Becky and I make out. Nikki and I make out. Nikki and Becky make out. You get the picture.
To avoid getting into lurid details and making this a smut story (also, I can't remember exactly what happened-thanks a lot, Alcohol), I'll stick with some highlights:
-Nikki topless
- Becky topless
-Nikki and Becky making out on top of me
- Dry-humping
I was all set to go on the threesome, and, judging from the girls' behavior, I thought they were too. That is a good thing, because frankly neither of these girls would have been very attractive on their own unless I was way drunker. But, as I always say, a pair of deuces beats a queen (in other words, a threeway with two homely chicks is better than sex with a hot chick.....sometimes). However, there was a little fly in the ointment: Nikki got up and left.
I entertained myself with Becky's boobs for a while (Nikki, if you're reading this they are better than yours), then went to go find Nikki. She was sitting in the living room as if nothing had happened.
Me - "Um, excuse me, why'd you leave?"
Her - "Oh, well, you see, the thing is, Becky has a boyfriend and I'm trying to get her into trouble with him"
Me - "Uh....well, don't you think you should at least be present so you can give a full and satisfactory account?"
Her -
Now I'm pissed. I'm in a strange apartment, don't know where I am, I've just been informed that one of the girls I was trying to rope into a threeway has a boyfriend and the other one is a conniving bitch. I really needed something to drink.
I returned to the boudoir and found Becky more or less passed out. I went back outside and Nikki had gone upstairs to use her cell phone. Hopefully it gave her brain cancer. Not knowing what else to do, I briefly considered peeing on the kitchen floor and stealing all of Nikki's panties. Instead, I just put my shoes on and left.
Once outside, I called Tom for a ride. He was nice enough to come pick me up and I feel like a real douche for ditching him and Jeff for those whore bags. Sorry, guys.
3:45 AM - I go to bed. Fuck women.

If you're a woman and offended by this, well....I don't care. Maybe you should bring me a drink.

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I hate hypocritical whores

Here's an actual transcript of a phone message I got about a week ago:
"Hi, Austin. this is Felicia, I'm Sandy's friend. Sandy and I are nice and boozed up right now, so you need to drive your ass to [town], 'cuz we're ready for a threesome. If you're interested, give us a call back (voice in background says "Leave your number"). [Girl leaves phone number]. Have a great day. [Wolf whistle in background]."
This call came at 5:15 in the morning. I had to be at work at 7:30, so I didn't get to my phone in time and had to satisfy myself with that message. Oh well, it's not like I've never had group sex before.
Tonight I called Sandy because I was bored and was looking for someone to hang out with. She immediately handed the phone off to Felicia, who then said, "Look, Austin, Sandy has a boyfriend and I'm gay, so there's no way in hell you're going to get a threesome."
Oh really? Then why the fuck did you call me at 5:15 in the goddam morning, you rugmunching cockstroke?
It's bullshit like this that makes me absolutely loathe the female sex. Look, if you don't want to feel like a whore, then don't act like one. Don't pull this shit where you beg for my cock and then act all indignant the next time you see me; stop this "you're just using me for sex" horseshit and show some fucking accountability for your slutty actions. Yes, I'm a guy. That doesn't mean I'm always trying to fuck you. In fact, Felicia, I've never met you. I think you're the one who has issues with flagrant promiscuity here; I'm not trying to get into your crab shack. You called me. Piss off and go kill yourself, you fucking lesbian wank.
And for those of you girls who have boyfriends and like to fuck around on the side.....

Call me.

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Fuck Porn

Ever since I've moved to my new house and upgraded from a dial-up connection (24 kbps) to a cable connection (100 mbps), I've taken full advantage of the miracles of modern technology and spent a majority of my online time towards fulfilling a childhood dream: downloading and cataloguing the Greatest Porn Collection Ever. The recent addition of an external hard drive which gives me ten times my previous memory capacity has helped me to realize this dream in ways I never would have thought possible.
However, along with the irreversible psychological damage and irritable eye strain that comes from watching literally hours upon hours of porn (all of which is done so that the porn can be properly catalogued and labelled...seriously), I've noticed one thing about porn: it sucks.
Pornography sucks so much. No wonder women bitch so much about it. Not only are the girls largely unattractive and the dialogue stilted at best, but when you really stop and think about the kind of shit you're looking at, it makes you feel like the entire male gender inherited sexual retardation along with the Y chromosome.
Here's a typical scenario: two people are together. They get undressed. You start thinking to yourself, Hm, this is kind of hot. Let's see how it proceeds. There's kissing, boob-touching, etc. Just when things are getting nice and steamy, BAM! there's a tongue in the butt. Now, what in holy hell makes it socially acceptable at all to advertise this sort of behavior as "erotic"? I don't want to think about someone's tongue in my butt, I don't want to think about tonguing someone else's butt, and I sure as hell don't want to watch some bitch stick her tongue in another bitch's butt. Tongue in the butt is not cool.
But, being male, you just think to yourself, Ok, I can handle this, maybe it'll get better. And usually, it does. The kissing resumes, you try to ignore the fact that this person is now kissing someone who just had their tongue in her butt, and things heat up once again. Various sex toys come out, insertion follows, then all of a sudden someone is sucking on someone else's toes. What the hell is up with that? I don't want to see toe-sucking anymore than I want to see butt-tonguing. It's gross. Putting your mouth on someone else's poop or on someone else's fungus-infected yellow toenails is not cool. It's just one step below butt-tonguing.
If you're watching male-on-female porn, then of course you have to deal with the obligatory cumshot. Usually this takes place right after the guy has just fucked the girl in the butt. God forbid the guy shoot his semen anywhere I can't see it; he has to take his cooter-juice-encrusted poop-smeared dick out and shove it in this ugly girl's face (look at the face of any girl in a porn video - she's ugly). If you haven't turned the porn off at this point then you're treated to the exquisite pleasure of some guy shooting his load all over a girl's face. Did I mention this is also gross? Because it is. Look, porn-makers, you don't have to graphically show that this guy is having an orgasm just so I know when to stop masturbating. I'll shoot my load on my own time, I don't have to watch him shooting his.
So now you've just watched a butt-tonguing, toe-sucking, face-jizzing porn. And that's just what regular porn is like. God forbid you watch kinky porn. Then you have to deal with 18 year olds pretending that they're 12 year old nieces of some horny guy who gives them beer in exchange for blowjobs. Either that or you have to deal with ten guys tying up some bitch and gangbanging her while shoving her head into a toilet. Or you have to watch some mom seduce her daughter's friend and her daughter. Porn is gross and stupid and completely unerotic.
Why do I have a problem with this, you ask? Because more often than not it kills the mood. I'm not just talking about the mood for me. I'm talking about the mood for my female companion. Usually when I watch porn, I'm not alone (note to readers - if you think that watching porn with a girlfriend is kinky, then go kill yourself because you're a stupid loser who masturbates by himself every night and will die alone....and if you kill yourself, make sure you tape some black guy raping your corpse so your parents will have something to sell to the porn industry to pay for a box to bury your worthless ass in). I have some girl or other with me, wanting to get in the mood. I can ignore a lot of stuff. I can ignore butt-tonguing and other gross shit. But usually the girl with me can't. About thirty seconds into the video I have to either fast forward it or stop it because she's no longer turned on. After five minutes of watching porn, she's scared off of sex for life and is already suggesting that we sit up and read on opposite sides of the room for the rest of the night. This leaves me feeling sexually frustrated, which usually leads to me drinking, which usually leads to broken things and weird scars on my arms.
And don't even get me started on Japanese porn. If I wanted to see a schoolgirl fuck a tree monster with four penes just so she can transform into a demon creature with horns and claws for a vagina, I'd do LSD. Fuck the Japanese. We should bomb them again just for their hentai.
Goddammit, porn industry. You allegedly make billions of dollars, why the fuck can't you produce some decent porn? You know, something to watch with my lady friends? No more of this shit-fetish crap, how about you make something actually erotic? And I'm not talking about that soft-core, no-snatch-showing horseshit either; I can watch that shit on cable TV if I want.
Fuck shitty porn, and fuck the lonely masturbating assholes who lead to the production of shitty porn. And fuck you...just because.

Now bring me a drink.



(Author's Note: There is also an ulterior motive for me writing this piece. After seeing how much traffic this blog gets from assholes who type phrases like "woman having sex with a demon" "peed herself" and "how to have a threesome" into Google search engines, I'm hoping to boost my numbers a bit. Suckers!)

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News from G. I. Jack

(In case any of you are into first person military writing, here's an excerpt from a journal that G. I. Jack sent me. G. I. Jack is now in Afghanistan with the Marine Corps as part of a peacekeeping/drugraiding unit. I love this guy so much and can't wait to see him come home. For anyone who doubts the intensity of my friends, read the following.)

Friday, June 24

EXTRA! EXTRA! PROOF THAT THE MARINE CORPS IS MENTALLY HANDICAPPED!

Well yesterday was quite a day. It started off pretty early. We had to have all our vehicles staged at 5 in the morning so we could go and pick somebody up from another firebase and bring them back to J-Bad. Well, turns out we weren't given the correct directions to get to this place so we got a little lost. We actually found out later that this place they wanted us to go to did not in fact even fucking exist. What a way to start your day, huh? So, we go back to where we began. Upon returning, we are immediately told to go and pick up the A 'n A (Afghani Army) for a patrol that we now had to go on. Whatever. We went and picked them up, brought them back, and waited to go out on this patrol. By this time it was around 10 in the morning, so the sun was up, and it was starting to get warm. (The good part is coming up.) So, we go out on this foot patrol, meaning we were walking with a bunch of heavy shit on, (unlike the Afghani fuckers, who only had an Ak-47.) and about 45 minutes into it, this guy by the name of Zeller starts to show signs of heat exhaustion. Doc R. and Ssgt H. had to call back to base and have a humvee come and pick him up and take him back to base, and also resupply us with water. This took about 45 minutes for them to get there. So, we all just sat in the shade drinking water. I downed 5 bottles of water to go on top of the other 5 bottles i downed before the patrol. After they came and picked Zeller up and we finally got moving again, we stopped after about an hour of walking, oh wait, i mean "patrolling". When we were at this rest stop, I began to show signs of heat exhaustion. I tried to get up when we were going to get going again, but I fell right back down because I was so freakin' dizzy. So, Doc R. had me take off my flak jacket, my cammie blouse and my t-shirt and he takes my vitals, and checks me out. He knows I'm going to be a heat casualty if we keep doing what were doi ng, so he says I'm going to get an IV as soon as we get back. Cool I thought. Ssgt H. decides that we should walk 2 more miles to get picked up by the vehicles. Shitty. The whole time I'm walking all over the place, having a hard time concentrating. So, we finally get to our pick up point, and there's only 2 vehicles (which techinically are only supposed to have 8 people in the back. Keep this in mind now...) for damn near 30 people. So, i hop into a truck the moment the trucks get there because I could barely stand anymore. About 12 other people hop into the vehicle I'm in, and we leave shortly thereafter. Don't forget that we're all wearing heavy and hot flack jackets and kevlars and cammies, and it's extremely hot out. I won't say how hot just yet, but just imagine it's really hot. So, as we're going along, my buddy Alvarez loses conciousness, and we're unable to bring him back to. The moment we get back to base, a litter is brough and they take him to BA S (batallion aid station) for treatment. I jumped down off the truck, gained my balance for a second, and immediately fell due to dizziness. After 15 seconds or so, I finally gained enough strength to stand up, and walk the 50 meters or so to our tent where I took off everything I had except my cammies, and threw it on the ground in front of our tent. From there, I stumbled to BAS so I could get treated. I went in, sat down, took off my blouse, and started to drink water. It took about 2 minutes until Doc R. noticed that I was there. As soon as he saw me, he called me back to the little treatment area so he could start treating me. So, I go back there, sit on this stretcher that is serving as a little doctor's table thing, and they immediately have me strip down to just my boxers. They put fans on me, cool washclothes, poured saline solution all over me, and stuck cold bottles of water down my crotch and in my armpits to cool me down. The first time they too k my temperature, it was about 103.9 degrees. Pretty fuckin' hot, huh? Believe me, it was taking its toll on me. I was dizzy, tired, and having an extremely difficult time moving any part of my body, as well as thinking straight, or even talking right. Well, anyways, they immediately gave me an IV. Followed by another one. To make a long story short, I was hating life. It took about an hour and a half just to get my temperature below 100 degrees. The whole time I'm delirious, mumbling about random shit. After my temperature got down to about 100 or so, I was so damn exhausted that I just fell asleep for about 2 hours. Upon waking up, I had to piss like there was no tomorrow, so I get up for the first time. Talk about an experience. I was walking like I was drunk. I had to have somebody walk with me to make sure I didn't fall down on the way there. Anyways, I handle my business, go back to the Bas, and lay back down for another 45 minutes or so. After waking u p, they give me some chips and some beef jerky to chew on because I was so weak I could hardly move at that point. After I ate the chips, I felt good enough to walk back to my tent, and I did. Before leaving they put me on light duty for 48 hours, which means I'm supposed to take it easy and just rest as much as I can. So much for that plan. At about 6 in the evening, Alvarez (who had a lower temperature then me, but was messed up a little more then I was) and I were told we had to go and join the rest of our platoon out on post. Bullshit. We both nearly died, and we were both COMPLETELY drained of all our energy, and now we have to go do 4 hours on post. Total bullshit, but whatever. The Marine Corps is getting theirs now, but I'm going to get mine when we get back.

I made a decent recovery, but still feel a little weird today. We got off post last night at 10:30 pm, and went back on at 6:30 this morning. It was hot as balls, but they (our oh-so-smart higher ups) decided that we could take our blouses off and wear our flak jackets over our t-shirts. No shit huh? Also, after 3 people nearly died from a middle of the day patrol, they finally decided (after much debate) that it would be best not to do anymore foot patrols in the middle of the day.

And last but not least, the weather forecast for June 23rd, 2005, at approximately 12pm, which was right about when we hit the middle of our patrol. Drum roll please
....................
......................
......................
.............

132 degrees Fahrenheit.

No fucking shit, huh?

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Fuck Gun Control

During the years I've spent on this Earth, which can be largely characterized by the phrase "spontaneous mediocrity", one axiom has made itself perfectly clear time and time again. I'm referring, of course, to that famous old saying from days of yore (which I just made up): "Guns are like remote controls. They're very entertaining to use when you're bored, but you can never find one when you really need it."
Now, I know a lot of you bleeding heart whiney tree-hugging hippy bastards might have some objections to this. "But we don't like guns" you say. "Guns are loud and scary and they kill people." Sure, maybe guns kill a few people here and there. Maybe a few bad apples use them to coerce women into having sex with them or to get rid of that pesky neighbor across the street or to let their wives know that they are not fucking around and they are sick and goddam tired of coming home from a hard day's work to find that their food is not prepared and the baby needs changing and the dog shat on the floor and GODDAMMIT MURIEL I'M SICK OF YOUR SHIT!
However, even the most jaded hippy must admit to him or herself that even they have felt deep-seated gun lust from time to time. C'mon, admit it. You know that you've wanted a gun. You probably even wanted one today. When you were in line at the supermarket and that smelly old lady ahead of you couldn't figure out how to swipe her debit card through the machine, you felt the hatred begin to rise. When she had to call the cashier over to help her, it kept growing. When she realized that she didn't have enough cash in her checking account to cover the half gallon of milk and thirty cans of cat food she was buying and instead started to count out exact change from her little floral-print coin purse, you felt the Gun Lust take over. By the time she realized that she didn't have enough cash on her to cover all of her cans of cat food and began debating out loud over which ones to keep and which ones to send back, you were praying to all the gods you've ever heard or read about that somehow a Glock would magically appear in you hand so you could utter some clever catch phrase like "DIE, BITCH!" and put a hole in her head large enough to house a sizable family of opossums.
But you didn't have a gun, did you? What did you have to do instead? That's right, you had to sit there and smile with your thumb up your ass while acting like this was the greatest thing in the world.
Gun control is stupid. Guns don't kill people; white guys with small penes and gender issues kill people. If we could all just agree that everyone should be given a gun at, say, eighth grade graduation, then the world would be a much better place; not only would eighth grade graduation actually mean something now, but all the kids in the world would be able to protect themselves from muggers, the boogeyman, and Michael Jackson. Imagine how the Columbine shootings would have gone differently if all of those kids and teachers had guns; those Trench Coat Mafia losers wouldn't have been worth a fart in a high wind. Or imagine if the St. Louis Cardinals had guns during the World Series with the Bosox. Trust me, the world would be a much better place if everyone were armed.
Traffic would be a lot less of a headache. If everyone had a gun, then no one would have to sit behind some stupid bitch in a Kia Sportage at an intersection and watch her talk on her cell phone about how this cute guy almost spilled coffee on her at work. That's right bitch, you take too long to get going once the traffic light turns green, BAM! Instant brain hood ornament.
Crime would go down. Robberies wouldn't occur. People wouldn't break into other peoples' houses. Banks would be safer than they are now. People would be able to walk the streets at night without any fear. Batman, Spiderman, Thor and the Punisher would all be rendered obsolete.
The answer is not to limit ownership of guns. The answer is to encourage ownership of guns. Even if guns are outlawed, there will always be people who carry them (and by this I mean black people)*. Instead of making it so only criminals can get guns, we should make it possible for everyone to have a gun.
That way I can shoot someone if they don't bring me a goddam drink.


*I can say that. I know a black guy. And since he doesn't have a gun, there are no negative consequences for my racist statement. See how gun distribution can make the world a better place?

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I Live on Crazy Street 2: The Chronicles of People Who Sleep in My Yard

After the last post I put up, a lot more happened. Apparently, the lady I mentioned who stopped by requesting that I call 911 decided to stick around for a couple of laughs. Here's what went down:

Last night I couldn't sleep. Despite my best efforts to play Conker, Live and Reloaded until the Sandman carried me off, it just wasn't happening. Lying in my bed while staring at the wall and thinking about my current relationship status (not good) got to be rather tedious, so I decided to go outside and have a smoke. I walked out back by our pond and had just lit my clove when I saw a flash of light-colored linen and heard an unearthly shriek. Now, I'm a person who's easily spooked by shit that goes bump in the night, so my first thought was that a wraith or banshee or something had decided to inhabit my backyard. However, it just turned out that the lady who rang my doorbell yesterday afternoon had decided to sleep in my yard. She says that I startled her. Fuck her, she took ten years off of my life with that ungodly shriek of hers.
The lady (whom I'll call Zoe from now on) came over to me and embraced me. She called me her angel. I didn't really know what to say, since I hadn't exactly done anything. However, I figured that she must have been through some sort of turmoil because, after all, she was sleeping in my yard. While hugging me, she asked, "Are you smoking a clove?" I said yes. She then bummed one off of me. Then she asked for a glass of water.
Being the kind soul that I am, I went inside and fetched her a cup of water. I came back out to find her sitting by the pond in our back yard. I went over and sat by her. At this time, she struck me as sort of a lonely person. It seemed like she had been through a lot, and just wanted to talk to someone. So I sat and listened as she started to relate the Complete and Unabridged Version of Zoe's Life.
Zoe was born in Africa, raised in Belgium, had one ex-husband and one husband on the way to becoming an ex (apparently he kicked her out this morning). She was Muslim, but had spent a lot of time with a Wiccan High Priestess and Catholic Spiritualists. She kept talking about angels. This captured my attention, since religion and the unexplained are subjects that really get me off.
However, something about Zoe didn't seem to quite add up. After sitting and listening to her talk for about an hour, I realized that she really wasn't saying anything. Occasionally she would say something interesting like "My people are coming for me" while pointing to the stars, but other than that it was just random horseshit about kids she babysat for in Champaign-Urbana. She kept repeating herself and backing up. I started losing interest. Her boring story and the fact that she kept grabbing my hand and asking for energy (oddly enough, she's not the first person to do this) were really starting to wear on me. Then things started to get weird.
Zoe told me that she had a disease which made it impossible for her to feel sexual pleasure (I felt tempted to ask her if this disease was called "piety", but restrained myself) and made it impossible for her to have children. She then looked at me, smiled a big crazy person smile and said, "Now I know why you were sent to me!" She then hugged me and kissed my cheek. I was very frightened that she was going to ask me to impregnate her right then and there. But she just continued with her meaningless life story.
After a while, Zoe took my hands and placed them on her back. She asked me to hold them there. She grew very quiet and meditative. I grew very bored. She then moved my hands to another area of her back and did the same thing. I grew more bored. After that, she looked me full in the face and said, I shit you not, "Now you can touch me the way you want to."
I was baffled. I didn't know what the hell this lady was talking about. She was sleeping in my yard. I felt bad for her. I listened to her bullshit. I still fail to see how that constitutes anything remotely close to a date. I was really hoping that she wasn't asking me to bang her in my back yard.
I asked her to please elaborate on her statement. She then told me I have healing hands and that I needed to help her. As a sort of compromise, I sort of rubbed her back lightly. She then said, "Oh, no, it will never work through the cloth" and proceeded to take her dress off. Now there was a 41-year-old woman bare-ass naked (apparently this dress was all she had time to put on before her husband kicked her out) in my backyard asking me to rub her. Now, I'm no stranger to women who want to get naked and have me rub them two hours after meeting me. But women who do it outside at two in the morning are something of a novelty. Especially ones as old as my mom. However, before I congratulate myself too much, I should probably bring up the fact that Zoe took her clothes off partially because she had peed herself.
In my last post, I wondered whether or not the dampness on the back of this lady's dress was pee. Turns out I was right. Grossfully right.
Zoe told me when she was peeing earlier. I didn't need her to tell me; I could smell it. It was fucking weird and gross to have this grown woman sitting next to me, telling me I'm an angel whose job is to do something great for America, while she's peeing on herself. She also told me about how she peed herself earlier when she encountered some lavender plants at the flower shop next door to my house. Apparently, peeing yourself is some sort of spiritual encounter. Who knew?
Did I mention that Zoe was completely crazy? She kept telling me when visions would pop into her head, and what they were about. She would point to people she saw. She showed me where she saw an angel hiding by the pond. She showed me how the lily pads in my pond represented two continents, America and Europe, and explained how I was supposed to save one and she was supposed to save the other. She told me that she saw a man with white hair who was going to die. She told me that I was meant to meet and marry her niece, Yasmin, and that we were meant to save America from war. She kept rubbing my cowrie shell necklace. She kept picking up rocks, washing them in the pond, and then scrubbing her feet and knees. She told me that I had a mission, and that time was short for her because her mission was going to end tonight. She kept belaboring this point, telling me that her mission was going to end tonight.
So here I am, standing outside at about three in the morning with a naked African-American lady with a French accent who's telling me that I was meant to save the world. I told her that I had to go in and go to sleep because I felt that our time was up together. She agreed, and gave me a full-on, naked crazy person hug. She also kissed my chest. I felt bad for her, but was also creeped way the hell out. She then asked if she could shower because, after all, she peed herself. I reluctantly agreed, although I suspected that once she got in the house it would be hard to get her out.
I was right.
She took a quick shower (and didn't cut her wrists in the bathtub with my razors, thank god), and afterwards asked me (naked, of course) if she could borrow some clothing because, hey, she fucking PEED ON HERSELF. I gave her a ratty-ass T-shirt and a pair of shorts that no longer fits me. She left her dress in our bathroom. She told me that her mission was ending tonight, and that she wouldn't be needing her dress or her shoes. Instead, she picked up her belongings, which consisted of a videotape, a twig from my yard, two rocks, a lily pad from our pond, her dentures (wrapped in the rocks and lily pad), her purse, and a book called On Entering the Sea: The Erotic and Other Poetry of Nizar Qabbani. She then started wandering around, looking at various things. She asked to use my cell phone. I handed her the cell phone that she had in her purse. She told me that the battery wasn't working and she had to use my cell phone. I pointed to her perfectly working cell phone and said "Look! It's working! The Goddess has worked a miracle!" She certainly couldn't argue with my logic, so she took the cell phone into our bathroom for a little while. After she came back out, she started wandering around again with that "I don't want to leave yet" demeanor. Too bad, bitch, it's 4 in the morning now. You're leaving.
She told me that she wanted to bless my house. I told that I had already blessed it. "Can't you feel that it's blessed?" I asked. She looked around and smiled a big gap-toothed smile (she still hadn't put her dentures in) and said "Yes! You ARE special!" and gave me another crazy person pee-hug. She then decided to leave (finally), so I showed her out the door and watched her walk away clad only in my T-shirt and shorts. That was my night last night.

****

Today she showed up again. She was out back in the garden as I was relating the events of last night to my roommate. He saw her and jumped against the wall. We then proceeded to creep around and shut all the blinds because, quite frankly, we're scared of crazy people. After we had hidden ourselves in the bathroom, the doorbell rang. I gave an involuntary yelp of terror. We held our breaths until we heard her footsteps going away. After she had gone out back to our pond again, we snuck to the front door. She had left a bag with my clothes in it, along with photocopies of her blood test and urinalysis results. There was also a pair of socks that I had never seen before. I guess her mission didn't end last night.
But that wasn't the most disturbing thing. Hanging from the hook of the hook-and-eye latch to our screen door was my roommate's set of keys. Apparently she had snatched them from the coffee table when I wasn't looking. I am the worst roommate ever.
My roommate left to go to work. I took my clothes out of the bag, put the shoes and the pee-dress she had left last night in the bag, and set it out on the front porch. That was about three hours ago. I hope she comes and gets it quietly.

Updates will come as they happen.

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I Live on Crazy Street

(I know I haven't updated in a while. Deal with it.)

A lot has happened in this past week. I've quit my job at the factory, partially because the drive was getting to be too far, but mostly because I hate working in a giant metal building that has no air conditioning during these hot and humid Illinois summers with a bunch of redneck jackasses who do nothing but talk about sex and drinking all day. Hmmmm, typing that made it actually sound like something I would enjoy. But I digress.
After quitting my job, I moved down to the house where I'll be residing during the school year. It's a great place, close to campus, and for the first time in my life I have my own room. However, the lessers neglected to tell us that this house has a sort of magnetic attraction to crazy assholes.
One night this week the doorbell rang and my roommate went to answer the door. At the door was a black guy frantically gesturing and pointing at his ears. My roommate asked him, "Are you ok?" At this point, the guy crouched down and grabbed my roommate's calf vigorously. Since my roommate and I are both easily startled, I'm really surprised that we both didn't run into his room and hold each other under the covers at this point. The Visitor handed my roommate a note saying something along the lines of, "My car broke down and I need money for gas." He continued to point to his ears to indicate that he was deaf. Fortunately, my roommate had the presence of mine to shut the door in this guy's face.
Why? A couple of reasons. First of all, it was about one in the morning. Secondly, my roommate and I have both seen this guy walking around town pulling this same scam. I have personally been in Subway with Scary Adam when the same guy tried to swindle Adam out of money by handing him the exact same note.
Today the doorbell rings again. I look out the front door and see a mass of hair. My first instinct was to run away and hide under my bed, since I'm really scared of werewolves, Cousin It, and other hairy monsters. However, I suck it up and open the door. There's a lady whose ethnicity is difficult to determine standing out there in a pink dress.
"Is that your garden out back?" she asks.
"Well, sorta. It's our landlord's." I reply.
"Oh. Ok. Can you call 911 for me?"
"Um, what?"
"Yeah. Have them come pick me up."
I start to get really weirded out at this point. I ask her if anything's wrong, and she just says that she needs for me to call the police.
"Can I come in?" she asks again.
Being the complacent type, I let her come in. She asks to use the bathroom, and I let her. While she's in there, I call 911.
"911 emergency, what's your emergency?"
"Um, there's a lady who showed up at my house asking for me to call 911."
"What's the emergency?"
"I don't exactly know. She just showed up here."
"And she's outside the house?"
"No, she came in to use the bathroom."
"And what's the emergency?"
"I don't know."
I then gave the operator my address and name. About this time, the lady comes out of the bathroom. The back of her dress is soaking wet, and I really hope that it's because she hasn't peed herself. She takes the phone from me, and proceeds to tell the operator that they need to come pick her up because she called them this morning and all this shit. She hangs up, tells me that the bathroom decor is great, thanks me for helping her and blesses my soul before she proceeds to go out to our garden to sit cross-legged on the ground and smoke. After a while, two police cars and three police officers show up and talk to her. They talk for a while before the cops leave. I never saw her leave. For all I know, she's in the basement with an axe.

More updates will come as crazy people continue to show up at my house.

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Redneck? Blue Collar? White Trash!

Ever since Jeff Foxworthy launched his infamous "You might be a Redneck if...." franchise, it seems that more and more Americans have started traveling down the slippery shit-laden road to white trashdom. With the advent of assholes like Larry the Cable Guy and that stupid ass "Tater Salad" fuck, more and more of the media has been devoted to the glorification of this American infection. Fuck white trash. Fuck blue collar. Fuck redneck jokes. This horseshit is nothing more than white peoples' glorification of their own trashiness. Black people were able to make fun of the ghettos where they lived; Mexican people were able to make fun of the fact that their huge families were living in houses too small to contain them. White people, as always, looked around, realized that they had it fucking easy, and then decided to glorify white trashdom so they could be more interesting.
Fuck that shit. There is one place and one place only for white trash living: frat houses. Furniture made from beer cans, random tin signs, duct tape furniture, giant canvas advertisements for Keystone Light stolen from the outside of gas stations, pizza box pyramids and parties where women are paid to remove their clothing all belong in frat houses. Outside of frat life, all this shit is just white trash living.
Because of bullshit like "Blue Collar TV", now upper-middle class college students think it's fashionable to spend their parents' money on big trucks and shirts with mottos like "Good Ol' Boy". It's now cool to have a neon sign advertising Pabst Blue Ribbon in one's dorm room. Trucker hats, camoflauge, junky couches and empty Boone's Farm bottles have now become part of the landscape of America's "higher education". I swear to God, if I have to see one more fucking Confederate flag with the words "Git-'r'-Done" emblazoned underneath it, I will fucking flip out.
Country music has now become the most popular music genre in America. This shit promotes vigilante justice, alcoholism, misogyny, and racism. One song, "Beer for my Horses", hearkens back to the good ol' days when men form a mob and kill criminals in the street. Another song likens Muslims to the forces of Satan. What the fuck is this shit? When did it become acceptable to use Christianity as a reason to kill people with whom you didn't agree? I take that back...this shit has been going on since about 1145, so I guess it shouldn't surprise me that shitheads are still pulling this kind of tomfuckery now.
Fuck you, Larry the Cable Guy, you fucking fat piece of shit. "Git-'r'-Done"? What the fuck does that even mean? Burn in hell, you fat piece of shit. By the looks of that spare tire you got goin' on, it looks like you'll burn for a good long time. Jeff Foxworthy, you're not funny. Saying shit like "If you've had sex with your sister, your aunt, your cousin, and your grandmother, and you've only had sex with one person in your life, you might be a redneck!" is not funny. It's fucking sad.
Why am I so pissed about this? Because I live in central Illinois, deep in the heart of White Trash country. Seeing this kind of shit glorified by TV isn't amusing, it's pathetic. It's only made this kind of horseshit worse. Now every trailer-dwelling, Schlitz-swilling, pork rind-eating, pigfucking asshole thinks it's not only ok, it's commendable to roll in their trashy nature like a pig in shit. Incest is a very real issue here - I've had a number of friends tell me how members of their immediate family attempted carnal relations with them while under the influence. Rebel flags aren't funny - many of the people I've seen wearing them have expressed in no uncertain terms their distaste for minorities. Alcoholism, chewing tobacco, beastiality, trashy women - all of it's horseshit.
Not only this, but a majority of these "blue collar redneck" types have never even been close to any sort of real country living. I was raised on a farm. As a kid, I shoveled shit, milked cows and birthed lambs. That life sucks, and that's why I and every real farmer I know has sought to avoid that kind of life by attending college or by living a non-trashy life. If you're going to claim to be a "good ol' boy" or to be an "old-fashioned cowboy," you should at least have spent some time around cows. I don't think that's too much to ask. Stop being a fucking poser and acting like the people you see on TV. I'm calling out all you upper-class wannabe white trash assfuckers. You want to be a "good ol' boy," come on over to my farm. We'll shovel shit together and bale hay for about six hours. Then we can haul feed to the animals. Then when your ass is passed out from exhaustion we'll see who's the "blue collar man". Assholes.
This entire post may seem hypocritical coming from someone whose blog is based on alcoholic tendencies and passive-agressive rantings. Fuck you, at least I have some class about it. Now go fucking bring me a fucking drink. An expensive one. And if you so much as look at a Rebel flag, I'll kill you.

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I have the greatest friends ever

A couple of my friends went to Europe during May to gallavant around and do the whole "we just graduated from college" thing. Before they left, I told them that, as a personal favor to me, they should pee on something famous. Upon waking from a nap today I found the following message on my computer:

[My friend]: "So, before we left, you sent [my boyfriend] and i on a mission: we needed to pee on something famous. [My boyfriend] took care of this with a vengence. he peed on the grad palace in paris. and i puked on the louvre and peed on the streets of venice. mission accomplished."

Hats off to these two for a job well done.

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Chain Letter

I was wondering today why the hell people forward stupid-ass e-mails that don't mean shit and that can't possibly be true. So I decided to create one just to see what it felt like. Please send the following chain letter to everyone you know. Seriously.



"Once upon a time there was a meaningless story that had absolutely nothing to do with any sort of moral that the promulgators of said tale were trying to convey to their audience. As a result of this, AOL/Time-Warner/MSN/HBO/PFLAG have agreed that for every person who receives this e-mail, they will donate one nickel to the 'Save the Kid' fund. And did you know that in the Q'uran in Chapter 9 verse 11 (9:11.....get it?) it says that the eagle (hmmm, America!?) will destroy the Muslims and peace will rain. You know, it's funny...we have time for TV, time for magazines, time to pay the bills, but we never have time for God. Forward this to at least seven people who you want God to touch. Now QUICK! Make a wish.
Scroll down.
Too far.
Okay, now send this to the amount of people you want to make a wish to. Not only will your wish come true, but AOL/Time-Warner/HBO/MADD/NWO will donate a nickel for every person who receives this e-mail to a starving Ethiopian child who needs dysentery shots....trust me, forwarding this e-mail is much easier and more effective than actually helping out a starving Albanian kid with dysentery yourself. Did I say Albanian? I meant Ethiopian.
And did you hear that MSN is shutting down Hotmail? They want everyone to forward this to everyone in their address books because, again, it's much more effective than sending out an e-mail with the announcement themselves. Also, by forwarding this, you'll be helping HBO/FBI/CIA/NWO get a nickel from Albanian kids in the Q'uran who need to have time for God. I mean, Ethiopian kids.
But the important thing is that there's a little girl missing, and by forwarding this you'll be giving her to POS/SOB/ODB/SOL via a nickel from every Ethiopian (Albanian?) kid who has a wish AND your crush will talk to you if you send it to fifty people or more, but as we all know America is right and so is Jesus, so forward this e-mail or your penis will fall off.

Seriously, forward this to everyone you know. Then bring me a drink. Save the Ethiopian kids and the NRA and wipe out terrorism while saving your e-mail from deletion and getting your crush to notice you, because for every nickel you donate another e-mail like this one gets forwarded. But the moral of the story can be found here:

http://angrydrunkenirishman.blogspot.com"



I think it's self-explanatory.

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To the Class of 2005 : A Rant Dedicated to You (ADDITIONS AT THE BOTTOM)

Dear Class of 2005,

As valedictorian of my high school graduating class, I made a speech about how we can all change the world. I compared high school graduation to childbirth; I said that although changes can hurt, they are necessary in order to further our growth as people. I quoted Jesus, and told people that "a mother's pain in childbirth is quickly forgotten in her joy at seeing her baby." I talked for a while.

I wish I hadn't.

Since it's graduation time, I thought I'd write a little speech conveying some unspoken sentiments I should have expressed when I had the chance. Here goes:
There are too many damn graduations. Why does everyone feel the need to celebrate every fucking accomplishment in their child's life? Eighth grade graduation....what the hell is that? Eighth graders haven't accomplished anything. They haven't built a house or made discoveries in scientific fields, so why the hell do we give them parties? Eighth graders suck. The only cool kid I know who's graduated from eighth grade this year is my little brother, and I'm not giving him shit. Eighth grade graduation is a waste of everyone's time. Fuck eighth graders.
High school graduation is scarcely better. Although it's still a waste of everyone's time and money, there's at least a good reason to have a high school graduation. A lot of the graduating class will either be joining the military or going directly into the work force - either way, this is the greatest accomplishment they'll experience in their lives, so why not throw away our hard-earned money on Josten's overpriced horseshit and live a little?
College graduation? At least you've accomplished something, but the students are too stressed out about the fact that they're staring a life-long table-waiting career right in the face to enjoy their graduation.
All in all, graduation is a waste of time. It's an excuse for people to cry and promise that they'll stay in touch and to hang on to the past for a little while longer. Bullshit, I say.
I'm bored writing this graduation speech. Fuck this. I'm going to talk about me now.

This school year has been a very interesting one for me. I've realized the power of the written word, and I've also realized just how much people can get bent out of shape over one person's bullshit. Here are some highlights from my LiveJournal and this blog:
- I pissed off an entire fraternity: One simple entry regarding the pigheaded behavior of one individual was apparently enough for a house full of football players to put a bounty out on my head. Since this was largely a local matter for my university, I haven't really mentioned it on this site. However, I'm bored and I haven't posted for a week, so I'm going to quote the original entry from my LJ:
"Ok, do me a favor. Picture a twelve year old Catholic boy wearing lederhosen and sucking the creme filling out of a Twinkie in a port-a-pottie behind an 'NSync concert while a lecherous old man wearing a rhinestone suit stands by and watches while touching himself inappropriately. Got this image in your head?
This is way gayer than that.

A while ago, Scary Izzle wrote about his experience at a certain Greek house on campus. For privacy's sake we'll call it "[name of fraternity deleted due to controversy]". He said some rather unflattering things about its denizens, and due to some controversy from a certain Dr. Choderag, he had to take this post down at the risk of offending Large Burly Men. So, just to make sure we're all on the same page, the situation goes like this: a Long Ass Time ago, someone writes a stupid tongue-in-cheek post about a shitty frat house on a crappy little LJ page, but then deletes it because certain potheads are too retarded to appreciate good humor. Ok...

So tonight one of the main character's in Scary Izzle's account, a certain dealer of the leaf who shall remain nameless, decides to approach Izzle about this situation. Keep in mind that this is a good two months since the original shit was written. At LEAST two months. Damn, I thought [name deleted] people could only remember stuff from within the last half hour. But I digress. This specimen of troglodytic mediocrity comes up to Izzle, and one thing is instantly clear: this dude is a good foot or so taller than Izzle. He starts questioning Izzle's desire to challenge his character, saying "You don't even know me, why would you call me a douchebag?" and other gay shit, trying to act like his feelings are honestly hurt by this whole ordeal. This guy was seriously trying to act like Izzle's shitty post had some sort of realistic impact on his life and like he was here seeking answers as to why someone would write such horrid things about him. Why the fuck couldn't this piece of shit just be honest with the fact that he was here to intimidate Izzle in order to get off on the power trip? Why play these games, O Crafty Buttfuck? Why the masquerade?

Anyway, long story short, Big Burly Man leaves mid-sentence in a huff, probably so he can tell his friends that "I had to leave before I punched that guy" later on when they're all inhaling controlled substances. Izzle and I walk away largely unaffected, and certainly not learning a lesson of any sort. Moral of the story? People fucking suck. Especially this particular piece of shit."

This entry sparked a bombardment of comments, the likes of which my LJ had never seen. Some of the highlights included harsh retaliations from members of the "Fiji" frat who said things like "the point of your story has absolute no meaning....let alone the fact that you are a regular gay faggot kid that likes lil boys and you are willing to stick up your ass for your buddy....you all shall perish in the flames of the everlasting jesus christ and our savior....otherwise grow out of your lil dick homo stage and be a man....stop hiding behind the words of a word file and speak of what you believe...otherwise no one ever will respect you or your faggoty ass buddies...i leave you in part with the least amount of balls i have ever experienced and if you ever say another word about myself or my fraternity....you shall suffer the necessary consequences...your frat buddy....lick em homo" and another comment predicting that "So a few years down the road, when all of us are running our own companies, and you are sittin in some shithole apartment in NYC attempting to find steady work at the local deli, living off the tax dollars that our company's pay, I know you will be thinking to yourself, "Wow, too bad I wasn't cool enough to be in a fraternity." Maybe that's why you ridicule us so much, b/c you aren't cool enough, probably won't ever be, to be in a fraternity" (these comments are absolutely unedited...all grammatical mistakes were in the originals). For a while it was ridiculous; threats of libel charges abounded and all sorts of bullshit went down. When the dust settled, I still apologized for nothing. I will never apologize for that post. I rule. The entire thread can be found here.

- I pissed off a bunch of English majors: I wrote an earlier post on my LJ post regarding some literary splooge the English department had smeared all over my campus. Some of the replies included such gems as "Girls can be poets. Girls are people and authors and everything too. Allow your speech patterns to reflect this...otherwise you just seem even more archaic and patriarchal than your argument points out that you are." You might be asking yourself why someone would post this as a comment to my article? Because I said "his". That's why. The English language has no neutral pronoun, everyone uses the masculine as a default pronoun so I do it too, and all of a sudden I'm sexist? Fuck that.

- I lost my job because of my online writing: As I said in an earlier post, my boss fired me and suggested that I get counseling because of a post I put up. A lot of my friends have tried to convince me that I was unjustly terminated and that my freedom of speech was infringed upon. Although I didn't enjoy being fired, I fully support my boss's decision to terminate me. I'm reposting the article that got me fired just so you can all understand why I was justly and fairly terminated.....
"I just got done tutoring a very stupid girl. A very stupid girl indeed. A walking conglomeration of all that is wrong with university life. She was spectacularly unattractive and had bad acne and terribly dry lips. She lumbered into [my place of employment] in her Greek-letter sweats and asked for help. I started reading her paper and immediately hated her. Not only because she sucked as a writer, but because she had a terrible oral fixation. It wasn't one of those unnoticeable oral fixations whereby someone chews absentmindedly on a pen. It wasn't even one of those rare hot oral fixations where you can just picture yourself as the object of that person's attention. It was one of those oral fixations where it looked as if the girl was a cow licking a salt block. I don't think she could have been more disgusting had the pen been dipped in pizza grease and a pig's snout been affixed to her face. Seriously, this bitch slathered away at that pen as if the greasy residue from her pimple-fingers were some kind of mythic ambrosia. It was nauseating, to say the least. When I started to tell her what was wrong with her paper (mostly, it was the fact that she just copied large chunks of material directly from the book and added nothing of her own analysis. Not that I expected her to have any original thoughts about the material, it just would have been nice if the grammatically correct sentences been written by her instead of Mary Shelley), I quickly discovered another facet of her nauseating existence: her voice. No matter what I said, she responded to it with "yeah." This alone is not so bad, but the way she said it was disgusting. Have you ever seen a bukkake film? You know, the kind where some bitch is taking it in the ass and then about fourteen different guys cum all over her face? Well, she sounded like those girls sound. For those of you less pornographically-inclined, it's a whiny, "I'm a stupid whore" sound that increases in pitch as it goes on, thereby sounding like a question. I honestly think I could have looked her in the face and said "Would it be all right if I bash a mushroom tattoo into your face with my cock?" and she would have responded with that insufferable "Yeeeeeeaaaaahhhh?" God. I couldn't wait for her to drag her pimple-ridden, pus-spewing, slack-jawed cottage cheese ass out of here.

I really love my job. Really."

This post was probably the worst thing I've ever written, although I must say that my language was exceptionally descriptive; all told, I have rather mixed feelings about this post. Yeah, it was mean, but godDAMN did the anger get through. Anyways, I think you can all understand why I was fired now.

Well, I suppose I should wrap this bullshit up. It's been a great school year, gang. I wish the Class of Aught Five the best in everything they do. Unless it's the eighth grade class of aught five, in which case I hope you fucking die and lecherous old men rape your ears while maggots dance the mamba in your sphincter. I look forward to more escapades in the world of Online Bullshit with all of you.

Si valestis, valeo.

P.S., If anyone knows of any way for me to write for money, the information would be appreciated. Otherwise, just tell your friends about this site....it seems to spread well through word-of-mouth. And bring me a drink.


EDIT FROM LATER:I forgot to mention that this blog also made it on freespeech.com. I was really proud to see a picture of myself flipping off the world posted on a site where grade school children probably go to research their papers on the Constitution. Here's the link.

Click this shit!

Hooray for Sweat Shops

A lot of people think sweat shops are bad. To them I give a hearty "fuck you!" and an exuberant flip of the bird. What the hell do people bitch about sweat shops for? Here are just a few of the great services they offer:
They keep kids busy - Seriously, kids need something to do with their time. If they're not living in a country which provides public education for them, they may as well be making a buck (in some cases, a buck a week) for their families. Honestly, if the kids can't go to school and if they don't have their own landon which to raise food, what the hell else are they gonna do? Sit at home and fuck around until mom and dad get home from a long day's work and have to put up with their bullshit? Fuck that. I say put the little bastards to work.
They provide cheap goods by taking advantage of the exchange rate - Everyone's heard all those sob stories about people making thirty cents an hour and bitch bitch bitch, whine whine whine. The fucking pussies who pull out this old chestnut and act like it's some sort of evidence whenever there's a debate about sweat shops need to take a step back and examine reality. You know why these people are making so little per hour? Because the exchange rate has such a fucking drastic difference between American currency and Third World currency. In Bangkok, a bachelor's degree in computer science will land you a job which pays four American dollars for an eight-hour work day. That's fifty cents an hour, for those of you who went through the American public school system. Who's being oppressed here? No one. The simple fact is, people like to bitch about how overseas jobs get paid so little because they like to pretend that Americans are some sort of oppressive overlords; in reality, American corporations are providing jobs for foreign citizens with comparable pay to what they would be getting anyway. Not only that, but since they save so much on labor they get to provide a less expensive product to the American consumer. That means that I can got into a corporate store like Wal-Mart, find a cheaper product of decent workmanship, and steal it!
They take away jobs from white trash - I don't know if this is true or not, but I certainly hope it is. If I had my way, I would make it mandatory for every American corporation to move their factories overseas. If there's any group of people that doesn't deserve any sort of job whatsoever, it's white Americans. Goddammit, just thinking about them is pissing me off. I know it's quite the rage nowadays to pretend that hard-earned money is somehow being stolen from the American proletariat because of jobs being exported overseas, but the simple fact is that, in addition to my previous two reasons, sweat shops are great because they allegedly take jobs away from white Americans don't work for shit. I say this as a white American; we are the laziest people when it comes to factory work. Why? Because we fucking believe that for some reason we have better things to be doing with our time than whatever it is we're doing. If I were ever a human resources manager for a factory, I would hire only Mexicans, because the greatest workers I've ever known have been Mexicans. I've said it before and I'll say it again - white people suck.
Whenever I see something on TV from that fat fuck Michael Moore showing his "hometown of Flint, Michigan", I want to track that bastard down and beat him to death with his own self-inflated ego. Moore's documentaries tirelessly emphasize his belief that, since the factory moved away from Flint, the citizens of Flint somehow are not to blame for their current state of squalor. Fuck that. This is fucking America - no one's forcing these people to stay where they are or keeping them from obtaining training for a better job. If life is so harsh for them, they should move overseas to where the jobs are. What's that? You don't want to go to a foreign country where you don't speak the language and don't know anybody in order to get a steady job? Maybe you'll think next time before you bitch about Mexicans "stealing your job", you white trash piece of shit. Some people have it a lot worse than you do, so shut the fuck up and go back to stuffing your face with Pizza Rolls.
Where was I going with this? Oh yeah...
Sweat Shops Rule - At least, they do for me. Sure, maybe they're taking away jobs from Americans, but the fact is that most Americans don't deserve a job anyway. Americans suck. The only adverse effect sweat shops have had, as far as I can see, is the fact that they have inspired white trash to put up signs which proclaim"Export tires, not jobs" in their unmown lawns next to their rusted pickup that no longer runs. Yeah, right. As if that's even feasible. I'm sure that executives for tire companies like Firestone are slapping themselves on the forehead right now and screaming, "Goddammit! That's brilliant! I know exactly what to do - we'll make the tires here in the U.S., where we have to pay our employees at least $7 an hour, then we'll pay the cost of shipping to have them exported to a developing country, since any country with an economy comparable to the U.S. is going to be able to manufacture their own tires anyway, and we'll try to sell them at a price that will help us break even and at the same time will make our product affordable to these people! It's fucking brilliant!"
The fact is, corporations have sweat shops and overseas factories because that's the only way to participate in a global market - you make your product where it's cheap, then you ship it to where it's expensive. It's simple logic. That's why sweat shops rule.


If you're some sort of white trash bastard who believes that foreigners are somehow stealing your job, shut the fuck up and bring me a drink. I'll even pay you ten cents an hour to do it.

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Eating Disorder vs. Eating Problem

Wondering if you have an eating disorder? How about if you have an eating problem? Here are ten ways to tell between an eating disorder and an eating problem!


Eating Problem: You order "All You Can Eat Buffet" as an appetizer.
Eating Disorder: "All You Can Eat" is half a packet of Equal diluted in some tap waer.

Eating Disorder: After you eat, you puke.
Eating Problem: After you eat, other people puke.

Eating Disorder: You're constantly running laps in order to stay in shape.
Eating Problem: In order to stay in shape, people run laps around you.

Eating Disorder: You're constantly isolating parts of your body that you're not happy with and judging them whenever you look in a mirror.
Eating Problem: You do the same thing...but that's only because you haven't found a mirror big enough to show you your entire body.

Eating Disorder: You see Calista Flockhart as a role model.
Eating Problem: You see Calista Flockhart as a potential snack.

Eating Disorder: Because of your figure, people are constantly mistaking you for a twelve-year-old.
Eating Problem: Because of your figure, people are constantly mistaking you for a group of five people.

Eating Disorder: Because of your weight, it's a bad idea for you to walk around outside on a windy day.
Eating Problem: Because of your weight, it's a bad idea for you to go anywhere near the ocean if Captain Ahab is at the helm of his Piquod.

Eating Problem: You're a big fan of the Atkins diet.
Eating Disorder: You're a big fan of Dr. Werner's diet (Click here to read about it.)

Eating Disorder: You've grown accustomed to the taste of your finger down your throat.
Eating Problem: On days when you're bored, you stare at your finger and seriously consider it as a viable snack.

Eating Problem: When you say "I could eat like a horse," you literally mean, "I could eat, like, an entire horse."
Eating Disorder: When you say "I could eat like a horse," you literally mean that two sugar cubes and a carrot would really hit the spot.

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Ten predictions for "Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith"

(I am publishing this at 8:30 pm, three and a half hours before Star Wars: Episode III is going to be released. Read these predictions, go see the movie, and leave me a comment telling me how right I am.)

1.) This movie will suck.

2.) It will not be worth the wait outside in the rain (it's going to rain by me, and I hope it rains on everyone else who's waiting outside to see this piece of shit).

3.) While waiting in line for tickets, someone will mention Triumph the Insult Comic Dog at least 30 times per minute, fervently expressing their desire for him to talk to them so they can explain to him how wrong he really is - no one will care.

4.) You will sit in between two fat guys, one of whom will be dressed as a Storm Trooper and one dressed as Dax, and they will continually glower at each other. They will also smell like gouda cheese.

5.) The movie will be interrupted at least 50 times by Star Wars geeks arguing over minutiae and various discrecpancies between the movie and the books.

6.) The movie will be interrupted at least 50 more times by Star Wars geeks explaining to their "dates" (by "dates" I mean "homely sisters who have nothing better to do") why a particular bit of useless trivia matters.

7.) George Lucas will let everyone down.

8.) At least three people, dressed as either Jedis or Rebel pilots, will point out that "Sith" is just an anagram for "shit", which will piss off the guy dressed as a Storm Trooper and cause him to glower invisibly from his helmet.

9.) While walking out of the theater, you will hear the phrases "There were some good fight scenes" and "The special effects were good" so many times that you might actually believe that Haydn Christensen's complete lack of talent and the waste of Ewan McGregor's and Natalie Portman's time, not to mention your own waste of ten dollars and about three hours of your life, was somehow justified.

10.) The movie will be visually enjoyable, but will otherwise be a huge stinking pile of Bantha shit.

You will probably be more affected by the people in the theater with you than by the movie itself. Try to enjoy yourself and ignore the greasy fourteen-year-olds having a lame-ass lightsaber duel in the corner of the movie....just kidding, don't enjoy yourself. I hope you die for giving your hard-earned money to George Lucas, you fucking tool. Now make like R2D2 on Jabba the Hutt's pleasure cruiser in Return of the Jedi and bring me a goddam drink.

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Sometimes you have to lower your standards to raise your average

Some business-type matters to take care of. Click here.

I'll admit: when I'm drinking, I turn into a raving man-slut. The alcohol works its way down my body whenever I drink. It starts in my head with that rather pleasant feeling of slight ethereal vertigo. After that, it moves to my throat and tongue, making me desire even more alcohol. From the throat, it moves to the stomach, giving me mad munchies that only entire bags of Doritos and giant helpings of Kroger chicken nuggets can cure. Finally, we're in the crotch, which will dictate my behavior for the rest of the night. After about 12 AM or 12 drinks, whichever comes first, I'm on the prowl.
The problem with this is that by this time my brain and eyes have gone to sleep, which leaves my penis on its own to seek companionship. When my drunken eyes do function, they always present me with an alternate version of the person I'll wake up next to - it's like I have Twilight Zone eyes that can peer into a parallel universe and show me how the person could conceivably be considered attractive had things gone differently for them. My penis cares not; it only has one eye, and that eye has its beer goggle firmly in place by this time. It's time to get some booty.
One particular occasion taught me a very valuable lesson, which I will relate to you at the end of the following anecdote:

When my last serious girlfriend and I broke up, I immediately went out drinking. Nothing says "I'm over you" like ingesting quarts of hard alcohol and screaming at random people. I went to a frat on campus (the BFC, for those of you who read the G. I. Jack stories) which quickly reminded me of the joys of debauchery. I was standing in a room next to a couch with three girls on it, beer in each hand. I happened to look down and notice that the girls, apparently not seeing me as a very plausible prospect for their future bastard children, had begun making out with each other. Pretty soon hands were in naughty places, and a crowd was forming. A couple of guys tried to shove me out of my coveted spot right next to the Action Couch, but I wasn't going to have any of it. I firmly maintained my ground.
Bored with sitting on the couch and molesting each other, the girls decided to dance on a coffee table. While dancing, they were still making out and playing "Hide the Fingers in the Bra". A frat brother quickly jumped up behind one of them, forming a train. There was only room for one more person on that coffee table. Knowing that I had just broken up with my girlfriend and was really broken up (a.k.a., drunk), a friend of mine in the house demanded that I take that remaining spot on the coffee table. Being the complacent type, I quickly obliged.
Dancing on that table has to be one of the highlights of my party career. There were three girls on this table, hands all over each other, with me and another guy being bookends for them. They gradually moved on to touching me, making me put my hands in naughty places on their friends, and grinding into me in ways I had formerly only heard legends about. It was a phenomenal time.

Oh, how I wish I could lie to you now, Dear Reader. I wish I could tell you that I took all three of those girls home and had my way with them in succession while the other two watched in masturbatory envy. Sadly, this is not how things turned out.

After some time on the coffee table, one of the girls quickly left (in all probability to go barf). Her friends, in typical group-of-chicks-at-a-frat-house fashion, went to "go check on her". This left me with the not-so-pleasant aftertaste of disappointment that the unfulfillment of high hopes leaves in one's mouth. Add to that the fact that my penis had now completely taken all of the blood from my brain and was leading me around like a dog on a long, thick leash, and you can understand why I began to get both desperate and pissed. Feck.

I continued mingling in the party. I think at one point I walked up to a girl from my hometown and told her that she should give me a blow job. She was less than charitable in her response to my request. Prude.
I found another girl from my hometown who was a sophomore. I sort of remembered what she looked like in high school - blond, not a bad figure, came from a rich-type family. For some reason, my penis kept telling me that a freshman year of drinking, late night munchies and shitty cafeteria food had not affected her. Like the drunken idiot I am, I listened to my penis. My penis is not the greatest drinking buddy. If it were a real person, it would be the kind of friend who told me to drink burning tar when I'm drunk. Bastard.

I'm not too sure what happens next, but I know that somehow we are now making out in a shitty frat house bathroom. Various regions are being touched. She suggests we go back to my place. I agree.

Next memory: she and I are walking back to my dorm. The night is somewhat chilly, and since beer never keeps me drunk for long I'm starting to sober up. My brain wakes up and rubs its eyes. It starts trying to get my attention. My penis tells it to shut the fuck up. It's dark, and since my eyes haven't really adjusted or sobered up, I can't really get a good read on the girl.
We get to my dorm. I have considerable difficulty with the keys. We make it upstairs and to my room. By the time this all transpires, both my brain and my eyes have woken up and demand to know what sort of shit my penis has gotten us into (to give you another analogy, this would've been the part where my brain and eyes woke up to find that my penis had written "COCK" on their foreheads with permanent marker). My penis tells them to shut the fuck up again. Besides, we are in my room now, and there is touching going on. It's still dark. However, my brain has compiled a pretty good schematic on what sort of person we are dealing with based on tactile input. It doesn't look good.

We are undressed. I need to find something in my room, so I turn on the light, giving me my first clear, sober look at this girl.

Ew.

My penis finally comes to its senses and runs away. My eyes are trying to shut themselves back off. My brain is smirking at me like the self-loving bastard it is and telling me that it told me so. Fucker.
The girl notices that my penis has run off, and is concerned. I stutter for a bit, trying not to make eye contact. Finally, I tell her that I must have some sort of whiskey dick. Yeah, that's it...whiskey dick. Also, I drank a bunch of cold medicine before going to the party. Silly me...ha ha. Oh well, c'est la vie, let's all go home.
She is really concerned, because "cold medicine and alcohol don't mix...are you sure you're ok?" I assure her that I am, in fact, ok. I insist that I walk her home. However, she is determined to finish what we started. Since I had gotten her off right before (what can I say, I'm a guy who firmly believes in the "ladies first" rule), she insists that she gets me off. Fine, whatever, if it'll shut you up you can do it. Just please don't make me look at you.
She sinks out of my line of vision. Thank God. My penis slowly returns. My brain keeps sending my penis images of more attractive girls so my penis can finish this job and we can all get the fuck out of here. The whole time, the Bloodhound Gang song, "You're Pretty When I'm Drunk" kept running through my head as a form of further mockery from my brain. After what seems like an eternity (she sucked at sucking), we're all done. Mission accomplished. Let's go.

I walk her back to her house (again, I'm the very model of chivalry) and drop her off. After an awkward goodbye, I head straight back to the BFC to drink this horrible experience out of my mind. The next morning is not a pleasant one for my brain, to say the least. Serves that bastard right for abandoning me when I needed it most. Fucker.

Now, at this point I was going to tell you what I learned from all of this. But I forgot. The moral of the story is, I guess, that I have an inverse correlation with my standards for poon tang and my BAC. Or maybe it's not inverse....whatever, one goes down when the other goes up. The other moral would be to never go out drinking without a buddy to pull you off of gross chicks - Scary Adam has saved me many a time from awkward mornings. I guess I'm more of a whore than most girls I know when I'm drunk - beh.

Go bring me a drink. I'll sleep with you if you do.

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The Angry Drunken Irishman Fashion Memo

To: College Girls
Re: "Themed" Parties

To whom it may concern,
There has been some confusion lately as to the proper dress one should adopt when attending a "themed" party hosted by a fraternity at an institute of higher learning. In order to clear up any discrepancies which may still remain, the following compendium is being distributed by the author of this web site.
When attending a fraternal gathering, one must always have a "default" outfit which can be worn to any given party. This should call attention to the wearer by revealing the greatest amount of sking possible to be seen while at the same time covering the "Big Three" (i.e., breasts and frontal crotch region...the ass is negotiable). These outfits can be purchased at stores in the mall, and it's easy to purchase them. Simply look for the clothing store with the least amount of decoration on the walls. A white-washed room would be the ideal place to shop for "fashionable" clothing.
Next, pick up the skimpiest item of clothing from the rack. It should also be the most expensive item. Try it on. If you think it's too small, go a size smaller. Go ahead, get it smaller! Then shrink it in the wash. Even if you're a girl bordering on being overweight, get a smaller size; trust me, there's nothing sexier than seeing a girl's love handles stick out three feet from her body, wedged in between her tight shirt and her sausage-skin "lo-rise" jeans. If your love handles don't make you look like a giant walking lower-case "t", then you need smaller clothes. Simple as that.
Once you've purchased the "default" outfit, it's time to move on to the next step. Most fraternities usually feel the need to justify their wanton drunken shenanigans, so they'll do things like create drinking games, make up a fake philanthropy event, or create a "theme" party. I've compiled a list of some of the more prominent theme parties and the corresponding attire one should adopt when in attendance:
"Tropical" Parties - These parties will have names like "Fiji Island," "Kummoniwannalaya", and "Jamaican Me Crazy", among others. The less creative frats will name it something like "Beach Party" or "Hawaiian Drinking Party" or "Me Sand You Good Beer Yum", if you're attending a frat whose membership is primarily football players.
There are two ways to dress for a party like this. You can either wear your "default" outfit, put a cheap strand of plastic flowers around your neck and act like you're having a good time being the wallflower in the corner that nobody's talking to
OR
you can be a real trooper, put on your bathing suit regardless of the weather (one-piece suits are better...if your suit is a two-piece, simply don't wear one of the pieces), and march across campus to drink exotic drinks like, well, like the same old drinks that these frats always have: cheap beer. Initially, there will be someone with a blender mixing drinks like "Slippery Nipples" and "Sex on the Beach", but they will get bored serving drinks thirty minutes into the party and they'll wander off to join the rest of the crowd, leaving the bar wide open for people like me to swoop in and drink the shitty Aristocrat vodka straight out of the bottle. So you're better off just showing up expecting to drink cheap beer.
Decade Parties - These parties can be the most difficult to dress for. Depending on the decade, the ensemble will change. My suggestions are as follows:
90s party - Doesn't exist...if someone invites you to a nineties party, you have been transported thirty years into the future.
80s party - Wear lingerie, put your hair in a side ponytail, and wear sweat bands around your wrists and ankles.
70s party - Wear lingerie and an afro wig. If you don't have an afro wig, then wear bell-bottom lingerie. If you don't have that, then wear lingerie and aviator sunglasses. If your lame ass doesn't have any of these things, then wear the default outfit, go to the party and pretend like you're drunk while making out with your roommate and jerking off some guy. No one will care that you didn't dress according to theme.
60s party - Wear tie-dye lingerie. If you do't have tie-dye lingerie, then just wear lingerie and a giant peace symbol.
50s party - Lame. No one ever does the fifties. If someone did, though, here's what you should do. Wear something that would make June Cleaver proud, like a housedress and an apron. Then take it off after two beers.
40s party - Show up dressed like Rosie the Riveter. Leave shortly thereafter, since beer will be rationed and the Asian kids are going to be in for an unpleasant surprise towards the middle of the party. These parties wouldn't be too fun...if they existed.
30s party - Wear a cardboard box. Ask if anyone knows wear to get a job and walk around telling people you're from "Hooverville".
20s party - Flapper
Ok, I've dragged this joke on a bit too far....let's continue.
Freaks 'n' Geeks party - Wear lingerie and a pair of big, thick glasses.
Heaven 'n' Hell Party - This is usually the party where the upstairs is "Heaven" and the downstairs is "Hell" and tee-hee-hee it's such a good idea tra la la la la. Yeah, well, it doesn't make it any easier to dress for, now does it? My suggestion: Lingerie with plastic horns on your head and shitty angel wings on your back. If anyone calls you out on being a metaphysical mulatto, make out with your roommate. They'll leave you alone.
Pimps 'n' hos - Wear lingerie, then put on a lot more makeup than you usually do. Makeup is the key here - we're not talking about Judy Garland in the Wizard of Oz makeup. I'm talking about shit that you'll have to scrape off of your face with a paintscraper the next morning because it's on there so damn thick. Also, you should wear fishnet stockings. Ripped ones. Try to make your mom proud.
Toga - Wear a toga. Nothing underneath.
Any Vocational Themed Party, Such As "Golf Pros, Tennis Hos" or "Pilot Pimps and Stewardess Hos" or "Businessmen and Secretaries" - These parties are usually very degrading towards women, so here's what you should do for these: pick out an outfit you would normally wear to class. Wear half of it.

My personal favorite, out of all of the themed parties I've ever been to, has been the Anything but Clothes parties, hosted by my awesome friends. I think that title is self-explanatory. If you need examples, here are a few: I wore a garbage bag, one girl wore two bandages over her nipples and an Ace bandage wrapped around her cooch, and another wore electrical tape. It was a good time.

If you have any further questions, please feel free to reply to this post. And bring me a drink.

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Poetry is not for Posers

I picked up another copy of the university's student-written art and poetry magazine today, and I was immediately reminded of how much I hate people. In particular, though, I was again reminded of how much I hate fractured prose.

I don't know if I'm the only one to use this term or not, but that's the name I've given to the sort of horseshit half-assed attempts at poetry that seem to proliferate among universities and coffeeshops. Yes, I understand the concept. You're trying to get across an idea and you don't want to be "restricted" with petty things like rhyme and meter. Getting your idea across while playing by the rules was too hard, so you eliminated the rules. You're a cheater.
I will admit that some fractured prose, when properly done, is interesting at best. But ultimately, fractured prose is like zooming a video camera all the way in on a section of something. The good writers of fractured prose will keep the camera steady and will allow you to see a microcosm that you wouldn't have otherwise seen. The bad writers (and these seem to far outweigh the good ones) will jerk the camera around with their awkward metaphors and feeble attempts at avant-garde juxtaposition. Fractured prose is not poetry.
I don't know how many times I'm going to say this before I get fed up and just stop reading anything an undergrad student writes, but I can't stress this enough: fractured prose is not poetry. Free verse is not poetry. Writing in a style which splooges words across the page is not poetry. Calling this shit poetry is a slap in the face to all the real poets. To all the heroes of literary tradition, the Romans, the Greeks, and the English, this free verse shit is complete nonsense. Poetry is an art form. There are many forms of real poetry if you feel "hampered" by a particular style; sonnets, limericks, haikus, rhyming couplets, and alliterative verse are all examples of poetic forms (although alliterative verse has more of an oral fixation and probably shouldn't be recounted among these literary forms...eh, fuck it). Poetry is a challenge to the writer, one which says "Ok, you've got x amount of lines and you've got to rhyme these lines to these lines and you've got to tell a story and it's got to be good". That's why poetry is hard. That's what makes poetry art.
Free verse, or fractured prose as I would much rather call it, doesn't tell a story. It's a snippet ofa story dissected and scattered across a page. It's like a skeleton with no connecting sinews or muscles....fuck it, most of this shit is like a skeleton made up of the bones of all sorts of animals and put together the wrong way. Fine, it's ok to look at, but it doesn't make sense. In fact, it sucks.
Stop trying to act like fractured prose is hard to write, you pussies. Fractured prose isn't writing - fractured prose is the formulative idea for writing. So, what you've done here is think of a few creative phrases and then written them down without any connecting material? That's not writing. That's horseshit. That's a smorgasbord of crybaby mediocrity. That's pure fucking laziness - to write down phrases without connecting material in which the meaning is not explicitly clear is to fail as an artist. Sure, fine, let's cut out all the non-descriptive words and leave a few metaphors and leave it up to the reader to figure out what the hell was going through your mind when you scribbled this shit on a coffeehouse napkin at three in the morning. Be lazy. Avoid the extra work of fleshing out the descriptive phrases and adding proper adverbs and conjunctions and ideas - hell, why not just hand in a blank page and let the reader think of their own poem? You'd be a fucking genius!

To give you an idea of why I hate fractured prose so much, here's an example. The following "poem" is what this entire post would look like as a work of "free verse". Hopefully this will illustrate more fully why taking out the connecting material is horseshit -

"I hate fractured prose"
~ThE aNgRy DrUnKeN iRiShMaN~

you're a cheater
dissected and scattered across the page
in an ass-backwards skeleton
in a lazy smorgasbord
in a blank page
fucking genius
a SLAP! in the face of
Romans
Greeks
people of intellect


Get the picture? I can explain this shitty ass fractured prose until I'm blue in the face, but that fact is that a) it's not poetry and b) it doesn't get the same point across as my prose does. I heard a student talk about his poem, named "if". The entire poem was the word "if". He explained and explained how having this one-word poem encapsulated the possibilities of education and how it showed open horizons and brand new vistas and blah blah blah. Meanwhile, I'm thinking to myself "Goddammit, if your poem were any good, someone else would be up there talking about it. As it is, your poem doesn't make any fucking sense so you have to waste my time talking about what it means. I need to drink."
I'm tired of typing, so let me sum up my beef with the following points:
-Art should stand on its own terms. It shouldn't need to be explained.
-Fractured prose is horseshit. It's not poetry and it's not that damn good.
-Real poetry is hard to do. It takes skill. It takes patience. It's not something you can pull out of your ass. I suggest that you learn to do it, you fucking rule-changing pussies.

And while you're at it, bring me a drink. You know, to prepare you for your future vocation of Perpetual Coffeeshop Employee.

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University students are retards

Recently there has been a debate on campus regarding the amount of student representation allotted by the administration. Specifically, some students were angry about the fact that some professors were not granted tenure when they (the students) felt that tenure was deserved. Because of this, a paper rain of illegible rantings and a veritable geyser of illogical diatribes have engulfed our campus in a deluge of self-righteous opinionated bullshit. So of course, I have to go on my shitty blog and give my opinion. In case you missed the giant orange title, let me state it again for you: university students are retards.
I know a lot of intelligent students on this campus, but I am hard pressed to think of five people whom I think deserve a hand in the administrative process. If it were up to university students, professors would be granted tenure solely on the ease with which they ran their classed. A professor who assigned only a five page paper for the semester would get tenure over a professor who actually ensured that his students learned something any day. Why? Because students here are lazy and stupid.
The specific argument that circles around campus has to do with a professor who won the prestigious "Student Senate Professor of the Year" Award and yet somehow still managed to avoid tenure. Students are protesting that the fact that this professor won an award should entitle her to automatic tenure. They are wrong.
Let me describe to you the way the Student Senate works: people who have too much time on their hands run for a seat in the Senate. When ballots are passed out, the rest of the student body looks at it, weighs the options carefully, and then makes a well-informed decision based on who they think will perform in their best interest. Just kidding! Once those ballots are passed out it's purely a popularity contest. The most well-known person gets elected, regardless of what kind of job they'll do.
After this step, I'm not sure what goes on in a Student Senate meeting. From what I hear, they just sit around a flush money down the toilet. Seriously. A friend of mine started a bowling club, which would consist of its members going to an alley and bowling, and she appealed to Student Senate for some cash to support said club. They gave her $500. What the hell is this shit? If I would have known that the univeristy was going to pay me to be white trash, I would've put a lawn chair on the quad and been sitting in it with a Busch Light can in my hand ever since freshman year. Student Senate also does a number of other wonderful things for us: they bring in bands to play so that we can take time off from our hard lives of video games and watching the free cable TV we get, they give money to other worthless groups, and they vote for the Professor of the Year. All in all, I'd have to say that I feel completely fucked in the butt knowing that part of my tuition money is going to pay for this kind of "representation".
Where was I going with this? Oh yeah. So after all the bullshit and crazy talk, the school newspaper (a fine literary resource to read on the toilet in case you should run out of toilet paper) ran a "Man on the Street" piece wherein they asked members of the student body if students should have more of a say in the tenure process. All eight people they interviewed said "yes". One asshole even went so far as to say that students should have half the power in the tenure process.
That's bullshit.
Students don't know shit. They don't know how to balance a budget, they don't know what qualifies a professor as being worthy of tenure, and most of the students I know on this campus wouldn't even know how to pour piss out of a boot if there were a hole in the toe and instructions written on the heel (to use a down-home term). They've gone through their lives having their parents take care of them, and the only reason they still attend this school is because Mom and Dad pay for their asses to go here. They want a say in the tenure process because they're pissed that their "voice isn't being heard" (translation: I'm a little whiny shit-baby and I've gotten everything I've ever wanted my entire life, and now that I'm not getting my way in real world situations I'm throwing a bitch fit).
University students need to grow the fuck up. Your voice isn't being heard because you don't know anything. We know you like this professor, but if the tenure committee decrees that she doesn't deserve tenure then you should shut the fuck up and accept it. No, you don't deserve half of the say in the tenure process because you're a shit-nosed little fuck whose parents still give you laundry money and spending cash whenever you request it. You have no idea what the fuck you're talking about, and your "voice" doesn't deserve to be heard. Life doesn't always turn out rosy. Sometimes you have to accept the fact that you don't know shit and trust that other people who, while they may not necessarily be smarter than you, have had more education than you in such matters make your decisions for you.
The antagonizing bitch babies in this whole debacle also noted that of the professors who didn't receive tenure, one was black, one was openly gay, and one was a militant feminist. They claimed that not giving these professors tenure was depriving our campus of diversity. I'm not even going to give my opinions on that, except to say this: a person's achievements should far outweigh their skin color, sexual preference, and beliefs. Always.

Long story short: TSWTFs (my roommate's term for the students at our campus, it stands for "Tortured Souls With Trust Funds") should shut the fuck up and go back to being coddled by their parents. Students deserve no representation in any administrative matters, because they're all a bunch of fucking retards who aren't even intelligent enough to know that they aren't worth a fart in a high wind (another down-home term; I'm hoping that if I use enough of them Student Senate will give me money for being white trash...hell, they might even bring me a drink).

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An open letter to all the women with whom I've slept

To Whom It May Concern:

I realize that it makes you feel better as a person and gives you an overall more secure sense of self-worth to claim that I only used you for sex; however, a statement such as this one is complete slanderous bullshit, and I would appreciate it if you stopped.
To the One Night Standers: I know that you're pissed because we were never officially "dating" when we had sex, and that I didn't consider you worthy of the time it would have taken me to get to know you on something more than a superficial level. However, that's you're fault, not mine. Perhaps if you were a more interesting person I would have taken the time to get to know the "real you" before I snuck out of your room at three in the morning with my shoes in my hand. Maybe if you had given any indication at all of being worth my time I wouldn't have gone back to the same shitty party where I picked you up and picked up another woman in order to wash the your taste out of my mouth. If we both had some self-respect, we know that this wouldn't have happened, so stop pretending like I took advantage of you while you were in a state of complete alcoholic irresponsibility after you drank half a glass of shitty keg beer; I didn't. Remember, you were the ones who suggested that we "go someplace else", not me. Reevaluate the situations - who was using whom?
To the Women I Got to Know Fairly Well: You were definitely worth the time it took to get to know you. I didn't ever regret our conversations, and I think you're all great people. However, I think that your bullshit is what killed our friendships, not my alleged one-track mind. When we started sleeping together, I made damn sure that you knew what this was. I never claimed to be faithful to you, and I wasn't. I can't think of a single one of you I was "faithful" to. I told you that we were friends who would fuck, and we were. You were completely informed. I didn't hold anything back from you. However, when you started demanding that I sleep over or gave me a jealous look when I talked to other girls, then it was over. I decided that sleeping together was too much of a strain on our friendship. When the sex stopped, you stopped our friendship. It wasn't the other way around. Think about this for a second: who was using whom for sex there? Certainly not me. Please stop lying to yourself and claiming that I was only interested in you for sex. You seem to so easily neglect the months we knew each other prior to the sex. If you really think that I waited that long just so we could have a couple of thirty-second romps in your bed, you are mistaken. I like you as a person. Well, I did until you turned into a bitching self-loving blame-externalizing fuckrod. Also, I'd like to point out that not one of you had to be talked into sex with me. You all did that willingly enough. It was talking you out of the sex that was the hard part.
To the Women I Was Dating When I Slept With Them: None of this applies to you.

I'm sick of you all claiming that I was just into you for the sex. I didn't rape anyone; you were all willing participants. Stop being such a bunch of fucking whiners - if I wanted to have sex with crybabies I'd go hang around the kindergarten jungle gym like my creepy uncle.

Oh yeah, I forgot that there are a couple of you whose names I don't know...I did just use you for sex. Deal with it.

Love,

The Angry Drunken Irishman


P.S. Bring me a drink. That way I can be using you for sex and bar service.

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Funerals and Memorial Services = Too Little, Too Late

Today I was part of a memorial service that robbed me of five and a half hours of my life. I didn't know the guy, and I listened to a lot of people talk about him. During this whole time, I couldn't help but think how stupid this all was. Now, I'm not trying to be a faggy goth "look at me I'm not afraid of death" emo bitch by saying that (the day I paint my nails black and call myself Raven Nightbroom is the day that I renounce drinking and smoking and promiscuity as terrible vices and encourage everyone else not to engage in them). I'm trying to bring up a point and maybe even deliver a moral to my readers, assuming my drunk ass doesn't fuck up the message. I've been part of more funeral services than I care to count, and throughout every one of the funeral services or memorial services I've thought the same thing: isn't it a little bit late to be saying all these nice things about the person? I know that I'm writing about a touchy subject here, but hear me out.
Funerals aren't really about the dead person. If they were, then they wouldn't exist. People would just throw the bodies into the ground or burn them and the entire mortuary industry would soon be as pointless as a gay pride parade in ancient Greece. Funerals are for the living. Funerals are designed to help the surviving members of the family deal with the loss of their loved one and to face their own mortality. That's fine. But why wait until the person's dead to say all these nice things about them? Wouldn't it make more sense to tell the person the things you enjoy about them while they're alive and save the backstabbing horseshit for their funeral?
At my funeral, I don't want anyone to say any kind words about me. That'll be pointless. If anything, I want my words to be read before my family and friends while they're all gathered in one place. I think what I'd like to do is record all of my drinking stories and sexual exploits and put them in a notebook in a safety deposit box somewhere. Then I'll have my kid or wife or whomever read them aloud to the people gathered at my wake in lieu of a eulogy. Then they can hear every minute detail of my sex life while wearing their best clothes and staring at my dead body. That would be the shit.
Either that or I want a roast-style eulogy. I want everyone who has any bullshit beef with me to come up and say it to my face. You know, while I'm dead in the coffin. That way they'll be able to tell me off in a manner that I deserve, and I'll be dead so I'll have an excuse for not giving a shit about their opinions (it seems that when you're alive and people come to you with a problem they have with you that you're supposed to humor them and make an effort to fix it - how bothersome). I also want people to be laughing at my funeral, because I know that I'll be laughing at them from wherever I am. Maybe I'll also have a stipulation in my will that requires that a recording of me screaming "I'm not dead!" be put in my coffin and played at random intervals while they're lowering me into the ground. That would also be the shit.
I don't mean to make light of a grave situation, but....hold on, I was laughing too hard over that pun. "Grave situation"...get it? Anyway, as I was saying, I don't mean to make light of someone's loss, but funerals and memorial services are retarded. All that happens is that the family and friends and other hangers-on sit around and think to themselves, "Gee, I was such an asshole when they were alive. Why didn't I tell them that I loved them more?" I know that's what I was thinking at my grandfather's funeral. I loved him very much, and I regret not telling him how much he meant to me. I even wish today that I could tell him what an impact he's had on my life.
I know! Maybe when I'm dead I'll stipulate in my will that some pews in the church have whoopee cushions on them! Although, given the way I conduct my life, I'm not so sure a church would even let me in post mortem.
Ok, it appears I got off track again...what was I saying? Oh yeah. Saying nice things at a funeral is pointless. All it does is give the speaker a platform to bring attention to himself or herself while also giving them the opportunity to make everyone else feel worse for being such a dickhead to the deceased while the deceased was alive. At my funeral, I want a keg. And I want people to sprinkle me with libations from the keg. And I want everyone to be happy, either because they're finally rid of me or because they have free booze or because they got the chance to get to know such a kick-ass guy like me or all three. Either way, it will be a joyous day on earth when I'm cold and dead and in the ground.
So take a lesson from this rather disjunct rant of mine. Go tell someone you love them before they die. If someone does something that you think is cool, tell them. Don't wait until they're in a box to tell anecdotes about their life to other people. If someone does something you appreciate, tell them. That's what I do, and that's what you should do too, you assholes.
Also, it would be really cool if I could have a spring put under me in the coffin so that my body would pop up at random times. Sorry, got off track again.
Anyways, tell someone you love them, or tell them you hate them, while they're still alive. Regardless of how you feel, you should let them know before they die because it's fucking pointless to say anything at a funeral. The person's dead.

So hurry up and tell me how much you love me or hate me before I die. And bring me a drink.

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What I learned in high school

(For some reason I really started missing my high school buddies, Wopper, Dave, G.I. Jack, St. Patrick S. Grant, Keefers and Buffalo...guys, this list is dedicated to you)

- You can be sitting in the principal's office in the afternoon being interrogated about a broken window and you can sit at the head table at an honors banquet for the school with the same principal lauding your "academic achievements" and everyone will pretend to ignore the inherent hypocrisy

- It's only after the district attorney puts out a bounty for you that you learn who your real friends are

- Never trust the son of a cop, even if he was participating in the same vandalizing activities you were

- Fire extinguishers are easy to steal

- Everything is easy to steal

- You can spend your entire high school career vandalizing your school and performing other criminal activities and the only time you'll catch shit for anything is when you legitimately weren't involved in the action

- Grilled cheese and tomato soup is a culinary delight compared to the other shit they serve

- Teachers can only ignore the bouncy balls you're throwing around the room for so long...after a while, they tend to get pissed

- Breaking glass is a sound which at the same time fills the heart with fear and arousal

- Stealing the master key to all the locks on the school lockers is the best idea in the world

- If you're the class valedictorian and the president of your school's chapter of the National Honor Society and the Drama Club and you sit on Student Council, people will ignore the occasional pornographic background you put on the school computers

- A school computer can hold an amazing amount of loose change in its floppy drive

- You'll have to steal approximately 23 of the mouse balls in the school computers for the IT guys to finally take notice and do nothing about it

- If you draw a picture of your school's principal being fed into a wood chipper by your school's mascot and a teacher finds said picture...they might just laugh

- Throwing basketballs as hard as you can at underclassmen during lunch will result in everyone not being able to use said basketballs

- Having a contest to see how many people you can hang from the rim of the junior high basketball courts is a good way to get you and your friends banned from the gym permanently

- Working at the school as a janitor over the summer has the delicious irony of getting paid by the state to clean up a mess that you originally caused...it's also a good way to steal tons of shit from the school

- If you're interesting and intelligent in class, teachers will usually be on your side when shit goes down

- If your Journalism teacher doesn't know shit about Pagemaker and you do, you've got a cushy job for the rest of the semester

- Being class valedictorian and being friends with an Eagle Scout, an FFA National Award Winner, and a future Marine and various other geniuses (none of whom scored below a 27 on the ACT) makes it that much funnier when all of you wear your caps and gowns and piss on the floor and sink and trashcan and every other imaginable surface in the bathroom right before your graduation ceremony

- Dating a 21 year old is a good way to get booze

- Not drinking in high school is a good way to completely nullify the fact that you're dating a 21 year old

- Committing acts of vandalism and being constantly on the run from various authorities is a good way to pass the time and to build group solidarity

- Despite all the Hallmark cliches, sometimes friends really are forever, and the people you commit crimes with now will be the people with whom you'll drink and laugh about your crimes later

- Teachers are people too, and a majority of them don't give a shit

- Throwing a tray full of food in the lunchroom might just be the highlight of your day

- If you're one of the smart kids and you claim that you have to go speak to someone in the office, your teacher will believe you and you'll be free to walk the halls for an indefinite amount of time

- If you're a minor, take advantage of it, because once you're 18 you go to big people's court

- Bringing a banana clip for an M16 for a show and tell project is going to get you in trouble (thanks for that particular memory, Buffalo)

- Prom doesn't mean shit

- Neither does Homecoming

- Yearbooks don't mean shit

- The only thing that matters are the memories you have of running through cornfields with your buddies to elude angry parents

- The fact that you took some letters off of a sign in front of a video rental store so that it read "Cock Toppers" instead of "Clockstoppers" will be a more treasured memory than any homecoming or prom you can go to...it's also cheaper

- High school is fleeting, and you don't like these people anyway...don't waste time trying to convince yourself that they matter. The people that matter will be there regardless of what happens

- Having your first beers with your high school buddies while camping out by a pond on a perfect summer night will be one of the best memories of your life

- The fact that you drank because you were dating a crazy bitch who made you want a drink more than anything else at that particular moment will not

- If you spend the entire year filling an empty locker with the most disgusting garbage imaginable, you will get yelled at when a faculty member finds it

- But you still won't get in trouble

- Being voted Most Likely to Succeed by your classmates makes you feel like a huge tool and a failure when the best thing you produce with your life is some shitty blog


WHS Class of '02 . . . Fondly referred to by the faculty as the Worst Class Ever

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The "W" in "IWU" apparently stands for "white trash"

I was raised in a white trash area, in the country near a town most people wouldn't spend more time in than it takes to get the directions to somewhere else. I've seen the squalor, the apathy, and the overall filth that forms a scab-like film over such areas. I hate it. When I went to college, I thought I had escaped all that bullshit. Apparently, I haven't.

Today all the white trashiness came crashing in on me in a most unexpected way. When I woke up, I went into the shower and noticed that the other shower my suite shares with the adjoining suite was curtained off. I didn't pay it much mind. I showered and went about my business. Later on in the day, however, one of my suitemates informed me that I had had a most unpleasant shower companion in the adjoining shower: a deer skeleton.
Yes, that's right. A fucking deer skeleton. Apparently it had been put there by one of the members of the other suite (who is incidentally from my home town). It smelled like rotting meat, and its general appearance was fucking ghastly. The guy responsible for putting the skeleton in the shower actually took a shower with it; he claims that "the closer you are to death, the more you feel alive."
Bullshit.
This skeleton was in the shower from the morning until about 8:30 at night. Routinely, someone would come into the bathroom and spray it with deodorizing spray. You know, to make it seem more like it belonged in our shower instead of out in a field being scavenged by coyotes and other vermin. The sickening part about this whole ordeal is that the adjoining suite refused to take the skeleton out. They claimed that it was their "mascot", and that they wanted it there. I can't even begin to fathom the sort of mind that requires a putrescent decayed corpse in a cleansing area in order to display their group's solidarity.
After much pleading and threatening on the part of my roommate, they eventually removed the carcass. But did they throw it in the trash or in a field? No. They duct-taped this deer skeleton to a tree in the middle of our university's quad. It's right on the main path to the library for all to see.

I'm not making any of this shit up. Nor am I forcing the anger in my tone. I know most of the times when I'm "angry" in my posts it's in a largely tongue-in-cheek way. Not this time. This shit is ridiculous. This is an institute of higher fucking learning. If you want to go around duct-taping skeletons to trees and spitting chewing tobacco and drinking shitty beer, then get the fuck out of here. Go back to your inbred pig-fucking trailer park squalor; don't bring it around me just because you feel homesick. There are places for people like this, and college is not one of them. If you're someone who steals beer signs from gas stations, or someone who chews tobacco, or someone who picks up fucking rotten fucking CARCASSES and puts them in places where other people go to get CLEAN and leave them there all day so they drip liquefied deer brains onto the fucking wall, then get the fuck out of my university. Go back to your trailer park and pick up the family pig-fucking business. I hate white trash, I hate the place where I came from, and I HATE when people try to bring it into my sphere. Get the fuck out of my fucking sight, you worthless shits.

I'm really fucking mad.

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Smoking is bad. Stop doing it.

Just kidding. It's not.

Smoking kicks ass. It just happens to be very, very bad for you. This post was inspired by a bunch of shitty commercials on TV. You know those commercials - there'll be an older guy in a suit, and all of a sudden all these X-treme hippy skateboarder mod squad younger hep cats run up to him and start screaming or some shit. Allegedly this guy, as an executive for the tobacco industry, is the bane of America's existence, which justifies people running up to him and screaming at him on the streets shit like "WHY WON'T YOU TELL PEOPLE THE TRUTH?!?!" and throwing corpses at him.
Even worse than these commercials are the newer commercials which shows a bunch of tobacco execs in a sitcom style setting. Frankly, I don't know what the hell these commercials are trying to prove, but I know that at the end it gets all somber and everything's quiet and some voice says some shit like "Big Tobacco is going to kill you."
This is so much bullshit. When the hell are people going to grow up and start accepting responsibility for their actions? What's that, you're addicted to cigarettes? Then stop smoking, you fucking moron! Goddammit, why the hell is everybody so fucking adamant about bringing down Big Tobacco? It's not as if they're forcing you to smoke. They're not. People who smoke choose to smoke of their own volition - no one forces them to.
Oh, and now I suppose you're going to bring out the old "They're selling a product that's addictive and harmful" argument. Please. That's so much bullshit. Companies like McDonald's sell food with astronomical levels of sodium in it. Sodium has been shown to reduce the speed of serotonin reuptake (in other words, you feel damn good after you eat McD's). Sodium is also very bad for your circulatory system. In other words, McDonald's is selling a product that makes you feel good whenever you ingest it, but it's also bad for you. Does McDonald's receive the same kind of bullshit that "Big Tobacco" does?
Well, actually, yeah. Obese teenagers and ambulance-chasing lawyers, along with the help of hippy bastards like that pussy fuck who filmed "Super Size Me", have been trying to go after America's beloved Golden Arches lately. This is also bullshit. To say that someone's obesity is caused by a franchise is absolutely ridiculous. Until the day comes when Marlboro shoves cigarettes in baby's mouths and McDonald's chains teenagers to the bed while providing them with nothing to eat but Big Macs, we have no right to blame anyone else for our current situation. But who's to blame for all this obesity?
Parents.
Today's parents don't do shit for their kids. If their kids are bad, they put them in "Time Out" or don't allow them to play video games. When I was bad as a kid, my parents kicked my ass. They didn't take away my video games, a) because I didn't have any, and b) because my punishment was to go without dinner. I had to do all my chores every day. And they weren't any pussy chores like making my bed or taking out the trash - hell, I wish my life was that easy. I had to haul 50 lb. bags of feed to the chickens, haul bags of feed to the sheep, shovel shit and birth lambs when I was a kid. My parents never cut down on my chore list because I had to go to some pussy karate practice or some fucking track meet. I couldn't do shit until my chores were done. And if I didn't do my chores, I got my ass smacked with whatever piece of wood happened to be nearby.
That's how I learned responsibility, dammit. No one tried to teach me it by getting me a pet goldfish; they fucking beat my ass if I didn't get my shit done. This is why we have obese teenagers and smoking goth kids who hang out at the arcade and spew all this "woe is me" shit. If everyone beat their kids for not performing a demanding daily list of chorse, this world would be a way better place.

Where was I going with this? Oh yeah. Smoking kicks ass. It makes you feel good. It's also very bad for you. The same can be said about any number of substances - alcohol, red meat, cocaine, caffeine, and methampetamines are only a few examples. So do with it what you will, and the next time you hear someone bitching about Big Tobacco, tell them to shove it up their ass. And then make them give you a drink.

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Too much stress?

It's finals week, which means every PMSing rich white trash wannabe Barbie bitch has to drag out the old material, dust it off, and act like no one else has heard it before: "Finals week is hard, wah wah wah, I can't believe how hard it is, why are things so hard, wah wah wah." Not only that, but now I have to deal with all these "Stress Seminar" signs being put up all over my dorm. It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't such a blatant advertisement for the fact that my tuition money is paying for programs where fat RAs can teach people how to make stress balls out of rice and balloons or where they can take notes about "time management." In the interest of being effective, I've decided to tell everyone who complains to me that they have to take a final about a thrilling and optimal new solution:
Suicide.
Let's face it, life's not going to get any easier. Sooner or later those boobs daddy bought you are going to start sagging. Your skin's not going to be as tight. After your looks are gone you really won't have anything, because your bitch ass is too superficial to sustain any kind of meaningful existence beyond your colorful candy shell. I suggest the ol' razor to the wrist approach - this will give you enough time to call for help if you're having second thoughts, and when people find you you can look forward to a good three months of coddling and nurturing from people who were wondering why they didn't "see the signs." They'll even apologize to you for not being there! What a deal!
Guys, don't think I'm leaving you out. I know you don't worry as much about finals, so this doesn't apply to you right now. However, sooner or later you're going to go to work at a place that won't let you wear your backwards Abercrombie hat and cargo pants all the time, and you'll realize that drinking openly at 10 AM is no longer considered cool. You'll think that you're working your way up the corporate ladder, that you're just "getting in on the ground floor" and that someday when you're CEO you'll be able to relate to the guy in the mail room and will have all sorts of nice things to say about "the little people", but about the time you hit 37 that fantasy is going to wear a little thin. You'll realize that you've been in the same cubicle for the past twenty years and that the business degree (with a minor in public drunkenness) you got doesn't mean shit now. You'll realize that, while you had a bunch of connections because you joined a fraternity and bought yourself a bunch of "brothers", those connections don't mean shit now because all those fucking troglodytes are in the same boat as you. Let's face it - do you really think that a guy who made you drink his piss when you were a pledge is really gonna excel in any sort of environment outside of a frat house? After you realize that your life is worthless, I suggest you walk to your boss's office (since it's the only one that has a window), open the window and make a nice impressionist painting on the sidewalk. Hey, at least it's better than going home to that sagging bitch you thought was so hot in college.
Maybe you're thinking that suicide isn't for you, but trust me, it definitely is. Let's face the facts here: no one else besides you has to take four classes at once, no one else besides you has to work a whopping eleven hours a week at a desk job where you do nothing 99% of the time, and no one else has the demanding social life you do. C'mon, you don't really think you can have friends and maintain good enough grades for your mom and dad to continue sending you checks, do you? You're basically fucked. Now with finals coming up, you have added stress; in addition to trying to maintain a social life while finding time to study, work, read the Angry Drunken Irishman blog, and drink, you have to study for finals. Let's face it - no one can relate to you. Your life is way too hard. You're the only person in the history of the world who's had a life this hard. You're beyond help. Just end it.

But before you do, bring me a drink.



(NOTE: I realize that this might make it seem like I condone suicide. I don't. It's selfish and stupid and completely egotistic. Plus the pope says you'll go to hell if you do it. This post was written completely tongue-in-cheek. If you didn't realize that and actually needed this disclaimer to tell you I'm not serious, then go kill yourself. Seriously.)

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The Angry Drunken Irishman Book Review

The Bible
Author: God
Holy Land: Qumran Publishing
Publication date: 363, 2nd edition: 397, 3rd edition: 419
approx. 150-5000 pages depending on edition

Initially a good read. Good start, wonderful premise. A tri-omni being, "God", creates a perfect world, and like always, a woman fucks it up. Then the remainder of the first section is pure pornography. Porn normally doesn't bug me, but this was all about homosexual sex and incest and homosexual incest, then some rape and some more rape, then there was this one thing about angels wanting the daughters of men, which I'm not sure constitutes interspecies sex but it's pretty damn close. Needless to say, I thought it was a little graphic. The main character, God, kills a guy for not impregnating his dead brother's wife and for shooting his swimmers on the ground. I thought that was a little harsh, and I felt kinda guilty because of the amount of swimmers I'ver shot on the ground. And into socks. And Kleenex. And warmed up musk melons. Then there was a part about slicing baby wieners in order to be in God's club or some shit. All in all, I found this first section particularly disturbing. Especially the part about chopping baby wieners.
Then there's another section about slavery and redemption or some shit. More wiener-chopping goes on, there's a part where one dude rubs another dude's foreskin on some guy's forehead. I wasn't too sure what that was about, but it seemed kinda gross to me.
After this, the next few sections are all about what not to do. No eating shellfish, no eating pork, no eating llamas, no sex with animals, no sex with bleeding vaginas, no homosexual sex, blah blah blah. I kinda skimmed this part. After that there was a bunch of shit about people killing other people by driving tent pegs into their heads and then a witch shows up for some reason and there's a pretty good action sequence where a dude ties the tails of a hundred foxes together and then attaches torches to their tails and burns the fuck out of some other guy's wheat field because he won't let him bang his daughter. When they try and tie his ass to a temple, he pulls that shit down. Then there's a bunch of bitching about some lady named "Israel" and how she's forsaken the main character, God, and how people like this guy Hosea have to marry prostitutes to know how God feels and how they should commit genocide so God doesn't have to have any competition. Kinda interesting, but I mostly skimmed.
After this whole first chunk there's a second "New" chunk with more of the same...women are still evil, no butt sex between two dudes, we should feel guilty for being born, etc. God's kid, "Jesus", shows up and starts talking all this shit about how he's gonna bring about the end of the world, but it doesn't really happen. Some dudes kill him, he comes back from the dead and apparently he's had enough of being around here trying to usher in the apocalypse, because he scoots off to heaven shortly thereafter. Now all these people are in charge of bringing about the end of the world in Jesus' absence (I wasn't too clear on this point, but I think that's what they were trying to do), and this one guy, "Paul", travels around starting shit with everyone. All he accomplishes is getting everyone to hate him. He writes about Jesus a lot, tells everyone that they're wrong, and emulates Jesus as some sort of Christ figure. Paul's adamant misogynistic campaign against marriage and his consistent emulation of Jesus makes me wonder if he's not trying to come out of the prayer closet, if you know what I mean. Kinda suspicious. He writes some stuff about women being evil and dudes not having butt sex (a textbook case of self-loathing), then he mysteriously disappears. Probably because he was such a jackass to everyone. After Paul leaves, we talk to some of the more minor characters, but they're largely unimportant.
At the end of this book, it gets really trippy, kind of like at the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Everything goes apeshit. A lady rides a dragon and there's all these crazy animals with like seventy seven heads and they breathe fire and kill each other, and Jesus shows up again but this time he's got super kick-ass powers like a sword for a tongue and woolly hair (this may be an indication that he's a black dude, but the book wasn't really clear on this point). Jesus beats the shit out of the dragon dude and this Babylonian Whore chick that rides around seducing dudes and killing them. After this, everyone lives happily ever after.

All in all, this book was a little intense. I know everyone wants young kids to read it, but I'd suggest saving it for your son or daughter until they're in college, or at least high school. Also, some parts just plain didn't make sense. For example, section "Matthew" has a genealogy for Jesus, but then section "Luke" has a different genealogy for Jesus. Which is it? Jesus, you'd think an omniscient author like God would notice an aggregious error like that. And who the hell cares about Joseph's genealogy anyway, according to this book he's just knockin' boots with Mary after her Baby's Daddy runs off and leaves her (possibly more support that Jesus came from a black background). Supposedly there's this supplementary prequel to this book which explains that little snag, but I'm not sure I care enough to read it. Also in that supplement we get to read about Jesus' childhood, and I guess he kills people for running into him and brings dirt birds to life. Sounds like a good read. Maybe I'll pick it up. Beh.
The writing style was also confusing. What the hell is this book? Is it poetry, is it first person narrative, third person, what? It was like reading Ulysses. However, I think it was particularly confusing because the author sought to cover the span of several thousand years, instead of just one day like James Joyce did. This God character should take a lesson from Joyce when he's writing his memoirs - don't bite off more than you can chew, and when you're writing about yourself it's ok to take out the shit that makes you look like a really bad guy....you know, the whole ordering genocides and infanticide and the killing first borns and the plagues and shit.
Moral of the story? The Bible sucks, and James Joyce is a better writer than God.

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Me Rikey Rots

I hereby publicly apologize for any and all derogatory things I've ever said about Asian people (and that includes the title of this post) and, in case someone hasn't aleady done so, for the whole Hiroshima and Nagawhatsit thing. You know, the big boomy deal with the melting people and the cancer and shit? Yeah, sorry about that. Why the change of heart? Three words:

Dance
Dance
Revolution

....for XBox.
I got home from another day of tutoring to find my roommate with the Beat Pad he got for his birthday and a copy of DDR in his hands. He asked me if I wanted to play. I agreed. After I was done, I immediately wrote this post. I'm writing this post at 1:20 AM. I got home from work around 10:15 PM. You do the math.
Only one other game has given me the same sort of loss of time perception, and that game is Fable (it ranks about a 9.8 on the Angry Drunken Scale of Video Games). I know, I know, it's funny to make fun of people who play DDR. It's funny to point at the goth kids at the mall who hang out and bitch about Society and write shitty poetry and call themselves names like Raven Bloodstain. But let me tell you something, DDR is fuckin' hard.
After a few minutes playing the game on the lightest setting, we were already sweating. However, we persevered. We pushed on in the face of adversity, not caring that the neighbors were hearing the song "Secret Rendezvous" (whose lyrics say something like "We are secret lovers/ underneath the covers) and thumping noises coming from our room with yells of passion peppered among the thumping for a solid three hours. We were champions, goddammit, and by the end of the night we had achieved the high honor of being among the few who have beaten the very easiest level of DDR! This is what America is made of! This is what drives men to fight duels and build big things and to make big engines with metal and grease in order to drive their girlfriends with big boobies to majestic places of more metal and grease!
Playing DDR makes me wish that I was a skinny Asian kid so I didn't have to lug my muscular, rippling physique around the Beat Pad like so much hammered steel. I wish I were light and nimble, like a feather skipping across a wave into the sunset. I wish I didn't have a life.

What prompted the purchase of DDR? My roommate and I are sick and tired of the goth kids kicking our asses in the arcade at the mall. We're going to practice and practice and get our shit down so we can go there and show those motherfuckers how we roll! Fuck yeah!!

You know, it's going to be funny when I wake up in the morning and realize how pathetic this post makes me sound. Fuck it, I'll just drink.

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Cracking the Bar Code

One of the quickest and most efficient ways by which to judge a person (besides their clothing, hairdo, and skin color) is by the sort of drinking in which they engage. A lot can be told from a person by what's inside their glass. Here's a quick rundown of alcoholic beverages and their corresponding personality types:
Wine = Trashy pretentious assbags: I know, I know. Wine is cool. Wine is what good people drink. Wine is for rich Italian guys who smoke fat ass cigars and wear silk and have thin little moustaches. But 90% of all people you will encounter who drink wine are nothing but gutterbums in the making. My favorite is people who act like Boone's Farm is something other than gasoline with Kool-Aid packets mixed in; they'll pour it into $2 wine glasses they got from WalMart, take a sip and smack their lips before finally nodding their assent, as if the wine meets their oh-so-sophisticated palates. Wake up, dipshit - you'd be better off mixing rat poison in your morning coffee. When the fuck will you get it through your head that the fact that a wine comes from Australia does't make it exotic at all? When will you stop buying $7 jugs of Carlo Rossi and acting like the silent consonant at the end of the wine's name (cf., merlot, chablis, cabernet) automatically transforms the entire jug to something fit for the aristocracy? I don't claim to be a wine connoiseur at all, but I know what good wine tastes like. An inherited allergic reaction to sulfites (the preservative they put in shitty wine) tips me off to inherent flaws in the wine. Fuck you, wine drinkers. You suck. Go polish your emo glasses and pretend like you understand James Joyce.
Alcohol mixed with caffeine = Hardcore folks: Do not mess with these people. People who drink Irish coffee, people who drink Red Bull and vodka, or people who drink any other combination of caffeine and alcohol are not to be trifled with. They will be up all night, and they will be loud. They will be hollering at your sorry ass when you're passed out under the table in order to wake your shitty self up to do shots with them. Then they'll go puke on a cop car. After that, they'll probably break a table over their head or something. Don't plan on hanging out with people like this unless you're ready to either keep up with them or babysit, because Lord knows they're not going to bed anytime soon.
People who drink Malibu, Cabana Boy, or any other sort of flavored rum = Spoiled rich fuckers: People who drink this sort of shit should not be associated with. Seriously. They need to be isolated in a room with each other so they can bitch about how that stupid Mexican maid brought them a margarita with too much salt on the rim. People who drink this shit will talk to each other about the following topics: 1) Whichever diet is currently in vogue, 2) How rough they had it in high school and how they can totally relate to any of the proletariat class who may be listening to their conversation 3) The stock market 4) High school football 5) Any combination of the preceding. These people suck - they'll usually have three drinks over a six hour period, bellow about how drunk they are, and then kill the first person that spills water on their Abercrombie clothing.
People who drink beer in cans = white trash: Don't hang out with these people unless you want to spend the night talking about Nascar and tractor pulls. I'm not going to say I've never drank a beer out of a can; however, I have the presence of mind to pour it into a cup whenever possible. Look out, trailer park, we's a-gonna have ourselves a hootinanny! Fuck these white trash bitches.
Shots of hard alcohol = People who will be puking and passed out fifteen minutes after they arrive: Look out for these people, too. They'll usually start out strong, but won't have the stomach to keep the night alive for very long. You'll usually be able to fuck them within about twenty minutes of meeting them.

Yeah, yeah, so I ripped into some people. You might ask yourself, what sort of alcohol does Austin drink? I drink whatever's there, bitches. I am a multi-cultural, well-balanced person. I give everything a chance, especially if it's free. I can usually be found with a bottle in my hand, because pouring the alcohol into a shot glass just takes too fucking long. An example: choir party last year. I show up with a half-full bottle of Jose Cuervo and a bottle of Country Time Lemonade (in my opinion, the best of the Jose chasers). After a couple of hours, I realized that not only had I accidentally done a Power Hour with Keyston Light (not a good idea under any circumstances), but my bottle of Jose was empty and I was the only person who had been drinking from it. Luckily, I had my slingshot with me and was able to stumble around irreputable parts of town causing criminal damage before passing out in a bathroom. At least, that's what I remember. A lot of people had to fill me in on the blank areas in my memory.
Another example of my drinking technique: I showed up to a party, drank a bunch of Keystone, then drank a Bloody Mary my friend made for me that was apparently half vodka and half Worcestershire sauce with a dash of tomato juice on top. After that, I drank the remaining 2" of a bottle of gin. Why? Because it was there. Honestly, there's no method to my drinking. I just drink what's there. I'm an equal-opportunity drinker.

And that's how I got to be the great person I am today.

(On a side note, I also don't discriminate against drinking on any particular day, which would explain why I feel like shit as I edit this post at 10:30 on a Monday morning. Maybe some hair of the dog will fix me up...)

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How to have a threesome

1.) Drink an entire flask of Captain Morgan's, and then about four extra shots for good measure.
2.) Go to a party entitled "The Anything But Clothes Party," where attendants are encouraged to where weird and sexy things instead of real clothes. NOTE: Do NOT be disheartened by the fact that there are four girls and nine guys there. Wear a garbage bag.
3.) Continue drinking.
4.) Tell everyone that you're gay as often as possible.
5.) Talk to a sober girl that you don't know. Let the magic work.
6.) Make sure that the girl who told you earlier, "You and I should try to seduce another girl tonight" is in the room.
7.) Continue letting the magic work.
8.) Have a Scary Adam or Scary Adam-like accomplice to quickly usher everyone out of the room when the girls start making out. As a reward, direct him to the girl in the room who will be sure to give him some action.
Once everyone is gone, this is the part where you ad lib.
9.) Emerge from basement four hours later, quite disheveled.
10.) Retrieve Accomplice from passed-out embrace of the girl you directed him toward.
11.) Write an entry in your shitty blog about how you and one of your best friends went to a party where there were only four girls and nine guys and you both took home three of the girls. Make sure there is no doubt in your readers' minds that you did, in fact, have a threesome with two girls.

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Don't call me Caucasian and I won't call you Sudanese


-This is what Caucasia looks like-



I'm not from there. None of my ancestors came from there. They came from Europe. I'm not Caucasian.
The next person to call me Caucasian will get punched. The next application I have to fill out that asks me my ethnicity (which is bullshit, because ethnicity should not make a difference on any application for anything) will receive a big checkmark in the "Other" box, followed by a "Euro-American" in the blank provided. I hate being called Caucasian. I'm white. I'm boring. Stop trying to spice it up and make it sound exotic. If you want to be exotic, go sleep with a Mexican.
Saying that all white people are "Caucasian" is like saying that all black people come from the Sudan, or that all yellow people come from Okinawa. Of course they don't. People come from all over. I'm white. Call me white. I don't expect you to know that I have an Irish-German ancestry, and I don't care to guess that you're Norwegian. If you're Norwegian, fine; I'm still calling you white, because you and I both know that a) we're not Caucasian people, and b) you don't know where the hell Caucasia is.
Why did we even start calling ourselves Caucasian? Because white people suck. Every other ethnicity has these cool names, like "Afro-American" or "Indigenous American", and we get stuck calling ourselves "Euro-mutt colonialist marauders". Can't we just accept who we are and be happy with it? No. We have to make up some bullshit term like "Caucasian" and call ourselves that. Who the hell cares? People should just look at themselves, say "Hm, I'm white, I can't dance, I have a tiny penis, and I'm an asshole" and be happy about it. There's no need to make up terms for ourselves. They should accept their white heritage.

Then they should appropriate or obliterate someone else's culture, because that's what being white is all about. White people suck.

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Hey! That's funny because I saw that same thing too!!!

For once I wish someone would make an original joke instead of spewing some vapid verbal pustule that they heard on "Friends". Oh wait! That joke was on TV?!?! Awesome! You're so cool because you remembered it!!!
Why can't people be original? I'm tired of eating with a group of friends and listening to fifteen minutes of backstory so that some idiot can explain his inane quip that really has no bearing on the current conversation whatsoever. It typically goes something like this:
Me - "I killed a sheep today."
Them - "Oh, that reminds me of this one episode of 'Will and Grace', like, it was this one where Jack had started dating this new guy and it turned out that the guy was cheating on him with a chick and so...wait, maybe it was another one. Oh, that's right, it was Grace who was dating that guy, 'cuz the one where Jack was dating that guy was the one where..."
Me - *Punch*
If you're so stupid that the only humorous allusion you can make is to shitty pop culture, then go kill yourself right now. Be original, or at the very least, make some reference to something that takes a little bit of thought. If you want to be funny, don't allude to a humorous situation that you saw somewhere else in the hopes that the hilarity will somehow transfer over to your current conversation. Do it through shock value. For example, if your mom is asking you about how college life is going, tell her you're gay. If you're already gay, tell her you have AIDS. This will provide lots of humor (although after a week or two you should probably tell her you were joking).
If you want to be funny without resorting to shock value, then make a reference to something multicultural or academic. Here's an Angry Drunken Irishman original:
"If I could meet Chopin today, I'd shake his hand and say 'Domo arigato, Mr. Rubato'."
That's funny. It's funny because Chopin employed the idea of rubato in a lot of his sonatas, and it's also a reference to a Styx song, and we all know that Styx is the greatest band ever after Black Sabbath and the Rolling Stones. If you don't know why that's funny, then kill yourself or go read a book, you uncultured son of a bitch.
Stop quoting pop culture. Stop repeating shit you said that was funny once but really isn't in any other context. Be original.
You might be asking yourself now, "Wait, how will I still be funny without doing this? Will I ever get a chance to speak up and make people laugh?" No, you won't. And you don't deserve to. Now sit in the corner, shut the fuck up, and bring me a drink.

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My attempt at being multi-cultural

Japanese Movies = Woman having sex with a demon, then turning into a man, then killing another woman and raping her dead body. After this a slime tentacle monster shows up, and then I'm not sure what happens, because by this time I've had an epileptic seizure induced by the flashy scenes and the crappy animation. (Sidenote: Japanese horror movies are scary as shit, though, so I can't disregard all Japanese movies).

Chinese movies = Bitching about some revolution or another. Hero shows up, flies around on wires and executes shitty martial arts moves, and then villain explodes into flames.

Indian movies = Shit. Indian movies have too much singing and Hindu-babble. They'd be better if everyone in them died. We should bomb Bali-wood.

Hong Kong movies = Awesome. Jackie Chan comes from Hong Kong. 'Nuff said. The movie makers were too poor to have anyone edit the fighting sequences, so the actors actually had to do them. That's why they are so beautiful. If you ever want to see a great movie, watch a Hong Kong action movie. A long, beautiful scene containing many awesome feats of human ability and great fighting. Why? Because the movie makers are too damn poor to do it any other way. Honest fight scenes - that's what I like. None of this shitty camera-handling that cuts from one POV to the other and gives me a headache and makes me pray to all the gods of ass-kicking that Jackie or Bruce shows up and kills all those pansy-ass bastards. Jean Claude Van Damme movies are good examples of shitty fight sequences. Stupid French people. I hate them. Bomb Van Damme.

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Note to Feminists: Men are still in charge!

Just thought I'd let you know.

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New Superhero

I've come up with the greatest idea for a superhero since Spider-Man. A genius college student by day, streetwalking vigilante by night, he is....

The Silencer!!

Armed with only a penknife, a baseball bat, and his intimate knowledge of the seventeen deadliest martial arts, this hoodie-clad vigilante roams the night seeking those who would disrupt the sleep of the innocent. Drunkenly they stumble, screaming and shouting, when suddenly a shadow looms over them. They turn, finding themselves engulfed in a cloud of pipe smoke, and see the sillhouette of a man shrouded in mystery and sex appeal.
"You have the right to remain silent" is all they hear before the one has his throat ripped out, the other is bludgeoned to death with a bat, and the third is cut in half before he even realizes it. And then, like that, The Silencer vanishes into his own cloud of smoke, seeking another victim. His bloodlust cannot be satiated.
Somewhere else on campus, a car alarm begins blaring. When its owner stumbles out two hours later to shut it off, he finds that the car alarm, affixed to the battery, is the only thing that remains of his precious automobile. As he turns around to make a police report, he is engulfed in a cloud of pipe smoke and is never seen again.
In yet another locale, an impatient driver honks to his slutrag of a girlfriend, yelling at her to get her bitch ass out into the car. He glances at the clock, noting that it is 3 in the morning. He continues to honk, when all of a sudden it gets smoky around his car. A shrouded figure knocks on the window. The driver looks at him, and both of his hands are suddenly removed before he can honk again. He begins to scr