Essa Alroc's Blog, page 23

What’s So Great About Gatsby?

Rich, white people have it so hard.

That’s what I say every time I see my copy of ‘The Great Gatsby’. Actually, that’s what I say every time I see a novel where the main protagonist is a rich white guy. A tortured rich white guy, no less.

I’ve heard this glorified paperweight occasionally referred to as “a great American novel’. I actually think it was just a great excuse for F. Scott Fitzgerald to go to parties at rich people’s houses and pretend to do research.

Let me give you a run down if you’ve never managed to make it through all 218 pages.

A nondescript everyman, Nick, moves to Long Island. He meets Jay Gatsby, who is the 1920’s equivalent of a crackhead who won the lottery. He later learns that Gatsby is in love with Daisy, a bored, and slightly slutty rich housewife. Daisy is married to the pompous douche bag, Tom Buchannan. Tom’s hobbies involve hating on Gatsby, ignoring his wife, and beating up hookers.

Later, we are shocked by an amazing twist. The previously penniless Gatsby, who became rich overnight, is involved in organized crime! Seriously, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Despite how interesting this might have been, it’s never really delved into at all.

Instead, Gatsby and Daisy accidentally run over Tom Buchannan’s hooker. Daisy was driving, but she leaves Gatsby holding the bag. Gatsby gets shot by the hooker’s husband and dies. Then, everyone goes to the funeral.

Also, there was a professional golfer, who might have been a professional golfing cheater, named Jordan. She was a throwaway character who did nothing to enhance the story. My guess would be F. Scott Fitzgerald was trying to impress a chick by putting her into his novel.

The End

That’s it, in a nutshell. Am I saying the book is terrible? No. Am I saying it’s anything special? Again, no. Much like ‘Catcher in the Rye’, I’ve never gotten peoples obsession with this book.

And now their making another fucking movie about it. So now, I’m going to be forced to listen to people, who have never even cracked the spine on the novel, talk about the symbolism. They’ll talk about how it represented the US during the prohibition. They’ll take about how it displayed the dangers of excess and I’ll roll my eyes.

You want to read a good story about rich people being crazy, get yourself a copy of “Valley of the Dolls”. If you want to read a 1920’s version of “I Know What You Did Last Summer” with characters you don’t give a shit about, then pick up a copy of The Great Gatsby.

Me, I’m going to wait until the movie comes out on video and then fast forward through the entire thing, hoping to at least get some full frontal nudity from Leonardo DiCaprio.

An Awkward Phone Call

My phone bleats out a few bars from ‘Sexual Healing’, and I check the display.

It’s a local call from the 407 area code so I answer it even though I don’t recognize the number. I take a chance on answering it, just in case it’s an emergency, like my dealer calling me to let me know he got his hands on some red, white and blue…the most patriotic of all marijuana strains.

“Hello?”

“Hey Essa, it’s Nelson?”

“Who?” I’m lost. The only Nelson I can think of is the one on The Simpsons. I doubt it’s him calling me, on account of him being a cartoon and all.

“Nelson Lastnameredacted? Kristen’s friend?”

Still lost, even though I do know a Kristen. “I think you have the wrong number.”

“But this is Essa, right?”

“Fine, you have the wrong Essa.” I am quickly tiring of this conversation and am preparing to hang up the phone.

The mysterious Nelson is starting to sound a little annoyed. “I’m pretty sure I have the right one. How many Essa’s are there?”

It’s a decent question so I give it some thought. “Um, there’s me and there’s an Essa University in England. Maybe you’re thinking of that one.” My finger hovers over the disconnect button.

“I doubt that’s the case, considering I never dated an Essa University.”

Damn this fucker is persistent. I start to think back, my mind going through many blurry faces. “Sorry Nelson, you’re not ringing a bell.”

A frustrated sigh, followed by an uncomfortable throat clearing. “You sure? We did sleep together.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, that’ll narrow it down.” I run though many still blurry faces in my head, when suddenly a thought occurs to me. “Wait, you’re not calling to tell me you have Chlamydia or something, right?”

Nelson sputters, “What? No, I was calling you to ask if you want to go out on my boat this weekend.”

I screwed a dude with a boat? Nice. I give myself a mental high-five. “Depends, describe yourself.”

“You really don’t remember me?”

“What can I say, I’m incredibly promiscuous. Don’t act like you didn’t know, that’s probably half the reason you’re calling me.”

He says nothing, so I know I’m right.

“Still waiting on that description.”

“Um, yeah.” He clears his throat again and I realize I’m making him uncomfortable. I can’t say I care. I mean, apparently I slept with this dude and he never called me. Now he wants to pop back out of the woodwork and he has the balls to be annoyed with me for not remembering him? “I’m 5’9”, brown hair, brown eyes. Thin.”

“You’ve just described ever dude I’ve ever dated.” I decide to go Law and Order style. “Any distinguishing characteristics.”

“What?”

“Moles, tattoos, birthmarks. Anything that I could use to pick you out in a line up?”

“Oh,” he pauses, “I have a tattoo. It’s an American flag.”

“Where?”

“On my lower back.”

“Fuck,” I blurt out, “tell me I didn’t know about that when I slept with you!” I mentally take back the high five I just gave to myself. ‘Dude with tramp stamp’ immediately cancels out ‘dude with boat’. Any girl knows that.

“No, but you did make fun of it for most of the next day.” He’s sounding annoyed again and I decide to shut it down.

“As well I should have.” I sigh, “Listen, chances are, if I’m having this much of a hard time remembering you, we didn’t click or you were terrible in bed. Either way, it’s been at least 6 months since I last had sex. That tells me that you waited a minimum of 6 months to call me. My guess would be much, much longer, because if I screwed a dude with a tattoo on his lower back six months ago, I would still be making fun of him today.”

“Wow,” Nelson sounds less annoyed and instead a little chagrined by my outburst. “Listen, I meant to call. I’ve been busy…”

The fact that he’s giving me some half-assed apology like I’m a pathetic clingy ex sets me off. “Yeah, I know what its like to be busy. I plan to be very busy for the foreseeable future, including this weekend.”

“Busy doing what?” He is annoyed again. Jesus, this guy is moody.

“Sinking a boat down at the marina.”

I hang up the phone, shaking my head and wondering what’s wrong with some guys. My phone rings again and I let it go to voicemail.

Essa’s Adventures – A Trip to the Gym

I’ve noticed something in my 33 years on this planet. It’s probably going to seem like a bit of a stereotype, but I can’t help it if sometimes stereotypes hold true.

The more weight I gain, the darker the average skin color of the man who hits on me gets. After getting a wink from a midnight black Haitian man at the mailbox, it occurred to me that it was time to start hitting the gym again.

Luckily, my apartment complex comes with one. I pack my water bottle, iPod and gym key for the trip. It’s only as short walk from my apartment.

The gym is oddly packed this morning. It’s filled with slightly zaftig blond women and I wonder exactly how many women that Haitian man hit on the day before.

Wow, exercise equipment sure has changed since the last time I went to the gym…in the late 90’s. I look around desperately for a Stairmaster. It is the only piece of equipment that I am 100% certain how to use. Unfortunately, there isn’t one. I heave out a sigh and head over to the elliptical trainer instead. There are three and two are in use. It looks simple enough and the ladies on them already don’t seem that athletic. I can do it!

I jump on and am immediately confused. I shove my right foot down and feel like I am running backwards. My left knee jerks up at an almost painful angle. I bounce around on the machine for another uncomfortable three seconds before I decide I would need to be an octopus to work this thing right.

I look around trying to decide which hostile, medieval torture device to use next. My gaze lands on the treadmill. Usually, I don’t use treadmills simply out of principal. I mean, I just friggen walked to the gym. It seems kind of stupid to walk to the gym so I can walk on a treadmill. But right now, the treadmill is the most non-threatening.

There’s an older man next to me. He had his treadmill set to a 15% incline and is walking at a speed of about 7 out of 14. No way am I getting beaten by a dude twice my age. I crank that thing up to a 40% incline and set the speed for fourteen.

I start to run. This isn’t so bad. In fact, I could do this all day. Suddenly, the treadmill shoots up until it is almost completely vertical and the belt starts moving at approximately 7000 MPH. I’m gasping to keep up and my goal is no longer fitness. It is to hit the emergency stop on the fucking machine before it flings me across the room.

I’m too late. One minute I’m stumbling on a demon possessed treadmill. The next, I’m flying through the air and landing on my back next to a yoga ball. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling for awhile. I check my watch and realize I’ve been at the gym for about 10 minutes.

In my opinion, that’s ten minutes too fucking long. I sit up and gather my water bottle, iPod and gym key.

Hopefully, I can still find fen phen on the internet.

Essa Versus the Volcano – The Anniversary Post

In April of 2001, I tried to kill myself.

Did you just shit yourself over that sentence? I know it shocked you, because I wrote it and deleted it 5 times before I just decided to roll with it.

To be entirely honest, I’ve written and deleted this post about 500 times over the past year.  But today, on my blogs one year anniversary, I have finally decided I can do it. I can find a way to make my first and only suicide attempt funny.

I was 20. It doesn’t entirely surprise me that this incident occurred several months before my 21st birthday. If I’d had alcohol available to me, I probably would have just gone on a ‘coping mechanism’ bender and moved on.

But I didn’t, so I decided to kill myself instead.

My early twenties weren’t an easy time for me. During this particular period, I was seeing a real shit head of a man. For continuity purposes, we’ll call him Shithead. I also might have been clinically depressed. I wouldn’t know because I was never diagnosed. All I remember was waking up one day and realizing that everything was terrible, nothing was going to get better, the world was going to shit and it was pointless to try to fix it because I was going to die anyway. So I decided, after a few weeks of feeling that way, to speed up the process by offing myself.

Of course, I had to consider a method and I was ridiculously practical about it. My first idea was to slit my wrists. I, like any other girl who’s seen “The Craft”, knew how to do it right.

Seriously, what the fuck were the producers of that movie thinking, giving a bunch of angst filled teenage girls that kind of information? It’s amazing that any girl made it out of my generation alive.

Anyway, the thing that stopped me from using the razor was the rug. I was living in military barracks at the time and was fully convinced that if I got blood on the rug during my suicide, my barracks captain would send my parents a bill for the damage. It just seemed wrong to make my parents suffer from both my death, and from my failure to maintain a tidy living quarters as well. So the razor was out.

I also considered hanging. You know what stopped me from that? George Carlin. He had a stand up routine about suicide and one of the things he mentioned was that hanging was for weirdoes. I didn’t want people to think I was weird. So that was out.

I finally decided on pills. However, I didn’t really have a lot of pill options available to me. Like I said, I was in the military at the time. If you can believe it, military doctors can be kind of stingy when it comes to handing out anything stronger than a Tylenol.

So I went to Google instead. After extensive research, I decided that there was only one over the counter medication that could get the job done. Niacin. I’d known the dangers of Niacin overdose before and I knew for a fact they included death.

See, Niacin is rumored to remove THC from your system so you can pass a drug test. FYI anyone looking for info on passing a drug test with Niacin; it doesn’t do a fucking thing (but stay tuned for a future blog where I teach you how to really pass a drug test). At the time, I was always looking for ways around drug tests so I knew that about Niacin. I also knew that in certain doses, Niacin could be lethal.

But I was about to learn a hell of a lot more.

I decided to say fuck convention and commit suicide on a Friday afternoon after work. I had a bottle of Jack Daniels and a bottle of Niacin tablets. I took both while I listened to the song “Riding with the King’ by Eric Clapton and BB King.

If I was going out, I was doing it while listening to a decent song. There would be no ‘N Sync or Christina Aguilera singing the soundtrack to my death. I wanted the kind of soul only a true musician could provide.  So I went with Clapton and King. For that, I regret nothing.

I remember counting the pills as I took them. It was a process. One red tablet, one little sip from a black label bottle.

If I was going out, I was going out drinking black label. King and Clapton should always be paired with black label. Always.

Around tablet 25, I started to get dizzy. For reasons I will never fully understand, I decided to lock myself in my closet while I waited for the pills to do their work. I lay down on that incredibly uncomfortable, nappy blue rug. It was the very rug I was previously so worried about damaging. I waited.

Then the pain started.

I wasn’t expecting pain. I was expecting to fall asleep and never wake up. Unfortunately, there are certain things that Google didn’t tell me about Niacin overdose. Like the burning. It felt like every single fucking sunburn I’d ever had, times four hundred, and it lasted for hours. I was shaking and burning and itching. But I was afraid to scratch my skin. I was certain if I scratched myself, the skin would just melt off in my hand in a pile of fleshy goo and blood.

Then I would stain the rug.

So I laid there and I clenched my teeth to keep from vomiting. I shook and I sweated. My temperature was approximately 400 thousand degrees and I was certain that Niacin was going to kill me by burning me from the outside in.

And while I was burning, my only thought was that I was going to die without ever seeing a volcano up close. Ever since I saw “Joe Versus the Volcano”, I’d always wanted to see the inside of a volcano from the top of one. But as I laid there burning on that nappy blue rug, I realized that I was never going to do that.

I got really mad at Tom Hanks. Then, I got mad at myself for not being brave like Tom Hanks and finding a more honorable way to die. (See Joe Versus the Volcano on IMDB if you have no idea what I’m talking about). After that, I think I had a seizure and passed out. When I woke up again, I wasn’t burning anymore.

Instead, I was blind.

At first, I thought it was just because I was locked in the closet and there were no lights. I fumbled and I found my lighter in my back pocket. I flicked it a few times before I realized that if I was really blind, I would have no way of knowing if it was working. I pushed myself up to a halfway squat and reached around for the string that attached to my light. After what felt like hours, I finally found it and I pulled the cord.

You ever have the light on but have your eyes closed? All you can see is that reddish color, light trying to pass through the black, but not quite making it? That’s what I saw, but my eyes were open. Then, another thought occurred to me as I squatted there with my wrist wrapped around the cord. I thought about how much easier my life would be if I wasn’t so obsessed with aesthetics.  If I was blind, I could listen to the man I was dating, rather than be distracted by his looks. If I was blind, I could listen to things for what they were, rather than see them for what I wanted them to be.

Right before I passed out again, it occurred to me that’s what I should have been doing all along.

When I woke up again, sunlight was peeking under the crack in my door and it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. My closet smelled like vomit and even the shine on my shoes made me a little dizzy and nauseas. But the nausea and the vomit didn’t bother me because they meant I was alive. I wanted to be alive again.

It was the hardest thing I ever did, but I reached up, I pulled open the closet door and I stumbled out. It was 2:30 in the afternoon on Sunday, nearly 48 hours after I’d locked myself in. I heard a knock on my door.

My roommate was going to drop off her dry cleaning and she wanted to know if I had anything I wanted her to drop off for me. For some reason, that offer was the most beautiful, selfless offer in the world to me. It bumped my faith in humanity up a little bit, which was exactly what I needed.

I gave her a garbage bag full of vomit covered battle dress uniforms. She smiled and asked if I wanted to go to lunch with her and her boyfriend that afternoon. I said yes, even though I knew that I wouldn’t be able to eat a bite. I knew it was time to start living again.

Until today, no one ever knew what I tried to do to myself that weekend.  My Niacin soaked suicide attempt was something that I’ve kept concealed. It was something that I was planning on taking to the grave. I was ashamed of it.

But I learned something in that closet that weekend. I learned that I wanted to live. I learned that there were still things left I needed to do. I learned that I was responsible for my own happiness.

That Monday, I ditched Mr. Shithead via text message. He deserved no better.

That Wednesday, I picked my roommate and I’s dry-cleaning and I gladly covered the tab without asking her for reimbursement. .

That Friday, I received another bill for $60 from my barracks captain for rug cleaning. To be fair, there was a significant amount of vomit.

And that spring, I saw a volcano up close. I checked it off and I added a new goal to the list. FYI: it was just as cool as it sounded.

I don’t regret what I did, because I lived through it. I was lucky that weekend. I made it through to the other side and I realized that life isn’t about the end. It’s about what you do while you’re waiting for the end. This realm is the boot camp. You struggle, you strive. You learn sometimes that you suck at things. You learn sometimes that you need to adapt and accept the way things are. You learn sometimes that the dreams you thought you wanted weren’t the dreams that were meant for you.

That weekend, while I laid on that nappy blue rug, I realized something. Maybe I would never get married. Maybe I would never fall in love. Maybe, I would never meet that Harlequin based man of my dreams.

But maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t all there was to life.

Maybe my life was just about living. Not living for someone else. Not waiting for some man to accept me or love me. Nope, it was just about living and I would need to learn to accept that. Because life wasn’t about me becoming part of a couple, as much as I thought it should have been. It was about me living. It was about me doing stupid things. It was about me adapting to the world around me.

It was about getting into a slap fight with a Native American during Burning Man because we argued about kite proportions.

It was about dancing on top of a float dedicated to the history of dildos during the love parade in Berlin.

It was popping a champagne cork in Times Square.

It was confetti raining down on me outside the Eiffel Tower on New Years, when I elbowed that dude in the chest because he wouldn’t stop pushing me.

It was dressing up in drag in Turkey and pretending to be a boy, just to see if I could get away with it.

It was playing spades with the people I met in quarantine just outside of Eddigan and losing every damn time.

It was life and it was beautiful.

It was beautiful in the way that sunlight peaked under that door on an ordinary Sunday morning. It was beautiful in the way my roommate was beautiful when she asked if I needed her to drop off my dry cleaning. It was just plain beautiful and there was no way I was walking away from that.

Since the day I tried to die, ever second of my life has been precious to me. From the mundane to the extraordinary, I have never turned off my internal camera. The memories are what matter.

I didn’t mean for my one year anniversary post to be so heavy, but in a way, its not. Because it’s not about if you were important. It’s not about whether anyone ever loved you. When you go to the grave, you go the alone and the only thing that you have to comfort you is your memories.

Tonight, I end you off with a quote that’s not mine, but feels like it should be mine, because it truly has made all the difference.

I shall be telling this with a sigh



Somewhere ages and ages hence:



Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—



I took the one less traveled by,



And that has made all the difference.

I know poetry isn’t usually my bag, but on this one year anniversary, I decided to be different. I saw the volcano and for a second, I reached my hand inside. That’s all I need to go happy. Thank you, Mr. Frost. Thank you, world, Thank you, life. Thank you for making me too inept and too bumbly to pull off a suicide.

Because that made all the difference. Happy Anniversary, my follower friends. I promise to be around for many, many more.

But I can’t guarantee I’ll pay for any damage I do to the rug.

No, You Don’t Have PTSD…You’re Just a Pussy

Reblogged from Essa On Everything:

I am so sick of the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder diagnosis being thrown around that I’m pretty sure it's giving me Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

In the past, I’ve had people tell me they got  PTSD for everything from breaking up with their boyfriend to their boss being mean to them. I’ve had to listen to overly sensitive whiners drone on and on about the medications they’re taking and their feelings like I’m actually interested in their ‘suffering.’

Read more… 398 more words

Today's reblog is the blog that spawned more than 100 pieces of hatemail, sent from people who were pissed off at me for calling them out on scamming disability.

Essa’s Adventures – A Stoned Trip to the Convenience Store

I arrive at my favorite gas station, a place called “Gas Station” and square my shoulders bravely before I walk in. Generally, a trip to Gas Station isn’t something that requires bravery. But this time is different.

This time is different because I am incredibly stoned.

Earlier this evening, I made the mistake of turning on the old vaporizer prior to checking my cigarette supply. Then, just as I was getting an incredibly nice buzz going, I realized that I was running low on cigarettes.

No good.

In addition, I knew that there was no way that I could operate a motor vehicle. Not because I was afraid of getting into an accident. No, I was more worried about how long it would take to get to the store as I drove there at 8 miles per hour, left turn signal and parking brake on the entire way. I was forced to walk.

Even less good.

I stand here now and somehow I made it alive. Much of the journey is a blur, but I may have stumbled into a swamp. I am also clutching a handful of slightly damp duck feathers for reasons I don’t even want to consider. I can only pray that I didn’t get a massive, blackout case of the munchies and ate a live duck as I wandered through a Central Florida swamp.

I square my shoulders, march up to the door. I shove them open like one of those villains in an old west movie. I step into the room, imaginary spurs jangling.

Holy shit, this place is bright! This is the brightest fucking store on the planet! My retinas feel like they are being dipped in acid. It’s actually so bright, I can feel myself getting a sunburn and radiation poisoning at the same time.

I realize that everyone in the store is staring at me and that I may have said that entire last paragraph out loud.

I resolve to be more discreet, but I am having a slight problem at the moment. I don’t remember why I came to the store. “What the fuck did I need?”

“Excuse me?” An older Hispanic man is watching me with concern.

“What?” I focus blood shot eyes on him and it only takes me a second to realize. He knows. He knows I’m stoned. Shit! My heart starts to pound. What if he’s a cop? What if he knows the cops? He’s going to call them, I can tell. “Look man, just be cool.”

“Umm…” he takes a step back.

“I’m not hurting anyone, alright? I personally think that marijuana is an excellent alternative to alcohol and I don’t need to be judged by someone who doesn’t even know me!” My voice is getting louder. God damn it, I’m smart! “In fact, alcoholics in marijuana replacement programs have an 80% success rate. What other rehab program can do that?”

“Miss?”

I’m on a roll! “Marijuana is viewed in many states as a perfectly reasonable recreational substance. Just because Florida is behind the times doesn’t mean that’s not true. What I choose to do in the privacy of my own home is my choice!”

The Hispanic man finally shuts me down. “Look lady, I don’t care what you do at home, but I’d like to get to mine. Can you move? You’re blocking the exit.”

“Oh,” I step out of the way, slightly chagrined, and move closer to the coolers to get back to my original issue. “Why the hell am I here?” My eyes focus on a Gatorade cooler. Was it Gatorade? I am really thirsty. And for some reason, all I can taste is feathers. Yes, it was Gatorade. I am certain. I nod to myself and march to the cooler.

I am immediately overwhelmed by the choices. “Wow, Gatorade comes in invisible now?” I pull a bottle out of the cooler. It’s not really invisible. It looks more like a cloud in a bottle. And it’s so beautiful, I know I must have it. But now I need one to drink. I reach inside to get an orange one.

Then, I realize it’s sitting next to another orange one, but the other orange one is just a little bit lighter. Is that another flavor or is one expired? I pick them up so I can compare them in the light. I am now juggling three Gatorades.

I trip and accidentally launch all three at the man behind the counter. He ducks to avoid them and picks them up off the floor. He isn’t angry. Mr. Gas Station is used to my shenanigans.

“That all?” I nod. “That will be 9.61.”

I’m clutching something. It must be money. I hand it to him.

“These are duck feathers.”

“Oh yeah,” I shove them in my purse and pull out my wallet. Mr. Gas Station gets a handful of money shoved towards him and counts it out on my behalf. He knows I am long past being able to count.

I manage to make it out of the store and I stand on the sidewalk, mentally preparing myself for the walk home. I open my Gatorade and take a sip.

I could really use a cigarette…

Why I Hate Kirk Cameron

You’ve probably heard me reference it a few times in passing. My random, weird hatred for the obscure 80’s sitcom star, Kirk Cameron. Maybe you’ve wondered about it. Maybe you know about his politics and you think you know the reason. I do tend to fall into the liberal end of the spectrum and I disagree with him on just about everything. But generally, I don’t hate the people I disagree with. I just think they’re idiots.

If you’ve never heard him, he was in a little sitcom called Growing Pains from 1985 to 1992. He played the wise cracking, trouble making Mike Seaver on the show and I watched it every week just for him.

Back then, all my main crushes were on TV. I come from a small town. The kind of small town that’s made up of like 4 major families and everyone is related. Every time I came home, head over heals for some guy I’d just met, my mom would say the following sentence as soon as I told her his name.

“He’s your cousin.”

So all my crushes were television crushes. I had Zach on Saved by the Bell. I had Eric on Head of the Class. But above all, I had Mike Seaver on Growing Pains.

Then the fucker went and betrayed me.

In real life, Kirk Cameron isn’t the fun loving, wise cracking bad boy he was on the show. He is actually a bible toting, anti-gay, creationism preaching, bigoted moron .

And he fucked with my television.

If you watched Growing Pains, then chances are you noticed around the time Kirk Cameron hit 17, it started to suck. Like, really suck. It got kind of heavy and depressing. It wasn’t that the show was running out of ideas. Seven years is a decent run for a sitcom but it’s hardly groundbreaking. The show might have had a few more years left in it.

Then, 17 year old Kirk found Jesus. He was at a real low point in his life,  and he’d finally hit rock bottom. One day, as he was sitting on the hood of his sports car, wondering what to spend his $50,000 a week salary on, he decided the thing that was missing was religion. Over the top religion. He found Jesus.

And he decided that if he found Jesus, everyone else needed to find him too. He hijacked Growing Pains and started crossing out every storyline he considered to be too adult or inappropriate. They had to listen to him because he was the fucking show. Unfortunately, following the holy rollers changes, Mike Seaver wasn’t Mike Seaver anymore. Kirk Cameron murdered him because he was too ‘adult’ and ‘inappropriate’.

It’s not his views or his politics that make me hate Kirk Cameron. I honestly don’t give a crap.  I completely disagree with him, and it relieves me that most people disagree with him as well. What bothers me is when someone uses their position to shove their half-formed opinion down other people’s throats.

And what really bothers me is when someone ruins my television.

It was my very first experience with what complete douches actors could be. I started to doubt all my crushes. Was Zach going to decide Kelly’s mini-skirts were too short and get her thrown off Saved by the Bell? Was Eric going to burn his leather jacket and quit Head of the Class to go to parochial school? I could never trust a sitcom crush again.

In short, I hate Kirk Cameron because he ruined my ability to get aroused by 80’s sitcom bad boys. And for that, I will never forgive him.

Essa’s Guide to Online Dating

Reblogged from Essa On Everything:

So, about six months ago, I decided to jump into the world of online dating. Because I have a crappy personality and am not much to look at, I did not find a lasting relationship. However, I did find some tips and observations to pass on with regards to finding your soul mate on the internet.

1. Here are some phrases to never use in your profile, along with a brief explanation of why to never use them.

Read more… 558 more words

Today's reblog is one of my first posts on dating, following a very unsuccessful attempt at internet dating.

Yes, There is a Such Thing as a Stupid Question

Reblogged from Essa On Everything:

It needs to be said. It’s only encouraging stupidity to be spread to continue to allow real idiots to ask questions that we’re all dumber for having listened to.

Case in point, during my lunch break, I was watching Channel 11 News, which is really on Channel 7. It came to a section of the news show titled “Your Traffic Questions Answered.”

Read more… 774 more words

If You Haven’t Read It…It’s New to You

Hello everyone. I am coming up on my one year anniversary for blogging. In that time, I have published 168 posts. These were 168 posts that annoyed, titillated, violated, degraded, and straight up agitated people.

But they made a lot more people laugh. I’ve lost a few followers in this year, and I’ve gained a few, so it occurs to me that some might not have ever seen some of my earlier rants.

Really, I’m doing this for you and not because I’m lazy.

Anyway, I’m digging out some old blogs to post and celebrate my 1 year and over 271 people annoyed year in business.

The first prior blog that I’m reblogging was my first official rant on Wordpress, written while I still had a 9 to 5 job in the real world. I was much angrier then.

Friday’s Featured Blogger – Tom Nardone

Subject: Tom Nardone of I Am Tom Nardone

Location: A Dumpster in My Apartment Complex

I hear rustling coming from the dumpster while I’m on my morning walk with my dog. I pause at the side of the dumpster, which Sophia is now sniffing suspiciously.

“Hello?”

A man’s head pokes above the rim of the dumpster. “Good morning.”

“Weird question,” I ask as I stare up at the man I recognize to be Tom Nardone, “what are you doing in my dumpster?”

“My wife threw out some cupcakes that had a least another week left in them. I’ve tracked them to this location.”

I tilt my head. “You’re in my dumpster for cupcakes?”

“Yeah,” his head disappears back over the rim, “but you guys have a lot of good stuff in here.”

Now I’m curious. “What’s in there?” I stand up on a box and stare over the rim. “Are those shoes?”

Tom picks one up and looks at the bottom. “Yeah, Prada something.”

I vault myself up onto the rim. “Give me your hand, I’m coming over.”

I land on the bottom in a pile of garbage and I pull out my tape recorder.

***

Tell us about your blog I Am Tom Nardone. What are your goals? What projects are you currently working on?

I write to entertain people. That is what my site has always been about. There is nothing like coming home from work, and seeing a comment that someone has left.

However, there is one article that I wrote called “ADHD is a Super Power” It was my favorite for a long time, and it did very well, so I wrote two or three more on that subject. A reader who works in that field said that these articles should be chapters in a book. I ran all of this by a friend of mine, Ned Hicks, I think you know him. He seemed to agree with her. So I am currently working on my first book. I expect this book when finished, will end up never being published and ultimately pieced out each week as a series of posts. So either way it will not be a waste of my time.

I always say  ”The less you expect, the less you will be disappointed”

You’re married. Who is your one ‘free pass celebrity’ and who is your wife’s?

I have only contempt and disgust for Hollywood and all of its inhabitants. Therefore I could never partake or indulge my wife in such a cesspool of self-absorption however, I will submit to your question and say

Ellen DeGeneres (You should see her dance).

I read my answer to my wife, and she said “Yah ok I could get in on that with you” So that would be 2 for Ellen.

Aside from the hamburger fiasco, tell me about some other times you’ve eaten out of the trash.

About three weeks ago, my wife had bought some fried chicken from Publix. She has this Idea that fried chicken can only keep in the fridge for three days. After five days, she threw it out. This was about 3 hours before I got home.

When I got home, I opened the refrigerator and did not see it. I knew she threw it away so I dug it out of the bottom of the trash, rinsed off the coffee grounds and put it in the microwave. I really hoped to have it gone before she got home. She came home in time to see me finish off the last piece. She said “tell me you did not get that out of the trash” I told her, “I did not get this out of the trash.” She walked over and checked the can and saw that the chicken was gone. She said “You did do it and you are going to lie to me about it?” I said I did not lie. You told me to tell you something and I told you exactly what you told me to tell you.

Here is the real bitch of it is that the reason she was gone, is because she is such a great wife that she went out to get more chicken from Publix for me. She was so angry that she threw the brand new chicken right back in the trash and said “HERE! WHEN YOU GET FINISHED EATING THIS, YOU WILL REALLY HAVE SOMETHING TO BLOG ABOUT!. She went to her room and slammed the door.

Tell us about a job you were glad to be fired from.

I had this job working at some warehouse where I had to wrap pallets for 8 hours a night. This job paid about $6.50 an hour. My boss was like 18 years old. He sat in a chair and just watched all the workers from a loft above the production floor.

He would come down if he saw any body stop working for even 10 seconds. It was my first day on the job and I thought they were joking. They said “Try it and see Tom” I  waited an hour and saw him do this a couple of times to other people. We were laughing so hard. This guy wore a shirt and tie. He even wore cuff links. “What kind of an asshole wears cufflinks” He came over to tell us to “Quit laughing and joking” I decided right then that tonight would be my last night.

I looked at him and said “Daren I am sorry. I don’t know what I could have been thinking. My behavior was inexcusable, and is certainly not the kind of example I want to display considering my goals with this company. It won’t happen again” he asked as I hoped that he would “Oh. What are your goals here” I told him “I would like to someday be a manager here but I am afraid the size of my thumb will prevent that” He said “why would that matter?” I said “It’s probably nothing, it’s just from what I have seen here from you, I just gathered that it would have to be able to fit up my ass”

He said “GET OUT YOU ARE FIRED” I said “I know.”

What is the biggest lie you’ve ever told? Why did you do it and do you regret it?

I have two favorites; one of them involved me living a lie for four months to both my ex-wife and my employer.

The other one involved me not wanting to do yard work so I came up with this brilliant scheme to kill my whole lawn and look like a hero for it

Both of these stories were deemed blog-worthy and are on my site. They are titled:

Trouble Unavoidable? I Don’t Think So.

The Worst Job I Ever Had

You were in the Navy for four years. What was showering with other dudes like? Also, what was being in the Navy like?

I did not like being on a submarine. We had single showers so I always showered alone. In boot camp I had to leave the group every day at 3pm and go back to the barracks to start the clean-up. I was to take a shower and then go clean up the personnel office where I never saw a single person ever. I had two hours every day to do nothing.

For that shower I would go into the 8 man shower by myself and turn on all 8 shower heads and adjust them to the perfect water temperature. I would then aim all of them in toward the center of the shower. I would then stand in the center if the shower. The 8 heads allowed me to not even have to move. I called it showering in the round. I actually came up with that name while showering this way.

You used to be a regular listener of the Rush Limbaugh show. Did you fully recover from the brain damage?

Not Fully. I think the news was far more damaging.

If you had $100,000, what useless item would you blow all your money on?

I would have my entire yard replaced with a swimming pool and my current driveway would serve only as a bridge

***

“Excuse me?”

As I put away my tape recorder, I realize one of the security guards from my complex is watching us rummage in the dumpster. “What?”

“You can’t do that?”

“Why not, it’s not like anyone wants any over it. All that is in here is shoes, cupcakes and some old action figures.”

The guards eyes light with interest. “What kind of action figures?”

“GI Joe, I think.”

The guard tosses his leg up on the rim. “Give me your hand, I’m coming over.”

If you want to read more about Tom, he can be found on his page, I am Tom Nardone.