Monday, September 30, 2013
Friday, September 27, 2013
9. The Invisible Man- this guy does nothing (unless you count surfing the useless tide that is the interweb), but he has the good sense to do it quietly. You never see him in meetings or doing anything work-like. He keeps to himself, collects a paycheck, and probably doesn't even make a sound when he farts.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
But if I am right, then the end of the world is near and I'm here to tell you it ends with neither a bang nor a whimper, but with an army of the walking, slouching, drooling dead. The signs are all there, cousins, just open your eyes. Consider the evidence that the zombie apocalypse has already started:
5. The CDC Got Involved
Back in 2011, the Center for Disease Control published its own zombie survival guide. Ha, ha, the internet said, very funny, and the guide got passed around more than Pamela Anderson. A CDC spokesperson said they published the guide to raise awareness about their activities, and a disaster recovery expert added that, although meant to be humorous, the tips in the guide would get you through just about any unnatural disaster.
Ha, ha, CDC, good one. The guide was also first published alongside pamphlets on surviving an earthquake and influenza. Um, ha? The zombie guide was also released during the height of the Avian Flu epidemic, a disease which caused the following symptoms in humans: "fever, cough, sore throat, muscle aches, eye infections, pneumonia, severe respiratory diseases and other severe and life-threatening complications." Or otherwise known as zombie-itis. Crap, CDC.
Besides, when you think of the words 'humorous', 'tongue in cheek', or 'creative', do 'large government organizations specializing in disease and death' spring to mind? Hell, no. This wasn't just a tongue-in-cheek article--this was just the first stage of public awareness for when, you know, all the face eating starts.
A quick Google search on the words 'face eating' reveals 423,000,000 hits. A search on my new book "Bud the Crud" reveals four hits and three of them are related to some very lazy name calling. One has nothing to do with the other, I'm just venting.
Having just learned that the internet contains other things besides porn, I turned again to Google for the top news stories of 2013:
- Chelyabinsk meteor
- Evidence for water on Mars
- Syrian Civil War
- Worldwide flooding
- Resignation Of Pope
- United States Ammunition Shortage
The above picture is not a still from Return of the Living Dead. It's a photo from one of many 'zombie runs' held across the country. Entrants cough up $60 for the pleasure of running while being chased by the undead through various obstacles. What about any of those sentences sounded fun to you? This isn't a whimsical little jog--it's a nightmare-fueled all out sprint through a wasteland while being pursued by hordes of flesh-eating madness. This isn't a race, it's boot camp. But at least you get a tshirt at the end.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Sunday, September 22, 2013
10. After 2am, there is a lot of porn on TV. A lot. And not just where you'd expect it like HBO and Skinemax. I'm talking History Channel, Discovery. Hell, even Animal Planet gets in on the act.
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Trying to explain to my single friends what it's like having kids is like thinking a pamphlet is going to prepare you for the sheer invasiveness of a colonoscopy. No matter how many times you read the words 'microscopic camera' and 'colon tract', it's not really going to sink in as to what's happening until the doctor tells you to relax and proceeds to do to you what only Turkish prison guards should be allowed to.
But I'm determined to try anyway because 1) I'm tired of the dead-eyed expressions when I try to describe to my friends why my iPhone is covered in Elmer's glue and glitter and 2) to warn them what their blissfully uninterrupted and guilt-free sex romps can lead to.
I've put my description of child-rearing into terms I know they will understand--drunkenness and it's many stages.
1. 20–79 mg/dL - Impaired coordination and euphoria
This is the first stage of drinking. You're at a bar with a few friends and you've had a couple of drinks. The night is young and there's a really hot blonde at the end of the bar who has glanced your way a few times. You're young, unattached, and riding on the high that only limitless possibility can provide. And Miller Lite.
This is the newborn phase. You've just brought the baby home from the hospital. You feel so connected to your wife and are hopelessly in love with the tiny, helpless creature in your arms in a way that you never thought was possible. It's like your heart has grown three sizes. The world seems exciting and the future is bright and shining. The baby spends most of its time sleeping and cooing. When you do take the little guy out in public, people flock to you and fawn over the little guy. Why did you ever wait this long to have a baby?
2. 80–199 mg/dL - Poor judgement, labile mood
You're on your fifth drink of the evening. The music is too loud and you don't like the way the bartender is flirting with that blonde because clearly you saw her first. But then your buddy Tom has lit the wrong end of his cigarette and you can't stop laughing. You're indestructible.
The tiny baby who slept all the time is six months old and doesn't sleep at all. You feel dizzy and have a headache all the time. Last night you and your wife got into a fight over sea shells but you can't remember why. But your older friends with kids tell you this is just a phase. You'll get past this. And you know what, when you do see the little guy sleeping, you forget all the anger. He is the most beautiful thing in the world. If only you could get a little sleep.
3. 200–299 mg/dL - Marked ataxia, slurred speech, poor judgement, labile mood, nausea and vomiting
You're in the bathroom puking. The last shot of Jagermeister was a bad idea. So was trying to light your breath on fire. Most of your eyebrows are gone. But that didn't stop you from telling the blonde that she looked hotter from further away, but you'd still be willing to nail her. When you get back to your table, Chumpa Wumba is playing. You take this as a sign to order another round of shots and sing at the top of your lungs.
The baby is walking. And talking. You're participating in playgroups with other parents and, as a result, bringing home every disease known to man. You spend your time getting peed on and cleaning up your puke and your baby's. You order the entire safety section of the Babies R Us catalog and begin turning your house into a fortress. You can't remember the last time you showered or had sex. The last time you tried to masturbate, you fell asleep.
4. 300–399 mg/dL -Anesthesia, memory lapse, labile mood
You're lying on the floor of a bathroom. It's not your bathroom because you certainly would not have bought pink Star Trek towels. You get up. Your eye is swollen shut and you have a fat lip. There's blood on your shirt and you're not wearing any pants or underwear. A woman enters. She has blonde hair and weighs 400 pounds. She asks if you're ready to go again. You ask her if she has any alcohol.
The baby is no longer a baby. He's five years old and in kindergarten. Your wife has put on 30 pounds and hasn't bought make-up since the little miracle was born. But you're not one to criticize. You're balder than the tires on your 10 year old car and, speaking of tires, nice gut fat boy. Still, you both cry the day your bundle of joy leaves on the bus for the first time. At dinner, you wonder aloud if you should have another.
5. 400+ mg/dL - Respiratory failure, coma
You vaguely begin to wonder what happened to all your friends. But after three more beers, you're ready to get back on the horse. Or rather, the horse is ready to get back on you. You feel nauseous, but the only thing that's coming up is your own stomach lining. Somewhere in the middle of the blonde's aerobatic routine, you feel a tightness in your chest. You think might love this girl.
You realize you haven't seen your old friends in over a year. The baby is crying upstairs even though it's naptime and your oldest is screaming because you told him to turn off the TV and do your homework. You wish you were still single so you could go out for a little while, maybe have a beer or two. You begin to do the math of when the kids turn 18 and leave for college. It's a long, long way away and on top of that, how the hell are you going to afford that anyway? You start calculating the years to retirement instead and, when that does nothing to cheer you up, the average life expectancy of an adult male. Your wife tells you that it's a shame that the extra bedroom is going to waste, that maybe having a third wouldn't be so bad. You smile. They are cute when they're small and, plus, you haven't had sex in a really, really long time.
Friday, September 20, 2013
4:05 pm The subject (i.e. my son Alex) arrives home. Immediately takes off shoes and socks, drops kick backpack across the floor. Asks for a snack and, without waiting for a response, disappears into the garage to rifle through the Costco-sized box of assorted chips.
4:15 pm My wife asks me where Alex is. I know where he is. She knows where she is, but neither one of us wants to start yelling at him this early in the day because we know we have to conserve our energy. Instead I send our daughter out to go look for him.
Our garage may or may not lead to Narnia.
4:25 pm Both children have now been in the garage together for 10 minutes. My wife is staring at me waiting for me to do something about it. I excuse myself to go to the bathroom so I can hide and play Candy Crush. I fail to get past level 184 for the 12th day in the row and run out of lives. Wisely, I do not send my wife a request for more. I hear yelling downstairs so I turn on the bathroom fan to drown out the noise.
Seriously, if you have any tips, email me.
Just knowing that we live in a world where this exists, gives me the strength to go on.
For my next trick, I will refuse to brush my teeth!
I love you tree and I'm never going to let go.
The bottle is exactly this size.
I kicked this dog solely to get this picture.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Okay, long-dongitis is not actually the name of a real disease, but that only underlies my point—it’s a very real issue that has flown under the radar for far too long. It’s time we bring this stealth dong out from under the cloak of shame and into your living room. Into your lap. Into you face.
Having a large dong, as I do (And it’s huge! If it were a city, it’d be Hong Dong. If it takes a village to raise a child, it would only take one dong to destroy that village. My dong. If the Japanese made movies about my dong, it would be called Dongzilla), is not all it’s donged up to be. The porn industry and Madonna have glamorized long dongs for so long that it’s easy to forget all of the heartache, pain (physical and emotional), and embarrassment that go along with it.
Presented, for the first time, is a comprehensive list of issues faced by the penile-enhanced based on exhaustive scientific research and of course my own ginormous dong-related experiences. Because I have a big penis. I just wanted to make that clear.
1. Lack of Sexual FulfillmentOtherwise known as Kenny Rogers Syndrome.
Picture it, if you will. The Gambler is seated at a table in the back of a dusty saloon. His Stetson is low over his eyes. The dealer calls and he smiles. He’s looking at a straight-fucking flush. He slides his pile of cash into the center of the table and smiles that Kenny Rogers smile that used to make women throw their panties, but now just makes them want to buy chicken.
“All in,” he says. “I’m all in.”
That’s the kind of moment that makes you want to have a cigarette after. It’s just that good. When all those hours of training and losses and loneliness are about to payoff in a big, big way.
However, when you’re dong is plus-sized, you never get ‘all in’. Ever. You can train all you want, there’s never going to be a total payoff.
I completely lost track of this metaphor, so I'm just going to move on to the next issue.
I'll call this one the John Holmes Effect. I have a black friend who’s on the tall side. If I had a quarter every time someone wondered aloud if he played basketball, I’d have enough money to finally get to the last level of Ms. Pacman. I’m sure large Samoans, Jewish Bankers, and Jamaican bobsledders endure a similar kind of auto-prejudice.
The same can also be said of those long in the dong. I can’t uncoil my massive member at a public urinal without someone commenting, “Wow! You must be a porn star!” And I’m totally not. I gave that up in the 90’s.
But meanwhile the prejudice continues and we of long and schlong suffer it in silence. Where is my million dong march? When will someone stage a sit-in for my dong? Who will join me as I burn my customized underwear in front of the White House? Stand up my brothers!
The world does not embrace the king-sized dong. No cup can contain my dong. No shorts are long enough. Speedos reject my dong faster than a midget hooker--only the Grand Canyon is a match to accept my dong.
Left-handed individuals face this on a daily basis. In a world where 90% of the population is right-handed, most tools and procedures are designed for the righties. But those with KDS (King Dong Syndrome) do not have to struggle with trivial things like mismatched scissors. We have to take extra cautions when using public toilets lest our dongs trawl the bottom of the bowl, which of course can lead to all kinds of medical issues.
4. Medical IssuesI suffer fainting spells. If I so much as see a hint of side boobage, I swoon like Scarlet O'Hara. It's not that I'm prudish or pining for a large southern gentleman to break my fall, it's just simple laws of distribution at play. When a guy pitches a boner-tent, blood floods to his winkie. In most cases, we're talking a minimal amount of blood and the body hardly notices the re-distribution. But when your dong rivals the Jersey Tunnel, the blood loss is simply too great and I collapse like a sack of potatoes. If, you know, those potatoes were really big dongs. I also suffer back problems, chaffing, and vision problems (from constantly poking myself, not from furious masturbation).
And there is no relief in sight. If a woman is sporting massive mammary pillows that weigh her down, she can pop in to her primary care provider and get those babies sucked down to a pert B cup and be back in the mall for lunch at Chipolte.
But there is no such thing as dong reduction surgery. You can't my friends, chop down a redwood tree. At least, not without destroying the entire forest.
So what can you do?God, I envy you--those of small in penis. You know who you are. By now you're probably putting on your tiny, tiny shoes and wondering 'What can I do to help? I had no idea it was this bad.' And those of us who must coil our anacondas around our legs to get our pants on appreciate your concern. The outlook, however, is grm. There really isn't a lot you can do. Don't stare. Don't whisper. Don't run screaming out of the bedroom. Wait until we fall asleep then leave a $20 on the nightstand before you go. Do what you can to make our torturous existence on this planet as comfortable as possible. For we are people, too. People with really big dongs.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Please don't make me go to Back to School Night. While I am deeply concerned about our children's education, I also recognize that participation in this event requires a certain level of maturity and solemnity which, as you know, I lack. I am, just to be perfectly clear, emotionally retarded. Just the fact that I would use the word retarded should at least be some kind of indication that I have no business discussing my children's education (let alone participate in any way). But just in case you forgot, let me give you a run-down of what happened last year (some of which may be new information to you):
1. I giggled uncontrollably whenever the vice-principal's name was mentioned. It practically has the word 'butt' in it, for Pete's Sake. This is not someone who should be working around children (or childish adults).
2. I openly suggested pushing our children down the stairs just so they could get into the special education class taught by that hot teacher. You probably blocked this out, but here's your reminder. And I was only half joking (It doesn't have to be the stairs, it could just be a ladder).
3. I brought gum with me just so I could stick it under a desk once we got into our daughter's classroom. Why? Because fuck the man, that's why!
4. When you weren't looking I drew a peace sign on a desk. I don't even know why.
5. I moved our daughter's self-portrait so it was more prominently displayed.
6. When I was in the boy's bathroom, I pretended I was a giant among the tiny toilets and proceeded to put out several pretend fires. The bathroom was unusable after. I know exactly why I did this.
7. When the principal announced that there would be new testing this year, instead of being proud to be in a progressive school which embraces more rigorous standards, I groaned and thought about the additional work that would mean for me.
8. Do you remember that other parent you saw me talking to? He and I actually went to elementary school together. I asked him if he was 'cool' and if he wanted to go outside and burn one. Apparently, we were not on the same page.
9. I told the art teacher if he was planning on teaching drawing the human form, I would be more than happy to model, but I'd need at least a week's notice so I could manscape properly. I didn't want to frighten the kids, you see.
10. And finaly, being back in school made me feel even more like a ten-year old boy than usual. That's why I fought bedtime that night, snuck into our son's room to play with his Legos, and may or may not have wet the bed.
I'll leave the decision up to you, just as I do with everything else. But you should know that I'm all hopped up on Mountain Dew and I'm feeling feisty. Anything that happens tonight is all on you. Also, doesn't that hot teacher still work there?
Love and kisses,
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Pictured Above: The face of pure evil.
Could you say no this face? Seriously, could you? I don’t know how.
Monday, September 16, 2013
9. Yes there is a difference. I don't pay attention to anyone, why should you be any different?
8. If you don't want me to fix your problems, keep them to yourself. I don't ask you for sympathy when I break the mower. I simply hide the flowers and glass and call the repairman.
7. I do appreciate what you do around the house. I just don't say anything in the same way you don't rip off my clothes and jump me every pay day.
6. The traditional format for a story is beginning, middle, and end. A lot of your stories seem to be stuck in the author's foreword. Nobody reads those for a reason. Get to the point.
5. I secretly suspect that you carefully choose your friends based on how much they will annoy me.
4. You are not allowed to be mad at me for 1) snoring, 2) kissing someone else in your dream, or breaking your favorite dish, in the same way I promise not to get mad at you for 1) Watching Magic Mike or Top Gun for the 1000th time, 2) sharing the most intimate aspects of our relationship with your best friend (who I can't stand), or 3)throwing away my favorite t-shirt because it was "full of holes".
3. Yes, I am that dumb. No, I do not deserve you. And no, I don't know why you're so upset. Please just tell me.
2. If you and my mother could ever agree, I would be completely screwed.
1. And finally, please understand that you are the reason I get out of bed in the morning and the reason I rush home at night. I love you, even if I don't say it often enough.