Josh Stern's Blog, page 161
September 15, 2013
The Brown Lunch Elevator Story
I get in to JFK and take the subway back to the City- a fitting poverty hero’s welcome. As I emerge from the 103rd subway opening, still deaf from the blaring Mexican mariachi band that I was pinned up against on the ersatz underground Taquero salsa cantina from the airport. Bleary eyed and way beat, I suffer the 5 singing Pistoleros in cowboy hats with matching spurs; they smelled of really pungent chopped liver and a little known fact about Chicanos is that they aren’t really known for their love of Eastern European Jewish fare, so I shudder to think of the origins of that aroma….. their screeching Spanish harmonies grating my eardrums more than the unaligned steel wheels beneath the train. Under the constant threat of an errant flying mariachi from a displeased singing Bandido, the straphangers quickly parted with their pocket change as it free flowingly poured in as they passed the sombrero… Although the only thing I wanted to give them were gunshot wounds.
I rush home quickly, racing against the clock before the night of the living crack zombies begins and The ticker tape parade is supplanted by the forgotten litter of candy bar wrappers being whipped around the inner city landscape, fuelled by fierce winds in a seemingly endless ‘chasing its own tail’ pas des deux … The far off sounds of sirens replace the applause reserved for New York Heroes. Speed walking the desolate streets back to the apartment, the shrill smell of cold garbage rapes my nostrils. I’m careful to slalom between the months-old remains of squashed rats who scurried just a touch too slow and met with welcoming pimped rimmed tires… I’m not looking forward to the cleanup of my slummish apartment and having supermarkets with a unanimous bill of fare amounting to Twinkies, Devil dogs and Yodels in close proximity, I’ll have to go 10 blocks away and sneak past Checkpoint Charlie back into ‘Normalville’ in order to get potable food such as it is…
Luckily my Mom had the generous foresight to send me off with a care package so I could come home to my dustbowl digs and not have to forage for Twinkies (room temperature mummified for freshness) outside in the underclass jungle…I should have taken her up on her offer for industrial construction masks, as the mutant dust bunnies have bred like rabbits.
Cutting a swath through the old newspapers and Evian bottles strewn in the living room, I decide that a modest cleanup just might be in order, that way at least I’ll get a heads up before the monster bedbugs suck out my brains like shucking oysters. As I begin to take out the myriad clear garbage bags of plastic bottles down to the dumpster area in the back of the building, I get winks from the envious homeless guys; now raggedly circling the garbage bins like unshaven vultures who’ve spotted a veritable luau of carrion. Waiting with surprising civility to attack this mother lode- and as I have no favorites, their arsenal of corrugated cardboard strips will be flying. It won’t be pretty. Usually I’d hang around to watch the bum ‘fights to the finish’ spectacle but I have of late, since my affliction, started thinking differently about humanity-so I’ll go back upstairs and wait for the highlights on the 11o’clock news…
Safely ensconced once more in my apartmental equivalent of abject humiliation, the bloodcurdling screams from the dumpster area have finally died down to an acceptable level and as I go to drown them out with some random TV show-I am confronted with the pesky realization that Time Warner Cable has ‘triple played’ shut me down- cable/internet and phone. So third world it I must do. The electricity is still on- provisionally at this point. So as the dust rises as I settle into my sheetless bed (like a psychotic horror flick in the cobwebbed room that has been untouched since the old lady’s tragic murder fuelled wedding day 70 years ago), I slowly unwrap the moist plastic Saran wrapped egg frittata, lovingly made by my Mom. Nothing is worse than wet Saran Wrap, except perhaps taking a pap smear from a geriatric homeless woman….perhaps. But I’m thankful that the next few day’s shit will be graced by a little more color from the frittata’s mix-ins: red peppers and scallions represents unconditional love. It’s appreciating the simple things in life that really punctuates the fact that you’re completely down and out.
OK, no TV, not much else to do except sleep and work on my black lung.
As I turn on the light to the bathroom, I have to do a double take as I dilate my focus to the sink- is that an upside down cockroach or just an arrant tuft of hair from my last ‘do it yourself’ haircut?
False alarm…..tuft of hair- into the toilet you go.
Now back at the barf encrusted toilet rim- the porcelain bowl is impacted with cottage cheese waste chunks nowadays- Time to stir things up and get the crapper moving again as I feel something is in the slot, ready to trot. With the conspicuous absence of a plunger, I go for the next best thing. As I unravel the hanger and stretch it out, I can’t help but think how neat it is that they actually paint them nowadays. Although the paint chips fall everywhere- terrific, more noxious particles to ingest…. Then I butter churn that hanger inside the toilet bowl with no success- Still clogged in defiance, the Stone Henge chunks of waste just pile up like a rockslide…..
Unfortunately, the orange flavored Metamucil I chugged at 3 am is becoming increasingly flirtatious in my stomach. It’s getting more vocal and insistent by the second- dam busting is imminent. Playtime is over and some draconian measures are called for…But where to crap? The low volume toilet requires a minimum of 10 flushes to a normal toilet’s one and so many more gallons are wasted in the name of being environmentally green- Right now I was environmentally brown with no end in sight and my overflowing Lincoln logs were threatening to go above the water’s rim of the porcelain bowl which never solves anything…
I needed an alternative disposal- something neat and tidy to hide the evidence. Having been in this moronic situation far too many times before, I look from the john to the kitchen… You guessed it… Necessitating the mother of invention a common grocery store plastic bag ideally doubles as an impromptu crap holder!
All out of grocery bags and the aliens inside me are getting more persistent- I run into the back bedroom which until recently was just for storage of my archival clothing that had become too small as I got too fat- lately I had reconverted it for a short while back to a bedroom as one of my female co-workers desperately needed a place to stay but not that desperate I suppose- I mean it’s no cleaner than say if you were camping- there’s more dirt out there-…these fucking persnickety women- yeah their cleanliness is oxymoronic- she was a stringy chicken gizzard of a woman with DIY dental plan and a Vulcan wit to match….(stop playing with your pimples”” I used to silently scream in my head) but I digress- the end result of my short-lived roommate was a lone Bed Bath and Beyond plastic bag that I had gotten because of the towels involved for her stay- bed Bath and Beyond…Well I guess this constituted ‘Beyond’- I quickly grab the bag and run in short unsudden moves for the bathroom …
My technique was constantly evolving. At first I was in to placing the bag totally around the underneath of the rim of the toilet seat for a more comfortable process- But now after much trial and error in the field, I found that by grabbing the handles of the plastic bag and pulling either side tightly across my hips, makes for a foolproof hermetic seal. Then I aim the plastic bag at the middle of the bowl and sit down on the seat for a more seamless elegant experience. When the splat, splat of falling contents has ended-it’s signals time to make a freezer deposit. What will science think of next?
As luck would have it, I’m called out the apartment much earlier than expected, so in any case, it’s time to get rid of the evidence down the garbage chute. No sense making a special trip out of the apartment and risk getting caught in the crossfire in the hallway. As I go to take out the bag out of the freezer, it’s not quite yet stone cold -so it’s got to go offsite to a street corner garbage can. That way there’s no possible way to trace it back to me…. a simple plan from a guy who’s been there.
I had just renewed my lease, paying a laughable pittance of what they charge 9 blocks down on the other side of Checkpoint Charlie but when eight hundred bucks is scarce, it might as well be a cool million. The renewal was OK’ed, much to the protestations of my scary Super, with his ashen gray skin and deep knife scar split down the center of his nose. He lives 2 doors down on the same floor and thoroughly loathes my presence. So much so, he refused to install a deadbolt lock even after I offered him $50 bucks – so in a pinch, as a ruse to safeguard my valuable (no not plural) I just left everything seemingly randomly strewn in the apartment, to put off any would be thieves into thinking the place had already been ransacked…
He’s always pissed at me, I’m convinced that he put a second coat of lead based asbestos paint while I was away. He borschts on and on to the owner, something about wading through a kiddie pool of laundry in my living room and then on to wage trench warfare in my bathroom-always a losing proposition. And most egregiously he thinks I’m complicit in the bum fights- charging for ringside seats and he doesn’t get a cut from the box office gross in spite of hosing down all the blood and bodyparts afterwards. If he knew it was me who dropped 20 glass bottles down the garbage chute next to his apartment at 3 a.m. last weekend, I would be a toasted dead man.
So even on a non-incriminating day I’m dread to see the Super – I have a hard time not going cross-eyed staring at that knife scar on his shnozz- it’s all consuming and he’s overly sensitive to it. Also another strange thing about him is he has this thick Jamaican accent in spite of being born and raised in Calgary Alberta- He also was an amateur cracksman playing cricket for Canada- it is all very bizarre as nobody likes cricket in Canada.
Winter or summer, the Super wears the same tank top, plaid shirt, wool cap and just alternates between shorts and camouflage pants but the scar always goes right down the middle of his nose. It has an actual seam that could probably have a zipper attached to it, although having that ‘RIRI’ ‘zipper upper’ thing just hanging from it would probably make him cross-eyed too….
I successfully sneak by his apartment without incident, the loot bag from the bathroom really stinks as I hit the elevator button. It’s not heavy but the imbalanced chunks veer to center left of the plastic bag…. The elevator, as usual, takes interminably long to finally get there- each second Marathon candy bar stretches to an eternity as the bulleye target on my head ballistically expands. The faint dinging as it reaches the other floors just punctuates its slowness- a manual dumbwaiter would be a step in the right direction.
The elevator ding is one short floor away from freedom- I can almost smell it over the plastic bag’s contents. Whew! I played it too close to the vest this time, it could have been a disaster but I hope I learn a lesson from all this- that is, GET A FUCKING PLUNGER! I’m going into the elevator when the Super spies my presence as he comes down the fire escape staircase from the floor above- He scrunches his eyebrows when he sees me and for a huge guy he has catlike moves, sliding in JUST before the elevator door completely closes shut- an anorexic from Darfur would have had difficulty with that one. “You got renewed Mon, I wanted you out” he bitterly says. “Why all the vitriol? Didn’t I ask you before anyone else if you’re wife’s a cleaning lady?” I sheepishly reply.
This has the unintended effect of pissing him off even more. He winces and says “Just to be clear, I don’t like you- one little bit. Anything wrong and I’m gone to the management office for the eviction….”
He stops cold as his eyes go wide and makes a distasteful facial expression signifying some foul aroma is in near proximity. He immediately looks at the underside of his shoes in resigned disgust. I start to shrink back, stress sweat droplets form a pool at the base of my of back but it’s a short-lived angst as we should hit the ground floor in under 30 seconds- so time to create a quick diversion.
“Hey did you fart?” I accuse point blank. “No way Mon, that ain’t no dog’s either, did you shit then step in it?” he asks with stern incredulousness. How can he differentiate between human and dog shit? Don’t know if I really want that answered…. Damn, I should’ve double bagged it and sprayed Febreeze – Idiot! Why didn’t I just slow down and….
The elevator screeches and jolts upwards; the lights go out for a split second and sputter while reconnecting- we are now inert.
The Super whips out his cell and speed dials a number- the reception is spotty so he tries again. He’s consciously breathing out of his mouth while waiting for it to connect, he asks with suspicious intent: “What’s in the bag?”
Another eternal split second: If I tell the truth, I’m out. “Flat on my ass” I think to myself. I need a really sweet lie like: The old lady next door’s granny diaper fell in the hallway…and like a good neighbor… Yeah, Not bad for the first swing.
How about: the Museum of Modern Art is having eco-organic ‘alternate medium’ performance art competition and I just crapped this perfect figure 8 and I had to let it dry a bit outside before entering it… I’m a shoo in for first place.
OR
I’m trying to break the Guinness World Book of records for longest uninterrupted twirled shit- I call it the ‘Rattler’…Wanna see?
“Nothing, just some brownies for an ailing sick Auntie of mine on the Upper West Side..” is was what finally came out of my mouth- somehow a mission of mercy is beyond reproach…The humanitarian equivalent of saying ‘women’s problems’ to a guy in order to sweep away any further inquiries.
This seems to have the desired effect of quelling his curiosity but the smell is overpowering and he makes me show him the underside of my shoes now.
‘I think something might have died on the top of the elevator.” He says ‘Hand over the bag and take my flashlight. I’ll give you a boost.”
This is indeed problematic as if he takes the bag he’ll no doubt think to himself ‘These ain’t no brownies” But if I refuse, he’ll think something is suspicious too- so it’s lose / lose either way….. C’mon man think!
“Ok but I have vertigo and am afraid of heights” I wimpishly say. “No worries man- there’s no looking down- just look for something dead on the top of the elevator cabin- MAN IT’S STINKING BAD”
‘Ok but I might Barf” I add.
“ barf?? What’s that?’ he asks
Who hasn’t heard of ‘barf’?- those are the first words out of many babies’ mouths- This guy’s definitely been hit in the face by one too many cricket bats.
“Barf- like puke, hurl chunks, scream at GM- y’know BUUUUUUUUICK?”
“ Geez, Mary and Joseph don’t do that- it smells enough here already!” He sighs “No stay put and give me a leg up”
“No offense but you gotta be around 300 lbs.” I say being generous and squeezing the bag of shit a little harder. “ I already have problems with my balls and I’m trying really hard not to have them explode.”
“Actually I’m 315 – yeah I see your point- Mon I can’t take this awful stink- it seems to be coming from inside- you don’t happen to be a ‘bottom’ or wear diapers, do you?” he asks in seriousness
‘NFW” I shoot back
Stymied and unable to order a strip search, the Super slumps down on the floor, as I just keep my finger pressing on the emergency buzzer. I need to calm the air- at least- so to deflect and take his mind off things and onto himself I ask him a question.
“Say that’s one fucked up scar you got over there on your nose- Is it Mafia related or are you just clumsy?”
‘No Mon, it happened during the Calgary Stampede back in ’87, when a Jamaican drug deal went bad- I was wearing a wire and duct taped to a chair and as they were about to sew a waterproof zipper onto my nose, the RCMP busted them and I went into witness protection- gave up cricket and became a Super; married one of the widow tenants…the rest is history.”
‘Yes well that’s all very colorful- funny how things funnel through- and by the way the scar makes you look very distinguished- shows character!”
“Thanks Mon- I think so too- that’s why I grew the mustache- Never thought of plastic surgery or using any makeup to cover it up. Say I’m getting hungry, any chance there’s a little Ganja in those brownies H’mm?” His eyes greedily focus on the plastic bag.
Oh if he only knew….
FUCKED- Thoroughly, truly, wholly completely FUCKED.
“Nah, no Ganja in them but I do put extra psyllium fiber into it and walnuts too – she has trouble shitting- nothing major but any stimulation helps. Old people, you know how it is?” I say- hoping against hope on the off chance he has irritable bowl syndrome or goes into anaphylactic shock from nuts- At this point I’d say it’s full of bee stingers and red ant venom if it would get him off the scent…
“I love walnuts in Brownies- like my Mom’s!” He beams. “C’mon show some viva.”
It’s at this point I feel that under normal circumstances we could actually become friends and I truly wish I could turn shit into brownies. Even through his disappointment, surely he could see the humor in all this??
Surely??
“Hey I’d really, really love to share them with you but these are her special 85th Birthday brownies and she asked for enough to last her the week. I know you’re hungry, we’re stuck in this awful smelling elevator and there’s nothing more I’d like to do than give you the whole bag- Believe me! By any chance do you think you can hold out??” I multi-tier lie with just enough layers of deceit to inspire the right amount of guilt.
“No Mon- it’s serious- I’m diabetic- I need them to stay out of going into shock” he says with just the right air of desperation.
Well played- I almost believe him.
Crunch time- If I stick to my guns and he goes into shock he won’t complain about the smell anymore and hopefully we’ll get out before any serious brain damage sets in. Pretty elegant solution except I’m guaranteed a beatdown and subsequently out on my ass for endangering his worthless life.
OR
Fall backwards into the crowd and just tell the truth
But why tell the truth when you can lie…don’t give up on lying just yet- C’mon what’s the next chess move?
As I’m sidetracked pondering the next strategy- he grabs for the bag. A tug of war for it’s contents ensues.
‘Nooo think of Auntie” I say
“C’mon just a little piece” he shoots back
He’s massive and really strong and I’ve put up a good fight, an honest fight, everything very cricket- up until now…
Pow! A clean blow to his nuts. Game over.
I get the bag back safely- but it’s ‘Last Rites’ time for me
‘Yea, as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will only fear ‘ massive Supers with bruised balls and zipper scars on their noses for they are the meanest sons of bitches in the valley…..
He’s rolled over and crying like a little bitch- it’s hard not to laugh so I do - Hey I’m a certain dead man and evicted too. It stinks something awful in here and my last minutes so far are tragic- I might as well laugh, it’s always healthy to find jocularity in all things.
“Why the fuck did you do that? I’m a sick man! Are you crazy!? You are so out on the street” He sadistically manages between his groaning gasps…More like a fart resembling a punctured tire, all the foul air was knocked out of me
That did it.
The microchip in my brain just redlines off the charts and as it implodes, I predictably let fly verbally this time.
I open the bag to fully expose the contents.
“IT’S BROWN, BUT IT SURE AIN’T BROWNIES - YOU FUCKING SMARMY IDIOT! ‘JUST LIKE MOM’S’!!! UNFUCKINGBELIEVABLE! IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT- YEAH.
“My fault?” he says totally confused at the accusation.
“THOSE LOW FLUSH TOILETS THAT A PYGMY COULD CLOG, FORCED ME TO PLAY HOMEMADE COLOSTOMY BAG- AND INSTEAD OF PUTTING IT DOWN THE DUMP CHUTE, I WAS TAKING IT OUTSIDE, MAKING A ‘PUBLIC GARBAGE CAN RUN’ WHEN YOUR SELF-SERVING LAST LICKS COMPELLED YOU TO TELL ME HOW MUCH YOU DISLIKE ME- BIG FUCKING NEWS, ASSHOLE!!!- SO SHUT THE FUCK UP, ENJOY THE SMELL AND GO AHEAD, TRY TO EVICT ME- I’M SURE STANLEY YOUR BOSS WOULD ENJOY THE STORY!”
(…………A couple of minutes later)
Newtons Third Law of Slacking: For every inaction, there is an equal and opposite reason to do nothing …. Usually it takes a few weeks for eviction proceedings to be executed, but if you grease the works with cash, you can arrange for someone to be out on their ass with surprising speed. Lawyers are just an infestation that Monsanto hasn’t yet figured out how to genetically alter, so nations bent on sustainability will ban those fuckers…. When I tried to plead my case to the landlord’s bookkeeper, she congratulated me on sending her boss to the Emergency with an asymnetrical heart murmur…this was a first even for him. When justice is served, everyone loses their appetite….So I was the tenant equivalent of an Eggo waffle to leggo….
I managed to get most of my stuff to a Manhattan Mini-Storage and I had met this chick at a neighboring showroom at work- she was a tall, stringy blonde, originally from Alabama, and had sought a change of scenery from her buttfucking siblings…. Somehow she had gotten under the spell of a couple of hippies who ran a commune up on East 116th Street in Harlem that had that familiar smell of scrofula…a medieval skin affliction caused by huddling of sweaty shivering masses in close quarters… . A huge mess of a place for intransigent runaways, aspiring waitresses and refugees from the 60s, to come and go as they please, after being discharged from the Army and taking the ‘Grand Tour’ that started around Woodstock.
Life takes on a sweeter meaning after mandatory service to your country, unjustly scorned and slandered by its neighbors and the world media…hey ‘it was the 60s man’. Fuck them all! You did good.
So it was every night- doing the horizontal ‘Macarena” on a grand scale; but at $300 a month, and communal showers to boot…. I was happy to pay way more and offered my services as bathroom attendant, even though it meant seeing the stringy blonde in the altogether shaving her sideburns with that ‘come hither’ look of a dog’s breakfast…
“Ehhhh. Not necessary” answers Yaron ( pronounced ‘urine” by most Americans). “Stay, go bathroom attendant whatever, we don’t get many suits around here, eh Mr Squid so have fun…”
“Not much” I say and put my head down, enjoying the impromptu neck massage from the girl in the cutoff t-shirt, with the two underripened Jaffa grapefruits ugently pressing underneath.
Latvians are a different breed, and hot ones are by nature irresistible; their permanently tanned, electric silken skin can only be tolerated by the bristly-burred locals- even Russians turn to mush. Thought, as well as resistance, is futile. The positive correlation of ‘jutting breasts to flat stomach’ ratio is off the charts. How they can also be tank commanders is beyond me. That is simply a Renaissance vagina with such range, it shamefully turtleheads us males who are not equally ambidextrous with our genitals. Sure they’ll rip your balls off, but only for safekeeping in their Vuitton handbags- but they’ll ride shotgun better than the Secret Service with front and side airbags. Some people get lost in an opium den, others Latvian brothels; but I had found the mother lode, the best of all worlds and scrofula to boot
You can’t rush genius, but you can laxative it along…..I am by far the oldest letch in the place – Lucky me. Note to self: a box of ‘Russell Stover’ Sampler Chocolates from Duane Reade, and some Red Bull for ‘Trailer Park Annie’ from the showroom next door- I owe her one for sending me here…and possibly some baby teeth from a consignment shop. It’s important to keep your edge, because once you’ve lost it, you’ve gone over…
Chicks are my Kryptonite, but I’m cool with it as I’m no Superman….and as the weeks go by- I know my days are numbered here as my body fluid is running a quart low…and the weirdness of post traumatic stress from Latvian sex had permanently altered my brain chemistry . The possible outcomes were simple:
Death by exposure.
Death by marriage.
Death by Parent/Teacher meetings of my unborn delinquent skinheads.
.
The ink and piercings are so rampant here, it’s almost a membership card….and it’s so outside the conventional limits of propriety to be tranparentally honest, and the euphoria of getting lucky at such an alarming rate; that I hardly notice the skin eruptions that probably require the services of a high priest to push a virgin into a volcano…
Youth is for the young and so are idocy and tatoos….the half life of a tat for most meat eating/alcohol swilling/birthcontrol pill popping/nicotine craving/ sun worshipping females is early 40’s at best- then the purply, corrugated cardboard texture to it, just makes you look like the truckstop lot lizard with a melted wax figurine torso that you really are…so enjoy the moment, live for today and let time fly ….
Even with tattoos, there are the extreme cases of exception for a purpose such as a Mom engraving her wrist with the name of her beloved Purple Hearted son lost in Afghanistan, or the Grandchild of a Holocaust Survivor having their Bubbe’s Auschwitz serial number on their left forearm… or the Alzheimer’s victim having all their important info written upside down on their stomachs-as well as movies like ‘Momento….. I can actually laud such notions, but the weekend tattoo enthusiast irks me as much as paying astronauts to celebrate the grand opening of a regional shopping mall…
And piercings…they should only serve some utilitarian purpose; like ‘saying hello to my little friend’…. And I freely admit that the microchip in my head automatically shuts off when contemplating the reasons for a Prince Albert…of Monaco, a reputed sex deviant and a personal hero of mine…seriously nose and nipples are no places for metal
I’m usually so insecure that I can only perform on the toilet with a safety net….If you want to fuck with the Eagles, you got to fly with them as a Roadie…so this place is mindblowing My objective is not so lofty as to include happiness, it’s more about being left the fuck alone except for wanton fornication… It’s all well and fine as ylong as you’re into it but A Human Cannonball would never shame the uniform by wearing white mall walkers
If you get irritated by every rub, you’re not going to enjoy the tug part of the session either…..I hate cutting my wrists while shaving …I was stuck in a rut and finding my grovel just bored of the same sex romp, and that whole ’when the going gets weird, you probably had sex last night’ thing…..so I once again pack up the rest of my unstolen things, and figured the City has had it’s way with me, like the also-ran in a bumfight behind a dumpster…And while a change of scenery is a noble apiration, every place has its bats and zombies…so when I go over the border for the holidays, and they give me trouble getting back, it was just a fortuitous stroke of socialized medicine that my ballsac had swelled to water balloon proportions…and now I’m stuck in Siberia….where pompous hillbillies bombastically call themselves French, and while sunglasses make you look like less of an asshole than you really are, their lifestyle of curds and french fries heritage is just vomit inducing
Some lucky guys have a girl in every port, but I’m different, I have a psycho in every port…and my self-appointed door opener job at Liquor World is just fast track to an unsolved dumpster death
NOTE: No Guns, Dobermans, Bats or Pycho-Meds were abused in the writing of this mostly true story
September 12, 2013
Atoning for not sinning nearly enough
As the day of Atonement comes perilously close and I look back on the panorama of my bad deeds over the past year; I am struck by the lack of evil, rotten things that I were deemed too bothersome to do. Granted I was hobbled with an injured ballsac-aptly described as a water balloon , and walked around as if I was a constipated Dr Zaius from the Planet of the Apes;although it’s really is no excuse for this fragile potsherd to have let go completely the Snidely Whiplash frosted side of the mini-wheat I call my personality,
The Day of Atonement checklist -going down my usual things to ask Santa’s Boss forgiveness for,….as you can plainly see I really should be getting credit at the Sin Bank
Running to do evil: hobbling perhaps, but very little evil
Talebearing: nope: kept to myself
Disrespecting my Parents and Teachers: C’mon…
Foolish lips: no collagen last year.
Sins of food and drink…maybe chocolate covered almonds but that’s it
Lusting…is that really a sin?
So you see, it was an off year…but I’m sure as hell going to try to make up for it next year
September 4, 2013
Silly Putty- the other white meat
Today I managed to sink to a lower level in spite of already being quite deep…so I bit the bunny bullet and visited the nutritionist…which is like a food intervention at a $130 an hour, to get rid of the inflammation which is the catchword in foodiatrics…My blood levels were nothing short of alarming, in that quaint ‘you should already be very dead’ exclamation from your pediatric proctologist in zombie disbelief
There’s a dormant seed of frustration, just waiting to germinate and sprout into a full fledged conniption at the first whiff of photosynthetic angst…My trigger points are aberrant technological devices and governmental bureaucracy ,..oh, as well a smug midget chicks mouthing off at a bar…Funny that I will throw an iPad against the wall yet throw something at the self-entitled midget chick
So here I was at the nutritionist baring my soul telling my innermost
September 2, 2013
August 10, 2013
geeze your friggin funny- yeah whatever - kiwi living in usa...cjb
Is this some sort of illegal immigration confession?..because I can give you absolution but not a green card
how bigs yer dick!
Pardon me, I’m choking a horse….
July 30, 2013
Enjoy the simple things...like retarded chicks
Rectal itching is the human equivalent of Lassie barking that little Timmy is stuck in the well
Experience is the name every one gives to their first dead cleaning lady
It’s all well and fine that she wants to sit on your face, but standing on your face works out the secondary stabilizing muscles too
July 29, 2013
Why walk the line when you can jump it?
I have this awful habit that I chalk up to sheer laziness, but when on those rare occasions that I’m with someone, I give up looking at other chicks altogether…I’m not even tempted…it’s a disgusting trait…I have absolutely no use for them, it’s not even in the vocabulary…Once in a while I’ll test myself, like poring melted wax on my abdomen to see if I feel anything, and invariably it’s like taking prozac: ‘Life is shit but who cares….’
And the worst part of it all is that Chicks can sense the obliviousness and like some heightened sense of some feline super villainess they try to subliminally tempt you directing their vagina breeze your way…but I’ll have none of it…so I become a cause-celebre at their next meeting…oh yes, Chicks have regular secret meetings to earmark the scofflaws, hard cases and the targets at large that must be trifled with in order to scare the rest of the male populace into febrile submission…
But when you don’t give a shit why chug metamucil? My girl goes all wolverine catty with her fingernails and get so territorial she marks her continent with catpiss and adrenaline…
Once years ago, I went out with a fat chick who gave me performance problems…. so I went to see these Asian personal trainer/semi-pro hooker ( she only charged me) who had this neat trick of giving me a sore throat every time i went down on her….ostensibly just to make sure this performance problem poppycock wasn’t an epidemic - thankfully it wasn’t
Relationship side orders make the entree
I have this awful habit that I chalk up to sheer laziness, but when on those rare occasions that I’m with someone, I give up looking at other chicks altogether…I’m not even tempted…it’s a disgusting trait…I have absolutely no use for them, it’s not even in the vocabulary…Once in a while I’ll test myself, like poring melted wax on my crotch to see if I feel anything… and invariably, it’s like taking prozac: ‘Life is shit but who cares….’
And the worst part of it all is that Chicks can sense the obliviousness. It’s like a heightened sense on some feline super villainess, they try to subliminally tempt you directing their vagina breeze your way…but I’ll have none of it…so I become a cause-celebre at their next meeting…oh yes, Chicks have regular secret meetings to earmark the scofflaws, hard cases and the targets at large that must be trifled with, in order to scare the rest of the male populace into febrile submission…
But when you don’t give a shit, why chug metamucil? My girl goes all wolverine catty with her fingernails, and get so territorial she marks her continent with catpiss and adrenaline…
Once years ago, I went out with a fat chick who gave me performance problems…. so I went to see these Asian personal trainer/semi-pro hooker ( she only charged me) who had this neat trick of giving me a sore throat every time i went down on her….ostensibly just to make sure this performance problem poppycock wasn’t an epidemic - thankfully it wasn’t but aside from that dalliance for purely medical reasons, I remained purer than Sir Lancelot before he started banging King Arthur’s wife…so that’s pretty pure I would imagine as purity goes….
SO there I was facing a block of cheese ass with blinders on…no where to look but head on…I was saddened by the fact that I would never see a skinny, non-pockmarked ass again…well, it was the skinny part that really distressed me ….and she had ogre feet…she could’ve trampled the entire lollipop guild with just one of them…she had to go to Godzilla Nail Happiness ll for a pedicure…it was erection inducing to say the least…
Just to prove a point of the lengths of my mostly fidelities… but alas, my true primitive nature re-surfaced and I realized side orders make the entree…
So why walk the line when you can jump it?
July 26, 2013
I enjoy sex as much as the next zygote…I’m like an Albanian Zygote herder …I...
I enjoy sex as much as the next zygote…I’m like an Albanian Zygote herder …I don’t need a Woman, I’ve got my zygotes to keep me warm ….Most of time I don’t know how much cash I have in my account so there is that element of danger at how much I’m running on financial fumes and also…. the element of starvation…growing up they always said ‘At least you’ll never starve’….Wrongo Mary lou..so what other post-war Germany bombed out town lifestyle surprises are in store for me?
What’s the difference between an elastic band and a cauliflower? About 60 years and menopause
