Cellular

Apparently, cellphones are the bane of my existence. If I'm not getting bitched out by some disgruntled cashier over one, I'm putting my phone through the most rigorous high velocity impact tests known to man. I'm not quite certain how some of this shit happens, but I've managed to drop my phone in a toilet and accidentally kick it across a parking lot a few times. It's been stepped on, bounced off the bed into the wall, and more times than I can count. . . . . I've forgotten that it's in my lap when I get out of the car, but am quickly reminded as I hear the familiar sound of metal and plastic crashing and scraping along unrelenting cement.

I used to drive a big truck and one day after coming home from buying a brand new phone, as I was exiting this mammoth vehicle, I managed to drop my two hour old phone which literally shattered into thousands of unrecognizable pieces. Buttons flew in every direction, the LCD display was obliterated, and I had to use the voice recognition key for a week before I was sent a replacement. All I can remember is how thankful I was that I had had the foresight to purchase the insurance.

Years later, and I'm still pushing my phones to the limits of their structural engineering fortitude. The interesting part is that I take amazingly good care of everything else I own. I treat my DVD's so gingerly you would think I was a mad scientist handling explosive materials, I avoid vigorous driving to reduce wear and tear on my car, and I still dust off my Playstation 2 that's probably older than most of your kids. I know what you're thinking, How can someone so assiduously protective of his belongings allow for such atrocities to happen? I wish I knew. I drop kicked my phone in the throat just last night.

My friends call me the Text Master. I don't have one of those nifty miniature keyboard touch pads, oh no. I have the old school model which you can operate with one thumb. You've never seen a phalanx move with such precision and blinding speed. I text multiple people at the same time, I text while I eat, while I drive, while I watch T.V., and when I'm shopping. I text at the gym, in between clients, during my lunch break, and while I walk the dog. As a matter of fact, I'm texting right now. In retaliation to my pervasive texting, my phone's 9 key has decided to stop functioning. I think it's sprained. It works sometimes, other times I have to think of another word to use that doesn't need a W, X, Y, or Z. You'd be surprised how often you use a "W" or "Y".

This isn't the first time my phone's suffered a Repetitive Stress Injury (RSI). A few months ago, it was the number 3 key. It's virtually impossible to text without the letters D,E, or F. Trust me, I've tried, and I possess a rather impressive lexicon. A few months before that, various directions on my select key would give out from time to time, making navigating through menus more difficult than threading a needle in the dark with lotion on your hands. (I don't know, I'm guessing that's tough) At the very least, as equally frustrating.

Why don't I get a new phone you ask, well, not only do I feel a special kinship with my phone, but I've invested more money in that damn thing than my car. I've had to buy multiple batteries (one on account of the toilet debacle), blue teeth, (plural for blue tooth?) car chargers, and home chargers. I'm also not too keen on parting with my current phone, because I like to text while I drive. You can't do that with one hand on the majority of these new phones. I'm not ready to part with that facet of my communicative repertoire. I see countless nimrods texting with two hands as they drive. That's just a little risky, and not to mention, down right stupid.

I suppose it's time to say good bye to this phone and turn it in for a newer model. Who knows, after getting to know the new one, I might really like her. I just hope they can transfer all the naked pictures I've collected.

Varsity Blues

Hazing, Initiation, Busting Balls, or Popping Cherries . . . . Whatever you want to call it, apparently it even occurs in gourmet kitchens. Enjoy. . . .



Cheers!

Cuss-o-Matic

Warning: The following entry contains a significant amount of foul language, and although not primarily intended to offend anyone, certainly harnesses the inherent capability of doing so. With that said, if you have delicate sensibilities, are underage, or suffer from a heart condition, then you definitely should not read this. As a matter of fact you came to the wrong place altogether. . .

As you may have noticed, there is a brand new, shiny Cuss-o-meter that decorates my little space in the blogosphere! I stumbled upon this lovely contraption a little while ago and instantly knew that we were destined to be together. Now, I know that using expletives in writing can usually indicate a lack of intelligence or literary imagination, but this device is was too fucking brilliant to pass up! In seconds, it can analyze thousands of pages and count how many times you used a bad word, instantly giving you a cuss-rating to warn your readers of how often a fuck, shit, or motherfucker appear in your writing. Completely fascinated by this new discovery, I was determined to find out how I ranked amongst my peers.

I began to wonder how discriminatory the Cuss-o-Meter might be, what criterion he might use to determine my cuss-rating, and ultimately how accurate it really is. I mean, if your reiterating something somebody else said, does that cuss word count? Or what if you were telling your readers about something you read? For instance, if I tell you that I had a wallet that read, "Bad Motherfucker" on it, would that count? Does goddammit count? Surely "goddammit, I lost my motherfucking wallet" would have to be considered. More over, words like "asshole" can easily be used to depict some body's demeanor, or refer to their actual rectum depending on connotation, and would my cuss-o-meter know the difference? I had to know the answers to these burning questions.

"Bitch, although originally meant to define a female dog, has become a swearing staple generally used to characterize a woman, (usually one of strong personality) "She's such a bitch", or even a group of women, "Look at these bitches". It can be applied to your current location, "You have anything to eat in this bitch?", or when trying to pursuade someone into action as in "C'mon, don't be a bitch". Ironically, it can possess positive implications when you want to illustrate how wonderful something might be, "This party is bitch'n", or to portray an unfortunate event, "Aint this a bitch". People will even use it to report an extraordinarily challenging task, "It was a bitch to get these jeans on", or "climbing those stairs was a bitch".

It's well known that "fuck" is the most versatile word in the English language. It can be a noun, verb, adjective, or even an adverb as in "absofuckinglutely". Regularly used as an exclamation, "Fuck, I stubbed my toe", or even more predominately to insinuate sex, "Let's fuck", "They're in there fucking", and "She's already fucked the whole office". Routinely used as a vociferous retort "Fuck you", to tell someone where you'd like for them to go "Fuck off", or what you'd like for them to do when they get there "Go fuck yourself". "Don't fuck me" and "Don't fuck me over", are customarily utilized when you are trying to convey that you are strictly against having your trust broken, (usually uttered before loaning someone money) and "Don't fuck around" when discouraging shenanigans. When at a loss of words to describe a situation, (like this post for instance) or to express disbelief, one could say "unfuckingbelievable" or "no fucking way".

Which leads me to another observation about how different levels of exclamation can be achieved by either adding other seemingly innocuous words in front of, or behind, these grammatical gems like "Holy shit" (I think indicating the highest level of shit). Shithead, Fuckface, and Fuckwad, are enigmatically used to either describe undesirables, or people we actually care about dearly. Your deepest adoration can also be projected by saying, "I fucking love you man". The most obscure of these phrases may very well be "Shit-eating grin" (for obvious reasons) and "Fucking-A". The latter, although a relic in most contemporary social circles, can still be heard, but is often followed by "man" or "dude" to express your disapproval with another person's behavior. "Clusterfuck" (a military favorite) is commonly used to indicate a situation that is hopelessly in chaos or disarray, where as "We are so fucked" and/or "Fuck me", is widely accepted as the last thing a person would say right before being obliterated by explosive materials.

Finally, combinations using three or more of these words can create a colorful tongue twisting language all it's own like, "Bitch ass motherfucking asshole" or "Punk ass motherfucker". Please keep in mind that using words like "suck", "lick", "eat", "hell", "balls", and "ass", are essential in creating the flow necessary to pull off the desired effect. Again, I warn against trying to use these combinations before you're ready, because you could sound like a fucking idiot in the presence of seasoned professionals. However, with enough diligent practice and an experienced mentor, you may one day join forces with the elite cussers of our time. Me? Well, I have other shit to worry about. . . . . Peace the fuck out.

Minority Report

Mainly because I have nothing better to do at two o'clock in the morning than kill zombies, I thought I'd compile a a list of my top ten pet peeves with performing massage.

1. The number one customer complaint about a massage is that the pressure was too much, or not enough. I can't tell you how many times I hear a client say that somebody practically beat them up, or they barely felt anything at all. That means when I ask you if it's too deep or too light, you better speak up. Otherwise, I'm going to assume that the pressure is perfect and I'm the best you've ever had.

2. Timeliness. This my friends, is a HUGE one. Don't be late for an appointment. Nothing screams more to me that you don't give a shit about my time or the other six clients I have for the rest of the day, than you showing up even five minutes late. You still need to make it to the dressing room, change into a robe and slippers, and you'll probably want to drink some water and use the bathroom. I understand that things do happen, but unless a meteor burned a hole through your windshield causing you to arrive on foot, or you ran a bus full of deaf school children off a bridge into a large body of water with an aggressive current, I don't want to hear it. There are multiple reasons we ask that you show up 15 minutes early; drink some exotic tea, wash your nasty booty, or just lounge around and unwind until it's your turn for a blissful retreat. Don't put me in a position where I have to cut your session short, because nobody benefits from that. (especially not me) However, if you are going to be late, please call ahead, I just might be able to work something out. I'm cool like that. And if you don't think you're going to show at all, let me know as early as possible so that someone else can take your spot. Time is money, and I'm not above charging your credit card.

3. The aforementioned booty cleaning is a perfect segway into this next pet peeve. Please take a shower if you've just recently worked out, shit yourself, or have been rolling around in dead animal carcasses. No amount of Peppermint or Eucalyptus oil is going to mask your nasty fermented ass stench. I don't get paid enough to smell your funk for an hour, much less for 90 minutes. Don't worry, I promise to return the favor.

4. Relax! Nothing is more annoying than trying to massage you while you're tense and your muscles are contracted. I understand it may be difficult to do so while a sexy brown man is rubbing you with hot cream in a dark room, but please do your best. I guarantee you'll have a much more enjoyable experience if you just let go. Relaxation is usually the reason why you come to see me to begin with. So, if you have trust issues with men, or have been abused physically in the past, you'd probably be better off with a female therapist. You won't hurt my feelings, plenty of women prefer the stronger touch of a man anyway, so it evens out. If you have difficulty relaxing on a massage table, than you definitely need a different kind of therapist.

5. If you have Cholera, West Nile, Whooping Cough, SARS, Bubonic Plague, the Bird Flu, or a rash, STAY THE HELL HOME. Not only do I not want what you have, but neither does the rest of the spa. Besides, it's difficult to enjoy a massage if you have a chronic cough or need to blow your nose every two minutes. I don't do it, neither should you.

6. I will be grateful if you would shave, wax, or laser, prior to coming to see me. Keep in mind most massage strokes are centripetal, or towards the heart. Which means my hands are going against the grain when I work on your legs. I'd prefer not to bloody my hands on your Ginsu blade stubble if at all possible. (don't act like we don't notice) You'll enjoy the smoother feel too, trust me. Just something to keep in mind.

7. Try not to wear tons of jewelry that I'm only going to ask that you remove anyway. I doubt you'll be auditioning for a rap video and it's only going to get in the way. I get it, you have money. This is me not giving a shit. If you must bring it, leave it in the locker room 50 Cent.

8. If you have long hair, bring a damn hair clip or rubber band of some sort, especially if yours is particularly thick or possesses a mind of it's own. Having to move your disheveled Beyonce mane out of my way every few minutes is only going to disrupt the flow of my techniques and eventually piss me off. I hate Beyonce.

9. Cell phones are not allowed in the spa, especially not during the session. If you're having difficulty parting with your phone for an hour, I know some people that can help you with separation issues.

10. One of the main reasons people come to the spa is to rid themselves of drama, tension, and stress. I'm more than willing to help, but not if that means your going to pass it on to me. I'm a good listener and I'll play along for a little while, but unless we're friends I don't want to hear about how you plan on leaving your husband, how much you hate your co-workers, and certainly not how much you lost in the stock market. However, if you hate your daughter's current boyfriend, I'm all ears.

Happy Ending

I've done the unthinkable. I have gone against my oath as a therapist and violated the Code of Ethics that I vowed to uphold. Somehow, I managed to cross the sacred line between client and therapist and I see no viable way of recouping my dignity. It wasn't really a conscious decision, it just sort of . . . . . happened. I suppose it was only a matter of time, being that my work involves massaging a slew of beautiful women on a daily basis. For too long have I relied on my Matrix-like ability to dodge bullets.

For the most part, today was like any other. I had six clients lined up and only two more to go. I quickly ate a banana and downed a protein shake to get me through the rest of the day. (As I've described in earlier posts I have the metabolism of a cheetah and have to eat every two hours, otherwise I turn into that crazy bitch from the exorcist.) I greeted client number five and noticed that she was extremely attractive. During my brief questioning of her medical history she was a little flirtatious making a lot of eye contact and smiling.  Working on her back was an absolute delight. She was very fit with the perfect combination of musculature and curves with soft, youthful skin. She had a beautiful color tattoo of cascading lotus flowers flowing diagonally across her back as though carefully carried by the wind. 

After her back and shoulders, I began working on her long, toned legs, my hands tracing her perfect outline with slow and sensuous glides from the heel of her foot to her shapely glutes. As my warm hands flowed past her knee, she opened her legs slightly to allow unobstructed access to her inner thigh. A subtle move not uncommon to getting more comfortable, or to signal ulterior motives. My skilled hands glided up her inner thigh and right before reaching the point of inappropriateness, came back towards the outside, over her left glute, around the hip, and back towards her feet again. I started the process over and as my hands ascended up her leg, again she repositioned her legs slightly more open. Although a little peculiar to do this twice, still I assumed nothing and continued my work. The spa music plays at a decent volume to drown out a lot of the background noise in the vicinity, but if you pay attention, you can still hear labored breathing, stuffy noses, painful grimaces, sighs of relief, and occasional moans. To an experienced therapist all of these seemingly insignificant cues can be paramount to providing the ultimate massage experience. 

A lull in the music allowed me to hear my client's breathing gain tempo and her body almost seemed to writhe under my touch. A third pass began up her leg as I heard a faint moan of satisfaction. Once more she separated her legs and as my fingers crept up her inner thigh, her body seemed to beckon my caress. I could feel the heat emitting from between her legs as my touch came closer and closer to her most intimate place. And then . . . . . . . it happened. I can't explain what I was thinking or why I did it, but it one moment I breached our trust and defiled the sanctity of that bond. My mind was weak under the circumstances and my body succumbed to the most primal of all human urges . . . . . . . . . . . . I farted! As soon as I did it, I knew there was no turning back. There was no way to undo my transgression. No freebie, no do over, no reset button. Time slowed to a stop and I let out a distinct and undeniable flatulence. . . . . . .

I hope you too have started the new year with a loud and resounding blast!

 

Breast Men

So much to blog about. . . . First things first. . . . I'm not going to delve into the painfully obvious, like the lack of a new banner, the fact that it's been a year since my last post, and that when God invented chicken he should have made it taste like chocolate so that whenever we eat something devoid of its own distinct flavor, we could just say it tastes like chocolate. Because that my friends would not only be funny, but would also explain the chocolate eggs during Easter and their creamy filling. Because we all know how disturbing it was as kids to flirt with the idea that Jesus laid those eggs. Oh c'mon, I know I wasn't the only one.

As in true Brown Man fashion, a few current events if I may. My disdain for talentless pop starlets has been well documented. However, I cannot in good conscious rejoice in Brittney's latest catastrophe, having to lose custody of her children. As much as I believe that the destinies of those two love children are already plagued, no mother should have to endure losing her own children. We can only hope that this will lead Brittney to a treadmill rehab.

Now to talk about something that is near and dear to my heart . . . . BREASTS! I was going to say strippers, but I wouldn't want any of you to think less of me and it wouldn't be a smooth segway to discuss something that threatens beloved breasts around the world, breast cancer. That's right. October is breast cancer awareness month and those of you who are overtly aware of my unhealthy adoration to female mammaries, know that I will do anything to protect them. Even if that means visiting every strip club in the country to spread awareness. I know, I know, a long and perilous adventure it will be, but I'm prepared to take one for the team.

Although a meager contribution, I've vowed to do a multitude of things this month in order to show my love for breasts. As of yesterday I proudly started wearing a pink ribbon on my shirt and intend to wear it every day this month. Originally I wanted to wear a big pink bra on my head, but the spa director said the ribbon would not only get my point across, but also prevent a lawsuit. I suppose that why she's the boss. I'm not stopping there. I also plan to buy as many products as possible that are contributing to the cause. I've already bought some pink tic tacs and pink M&M's. I anticipate buying a few pink bracelets to pass around, running a 5k, and even providing free breast massages exams. I'd also like to buy a couple of dome tents, spray paint them pink, and put them on the front lawn. I just need to check with my home owner's association to avoid any unnecessary monetary setbacks. If you can think of any other "creative" ways for me to support the preservation of the ta-tas, I'd love to feel hear them.

Okay, so maybe the reconstruction of my little piece of the internet pie, was a little premature, but with so many breasts to think about, I don't think I can really be blamed no? Besides, the elves I had employed for the job apparently were Mexican and were recently deported for being illegal immigrants (I seriously hope they don't deport the cleaning ladies at my work before I'm able to give all of them proper breast exams).

Anyway, sorry for being out so long. The new banner will be up before you know it. Intermittently I will continue to brighten your daily lives with a little bit of Brown.

Foxy Brown

Okay, So. . . . . .I’m really not going to post today so don’t you go and consider this an official blog entry or anything, because I don’t think that I’ll get much sleep knowing in the twisted recesses of my mind that the few of you I bribe with free massages to read my incoherent banter actually thought this was a real post. Cuz it’s not. So don’t think it is.

I’m only here to tell you that I’m diligently working on a new banner for Chronicles. Yeah, you heard me, I’m reachin’ deep into these pockets and paying professionals to create a visual smorgasbord for your viewing pleasure as you peruse through my senseless rant and rhetoric. I suppose it’s the least I can do right? I mean, considering the content of these web pages are filled with nothing more than my opinion on the world’s most crucial matters, and let’s face it we all know what opinions are like no? Well, like assholes, in case you didn’t know. And frankly, if my asshole is going to be on display it might as well be visually appealing right? Well, as visually appealing as an asshole can be I suppose…without having to bleach it or anything. Cuz frankly I don’t like any of you that much to go and bleach the perfect hue that resides in the crack of my ass and I can say what I want cuz this isn’t a real post anyway and if it were I wouldn’t use the word “cuz”, cuz “cuz” aint really a word. Everybody knows that. Don’t be stupid. And if you’re going to use crack don’t mix it with bleach, cuz that shit aint right.

Alright, so I’m not really going to pay anyone to do it, actually I’m going to draw what I want then send that image to knitting elves who primarily knit, but also have been known to go to art school for hundreds of thousands of dollars to learn, not to knit, but actually to take images and make them into pretty asshole accessories so that people can decorate their blogs with them to make other people feel as comfortable as one possibly can knowing that they are about to be shit on by a barrage of meaningless crap. Cuz let’s face it, every blog I’ve visited that was worth reading had a pretty masthead to keep you interested enough to want to be shit on. And that my friends, is what makes the world go round. Shit. Not money, as previously thought, but mountains upon mountains of shit, and Mongolian orphans….and cheesecake….and little lactose intolerant monkeys from South America that eat tacos and do your taxes….and smurfs aren’t real, but Leprechauns, the distant cousins to elves, very well might be.

Anyway, so that is my excuse for not posting real entries over the next few days, cuz like I said, I’ll be busy drawing and communicating with elves which is difficult to do because they live in alternate universes, not in the same one as us, as previously thought, and because everybody knows that they can get a little behind with all the knitting and baking cookies and shit since they are so little, and run-on sentences and too many, erroneously placed commas, are of no consequence, considering this post is not, really a post.

And if by some act of God, or elf, or some other spirit-like entity with a bad sense of humor that likes to wear robes and silly neon colored Crocs while sitting cross legged and eating Cheetos brought you here for the first time, please come back after the dust settles for the new banner and a free massage new stories. And by the way, starting sentences with "And" is actually okay as I learned in "Finding Forrester". And for the record, my nick name Mr. Poopie was given to me at puberty because of my disdain for humanity charming demeanor and has nothing to do with assholes, feces, crap, shit, taking a shit, taking a dump, dropping loads, doing number two, dropping the kids off at the pool, pooping, a deuce, turds, mounds, excrement, manure, dung, diarrhea, Irritable Bowels Syndrome, dingle berries, or any other poop related substances or conditions. . . . . Just thought I’d clear that shit up.

Oh, and one last thing, I like to make movie references, (besides the titles genius) and if you can correctly guess what movie, you will win a prize......Okay, not really, but I'll definitely like you more.

Keepin the Faith

Ladies and Gentlemen, I apologize for my little hiatus, but between Guitar Hero II, baseball record breaking milestones, and breeding blood hungry Pitbulls, frankly, I’ve been a little busy.

I know you are all dying to know who the dummy of the week is, and I assure you that it will be announced shortly, but before I do I’d like to bring you up to date with some current events, just in case some of you have been hibernating in a cocoon. (I love saying that word . . . . . cocoon.) Moving on.

Lindsay Lohan was arrested again for drinking while intoxicated, this time with cocaine on her person. Apparently she still can’t afford a driver or a tan.

You would think that a person with Britney’s money could afford a wig that looked some what real. I would almost prefer it if she’d just wear one of those Jamaican hats with the fake dreads. I think one of those fake arrows would be really cute too, but some how I think that would trigger an uproar in the Native American community.

The morning show The “View” apparently got rid of one loud ass, nonsensical, fat lesbian for another one. At least Whoopi is funny though. Sometimes.

Drew Carey is now the new host of the TV show “The Price is Right” and “The Power of 10”. Because being an embarrassingly unfunny host on one show isn’t humiliating enough.

Alex Rodriguez hit his 500^th home run the other night. To put that into perspective, he’s only the 22^nd person in history to do so and only six of those twenty two have reached the 600 mark. A-Rod has shown interest in buying the baseball from the lucky Yankee fan who recently had to sell his house due to unemployment. He’ll now be able to afford a nice New York apartment facing a brick wall. Cha-ching!

Barry Bonds finally hit his 756^th home run surpassing Hank Aaron’s all time record. I’m happy for Barry even though he isn’t the most liked athlete out there. And before people start pointing fingers concerning steroids, take a good hard look at the “holier than thou” NFL. Definitely no juicers there.

Eddie Murphy is off somewhere thinking up another horrible idea for a movie.

Tom Cruise has just prayed 3 Hail Aliens.

Now that we’re all caught up in the world, here is the dumb ass of the week . . . . . Drum roll please . . . . . The award goes to Rev. Robert Whipkey of Frederick, Colorado. As if the Catholic Church needed anymore indecent “exposure”, this ignoramus decided it was okay to go jogging naked on a high school track at 4:30 in the morning. He told officers that he sweats profusely if he wears clothing while jogging. Apparently priests are horrible liars.

When approached for questioning the quick witted Pope dawned a disguise and plugged in his ipod.

The Fugitive

Yesterday, I found out that my sister is a fugitive of justice. I discovered her newly acquired talent last night when she called me to confess her crime. As any good brother would do, I recorded our conversation for evidence and this was her story . . . .

[my phone rings]

“Hello?”

“Brown, have you heard?

“Cris?”

“Oh my God,” I hear her hand slap her forehead. “You won’t believe what I did last week. I’m such a criminal!”

“Slow your roll there O.J., what happened?”

Taking a deep breath she began her explanation, “Well . . . . During an afternoon last week I was walking Lucy (her golden retriever) and as usual she was off-leash. We had already been out for a while and it was pretty hot, so we started to head back home through a park next to some running trails. As we came around a bend I noticed a park authority official getting down from her vehicle. As she descended from her truck I called Lucy over so that I could quickly attach her leash. Lucy miraculously came (which she never does) and as I snapped on the leash I looked up and noticed that the park authority lady had noticed and was already making her way towards me. As she made her sheriff-like approach she said she was going to give me a $350 ticket for walking my dog off-leash. I asked if I could get off with a warning, but she said that the county was done with the ineffective “warnings” and that she would have to issue me a ticket. She started writing furiously.”

“Uhuh”, I said listening intently.

“Well, I sure as hell didn't want to pony up $350 so I told her that I wouldn’t pay and started to walk off. What the hell was she gonna do, right? Then she said that she was going to call the police and I stopped dead in my tracks. Brown, I didn’t know what to do, I started panicking. So, I turned to her and said FINE, call ‘em! And I took off running.”

“You did WHAT?” I asked as I choked on my iced tea.

“I dunno what I was thinking, I just took off. As we ran I could hear her making a call on her walkie-talkie as she attempted to follow me while holding up the cumbersome utility belt that was obviously slowing her down. I sped through some trails and after coming around a corner I ditched my conspicuous red and white top in the bushes.

“No you didn’t”, I muttered in disbelief.

“Oh I totally did, I don’t know what came over me. I ran the rest of the way home, practically dragging poor Lucy behind me.”

“I can’t believe you, that’s fucking hilarious”.

“At nightfall, I went back and retrieved my shirt from the bushes.”

“Haha, you better not walk Lucy around that park again.”

“I know, I know, I’ve been avoiding the neighborhood altogether and I’ve even been wearing a hat all week. I told some people at work and now everyone has been calling me a criminal.”

“A criminal on the run huh? Hehehehe . . . .sorry, I couldn’t resist. Let’s just hope they don’t find out about those highlighters.”

“How’d you know about those?”

“Let’s just call it a hunch”

Raging Bull

I usually applaud my Hispanic brethren for staying out of harms way (living in 3rd world countries where mudslides are prevalent doesn’t count either). We are never found mauled by bears, eaten by mountain lions, or crushed by unrelenting avalanches as we snowboard down mountains. We do not hand glide, race motorcycles, surf monsoons, or visit outer space. We are even hard to find in horror movies.

The reason for this is that most of us were born in a place where things outside of your house could kill you. Leopards, boars, snakes, and even ants could easily abduct, maim, or even kill unsuspecting children. At a very young age we were told stories of Chupacabras and old witches designed specifically to keep us from wondering too far into the wilderness, or out past nightfall. These “life lessons” were hard-wired into us from infancy and this knowledge grew up with us and matured as we did, into what today we call . . . . common sense, aka “street smarts” (for the brothas).

Unfortunately, the indefinite and calamitous powers of stupidity have found their ways into even the smartest of societies. Cultures rich in history and tradition prove to be susceptible to infectious attack. Among these people, the residents of Pamplona, Spain, who have been hit with a devastating outbreak of stupidity that has plagued their city for over 80 years. They are so ill-stricken with stupid that they even hold an event called “The Running of the Bulls”. Most of you have heard of this travesty, but what many of you don’t know is that many have died, and literally countless injured during the city’s festivities.

I shake my head in shame as I watch footage of people getting trampled and gored by these angry animals. Then I rewind it and laugh as I play it back in slow motion . . . . . over and over again. Maybe I’m just an insensitive prick for wanting the Bulls to trample wide eyed retards standing in the streets taunting the 900 lb beasts, or perhaps it is my twisted sense of humor that fuels the enjoyment of this carnage. Either way, I'm always happy to be entertained.

It’s not so much that I WANT the animal to inflict harm it’s just that I have no sympathy for the idiots who find themselves at its mercy on purpose. As a matter of fact, I don’t think that medical personnel should even be deployed to these events. If these jack asses can voluntarily find their way into the streets where stampeding bulls can be found, then I say they should be able to find their happy asses to the hospital as well.

Rodeo bull riders, matadors, residents of Spain, fuck it, to anyone who taunts a bull, swims with alligators, pets a strange dog, or even shakes a stick at a snake or spider . . . . You’ve been warned. I will laugh. Oh yes . . . . . I will.



p.s. MSNBC has an awesomely clear video. Just scroll down to Running of the Bulls. I've watched it 8 times already. That's your ass Mr. Postman!

Money Pit, part two

I have glorious news! The renovations are finally complete and I am proud to announce that I showered in my own bathroom today! The new shower head is one of those over sized ones you find in fancy hotels and the tub is all new and sparkling. The vanity is also brand new and a few inches higher (my back is thankful), with a large new sink and a faucet that allows me to fit my whole head under it (don't ask). New light fixtures were also installed with bulbs that emit powerful face-melting beams of blinding radiation. At least I can charge people for tanning.

As with most good things in my life, they are unfortunately accompanied by something not so good. Like when I started dating a nympho for the first time. Initially, things were wonderful. Sex was spontaneous, crazy, and occurred in multiples . . . . . unfortunately, so was her personality. As I was saying, about the good and the bad, now that I have a newly renovated bathroom, the garbage disposal decided that it was going to spew forth everything it ate for the past couple of months (I knew that femur was going to cause problems), have a massive myocardial infarction, and die.

Apparently, there had been a clog in the pipes since the early 1900’s and I had to call the bathroom renovation guy back to gut out everything under the kitchen sink and replace it with shiny new internal organs. Since the kitchen sink also appeared to have a weak bladder, the flooring to the cabinets had to be replaced as well.

New kitchen sink parts . . . . . . $60

6 hours of labor . . . . . . . . . . . . . $240

Being able to continue dismembering stupid people in the privacy of my own home . . . . . . . . . priceless!

Now I'm just waiting for the A/C unit to submit it's letter of resignation and to be instantly incinerated by a lightning bolt.

The Sound of Music

Last night I met up with some friends at a local bar that was having karaoke night. No, I did not go there to sing, but I did go because the entertainment was free and one of the bartenders is also a client of mine. So, I get a few drinks here and there for free. I’m sure that violates some sort of secret ethical massage code, but judging by some of the singing that went on in that place, my transgressions were minuscule in comparison.
Apparently, alcohol makes people think they are Whitney Houston, or that they've met you before. (I spent a good 40 minutes of my night trying to convince this chick from El Salvador, that she didn't know me.)

The highlight of the evening (besides when this one guy who looked like Jesus sang "Pour some sugar on me") was when some skinny kid stepped on stage, acting goofy and sang, “Suck on my chocolate salty balls”. I literally laughed my ass off. He gyrated, danced, and even did quite a bit of testicular manipulation while on stage. It was very unexpected and to be completely honest, it made the time I spent in that shit hole collecting cancerous tar on my lungs actually worth while.
I knew right then, that not only was this to be my new theme song, but I might even be stepping on stage myself sometime soon.

I mean……


that kid obviously needs a partner.

Dead Poet's Society

I was on the toilet yesterday, as I often am (damn protein shakes), and since I was devoid of reading material, I was forced to scan the shiny interior of my aluminum confinement to pass the time. I found nothing out of the ordinary really. A chrome coat hanger on the back of the squeaky door, a barf bar (as I like to call them), to my left, a toilet paper dispenser, but when my eyes reached the right panel, I immediately knew that I was in for a treat.

On this day, I did not find the more common, and unthoughtful “Mike was here” cliché carved into the metal, or a phone number written with a sharpie in case I want a good time. There was no innocuous juvenile scribbling, or even some good old fashion graffiti. No, no, no. I knew that I wouldn’t be let down by public bathroom’s finest literary authors. The artwork upon which my gaze did fall, was nothing less than a quaint restroom poem. Oh how exciting, I thought, a fellow poet. (If enough of you show interest, I will gladly post some.) This particular poem read as follows:


Here I sit with a completely broken heart,
For 2 days I tried to shit, but alas, could only fart.
Now, I hang my head in defeat and shame,
While my poor ass lights the bathroom aflame.
So, upon this porcelain pot I stoop,
In the hopes that one day I’ll finally poop.

Wun Hung Low


An enthusiastic passerby retorted:

One hung low in your Momma’s mouth bitch!

Ah yes........... that’s more like it.

Radio Head

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Mea Culpa

Yes, I know that I haven't been writing lately and I really wish I had a good reason like I snorted 8 grams of splenda, or I exchanged livers with a diabetic unicorn. But sadly, the truth is I just haven't been very motivated and the unicorn really isn't diabetic. Okay, so that's not the entire truth either. . . . . the stabbing reality is that my life is not all that exciting so I have to make up shit about unicorns and edible underwear to keep the five of you who read my blog mildly entertained long enough until something worth documenting actually happens. (I'm still waiting for those booby traps to go off.)

One common practice I seem to run into a lot when reading other people’s blogs, is the “apology entry”, also known as the “sorry I haven’t been writing lately because [insert lame excuse here].” I would most certainly conform to such practices if I hadn’t coerced or bribed all of you to visit my blog to begin with. That’s kind of like apologizing to someone before you amputate their foot. So, in lieu of an eloquent, well thought out, meaningfully sincere, and elaborate apology, I’ll just admit to having done quite a bit, but being too lazy to put any of it into words for your entertainment, however mild or short it may be.

Alright fine . . . . . . . . . I’m sorry. My bad.

Stop looking at me like that.

Five things you didn't ask to know

Apparently I’ve been tagged, and not like some rogue migratory bird suspected of Avian Flu, but tagged in the sense that I’ve been forced against my will to divulge five things about me that you didn’t know and that you didn’t ask about either. I would have preferred the passing of a torch, but I suppose a baton will have to do. . . . .

1) I hate being nominated or called out for public entertainment. I don’t mean like being tagged for a blog or anything, but more like for comic relief at a social gathering. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love to do jokes and impersonations, but there is always some drunken jack ass at a party who wants me to “do that voice” or “tell that joke” for a crowd. Nothing makes me feel more like a fucking ass than people putting me on the spot for their enjoyment. One of the components of humor is spontaneity. You kind of shoot that in the ass the second you herd a group of people together and beg me “to do that one skit where you talk like your Scottish, and you’re drunk and really angry and you rant about golf and then all those other characters come in, that one’s hilarious. Yeah, do that one.” See, now I’m in between a rock and world peace, because if I don’t do the skit or tell the joke, I’m an asshole, or chicken shit, or anything else you won’t remember calling me come tomorrow. And if I do perform said skit, it won’t be nearly as funny now that everyone knows what’s coming. Don’t be a jerk. Let me relax and have a couple of drinks and trust me, the jokes will come. They always come.

2) I’m a hopeless romantic. I can probably thank my plethora of sisters for that. I can already feel the testosterone seeping out of my testicles as I write this, but I enjoy watching romance movies and romantic comedies. I’m a sucker for an epic love story like The Notebook (a must see by the way), or What Dreams May Come, or even Forrest Gump. And just for the record I hated Titanic.

3) I love chocolate. I know this doesn’t help you out much, but we aren’t really here for you now are we? This is about me, so it’s imperative that you know the degree to which I adore chocolate and its many forms. Let’s not misconstrue my affection for chocolate as some weird food fetish, because I definitely don’t see the sense in wasting perfectly good chocolate to rub all over somebody’s crotch. That’s just nasty. Now, whip cream on the other hand . . . . .

4) I also love candles. (I would have paired this one with number 3 and actually have given you 6 things about me, but my OCD forces me to number things methodically and inhibits my otherwise strong urge to associate things that normally wouldn’t go together.) I don’t eat candles, but I love them nonetheless. I try to hide my addiction to candles behind the fact that I’m a massage therapist, but the truth is I would probably still have enough candles to light the Vatican for a week even if I weren’t an MT. I would marry Pier One (or at least whoever makes the candles).

5) I’m practically bi-polar and my inherent desire to stab random people worsens if I don’t eat every two hours. It really sucks I know, not only to suffer from chemical imbalances but to also have the metabolism of a cheetah. I have to constantly shove food in my face, and frankly I’m tired of eating. Being hungry means that I have to find food, which seriously conflicts with my genetic predisposition to be lazy. So, basically I can’t go out in well populated areas for extended periods of time without being happy and well fed because otherwise I’m just a hungry, bi-polar cheetah looking to kill the next idiot who mistakes my furious countenance for one of inviting conversation. If you ever invite me over, and you want me to be funny, have some damn food. For those of you mathematically inclined: food = happy.

Well, there you have it. I’m going to assume that you’re supposed to tag someone else at this point, and I nominate my girl bitty. Thanks to La Cubana Gringa for forcing me against my will, again. But come to think of it, I kinda do like it rough.

It's not a Tumor

On my way to work this morning, I noticed a man in the car behind me picking his nose. Although I do not find this behavior completely unusual, his blatant disregard of the world around him and his serious dedication to the task at hand did have me amusingly perplexed.

It’s one thing to quickly insert the tip of a thumb to scrape the inside of a nostril in hopes of dislodging a “crusty” from disrupting the free flow of air, or even sneaking in a discreet sweep or two of an index finger, (I hear that the pinkie twist is also highly effective), but it’s entirely different to shove a finger well beyond it’s second joint to scratch the inside of your skull as if to remove a brain tumor or extract a tracking device. I’ve often observed children concentrating extremely hard to chase down an elusive booger, but I seriously cannot recall the last time I’ve ever seen anyone pick their nose with such fervor.

I chuckled out loud at how long this man was going at it until he removed his finger to examine the tip, as if he were looking at a contact before putting it back in his eye. He continued this ritual for almost a whole ten minutes, even picking up the intensity when we came to a stop light. I tried to signal to other motorists to check out the show, but people have been well trained to not make eye contact with a brown man flailing his arms in a near by vehicle. Eventually he did stop, but only to put his dirty digit on the steering wheel so he could switch fingers. I’m not sure how much further he had to go, but I certainly hope he finds what he was looking for.

Spearing Ahead

I told myself that I would fight any urges to write about Britney’s latest follicular fiasco. I figured that I wouldn’t be the only one tempted to remark, but I also didn’t want to fuel the fires of her cause. But as irony would have it, my attempts of avoidance have led me to comment on the vary thing I set out to ignore. . . . . .

It’s now official. Britney’s head has the same haircut as her vagina. I suppose such measures wouldn’t appear so drastic had they been done by any other celebrity, or had they not made her look even more like the trailer trash she so desperately wants every one to know she is. Her blatant plight for attention is undeniable. While her Mickey Mouse Club counterpart simply got implants, a couple of piercings, and made a song titled “Dirty” (as a means of denouncing the pubescent geenie stage and transitioning into womanhood), Britney decided that she wouldn’t be outdone and proceeded to create the perfect outline for total image destruction. What a better way to ensure being labeled a slut than to suck face with the Material Girl herself (the mega slut of them all) on national television. She must have thought we weren’t taking her seriously because she then decided to confirm her celebrity ineptitude by driving around with a newborn in her lap, exposing the baby’s ultra sensitive skin to flesh melting solar radiation, and then marrying a loser with an IQ slightly higher than that of a house plant. (Parading around with the panty-less Paris certainly doesn’t help.) Britney desperately needs a fucking hobby. She should write a book or something. Okay maybe not, but you know what I mean.

Astro Turf

Just when I thought I wouldn’t have anything to write about today, some crazy astronaut bitch* decides to drive 900 miles across the country (in diapers) to spray another space ho in the face with pepper spray, in an obvious attempt to subdue her, pulverize her with a steel mallet, and then neatly tuck her body in garbage bags like packages of big league chewing gum (or tang). And this is all because crazy moon bitch suspects the space ho of vying for the relations of her space pimp (a fellow NASA pilot).

After crazy space bitch was arrested, they found a knife, a steel mallet (she’s so screwed,) rubber tubing, and garbage bags in her car. She was charged with attempted murder and attempted kidnapping and her lawyer had the audacity to tell reporters that the charges were bogus and “speculative”. Speculative? Right, because driving from Houston to Orlando in a pair of Depends and following someone around in a disguise with the aforementioned mafia starter kit on hand, doesn’t seem like premeditated murder at all.


*Contrary to popular belief, Crazy Space Bitch, Space Ho, and Space Pimp are not official positions held at NASA, and do not, in any way, reflect my feelings about NASA, it’s wasteful space exploration, or the fact that Pluto is no longer considered a planet.

Nippsicles

It’s a thousand degrees below zero today (okay not exactly, but frigidly close,) and apparently I felt as though a t-shirt and scarf would suffice in confronting the elements while I warmed up the car this morning. As soon as I stepped outside, I was greeted by an unforgiving arctic blast of chilly wintry air, freezing my golden brown nipples on contact. Instant nippsicles. It’s windy AND freezing. Two things that singularly can be managed, but together, form an unrelenting blizzard of icy polar wind instantly freezing all exposed flesh, including poorly protected nipples (regardless of their perfect light brown hue).

I absolutely hate the cold, and now I’m pissy. Not a good start to my day. The only thing I hate more than frozen nipples (and 29 year old unregistered sex offenders posing as 12 year old boys enrolling in school to prey on children), are dentists. Dentistry, as you may know, happens to be the profession with the highest suicide rate (it’s statistically suspected anyway). Mine was not elated when I told him this. Even though I’m not going to the dentist today, (unfortunately I do think he is still alive), I am still stuck with the numbing dilemma of my frozen teats. If men can have such things.