101 Stories

Cave Time

2011-05-09T16:25:00.006-04:00

“Well you’re awfully quiet this morning.”

Only at the security line of our departing city and I already wish I were doing this work trip alone. Phil – I mean he's a nice guy but sometimes I prefer to be free of the pressure of social interaction and revel in some Cave Time. Cave Time is an inwardly focused exercise – the chance to wade in the sewer of my thoughts and feeling for awhile. Headphones on and lips pursed shut, it's a time for self-reflection, self-preservation and, of course, let's not forget our favorite – self-loathing. Verbal communication can literally be too much for me to handle during such stretches and I have to be careful to avoid going in public or subjecting myself to a potential need to speak. Procuring food to eat can be difficult since I hate to cook and never prepare for these little bouts anyhow.

Oh god…as I approach the gate section of the airport terminal I get the first glimpse of that oh-so-lamentable airport landmark – the Coffee Kiosk.

Phil’s kind of strange, I realize as Cave Time continues on in a public-forum-compatible half form. Even that comment earlier about my quiet state – he always talks to me like I imagine a wife would speak to her husband of 12 years. More than the content is the delivery – these up-toned and exasperated, yet reserved, utterances that are usually accompanied by a raised eyebrow and somehow this insinuation of wishing he could crawl in my head and untangle just what I'm thinking because in regards to him there are likely some unflattering neurons firing. For instance:

After a tough meeting – “You looked distracted in there during my presentation”

At the company holiday party – “You didn’t like the sushi buffet, did you? It’s written all over your face.”

After turning down a post-work happy hour – “Well I’m sure we can find a time to get together soon. I just feel like we haven’t been connecting lately..”

Etc….

“Oh look, a Starbucks. Can you watch my stuff?”

“No, don't do that”, I shriek without being able to contain myself.

“What, what's wrong with you? Plenty of time before the flight.”

“That’s not it, you idiot. Don’t you see? You’re sinking to their level. I loathe airport coffee kiosks – they’re bastions of shamelessness. Ugh – just look at these people. I cannot for the life of me understand why one would subject himself to this.

“Why, what do you mean? They’re just ordering coffee.”

No, they're not just doing anything. They're hoarding and craving right before God and everyone. This is where America's newly found super-addiction to caffeine comes on clear display. Look at how long that line is! Who would subject himself to such an intolerable herding process besides a drug addict? With luggage no less! And the worst part is it's not even veiled in the usual justification of a workday, morning-time routine. These people aren't late for a 9am board meeting and in need of a well deserved pick me up. It's nearly one in the afternoon and they're about to sit in a confined seat for several hours with nothing to do but sleep or watch the in-flight movie. The last thing on their mind should be engaging in this depressing ritual all for the sake of a stimulant drug. But drug addicts don't think with ration - am I right?”

“I guess - but what about you? I saw you pop that 5 hour energy a few minutes ago.”

“Yes, but my addiction is not on display, at least…in this pathetic swarm of craving and impulse.

“But you hate five hour energies.”

“This is true…”

“And you love espresso.”

“Well no shit – it’s a delicious beverage."

“So you'd rather subject yourself to a drink you despise…”

“Well I mean what the fuck is a “two thirty feeling"?? Don't tell me how to feel and then try to fix it.”

“…then wait in line for a drink you enjoy thoroughly all to avoid succumbing to your arbitrary, elitist delusions that no one else cares about?”

“Yes – every time, Phil. The sooner you learn that about me and start conforming to it the easier this trip is going to be.”

I let out a deep sigh as he proceeds to the end of the Starbucks line – jonesing, for all the world to see, for his coffee fix. After an unexpected tirade on self-decency fails to affect another would-be-disciple of my world view doctrine, it’s back to the Cave for me. Oh well; sunglasses on, headphones inserted deep in my ear canals – time to think bad thoughts about myself.

The weeks between Ash Wednesday and Easter are unforunate ones for members of my firm as our misguided CEO who considers himself something of a devout Christian, despite the fact that I've caught him masturbating in his office twice now, insists on "giving things up" for Lent collectively, as a corporation. I think he secretly just enjoys watching us squirm a bit. Nevertheless, first class travel is one of the things being sacrificed this year (as if God cares whether our Travel & Entertainment budget goes toward a $2,000 first class plane ticket or a $2,000 Yankees ticket) and I must therefore endure the slow crawl procession toward the back of the plane along with the other plebs. People arrange their bags and settle into their seats unnecessarily slowly and I wonder why more violent outbursts don't happen back here in the pig pen.

I scan the vicinity of my seat area for good looking women. Maybe I'll have the good fortune to be seated next to one so I can make up an absurd alter-persona and by the time we touch down in Chicago have her wet in the knickers for Dietrich: Danish prince and professional downhill skier.

But alas – when I finally reach my row I'm greeted by the sight of a nerdy, skinny jeans-clad indie kid sitting in the seat next to mine. Shit – the sight of him makes me stir a bit. I'm not immediately aware of why I find him problematic but soon realize that it's just a matter of it being too close to home. I live downtown where a lot of these intelligentsias hang out and I can't help being acutely aware of my corporate cache while in their presence – as if they somehow see through every attempt I’ve made to seem cool and casual in this gritty, artsy environment. Today’s travel outfit doesn’t help; chosen totally on my own volition, it includes a blue blazer and Ferragamo loafers…Jesus.

He's a real piece of work though, a spokesman for hipsters everywhere – thick rimmed glasses, rugged facial hair, plaid shirt, and jeans the width of little test tubes. Ugh, here comes the iPad out of the carry on – no, wait, iPad 2!...what a fag.

As I settle into my seat, I glance over at Phil and notice he is sitting next to a gorgeous looking young woman and that he’s already started chatting away – not so much with her as at her – fueled by that stupid and unnecessary macchiato and surely blowing it with her due to some mixture of his palpable desperation and rotting breath. Ugh, I can’t watch this.

Seeing as we’re stuck back here in the crush-of-humanity that is Coach, I knew I had to come prepared. I pull out a container of Xanax, pop two tablets, and take a double shot of Polish sweet-liquor from a small plastic vile that I taped to my right calf several hours ago. A warm, drowsy buzz fills my brain as I recline my seatback and the plane pushes from the gate. If one of these flight attendants gets the bright idea to try to wake me from this impending coma just to insist that my seatback return to its “upright position” she’s going to need a half-pound of smelling salts and a fog horn. Safe travels.

"Half-a-mill' Blues"

2011-03-09T16:45:00.003-05:00

Something has taken a hold of me this morning. It’s Friday and in a burned out, hung-over mania I’ve decided rather suddenly that I deserve more – simply more. No, wait. I quickly realize that the word “deserve” is misguided and by all accounts inaccurate. The issue is of “needs”, not of who deserves what. I need more.

“I'm going to march right in there”, I tell myself. I absolutely need a raise; $400,000 is simply insufficient. I need to have a talking to with Davies – a firm, no-nonsense exchange. I’ll storm in there – no hold it, Bark, you know how you get so don't barge in aimlessly. Be prepared – jot your reasoning down on a mental tablet in your brain and then set that mental tablet on fire in front of your unkempt superior. Subdue him and don’t back down until he sees eye-to-eye, until he feels the pain that you are left to endure as a result of your current compensation level.

Ugh, Davies – the head of my group and an all together unimpressive physical specimen. Complete with messy office adorned with tacky frames that house images of his repulsive family within, he can commonly be found sitting lazily at his desk wearing a department store suit, uninspired tie, a horrible listless haircuts, and on top of that a jarring complexion that makes me wish his secretary would pin him down and drown him with Lubriderm so as to, if not suitably moisturize, at least cover and obscure the cracked surface underneath. I won’t even get into how badly I’d like to get him on a treadmill and wear him down with mental abuse until his flabby exterior unhappily surrendered to a somewhat-healthful level of physical fitness. I also find it hard to tolerate his little sayings and manners of speaking. It’s a fine tuned workplace-bullshitting jargon designed to instill self-confidence and social aptitude in a man who lacks any and all of either trait. He repeats certain catch phrases in a sing-song manner (“How aBOUT that” to the tune of NBC”s signature three note theme when he discovers something interesting to him) and smothers words with a deep “ah” sound in conversations with underlings as a way of seeming chummy and informal (“Well hallah thah” instead of hello there”) and so on.

“Thank you for seeing me this morning, Davies. I won’t dance around the topic – I need a raise. I appreciate what a privilege it is to work here and I’m thankful and everything but I’m finding it hard to keep up regardless. You know, with the “Joneses”. I hate to admit that recent developments in my finances have forced me to sublet the maids quarters of my apartment to a young gentleman who, get this by the way, doesn't even seem to possess a stock portfolio of any kind. It’s quite off-putting. I’ll stride gingerly into the place after a particularly bullish trading day and, well short of sharing in on the revelry of fresh made money, he just stares at me blankly and fails to convey any sense that he is thrilled or even moved by the, say, late-afternoon spike in commodities. Just disgusting. I mean, why would you live here? Move to The Dakotas or something, right? And someone in his immediate family must be enjoying the fruits of an ongoing practical joke whereby he/she convinced my “roomie” that cold cut deli meat slices are a form of delicacy - he eats the awful looking processed sheets on bulging hero bread for breakfast lunch and dinner. Ha, the sight of me cutting into a reasonable portion of duck confit from Balthazar while close by my "friend" shucks down a giant-sized pile of processed cow entrails shmushed between two mounds of yeasted wheat while mayo shoots out the side like it's spring loaded is just too much for the mind to process. I'm thinking about having him killed.”

Uh oh, Bark, stay on course here – Davies is wearing a perplexed frown which is bordering on disturbed.

“Sorry sir, I’m rambling. What it comes down to is the importance for me to maintain a certain standard of living. I can’t do my job without exuding a consistent level of grace and sophistication – the clients feed off of it. It’s their money that feeds me and subsequently feeds this firm through further investment from them as a result of being impressed by interaction with me and so on – my way of life trickles down to the work place, there’s no doubt about it. And I’ve been dying, for instance, to join the Fox Trot Society.”

“The what?”

“The Fox Trot Society? I was pretty confident in it being universally known and revered. Members get helicopter charters from South Street Seaport to northern Connecticut and enjoy Saturdays fox hunting on horseback as an homage to the old English tradition dating back to –“

“But fox hunting? Isn’t that illegal? Even in Britain at this point?”

“…Well, sure – but it’s a very affluent core membership and, well, initiation fees run in the tens of thousands and I’m just finding it hard to legitimize unless some fortuitous change is made to my base salary.”

A long pause ensues.

“And I’m still feeling pinched/tapped from last summer’s draining share house debacle. Someone in the my group of friends insinuated early on in the year that the Hamptons were cliché and better suited, at this point, for six figure wannabes and before you knew it we were signing a lease on a “summer share” in Guyana – a, until recently, British colony on the northern coast of South America. Crazy, right? But so typical – Gretchen always gets us into trouble. The plane chartering costs each weekend, alone, were appalling. Although the setup was nice – $600,000 for a 3 month rental will sure get you a lot down there. We had a 10,000 sf villa on a 100 acre ranch for 12 of us with armed guards at four points on the property’s edges, a maid, a cook, and a little brown boy who spoke not a word of English but could sing, off-hand, any Carly Simon song you could think of (truly bizarre). I still get hard remembering his voice crying out “you prob’ly think this song is about you” (he usually broke out “You’re So Vain” during Act 3 of the weekly delirious-late-Saturday-night org – “

Damn it, Davies! I stop short and the rapid-firing train of thought is cut off as I catch a glimpse of a rude distraction that cannot go unaddressed.

“Davies – hate to pause here, we were covering some good ground, but your necktie is tucked slightly into your pants.”

“Hm? Oh, ha, so it is. Thank ya sah!”

Ugh – the sight of him remedying this unfortunately actuality is repulsive. His belly protrudes forward to such a laughable extent that you’d swear he was actually hiding something in there. If it came out later that he was stealing office supplies as part of some sort of strange, complex crime ring and using his preposterous fake build as a cover as a means to safely exit the premises it would not illicit anything approaching shock within me – I think I’d rather be relieved somehow.

“Where were we – oh, then there’s the gambling habit. I know, I know – it’s tough to gain much sympathy in this arena, what with all the societal stereotypes and nose-thumbing that this devilish habit endures but I implore you to at least come to terms with the sort of “Keeping up with the Jones” that I necessarily must participate in. It’s not me. Do you think I enjoy putting $20k on the Utah Jazz and following up that horror show of a loss with a “make up bet” 3-team teaser involving contests being waged in the Russian amateur hockey league because those are the only sporting events still on at that hour? Not to mention the drugs you have to do to stay focused and lucid while these uninspiring late night games play out – it absolutely eats me up inside. I’m an investor of money; I don’t particularly admonish tossing it into the sewer on these pathetically orchestrated wagers. But I have a reputation to up-keep and a social presence to carry on and so I smile through my teeth and delve with my friends down into the pits of despair and defeat and call my accountant on Monday to “shift some funds around” in order to avoid a liquidity crisis in my checking account when I go to pay for my morning egg scramble and latte.

“Don’t you see? Isn’t this making sense? Between the house, the women, the summer house, the drugs, the gambling, and the Fox Trot Club – I’m tapped! I’ve got nothing left to pay the bills/essentials: the groceries, the clothing, the bar tabs…”

There are no more words coming. I have exhausted myself spinning through this swirl of stressful financial liabilities. It’s time to get some feedback.

“Son – it’s hard to find the right starting point from which to react to that little tirade. You’re a smug bastard to come in here and start spewing that stuff. At only one point during the whole thing did you even remotely touch on how or why your work-output warrants the desired pay raise and instead you chose to focus on the ways in which your idiotic and highly irresponsible social life somehow drives this impetus. I’m stunned. Not to mention that I think you’re the most overpaid member of this firm. Yeah, that’s right, don’t look so surprised. You’re an underachieving little shit and you show up here half-loaded most of the time, failing to add value. The only reason I keep you around is your swank demeanor and inexplicable way with words does have an undeniable effect and impact on our clientele and their willingness to invest with us. But don’t for a minute think you are worth a dime more than what we currently pay you. That’s absurd. I think it’s an outright social injustice that you make what you make. There should be people studying it. Scientists in laboratories should be pooling data and trying to figure out why Bark Cranton, no-good-shit-for-brains, makes half a mill’ and the noble, hard-working people stretched out across this nation struggle to pay the gas bill. I don’t think you’re worth the brass shine on that door handle, personally, and I suggest you leave before I start to get really upset.”

Indeed, his face was starting to turn red at the end there and any further travel down this road of thought and discovery on his part would surely be to my disadvantage.

“Thank you, Mr. Davies! I will take what you said to heart and…have a good day, I suppose.”

Phew, well I guess it’s time to stop listening to a damn thing my manic, hung over brain suggests.

"Yolk In The Face"

2011-03-04T14:49:00.006-05:00

The sheer insanity of the situation takes some time to settle in. I am not happy. Is this even real? I blink – once, twice.

“Bark – we gotta line up over here.”

In my head – “Rot in hell, Oleo – seriously.”
Out loud – “Yea thanks, Oleo.”

Yep, I’m really here – standing behind my “buddy” for the day in a musty gymnasium on 278th St, I gaze at the other children as they run and scream and flail wildly back and forth across the gym floor. It is vaguely reminiscent of what I imagine the streets of Mogadishu might resemble during the midst of a food riot. Pure chaos. I swear my GPS almost started pleading with me to reconsider when I entered in the above-90th street-address. “Do you know how lucky you have it down here? Why are you blowing this for us?”, it seemed to say.

Spend the afternoon with an underprivileged young boy and fill him with a sense of brotherhood while he basks in non-violent and supportive environment complete with productive and fun activities!! Or so the slogan seemingly goes.

This, to me, looks more like using a wine cork to stop up a nuclear reactor during a meltdown . These kids are bound for lives ruled by juvenile delinquency and unattained life-goals – why am I devoting my valuable Saturday toward attempting to stymie this sick eventuality. And why are none of the other older “buddies” able to contain their Bronx-born menaces the way I have managed to do with Oleo?

Oleo – what a stupid fucking name, by the way.

Oh, that’s right – I offered Oleo $50 if he could keep his mouth shut for the day and avoid all unnecessary movement or even attempts at fun at all costs. Needless to say, he was obviously thrilled with the arrangement. Imagine how envious his homeboys will be when they see that wad? That’s a lot of money for a 9 year old with no future.

“You know I got four brothas and sistas and we all squooshed in’a two rooms at my home – what’s it like in Manhattan? Do you have brothas and sisters that you live with?”

In my head – “Compared to this it’s like bathing on a yacht in the Caribbean while being sucked off by Swedish twins.”
Out loud – “It’s nice, Oleo – I have a duplex”

Gosh, I can remember what it was like being 9 years old. Third grade was my first year attending boarding school and I wrote a memorable two page essay on the ballooning debt burdens threatening the majority of third world countries and reasonable suggestions for paving the way toward debt forgiveness. It was so cute – I remember two of the young-minded suggestions: “Slave for a week” in which every Western-nation citizen gets paired up with a third-world slave-for-a-week as a measure to satisfy their tremendous and unsustainable deficits, as well as “Give us everything in your pockets…now”, whereby every third world citizen living in a country with a debt-balance in excess of $1 billion would have to empty their pockets collectively, all at the same time, just once, and essentially “hand it over” to the West (a nice clean, swift transaction). I figured that the latter suggestion would be a fitting and ironic twist on the fact that it’s usually immigrants from such countries that are forcing individuals in the Western nations to “hand it over” during their routine muggings. Ha.

The sound of Oleo’s laughter cuts my daydream short. Back to my drab, present reality.

“Haha, look at that fool over there. Jeffrey’s got his big brother’s hat and he’s chasin’ Jeffrey – haha!”

In my head – “Try it. I want you to try it. Do, and we will swiftly disappear to the janitor’s cellar where I will show you the meaning of Chinese Water Torture and subject you to the collective works of Steely Dan.”
Out loud – “That is deplorable, Oleo – get a hold of yourself and concentrate on the task at hand. This is freeze tag we’re playing; it’s not a damn circus.”

Even the colors in this decrepit gym somehow seem sad and listless in a surreal way – as if through my eyes I’m watching a movie about helpless squalor in a forgotten American borough. How do I get talked into this stuff? Gretchen has done it again. Just because she has succulent tits, a sweet, seductive smile, and a rich uncle who’s on his death bed (i.e. payday coming soon) doesn’t mean you have to get loped into to every do-gooder scheme she speaks to you about.

It doesn’t even appear that I make progress with her as I half-heartedly pretend to invest myself in these thankless activities. It just leads to severe irritation on my part and painful withdrawal from what could have been a Saturday chock full of self-imposed isolation, whiskey, opiates, and diazepams – all combined with the showing of lighthearted movies playing faintly in the background (the animated version of Aladdin and The Sound of Music are my go-to’s) combined with loud classical or progressive rock music blaring loudly over the stereo. This delicate balance of auditory and visual inputs does a sufficient job of calming my frayed nerves and keeping me from succumbing to unconsciousness while in the midst of my drug-induced, delirious buzz. The goal is to walk that tight rope between fully alert and dangerously comatose – to reach a blissful plain of existence wherein none of the social, financial, romantic, or familial pressures of your life can touch you and you instead float on – impregnated with a warm, inexplicable vibe emanating from your stomach to you heart which assures you that tomorrow is a new and better day. Wow - better than sex (unless sex is involved).

Instead, there’s this – I am currently ensnared in an egg tossing competition going on amongst a segment of the big-brother/little-brother teams and Oleo and I proceed to take steps backward from each other after each successful toss occurs between us. We’re already off to a precarious start as despite Oleo’s race “advantage” in regard to athletic pursuits, he seems to contain very little in coordination and I’ve already had to bail him out on a few throws by lunging to catch the off-course egg. As we start to move farther and farther away from one another, I suddenly become acutely aware that I’m still wearing the Borelli button down from last night and that a $500 dress shirt is now being endangered by this silly and misguided exercise. I resign myself to purposefully miss the next catch to avoid this danger being posed.

“How much money do you make?”

In my head – “More than the gross domestic product of your entire zip code”
Out loud – “It’s not nice to talk about such things, Oleo. Just toss me the egg already.”

But then I notice a strange shift – Oleo’s facial expression begins to warp as he stands there holding the egg. He seems to have no intention of tossing it back. What is this development? His eyebrows furrow and he seems to be contemplating some devious course of action – then his grip on the egg begins to firm. He couldn’t…possibly be….Oleo – NOOO!! Sure enough – the wind up, the hand cocks back, and the egg is launched with fierce speed from his tiny palm, nailing me square in the chest. Yolk and shell spew in all directions in a dramatic wave that coats my flagrantly expensive shirt in slow, excruciating manner. Oleo proceeds to runs for the door like he’s making for the getaway car outside the bank (or, I guess, pawn shop it would be in the case of this neighborhood).

As he makes his way across the long gymnasium I without warning, and before I can silence my own rage, scream out in a shrieking, guttural tone of voice – to the shock of the startled crowded of big/little buddies. “You’ll pay for this, you delinquent fuck, you shameless perpetrator! There goes you fifty bucks you stupid, uncalculating rodent! You think this is how you advance through life?! Huh?! Come back here so I can gag you with my now worthless shirt and watch you choke on your own insolence!!”

Uh oh. Embarrassment immediately washes over me. What have I done? I let the smug-bastard monster out of it's cage and now my reputation in this arena is unsalvageable – I can’t stay and face the music of those recently uttered phrases. Silence, for the moment, continues to reign supreme in this dark gymnasium - time for me to make my own getaway, I suppose. Sweat begins to drip down my face, which is sporting a shamed expression, as I begin an ungraceful bolting motion and the last thing I catch before hitting the door is the sight of Gretchen – looking kind of hot in her stern, horrified stance (tits, as always, immaculate) and it makes me want her all the more. Worked up by the impact that her stunning glare had over me, I for a millisecond contemplate the fact that procuring some sort of act of prostitution might be cheaper up in this neighborhood, but quickly dismiss the idea and speed away in my young-executive mobile.

I’ll send out a mass text and hopefully be paired up in the bedroom, the old fashion legal way, by sundown.

"Grandma"

2011-01-14T12:54:00.005-05:00

Below is the first stanza of Allen Ginsberg’s famous poem “America” with all of the references to America swapped out with references to my Grandma and author’s notes in brackets to help put it all into perspective:

“Grandma”

Grandma I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing. [That’s not true, I actually can’t remember the last time I bothered to call you or visit]
Grandma two dollars and twentyseven cents January 17, 1956. [More like 2006, and that was the exact amount of birthday money I received that year. I turned 21 fucking years old, c’mon for fuck’s sake]
I can’t stand my own mind. [At least I can still count to 50 and do basic arithmetic though, I suppose]
Grandma when will we end the human war? [When answering that don’t just talk about World War II – we’ve heard all about the food rations and the collective sense of fear, blah blah blah]
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb. [You have an atom bomb? Why don’t you ever tell me cool stuff like that instead of seemingly only the boring drivel?]
I don’t feel good don’t bother me. [Don’t bother me when there’s a knecktie on my doorknob either]
I won’t write my poem till I’m in my right mind. [I’m going to smoke a j – be back in 5]
Grandma when will you be angelic? [That doesn’t mean I’m waiting for you to die, stop furrowing your eyebrows at me]
When will you take off your clothes? [Oh god, please no]
When will you look at yourself through the grave? [Again, that’s a metaphor]
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites? [Yea right, you’ve never even been to the next county – you don’t have Trotskyites]
Grandma why are your libraries full of tears? [Because they are filled with stories that bore people to tears, most likely]
Grandma when will you send your eggs to India? [You’re not exactly Gisele Budachon, okay? Nobody wants your eggs, not even in India]
I’m sick of your insane demands. [No, I won’t reach your mid-back with the luffa]
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks? [You’re always talking about these Ronald Reagan good looks I have, and I’ve got jack to show for it]
Grandma after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world. [That’s a lie]
Your machinery is too much for me. [I require a phone that doesn’t need to be cranked and a car with power steering]
You made me want to be a saint. [When I was 8 yrs old maybe, now I just want to be rich]
There must be some other way to settle this argument. [Take your pills, that will help]
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don’t think he’ll come back it’s sinister. [Didn't you used to bang William Burroughs back in the day before you met Grandpa?]
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke? [How many times have I told you that it's not funny to play dead?]
I’m trying to come to the point. [We’re putting you in a home]
I refuse to give up my obsession. [robbing old people]
Grandma stop pushing I know what I’m doing. [Trust me, the cat doesn’t feel “safe” in the microwave]
Grandma the plum blossoms are falling. [as is your life expectancy]
I haven’t read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for murder. [But you tuned out after the OJ Simpson trial, didn't you?]
Grandma I feel sentimental about the Wobblies. [Similar to the way you feel about Andy Rooney]
Grandma I used to be a communist when I was a kid I’m not sorry. [Even in communist China grandmas give better birthday money than this]
I smoke marijuana every chance I get. [Do you want a hit?]
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet. [Creepy]
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid. [Because you always told me that their women were not children of God]
My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble. [Something smells – did you have an accident?]
You should have seen me reading Marx. [But you couldn’t because the font size was under 20 point]
My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right. [I do deserve more money on my birthday]
I won’t say the Lord’s Prayer. [I know it frightens you for some strange reason]
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations. [You will too after you hit this j]
Grandma I still haven’t told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over from Russia. [you called him a commi-fucker]
I’m addressing you. [So stop chatting with your invisible friend]
Are you going to let your emotional life be run by Time Magazine? [Better than Soap Opera Weekly]
I’m obsessed by Time Magazine. [I love their exposes]
I read it every week. [And the best part is I retain the information for more than 48 seconds, unlike someone I know]
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore. [No more taffy, you know what it does to your dentures]
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library. [You don't want to know what else I do down there]
It’s always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie producers are serious. Everybody’s serious but me. [And you as well, since no one who poops themselves with such regularity could possibly be accused of taking herself seriously]
It occurs to me that I am Grandma. [I’ve obviously had too many hits]
I am talking to myself again. [Yep, I was right]

Straight - No Chaser

2011-01-09T23:00:00.002-05:00

I know, this is really hard meeting like this. So, by now I’m assuming you figured out what’s going on. When you came back to the hotel room in Mexico and I just wasn’t there and had already boarded a flight back to New York – that was my formal notice of us breaking up. But what we had was pretty special – the past 6 weeks have been, well, it was what it was I suppose and I don’t think a qualifying adjective is going to somehow further our understanding of the whole thing, right? I just thought we owed it to each other to have this face-to-face, just to clear the air and, how do they say, obtain clarity? It also might be beneficial to give each other input, perhaps. After all, if we perceived faults in one another, shouldn’t we give ourselves the benefits of sharing such information so that we might be wary of these faults going forward? I mean, God knows I’m not perfect. For example, my strong physical fitness can be intimidating and occasionally off-putting, plus I’m hardly ever on time (ha, remember your uncle’s funeral?). But enough about me – I do have a short list of things that I think you could “tighten up”.

This is so hard. It’s hard to utter these negative words to you in person like this. Would it help if I stated them in a positive tone and you could just interpret the meaning to be the exact opposite of what I say? Like – you have such a perfect body and in no way should you focus more on stair master-type exercises as there is a veritable absence of excess fat around your buttocks region. Do you think you can “read between the lines” on that one? No, forget it. I think I need to be direct here. It’s only fair to us both.

First of all, let’s talk about when you met my parents for the first time. It was arguably inappropriate (in Western culture, at least) to proceed so quickly to asking my mother longwinded questions about the physical and mental attributes of her siblings and extended family in an obvious attempt to size up the potential for our future offspring. That was a decidedly off-putting endeavor. Everyone knew what you were doing and I think my mother even went so far as to instruct me to make sure you were taking your birth control. Remember? That was about the time I convinced you that I found it “sexy” to watch you ingest the pill each day? Ha, I think I attributed the attraction to something about it symbolizing the fact that you were sacrificing for the sake of my enhanced sexual satisfaction due to there no longer being a need for a condom – or something. You bought it though, that was great. Sorry, I’m straying from the topic.

What else? Oh! This is a small one but don’t let guys watch you run – you obviously had a cross-eyed gym teacher as a child who sadly let your disregard for the fundamentals slip by in a way that was marginalizing to you.

This might just be me but I would wait more than 4 dates before telling potential suitors that your brother is in prison. You may arguably want to even put it off until you have a fucking ring on your finger to let that one slip. No, it does not make you sound mature or tried or battle-tested or something. It sounds trashy at best and generally just low…or base – ha, I guess those equate to the same thing though.

That move you do, with your leg, when you raise it up and lean back? That does not feel good. It’s actually quite dangerous, I imagine. Oftentimes I would lie there just waiting for the moment when my erection snapped in two and the night would quickly devolve into an outtake from a daring and badly produced B-level porno.

I think this is going well, don’t you? We’re making good headway and are giving these little critiques to each other straight – no chaser. I think that shows how much respect we have for one another.

Ha, another small one but if I had to listen to you say “for all intensive purposes” again I was going to find the dullest object within reach and start severing a limb. It’s “for all intents and purposes” and it really shouldn’t be used with such frequency or in the contexts in which you were able to somehow conjure it up. Also, irony is a literary form which deals with phenomena that are in seeming opposition to each other – not coincidental. But, hey – a lot of public-school educated Americans are in the dark about that one.

Lastly, try something out for me, will you? When you chew, attempt to sound less like a congested mule with an jaw-misalignment and more like a woman (or even a man) who was raised in an industrialized nation, in a decent household, and had the benefit of Western medicine and modern education her whole life.

What’s wrong? You look sad despite the fact that I specifically indicated the practical and beneficial aspects of this exercise. You know what? You disgust me. No wonder I broke up with you. You’re weak.

The Man Behind the Curtain

2011-01-06T11:28:00.002-05:00

January 1, 2011
5:38 a.m.

I awake with my head in a pool of blood. Upon first taste my first inclination is to say that it's not mine (much less metallic). Sure enough, it's not, and it's also now below room temperature.

The warmth that the lamb carcass provided me last night has faded, and rigamortis has set in. This calf will no longer serve me as a body pillow on which to spoon. Time to rise I suppose.

As I stand up, I gather myself and attempt to speak. Pointless. My throat feels as though elves crept into my mouth and decided to rub sandpaper against my esophagus. "Highly unlikely that happens twice in one week's time" I say internally.

I have a bit of a routine for mornings like this:

1) Check pockets for edible items, especially pills
2) Remove used/unused condom from my member
3) Page my psychiatrist
4) Review photographs on my digital camera, fingers crossed for upskirt shots of celebrities I can sell to tabloids
5) Write a hand love note to my wife and children on a postcard I picked up the day before*

*Note: They've all been dead for years, but I generally don't remember that until I get home to find the note waiting on me.

By now I'm ready to start my day. I call the bellhop and tell him I'll take my morning coffee on the roofdeck.

Nobody welcomed me to New Orleans per-say, but the gap-toothed concierge winked at me when I checked in, saying, "also, there is a nice roof deck if you'd like to "burn one," hook-up, make a prank call, jump, or just see the city." I would say I've attempted all five, but truth be told, I haven't gotten around to seeing the city. Regardless, this is where I've spent most of my time, pondering life's meanings and wondering how I'm going to score more mescaline.

However, there was something in the way that hillbilly looked at me that took me back. It was the part about making a prank call. Now, I don't have any reason to suspect that he ACTUALLY knows I was an original member of the Jerky Boys, but it caught me off guard nonetheless.

Let me tell you, dear reader, that there is nothing more empowering than anonymity. Prank phone calls, fighting crime with a mask, glory holes - you name it! There is nothing quite like that rush!

Take these writings for instance. You don't honestly believe that my name is Apollo Creed, do you? HA HA!! Of course you don't - that would be ridiculous! It's A. Paulo Creed. Apollo Creed is but a character from the Rocky movies!

But do you see what I've done there? Like the man from Oz, I am behind the curtain.... acting like a puppetmaster to orchestrate your emotions in a incomprehensibly complex maze of strings that I call "words." But you, dear reader, YOU have no idea just how powerless you are.

But fear not! For my intentions are not drawn out of malice. I am here to heal the world, and starting today, January 1, 2011, I am going to bring this world together under one banner of peace, understanding, and good will towards ALL of mankind from behind these words. It is time to start over, and make this planet a better place through the written word! This is the moment you will all remember, where Apollo Creed took back the banner of literary responsibility, emerged from the shadows of apathy, drew back the curtain of his own lethargic existence to heal every Caucasian man, woman and child alive!

Now.... where'd I put that mescaline?

Cutting The Fat

2011-01-04T11:58:00.005-05:00

Oh, the post-holiday slump. It happens to everyone – December 1st thru 31st you’re on top of the world, a veritable giddy child, painting the town red, enjoying beverage after spiked beverage, eating lamp chops as a simple afternoon snack leading up to some entrée of endangered species that evening (I prefer leg of bald eagle), and receiving more casual mid-party hand jobs than you honestly know what to do with. Well that high-flying fanciful existence has now taken a backseat now, hasn’t it? Monday, January 3rd brings bloodshot eyes, less teeth than you remember having pre-holiday-romp, and the dreaded sensation of being stuck alone with your own putrid, reeking self – the stench of which you notice, after some period of reflection, resembles nothing short of an abandoned vomitorium. Well, perfect.

But now it’s time to put yourself back together – cease the nightly excessive drinking and experimentation with every aerosol canister that happens to roll your way and focus on leading that productive life that you’re always putting on the backburner. The first step, in my mind, is to get a hold of the expenses – “cut the fat” as I say. You must conquer the money-squandering gremlin inside of you that sees a pretty toy (bag of drugs) and must have it at once. He’s a drain on your existence and you must reign him in as a result. Here is my list of steadfast resolutions that I’ve promised to follow through on whose aim is to make me a more robust citizen and family member. Forgive yourself if your list is more humble than mine – it’s simply that in all likelihood I make more money than you.

Step one – stop giving to charity if you do at all. Start donating to your own worthy cause – the cause of saving up for that dream vacation (or even dream lap dance) just a little bit faster. The world will always have problems – it’s not your job to play Superman (unless you’re actually playing Superman in the sense that you’re wearing a cape and are in the company of a friend who’s amenable to taking kicks to the face, in which case, proceed as you were).

My immediate priority beyond that is to get rid of all Asians from my life – more specifically their women. Admit it, they’re a drain. You take them out and they offer to pay for nothing and before you know it you’re $300 deep into the night and sitting at a cocktail lounge you never much relished to begin with. My only goal is to see what lies beneath those admittedly tacky pants and even that starts to lose its luster after hour 3 of mispronunciation (it’s “really” not “rearry”, godammit) and misguided moral principles (thanks a lot communism and 1000 years of cultural isolation – now my night has been reduced to a unrecognizable puddle of mediocrity and sexual frustration).

Next I intend to drastically decrease the price it takes to get to work everyday. I hear the minions on the sidewalk complain about subway fares going up – try filling up a power boat with diesel in these oil markets! I live close enough to the East River where it really is the most time efficient way, though. And I love watching George (the bulter) fumble around with the slip in the crisp morning air. I laugh and sit there eating my cereal out of the box and throwing bits at him as he sloppily grapples with the ropes and engine and it’s just too much fun. But cost efficient is what it is not and therefore I will have George sell it, resign myself to black car taxis, and then promptly, well, fire George once he has procured a buyer as a further cost cutting measure (unless he’s able to beat out some elaborate and arbitrary hoax that I concoct, like successfully ingesting 36 marshmallows in under 36 seconds – then he can stay). Last year, ha, I made him call his mother and convince her in a slow, sensual voice that he was suffering from a bad bout of Oedipus complex and needed her bodice next to his right then and there, in order to receive his Christmas bonus. Very funny and a fairly good sport about it, too.

Lastly, no more truffle soaked condoms. They cost a small fortune and are messy to put together, plus women don’t even seem to be turned on by the pungent aroma and instead generally look around perplexed before asking who on earth is making risotto.

So that’s it – a gentleman’s guide to sound living and sustainable spending in the new year. God bless us all.

Date Night - The Sacred Ritual

2010-12-10T10:42:00.000-05:00

Ah, date night, the sacred ritual. I sure am nervous – that I cannot deny. Although I think I prepared for everything, but one never knows these days. Dating women has become such a spectacle – you have to have the right restaurant, the right post-restaurant lounge, the right hair, the right clothes – it’s exhausting. What happened to the days of pick-a-girl-out-in-the-crowd-and-make-her-submit-to-your-love-forcefully? I suppose it was never that easy – the past is always glamorized by those in the future!

So let’s see, inventory check – I got a haircut, that’s good, that’s a start. Got my shirt back from the dry cleaners, excellent. Assuming I get her back to my apt, should I have the sketch pads and charcoal pens already laid out on the living room table or do I bring the concept of drawing one another up casually in conversation and then just “happen to have” said pads? That’s a dicey call but I think I’ll put them out on the table. Oh! I’ll have the book open to a half-finished sketch of the female vagina for her to stumble upon so that she’ll know how “in touch” with my feminine side I can be. If that goes well, we move right past the awkward phase and into naked acoustic guitar performance. Women find it jarring, sure, but also exhilarating and since my erect penis is hidden by the guitar it makes it a pretty tolerable and manageable experience on both ends. Next: the bedroom…

I picked up a large bottle of lube and an economy pack of those new Trojan condoms (they supposedly smell like a cave and are said to unleash the “animal” in your woman, but who knows, right?). I have a mixtape that’s chock full of 80’s Tears for Fears and Pet Shop Boys hits [can’t decide whether to use poppy or slow cover version of “Mad World”, will ponder this throughout the day]. Do I break out the bedroom disco ball on the first date? Might seem tacky to someone who doesn’t know me well yet. The trickiest subject will be that of the 70’s porn tapes. Jesus as my witness, I got ‘em – question is do I use them? Will the caveman condom smell get confused with the 70’s free-love visual stimuli and throw my date into a veritable mental tailspin? Lord knows, but I’ll keep them close by in case I have trouble becoming aroused.

Gee, I really hope it goes well tonight –she’s a sweet one and I just hope my routine is elaborate and dynamic enough to maintain the attention-span of a 21st century gal!

2010-09-03T11:55:00.003-04:00

A New Year, New Resolutions

2009-12-30T13:51:00.001-05:00

Time to start getting serious about your New Year's resolutions. I know you are thinking that you are a miserable fat loser and there's really no hope of trying to change yourself for the better. Very true, but why not make a half-hearted effort just to say you did? (I have a motivational-speaker background.)

New Year's resolutions should be about lowering expectations, not raising them. Like my father told me, "Son, people like you don't amount to much, so aim low and exceed expectations." He was right. My life goal was to turn 25 outside of prison. I missed that goal by only a couple months, but Dad was still happy. He hung a "Mission Accomplished" banner outside my efficiency and briefly addressed family members, using several f-bombs for emphasis and clarity.

So lower your expectations. Instead of aiming to "read classic literature each week," resolve to merely acknowledge the literature's existence. That's much easier, and you don't have to worry about reading. Listen, let's be honest, books are gay, and by that I mean that books tend to like other books from their own genre. Don't ask me how I know this.

To really be successful, you should make resolutions about simple things, like "drink drinks" or "respond to external stimuli." Then you are guaranteed to succeed just like me. I once padded my resolution list with things like "go downstairs with the help of gravity" and "respirate," and you would not believe the success rate I had that year. It was like 20 percent.

Please do yourself and Santa's America a favor and avoid complicated resolutions. Don't resolve to "wake up every morning by 7 a.m. and work out." This is way too bold – too many moving parts. How about merely "awaken most days?" (Keep the question mark at the end for extra wiggle room.) People who make difficult, compound resolutions are not your friends. They are your parole officers.

In conclusion, resolutions are like newborn babies. They are easy to make, but hard to keep if you encounter an aggressive Child Protective Service.

I'll leave you with my resolutions list for 2010.

• Put things on countertops.

• Walk in the direction I'm facing.

• Make my eyes move in concert.

• Avoid mythical creatures in novelty shirts.

• Give up.

Faguinox Shmaguinox

2009-11-20T15:33:00.004-05:00

Fuck Equinox.

All I hear from my friends is about their precious, upscale gym and how fulfilled they feel after that latest workout. Oh really? Which one of the effeminate trainers pulled on your dickey while you pressed the bar for 3 mind-bending reps this time?

Hogwash to all of this pomp! Who has $150 a month to spare at this mid-20’s stage of life? Side note: I love saying stuff like that, by the way. One of the best parts about being young and unmarried is you get to allocate your capital however you damn well please. So I can respond to mentions of Equinox with angry, who-can-afford-it type rants and then turn around and hypocritically spend $300 on a pair of shoes, Jonas Bros ticket, or a dry hand job. Just goes with the territory.

But honestly - this is 2009, the Great Recession is in mid stride, and it's shameful to devote so much money to a gym just because it makes you feel all warm inside. Oh great, what an improvement from the old school, gritty establishments like NY Sports Club and Sport Time - the towels are washed after almost every use, there's no barf on the squat machine, patrons have more than an average of 6.5 teeth, and the trainers actually try to help you build muscle mass instead of insulting your physique. Well I liked the way gyms used to be!

Furthermore, I say "fuck it" to gyms generally. I've got better things to do with my hard earned coin – adding to my pog collection, buying lavish breakfasts, etc.

The question is how to respond to the "Equinox phenomenon", which is built on 90's/post 9-11 materialistic, go-go values and has no grounding in the down-home, weather-beaten, beard sporting, flannel wearing spirit of the day - of this year 2009. Well I've got my own, home-grown, Bark-approved workout that won't only yield better result than Faguinox, but will leave you feeling refreshingly masculine on a daily basis and may even lead to spontaneous neck hair growth (the kind that only emotionally solid, stoic men know how to generate). It's a combination of hearty physical exertion combined with a hearty lifestyle:

- Find a 150 lb log and roll it up 40 foot hill 5 times. Play in traffic for 2 minutes (oh stop sighing, it’s character building) then repeat until eyes acquire cartoonish level of bulging (think Ren and Stimpy).

- Speak using limited vowels (they are gay) and omit definite and even indefinite articles.

- Go to local zoo and stare at alpha male in cheetah exhibit 2x per week. Eventually attempt to enter exhibit once you have gained upper hand and copulate with dominate female cheetah while alpha male hopefully weeps in corner of cage and drinks a mike's hard to drown sorrows. (Easier than it sounds).

- Perform crunches using medicine ball (throw to partner as you rise) except replace ball with human baby. Best way to savor your own mortality while pumping weights.

- Add 3 raw ginger roots to your morning cereal. Keep girlish shrieking to an absolute minimum.

- Punch thru immaculate pane of glass at least once a week (preferable your next door neighbor’s). Your knuckles will bleed like the dickens but will eventually (in 3 years) build a callous enough to not need emergency care and if you do it before you go out you will score hot threesomes like you're churning butter (never understood that simile).

- Lastly, churn butter (min 40 minutes) until appreciation for our fore fathers' sacrifice for your sorry ass is obtained and noted. Repeat for your poor mother.

Let Me Tell You About A Sexual Perversion

2009-09-21T18:48:00.003-04:00

Let me tell you about a sexual perversion that I struggle with. Sex is fine, I think, I can handle it, but my real passion is masturbation. Problem is - I'm not exactly a "Naughty America" kind of guy. I find porn uninspired and frankly just way off the mark for me. I become more flaccid while watching a typical, choreographed money shot than I am while getting chewed out by my drunk father for being weak.

So where does that leave me? Well for some reason I'm very turned on by the simple things in life - laughter, people enjoying themselves, especially loved ones, friendly scenes of comraderous behavior, etc. These are the kind of things that make me want to pull my pants down and annihilate my genitalia with my own clenched palm. When I start going to town on myself I am usually maintained and propelled forward by imagining pleasant vistas of daily life - an old woman savoring an ice cream cone on a hot day (good for her and good for my throbbing member it seems as well), a plain gentleman watering the lawn, and for some reason most of all, dare I say it, imagining my friends sitting around watching football and enjoying casual beers. Now, a disclaimer, I am completely straight - my heterosexually is both sound and well documented. I thought The Birdcage was a bullshit movie and I don't even step inside hair salons - a guy named Gino who lives in the big slide at the local playground comes to my apartment to cut my hair (he's terrible, by the way, but the conversation is pure gold). Point is - I'm straighter than Burt Reynolds on his way to happy hour. But I'm also somewhat deranged, or how do I say it, at odds with the "norm". So I'm not attracted to my friends in the slightest, or the guy watering his lawn for that matter, but the thought of them enjoying a casual and agreeable afternoon together shooting the shit makes my shaft rip straight thru my gym shorts. It's strange, I know, but if I'm sitting around, talking shop with my comrades and so much as catch a glimpse, god help me, of one laughing at another's well-timed joke while the first one kindly offers the joke teller another beer - well then my face will turn some uncanny shade of lust-red, my crotch will swell up like a balloon at a magic show and I have to bee-line it for the bathroom, light a few candles, put on an old Hall & Oats cassette tape and begin a grueling 30 second session of grunting and relentless self-love.

See, it's the beauty of the friendly exchange that makes my dick sing, not any sexual urge directed toward my fellow gentlemen. Add to that the fact that they're pretty much all successful, super guys, good looking, caring, gentle, good smelling, stoic, muscular, and single, and now you can't really blame me. From bro to reader, what I'm trying to convince you of is that it's both satisfying and sustainably heterosexual to think about your parents' neighbor Steve with the great abs having a phenomenal time on his new ride on mower while tickling your blossoming cock. Cut that grass, Steve. Just know, however, that if your father gets wind of your little habit, and especially if he's had more than 7 Schlitzs’ today (very likely) then you are going to get your ass beaten and you'll probably have to stand in the backyard on one foot all night again singing "The Night They Drove Ole Dixie Down" til you puke out all your sin. Fair warning.

The Road, by Cormac McCarthy (Slightly abridged by Clubber Lang)

2009-08-10T09:33:00.002-04:00

This is the time of year when many families are experiencing that ritualistic beating of The Family Road Trip. Coolers are being packed, favorite blankets are being clutched and hip flasks are being concealed. And, as usual, tempers will flare before the tailpipe scrapes the pavement in front of the house.

So why do we do it?

Ever since Eisenhower improved our highways, American families have felt the call of the open road. But in 2009, why do we keep answering?

When I was a kid, the family summer road trip was basically a hostage situation. My father's overly ambitious scheduling would have us seeing the lower 48 in six and a half days. We would be in the car for 15 hours a day, using a milk jug as a chamber pot and eating white bread from the bag.

Like most fathers, he was obsessed with numbers. What kind of time are we making? How many states are we seeing? What kind of gas mileage are we getting?

The end result is that I don't actually remember SEEING anything. I just remember sitting in the backseat of an Oldsmobile with my feet up on a cooler, trying to stave off atrophy and paralysis, and fiercely protecting my 2 square feet of the world from two siblings.

My mother, God rest her still-living soul, was a classic over-packer who rarely approached efficiency. Dad would make her nervous with our strict departure time, so she would throw anything and everything into the trunk at the last minute, just to be sure.

I swear, opening the trunk after she had been back there was like setting off an IED. We once hit a bump in Tennessee that sent the contents of a double wide onto the highway. It was like cleaning out an attic as we picked our stuff off the road.

"Mom, did we really need to bring stilts?"

"Just watch for trucks, dear."

Our car was also hotter than Satan's crotch. My Dad refused to run the AC because of the "drag on the engine." Never mind the 2,000 pounds of landscaping stone my mother had packed – the AC was the thing that put a "drag on the engine." Our sedan was basically a traveling convection oven that baked Southern children and poor attitudes. Fights were common and violent. In fact, I remember one time, someone threw a stilt at me.

If others have similar experiences, why do Americans still engage in family road trips?

Because reason does not dictate our decision-making in such matters. Nostalgia does.

If Looks Could Kill

2009-08-10T09:32:00.001-04:00

How is it that a girl who normally won't wear anything more revealing than a beekeeper's suit will freely prance around in skintight clothing just because it can be worn in chlorinated water? Does she not consider the Marty Feldman eyes appraising her from a hole in the common fence that separates our yards? (Please omit before publication.)

I know from experience that if I walk in on a girl in a bra and panties, she will shriek and throw a hairbrush at me with enough force to demolish a hollow-core door. Why I am wearing a bra and panties in this example is beyond me, but I do know that the same girl who won't be seen in HER bra and panties will frolic in a bikini that reveals the gentle contours of heaven and not think twice about it. I love that, but last week it almost got me killed.

"Hey, Clubber. Wanna come over? We're out by the pool," she said. SHE is a friend from work who is hotter than pawn shop power tools. She always wears modest clothes, so I was dying to see her in a bikini.

"Sure." I said, hoping the "we" meant her and her ovulating girlfriend who drinks too much.

I arrived at her pool wearing trunks with plenty of expansion room in the front, ready to show off my golden, well-toned chest, and rub down her and her friend with magic fingers until low moans escaped their pink lips. Instead, she was with a DUDE.

He had the handsome looks of a Southern politician but was as annoying as an enduring nose whistle, always wanting to talk about his boat or hunting lease while I just wanted to stare at his girlfriend.

"Dude, so you work with Clairice, huh? Her job's a joke, dude. I make four times what she makes."

"Yeah, hey, could you move out of the way and let Clairice sit here? I want to catch up on some work stuff."

"No prob, bro. I'm gonna go get another Stella. Want one?"

"Sure."

"I'll get them," Clairice said. I sighed as I watched her hips swaying through the door.

"Dude, you're totally looking at my girlfriend's ass!"

"No. No. Never!"

It escalated and I ran. As the fence door closed, a glass of beer shattered on it.

I smiled and was thankful that fence gates are more substantial than hollow-core doors.

Ask and ye shall receive

2009-06-04T09:40:00.001-04:00

"Since I can't reply to everyone personally through e-mail, I reply personally through column."

– Clubber Lang, 2009

Clubber, I'm nervous. What will bankruptcy mean for General Motors?

– GM worker in Arlington

Thank you for your courage. Having been through the heartbreak of bankruptcy myself, I can reveal what GM should expect.

The first thing that happens when you file for bankruptcy is your girlfriend breaks up with you and starts dating your brother. Then your car gets repo'd, or, in this case, about 20 million of 'em. Then you'll be hit with a paternity suit from some girl with a lazy eye you met at a club, whose optical wandering makes it impossible to tell if she's addressing you, and whose breath smells like partially digested soup.

Then you'll be arrested, nude, wearing a homemade cape within 20 feet of a nursing home.

Note: I am not saying your experience will be exactly the same as mine, but it will be about 90 percent similar.

Clubber, whom should I watch now? Letterman or Conan?

– A. Quandary

The crowning achievement of my short besotted life is ... well, probably frantically making out with twin sherpas under the disapproving shadow of Everest. But I also interviewed Letterman once.

I don't have a copy of the interview. I do remember I made him laugh. Something about protein pellets for farm animals. It was like having your hero fly down from heaven and laugh at one of your jokes while your cat was stuck in a tree (needs massive rewrite).

However, I won't actually watch either of these guys, because every night as I wait for the barbiturates to overtake me, and Judge Judy's voice to slur into a baritone, I always forget to set my TiVo.

Clubber, is it better to use fluorescent or LED lighting?

– Jack in Vienna

I'm 80 percent making this up, Jack, but I feel pretty certain that if 20 million people turned off their lights one hour earlier every night, we would create a stat about it. As I've mentioned before, I'm not the most environmentally responsible. I use pesticides (sometimes directly on my food) and I'll dump anything that glows down a storm drain.

However, I have researched this lighting matter. Jack, let's say you buy six fluorescent light bulbs and six LED bulbs. The fluorescents contain mercury, which is highly dangerous, and LED sounds like lead, which is also poisonous. So it's basically six of one, half dozen of the other.

Write me.

Pandemic Pandemonium

2009-04-30T10:41:00.003-04:00

I fear many things – death, burglars in Scream masks and now swine flu.

I didn't fear swine flu at first, because it sounded like an illness that only affected pigs. You know, just something that happens to pigs that don't wash their hooves after using the computers at the public library, or maybe lay up javelinas that use communal hot tubs for immoral purposes.
But the more television coverage I consumed this week, the more I spiraled into a full-blown, build-my- own-bubble-and-take-John-Travolta- as-a-roommate panic.

From television, I learned that swine flu was not only about to kill me and everyone I've ever loved, but it was also going to assume control of Congress and post negative things about me on the Internet. Pure evil. I knew I must avoid the swine flu at all costs.

But shortly after I turned off the telly, an odd thing happened – a slight bit of confidence returned to my fiber. I mean, wasn't I the same guy who survived the promised epidemics of AIDS, bird flu, SARS and mad cow disease? I not only survived them, but I got a raise at work and caught up on all old episodes of The Wire during that period. My life got better, none of them killed me and the worst thing that happened was that I couldn't find my keys one morning.

As far as animal-related communicable diseases go, I have really only contracted rhinovirus, and I am not even sure that is related. I did grow a tusk of compressed hair on my nose, but it fell off in the shower.

Still, we should be cautious, so I offer you my list of 10 things you can do to avoid swine flu.

1. Avoid pigs that are coughing and apologizing.

2. Don't shake hands with farmers. Dap instead.

3. Be suspicious of a pig that has neglected to wipe down his weight bench.

4. Although you can't get swine flu from eating pork, don't eat pork if a guy with swine flu has just sneezed on it.

5. Don't have unprotected sex with a pig.

6. Use alcohol-based hand sanitizers on bacon strips before eating.

7. Don't have sex with a pig at all.

8. Drink plenty of fluids, but not bodily fluids.

9. Avoid spiders that write words in their webs. Pigs are nearby.

10. Turn off the television.

New Media

2009-04-17T10:09:00.002-04:00

Twitter has reached the tipping point. Newscasts are now updating uson which celebrity is the latest to begin "Twittering."

Baritone announcer:

"And now back to Action Eight News with Johnny Hairpiece and Nancy Whatsherthits."
"Before we leave you tonight, you won't believe who is nowTwittering," Johnny says while mentally locating that bottle of vodkain his Beemer.

"The President of the United States!" says Nancy as a nipple pops out."His latest tweet was sent out just minutes ago. It reads 'OMFG, N.Korea missile is so full of FAIL'."

Johnny straightens his papers and his erection. "I don't understand, Nancy."

"Well, that's all our time tonight. Join us tomorrow night as we talkto Taylor Swift!" The long shot fades into a copyright graphic as Johnny says, "Make love to me one last time, Nancy" when he thinks hismic is off.

OK. So even your grandmother is Twittering and it is annoying, andyou're unsuccessfully resisting the urge to tell everyone about howyou signed up for Twitter two years ago to follow so-and-so and youhaven't touched it since. Blah, blah, blah. I hate this merry-go-roundof knee-jerkiness every time something explodes culturally likeTwitter. Everyone is falling all over themselves to take a stand.

Curmudgeons, who pride themselves on their latest contrarian opinions,have beaten us down for years with "What do I need e-mail for?" and"Why text when you can just jog over to their house?" and "I'msticking with vinyl for its warmth."

Then, after they take a break from bold pronouncements, they jump onboard and start texting and e-mailing you at all hours with "25Things" about themselves, funny cat pictures and an album they rippedfrom BitTorrent.

I know it is human nature, but it doesn't make it any less annoying.

Half of my friends swore they would not get on Facebook. Now all of myfriends are on Facebook, and I have the same set of friends. Gofigure. The thing we don't take into account is that Twitter,Facebook, MySpace, e-mail, the Internet, are all just tools, and youshould never confuse tools with the tools who use them. Just becausepeople send me stupid animal pictures through e-mail doesn't meane-mail is stupid.

Same with Twitter. Yes, some people tweet like a monkey on crack aboutstuff that even God wishes was left out of his omniscience, but toassume that everyone approaches Twitter or Blogger or Facebook withthe same sort of time-wasting vanity is a mistake.

Now I will STFU.

Death by Sexy

2009-04-10T11:32:00.001-04:00

I'm a car nut. I love all kinds of cars, and wish I were rich enough to own one of every model ever made.

Let's see. It's Wednesday and sunny? I think I should like to have my driver carry me to work in the 1978 Subaru Brat. I'll be strapped in the outdoor, rear-facing seat, like a tail-gunner on the lookout for tie fighters while he plugs in an 8-track of Neil Diamond.

Life whoring (verb): spending money on impractical things and pretending to live in ages other than your own.

There is one vehicle that receives more than its fair share of derision- the well-appointed minivan. I don't understand it. Why would we single out one of the most practical and kick-ass types of vehicles ever invented for the kind of hatred we normally reserve for boy bands?

I swear, I would do better to defend the Taliban at a cocktail party than the minivan. Stay-at-home mothers will convince their trophy husbands to buy them a $50,000 SUV just to avoid what they really need, which is a $30,000 minivan, because the American female sees the minivan as the death of sexiness. Never mind that expanding sweatpants are much more of an erection killer than what kind of a vehicle she slides her fat ass into. She just hates the van.

The Sybilizing of American automotive females began with the station wagon. In the day, every family who loved its crotch-fruit had a station wagon in the garage. It was a great kid hauler and capable of carrying massive quantities of family paraphernalia. Moms loved its practicality almost as much as dating teenagers despised its hearse styling. I never understood why teenagers with hair-trigger genitals wouldn't want to take a rolling bed on a date, but they preferred dad's Mercury for dry-humping.

Finally, when the wagon became a symbol of domestic, unsexy bliss, women hated them. Then, in 1984, the death of the station wagon came in the breadbox form of the minivan. Station wagon sales plummeted and minivans began their evolution into the greatest highway vehicle that didn't have "conversion" in its title.

But did the MILF celebrate the sexy warrior that killed her station wagon? No, she merely transferred her hatred to it. Why?

I don't pretend to understand women, I just pretend to sleep with a lot of them. Preferably in roomy minivans.

Springtime Cometh

2009-04-09T10:38:00.001-04:00

The other day I found myself frolicking in a meadow. I guess I don't mean "found" as in "I had no idea where I was or what I was doing before I looked down to spot myself doing grands jetés in a poppy field." Actually, I do mean that.

The poppy field was more like a pocked yard of rye grass by a drainage ditch of a river that smelled like my grandfather's bedpan, and the grands jetés were more like joints I bummed from my friend. But I was frolicking. Hard.

I was picking flowers, chasing ducks, throwing Frisbees, wetting borrowed pants, all in the bright sunshine of a field that had apparently been used by every dog who could hunch himself into a comma and drop Baby Ruth since World War II. Once you got past the piles of canine Lincoln Logs and the Katrina-force winds, it really was a good time.

Well, I can't say I enjoyed the kite flying so much. The wind was so strong that I Dorothy Gale'd into Louisiana several times before finally remembering that, to me, kite flying is about as fun as a home-invasion robbery. So I switched to the Frisbee, which is a marginally fun one-person activity.

Thirty-five seconds later, I watched the Frisbee float downstream on an egret turd, and decided to pick flowers. With flowers scarce, I picked at a three-leaf vine growing on the creek bank that turned my arms red and blistered my hands with happiness. Oh, the beauty of God's creation!
Then, I squinted into the golden light and spotted a lovely girl in the field walking toward me. I rubbed my oily hands on my eyes to make sure I wasn't dreaming. Nope. There she was – wearing a sundress that clung to her legs like a scared child, and her hair flowing like the mane of a champion. I walked up to her and asked if she would toss the ball with me, and maybe let me take her on as a lover for the spring.

She punched me and I cried, not from the ambiguous rejection, but because of the pure beauty of spring. In fairness, I would have seen the punch coming, but my eyes were swollen shut by this time.

I walked aimlessly and sightlessly downhill and fell into the water. As the smell of untreated sewage and antifreeze overtook me, I thanked God for springtime in the urban beauty of our current Rock Creek Park.

Death & Taxes

2009-03-06T10:49:00.004-05:00

It is said -- by who I am not sure -- that the only certain things in life are death & taxes. I find this a bit misleading since I routinely cheat death, and I am certain that strong-headed women and black eyes go hand-in-hand. In any event, I do give a good faith effort yearly to pay my taxes. I say good faith because some jackoff CPA always tells me my deductions are "red-flaggy". It's at this point that I am positive that I am being hit on so I do the appropriate thing and drop my pants. To illustrate my case I give you a correspondence from last year between my accountant and me.

Dear Mr. Lang,

I cannot in good conscience submit these deductions to the IRS. I am enclosing a list of your suspect deductions. If you can satisfactorily explain them to me, then I will process your documents with dispatch.

Jeff Goodman, CPA

Dear CPA,

I understand your concerns about my tax records, but I assure you I am in full compliance with the law. Just going down the list, they all seem self-explanatory to me. But here goes:

1) $2,000 for lingerie is NOT extravagant for a top blogger. The Barking Aristocrat claimed $14,000 last year. Sometimes we need certain things to get us in the mood to write. Sometimes we make our editors dress up. No matter. It's legit.

2) The trip to the Caribbean was TOTAL research. It was part of an aborted series of first-person narratives on what it was like to have unprotected sex with a Haitian. The trips to Vegas, LA, Vail and Panama? Same deal. (It's awesome, by the way.)

3) Clinic visits: See above.

4) Let me explain. Liquor in our business is a necessity. It is both story lubrication and a way to forget a childhood. If you don't drink a lot, you can't do good work. Looks like I did about $17,000 worth of good work last year! Note: Strip bars pushed this figure higher than planned.

5) Pleeaase. The Porsche is used for commuting only, therefore deductible. The Civic is my weekend car.

6) I know you are curious about the $153,000 donation to Goodwill. I'll admit that is a little red-flaggy, but I sent you the blank receipt they gave me. Do me a favor and fill in "ORIGINAL PICASSO PAINTING" and "SOLID GOLD BAR COLLECTION." I ran out of room in my apartment and wanted another family to enjoy them.

7) It was my understanding that you could deduct organ donations at the time of donation card signing. I estimated the value of my organs at $30,000, which might be on the low side for American organs, come to think of it.

8) I have enclosed nude pictures of myself to show you just how rad those "irrelevant" tattoos really are. (Ignore the other guy.) Tell the IRS that half of blogging is image, and my image sells papers.

9) You win on this one. Everyone I asked says "crack rock ice cocaine" isn't deductible.

Mr. Lang,

You are a dumb man. I resign.

Mr. Goodman

Mr. Goodman,

Are you still going to do my taxes?

Clubber

How not to hate the first date

2009-02-12T17:16:00.001-05:00

My love life is more checkered than an Italian tablecloth.

When you have been on earth as long as I have (76 years) you learn a thing or two about women. You learn what they like (kissing, spanking) and what they don't like (Star Trek role playing, sex toys made of cheese).

Outside of bathroom stuff, dating has to be the most awkward thing that humans do. There will be lots of first dates this Valentine's Day. I predict most of them will be failed and all of them will be awkward.

My strangest and worst Valentine's date ever was when a woman abruptly excused herself to go outside in the middle of our first course. In her absence, I used my time wisely, copying down her credit card numbers and popping her prescription pills. (What is Valtrex?)

Finally, my curiosity got the better of me and I went out to the parking lot to check on her. Apparently, her sister brought my date's previously undisclosed infant to the restaurant so my date could breastfeed it.

This is a clear breach of trust. I had begun this date under the pretense that if things got serious, I would be allowed to score with that most female of areas. But this woman was not only nursing a 2-week-old infant, but also an episiotomy wound that would be no match for my virility.

Note to the ladies: If you are in the six-week period of recovery after producing a small human, then tip us off. Nothing too overt. Just point south and whisper, "My vagina is destroyed right now." We won't judge you, or even buy you dinner, but we will thank you for the information and immediately run off to text our buddies.

If you are going on a first or second date this weekend, remember Clubber's Simple Rules for Successful Dating.

1. Use protection. I find that a .357 Magnum is a fine deterrent for old boyfriends.

2. Don't assume she's a girl. This happened to me once. Fortunately, I figured it out before it got too far. He/she was halfway up the wedding aisle when I noticed she had an erection.

To Have Opulence Enter My Being...Literally

2009-01-13T14:42:00.003-05:00

Readers! I have secretly recovered the narrative below from an entry in my friend Chloe's journal and, I must admit, it has furnished my attraction toward her most effectively. What a racy mind she has! Please enjoy:

Chandeliers, stained red teeth, fake laughter, and a joyous time all around – another night and another high society party gone by. I just love them, I have to say. So decadent and such a boost to the ego that one sometimes requires after a long week at the office.

I wasn’t born rich but I have greatly relished the upper-crust social connections that I made through my attendance of boarding school for my secondary education. My parents had to work scrubbing floors at the local jail during the midnight shift to afford the lofty tuition, but I just absolutely insisted on attending! I remember being 8 years old and telling them very sternly one day, after viewing the film Dead Poets’ Society that, “Unless you want me to be reduced to the middle-class humdrum that you call a life, then you will promptly send me away to boarding school of my choosing so that I can leave this vile nest and seek an existence where the word “silverware” doesn’t equate to bargained down steel, miniature pitchforks from JC Penney”. Ah, I’ll never forget that day. They were so pitiful and shaken up by the whole experience, it was absolutely dreadful. I’ve never been a picky girl, but I was resolute on that one point and prodded and lightly tortured my parents until they gave in. And so, I was able to pursue my life of privilege and finer education and now reside in Manhattan where I make a very lucrative salary in finance.

Tonight’s party was thrown by Sam Butterworth in his penthouse apartment on Central Park West that his daddy gave him and what a fabulous affair it was. Cocaine was smattered about the hor’dourves table, topless women wearing masks with phallic noses served absinthe cocktails imported from Brazil, rare Salvador Dali sketches of nuns fornicating lined the walls, and I flirted with Brad Penderpand and let him caress the outside of my dress after betting him a hand job that he couldn’t put his finger, on the first try, exactly where my nipples were located on my breasts (they are situated unusually, and to some unnervingly, high on the sphere).
As I walk home and reflect on this wonderful night that has passed and the wonderful existence, in general, that I have afforded myself through hard work, blackmail, and the occasional intimidation tactics, I realize that only one thing is missing from this perfect universe:

Ever since I was young girl, 12 or so, I have always wanted a solid gold dildo for my very own.

Silly to you I’m sure it seems, yes. Maybe even a bit immature. Sure, some young ladies yearn for ponies or life-size doll houses or even bigger tits if they’re very brash – but I’ve only wanted two things in life: to live some version of a smug, intoxicated, pornographic high life of luxury…and a solid gold dildo. But alas, dear Journal, the cost to obtain this dream is quite prohibitive. I’ve found several alchemists who would be willing to make the device at a reasonable rate, but obtaining the amount of gold necessary to start the work is unfortunately far out of my price range. I’ll either have to wait a few years until I’m married (or my pay increases dramatically) or count on the long-horse plan B that I’ve also set in motion. I called my parents several years ago and told them I had gotten diagnosed with a rare form of terminal cancer, the treatment of which is not covered by insurance, and that it would cost several hundred thousand dollars to remove it through procedures. They’ve resumed scrubbing floors at the jail but I just don’t think the hours are going to add up fast enough in the end.

But oh to feel that heavy, leaden metal rush between my legs would be to accomplish what no man has or ever will be able to for me – the sense of raw, complete sexual opulence. Even if I’m having relations with a man whose net worth exceeds the value of a gold dildo, I just fail to poignantly feel that prominence and sheer ostentatiousness emanating through his member. I need to know what it feels like to be penetrated by solid gold. I’d like nothing more than to dress up in a custom Vira Wang dress, with diamond earrings, a pearl necklace, and fitted lingerie underneath and insert that gold shaft inside of me. I can imagine the thoughts rushing through my head at that very moment, that moment of truth: “I am consumed in flilthy materialism!; gross, unabashed, unapologetic grandiosity!” Then, and only then, even after the life I’ve spun together, even after the parties, and the upper-class sex and the expensive drugs, only then will I have the sensation that pure opulence has figuratively and literally entered my very being.

A Christmas Story

2009-01-09T12:33:00.000-05:00

The sleigh was dripping water in the garage next to the Buick, and most of the reindeer were already back in the barn. The snow was thick, and it made the ground look like it had white breasts, but only where two hills were close together and of roughly the same size.

"Rudolph, I want to thank you for another job well done," Santa said, pulling off his boots.
"Thanks, big guy," Rudolph said, lighting a cigarette. "My back is killing me."

"Hey, your back, my anus!" Santa offered.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the North Pole for about 20 minutes as everyone looked at each other.

"Anyway," Rudolph continued, "I think I am going to head out to the barn. You cool?"

"Yeah. I'm gonna pour me a tall glass of sin and catch up on some 30 Rock," Santa said. "Will you call up the elves and tell them they can come up to the house through the dark Christmas Forest?"

"Sure thing, Santa." Rudolph grabbed a hoof full of cash from the counter before taking off to see his dealer. Santa settled back into his recliner, as the werewolf lurked in the shadows, waiting for his moment.

I love classic old Christmas stories like this. My family has passed them down for ages. There is no finer family tradition than the Langs gathering around the Christmas trash barrel as we burn financial records, warming our hands and exchanging inspirational stories.

How about this one?

Tommy was the smallest elf in the North Pole, and Tommy hated Christmas. Every year, the other elves would make fun of kind Tommy's slow toy production and crazy attention to detail. But that's not why Tommy hated Christmas. Tommy hated Christmas because it killed his father. In cold blood. Over a woman.

You see? These stories are timeless and relatable. Here's another to warm your heart.

Mrs. Claus was sad. She had forgotten to make all the little dollies that the girls of the world had requested. Plus, she'd just found some panties in the glove box of the sleigh that weren't hers. A quick check of the browser history enlarged her eyes, and showed Santa was doing more than e-mailing his cousin in Boca Raton. She called her sister. "What is elf-on-elf action?" she asked.

Ah, yes. These stories can now be yours during my special year-end blowout sale. Get your copy of Clubber Lang’s Big Book of Disturbing and Scarring Christmas Tales for only $5.95 from 101 Stories Publishing.

You'll be sorry you did.

The Wonderful World of Drunks

2009-01-09T12:21:00.002-05:00

You know what is worse than being a sloppy drunk on New Year's Eve? Being sober and surrounded by sloppy drunks on New Year's Eve. I know I risk sounding like your grandmother when I say, "Your grandfather does it like a sex-crazed stallion should ... and also, don't drink," but I must say it anyway.

Here is a sampling of the drunks I ran into on New Year's Eve. Recognize any of them?
The Hollering "Vegas!" Guy: This guy wants everyone within a bullet's range to hear his witty genius. The problem is that his genius is quoting movie lines and getting them wrong.

The Close Talker: This person, when drunk, gets way up in your grill. He or she spits consonants all over your face while you try to ignore the fire breath and inane remarks. Reflexively, you consider kissing them, but then realize they are the wrong sex. Or are they ...

The Sick Drunk: Two hours into the night and she's sitting out on the curb with her forehead on her knees while one of her fat friends rubs her back. An hour and a half of doing her hair, and now her friend is using bar napkins to wipe out the chunks.

The Point Repeater: This is the guy who issues the same point over and over, with very little change in wording or information, trying to convince you of something nobody cares about. "Dude, you don't even understand. Grape jelly is soooo totally good. It's effing badass!"

The Sexual Girl: This girl is naturally demure, but after a few drinks, she's trying to make out with the parking lot attendant. She will show her mammaries to strangers and will stick her tongue down the throat of a short guy before throwing up in a urinal.

The Smiling Mute With No Balance: This is the only one of the lot that I like. He is usually propped up against a wall while his friends are arguing with The Point Repeater. He walks as if downhill is every which way, and he is always smiling like a foreigner holding in a funny joke he doesn't fully understand.

However, there is one drunk who is charming, clever and as cute as a movie star:

You.

A New Year, A New Death Wish

2009-01-05T10:12:00.003-05:00

With the new year comes a fresh crop of columns about New Year's resolutions and hope. But really, screw all that. 2008 was a bad year and I want to dwell on it.

Last year, I had three or four friends die, which is a huge bummer when you are looking for a place to crash or to borrow money. When your friends die so young, it makes you reassess your life. Am I doing all the things I should be doing? Am I sleeping with every woman I possibly can? Am I really as kick-ass as I can be? Probably, but still worth a passing thought.

Every time I encounter a difficult situation, I ask myself WWMDFD? (What Would My Dead Friends Do?) I always come up with the same answer – just lie there, very still. Then I cry and take drugs. I miss my friends very much. They were really sweet people who drew bad cards. On the positive side, I outlasted them. So I kinda won there.

I'm actually excited about this new year because I am about to get filthy rich. I've invented a new ointment, called "Strip Club." It will have a pleasing menthol flavor and a blood-like color. The slogan: "For when your privates look like bubble wrap." Available without a prescription at car washes and finer head shops. My gift to you.

In conclusion, I confess I am somewhat scatterbrained due to some iffy medication I found on the ground in front of my apartment. But I really had high hopes for this column. I envisioned it to be one of those columns that your grandmother sends you to put on your refrigerator for reassurance and inspiration.

To recover, and counterbalance the "Strip Club" and dead friend references, I offer this: Grandma once told me, "When life hands you lemons, say 'thank you,' and resell them to the poor for profit. Then kill two birds with one stone, and eat the less gamey one."

Aren't grandmothers wonderful and wise? Even though they were once sexual enough to reproduce, we forgive them and love them anyway. Butterfly kisses. Remember, when you find yourself unsure and full of doubt in a big world with no one to turn to, just lie there, very still, and hope that you are really dead.

Refrigerator and magnet not provided.

The Langs: sharing memories and weapons

2008-12-01T15:35:00.005-05:00

Tempers are always simmering at the annual Lang family Thanksgiving meal. In fact, we usually don't know the meal is over until police arrive.

"Dad, could you pass the turkey?" I ask.

"Why can't you get it yourself?" he mumbles.

"Because it is right in front of you and I'm over here," I say.

"Typical. You've been depending on others your whole life. Never amount to nothing."

"Oh, I should be an out-of-work plumber like you?" I ask politely.

"Dammit, I oughta knife you right now in front of God and everybody," he snarls.

"You boys calm down! The preacher is here," Momma says.

"Mighty fine cornbread, Mrs. Lang," says the upbeat preacher.

"It's go time!" I say, overturning the table and grabbing the carving knife. Turkey goes flying, and the ceiling is sprayed with peas. Dad frantically looks for a trade up from the butter knife, while Momma runs to the pantry for the calming presence of the shotgun.

My grandmother spills out of her wheelchair and slides along the floorin a mashed-potato luge while issuing weak pleas for peace. The preacher grabs the whiskey as banjo music crescendos, and we freeze-frame and go to break. So Dukes of Hazzard.

Navigating family conflicts is always difficult, but it's even more difficult when you are a Lang.

Long-running blood feuds and interfamily lending has transformed our dinner parties into emotional minefields. Someone is always getting mad at someone for something somebody done wrong.

Five Worst Lang Family Holiday Moments

• My sister knocking down my uncle's house with a batwing mower because he referenced her "woman problems."

• My father holding a shard of glass to the neck of a great-aunt during an odd cranberry sauce dispute.

• My brother climbing the water tower with a deer rifle after downing a bottle of ant killer.

• My cousin holding us hostage while reading his "manifesto" into a bull horn for surrounding law enforcement.

• The worst Lang family holiday moment? Two words:

Grandma's striptease.

"Gimme an Inch..."

2008-11-24T15:31:00.001-05:00

..... and I'll take it a mile"

I never really knew what that meant, but it's something that my father said that always stuck with me. Granted, it was before he had some elective surgery. However, 15 years and roughly $8,000 worth of Mescaline later, I'm still trying to figure out what he meant.

I'm inclined to think that it should probably be interpreted as a metaphor for taking on life's challenges by exploiting an opportunity when it presents itself. (A lull in the conversation... locking eyes with a potential lover... an open ladies underwear drawer) All of these situations are perfect examples. You have to seize what's in front of your eyes, for the the window of opportunity can shut all too fast, and you're left with nothing but broken fingers, salty tears, and the only soiled underwear you possess is your own.

The first day I stepped into the corporate world, a then-trusted colleague said "you should never let your desire for money drive you... it's power you should be after."

The concept of 'power' is nothing, yet everything at the same time. Let me give you an example that I would hope any one who is reading this would understand and relate to. Each morning, as I'm heading out the house, I tuck a Remington M1911 pistol in the back of my trousers before I throw on my suit jacket and grab the bus to work. Now, have I ever used my handgun? The short answer is No (unless you consider a pistol-whip use). Will I? Never say never. But the point is this: much like the time tested method of "Ass Pennies," keeping a fully loaded semi-automatic firearm tucket in your waistline at all times creates just the type of conceptual power that will certainly keep my head above water in today's cutthroat workplace.

Be it a colleague, potential client, or potential lady of the night, you can rest assured that you have the upper hand, especially if you keep the safety off. If nothing else, you'll certainly feel like you've got a few more inches.

Sex, Lies and Video Cameras

2008-11-20T15:02:00.001-05:00

"Where's the video camera?" she asked.

"I lost it," I said.

Her arms folded under her attractive bosom.

"I left it in a drive-through," I added.

"How do you lose a video camera in a drive-through?"

"Stuff," I said, bluffing.

"Well, get us a new video camera. I am trying to keep a record of my Kama Sutra improvement."

"You are not sharing those videos with anybody, are you?" I said.

"Just my girlfriends in my Kama Sutra class. It's OK. They already think you are funny."

I have the worst luck with video cameras. I have personally overseen the destruction of seven of them.

When I was a kid, our family's first video camera was one of those two-piece deals, where the camera was connected via a thick rubber umbilical cord to a tape deck that you wore over your shoulder. The deck was about the size of a tractor tire and was heavier than guilt. It was horrible. My dad would avoid events that required the video camera. He canceled Christmas three years in a row. In an unrelated note, he told me Santa died from a perforated colon.

I ruined this two-piece system at the age of 9, when I decided to videotape myself jumping my bike over a pile of scrap lumber. Of course, holding the camera with one hand compromised bike control, which was further compromised by a mid-jump weight shift of the 40-pound tape deck and by the umbilical wrapping around the pedals. I crashed back down to earth amid a pile of video equipment. I looked like a remorse-filled pornographer with roof access.

When I became an adult, I really started burning through the video cameras. There was a nice Sony that I sunk to the bottom of a lake in Marble Falls due to a canoe accident. The last words on the tape were "Hey, watch this."

I replaced the Sony with a Panasonic, which I promptly punted into the Grand Canyon after slipping on loose gravel and yelling the f-word so loud it echoed for a thousand miles. A donkey screamed in the canyon below me, and I looked down to see him on his haunches, with little birdies and stars circling his head and adjacent donkeys shooting me accusatory looks.

But this last one, this Canon – I just couldn't admit to the woman with the ample bosom that I actually broke it and tried to dispose of the evidence.

Advice: Never practice Kama Sutra by yourself unless you have a tripod or catlike balance.

Squirrel Killah

2008-11-07T10:03:00.001-05:00

Look at my picture up there. See the evil in my eyes? The lack of remorse? The paste-on beard? Yes, America, that is the face of a squirrel killer.

After 9 years of successfully avoiding squirrels in heavily wooded neighborhoods, my streak has ended. I am converting my hood ornament into crosshairs and stenciling "#1 Squirrel Killah" on the side of my Honda.

For some reason, I have always risked life and limb to avoid killing animals with my car. I will maniacally blow them away with a gun, but a car is just not a civilized way to dispense with God's smaller creatures. Contradictions – they're what make us human. Well, that and the fact that we actually ARE humans. Column canceled.

I have a long history of being pro-(wild)life. I once locked up my wheels and blasted a stone mailbox off my grill while avoiding a cat that was asleep on the road. Standing over my steaming radiator, astride a pile of cracked limestone, I noticed the cat was still "asleep." I felt like an idiot. So I left a fake number on the rubble and got drunk at a topless joint.

I once hit a deer so hard on a country road that he sailed through my windshield and ended up spread-eagle in the passenger's seat. Fortunately, he was unhurt, and rode all the way to Phoenix with me, loading the one-hitter and working the iPod.

But my automotive squirrel-killing-free streak ended on Monday (awkwardly worded). I was traveling down one of my regular streets, Prostitution Lane, when I spotted a squirrel at 40 yards with a nut in his mouth and a song in his heart. He spotted me, too, and froze mid-street.

"Surely, he will turn back," I thought.

His eyes grew as large as drink coasters.

"Move, dammit!" I thought, my car bearing down at 40 miles an hour.

My eyes narrowed, and I gripped the wheel. I looked over at a large, recently repaired stone mailbox and thought better of it. "Come on, little guy. Move."

He covered his eyes with his little front paws and screamed. The nut fell from his mouth in slow motion and bounced into a storm grate. I screamed inside my car. Neighbors screamed inside their homes.

Then his little squirrel mind went blank, and the next thing he experienced was Squirrel Jesus handing him a golden acorn and putting a comforting claw on his shoulder.

Around that time, I was back in the topless joint, retelling the story and pricing out car stenciling.

I hate myself.

Tis the season for hilarity, death

2008-10-31T09:42:00.000-04:00

After Christmas, Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July, Halloween is my favorite holiday. I love decorating my house in life-affirming themes such as death, graveyards and corpses.

According to Wikipedia, modern Halloween began when Nathan Halloween landed on Plymouth Rock during the first World War, and sat on a tuffet knitting the first American flag, when along came a spider and got him pregnant. Then his baby, which was half jack-o-lantern, founded a greeting card company. Then I got Rick-Rolled and lost interest in research.

Now it is time for my patented annual Halloween grab bag of ideas, stories and word-scrambles.

Costume ideas for men: Instead of going as Heath Ledger as the Joker, someone will inevitably go as Heath Ledger himself.

Requirements: Empty prescription pill bottle, Post-It note from an Olsen twin, a coffin.

Lactating Sarah Palin: If this election has taught us anything, it is that people love lactating mavericks (Shawn Bradley).

Requirements: Eyeglasses, wig, water cannons. Fill water cannons with half-and-half and blast passersby with your own brand of reform.

Top 10 costume ideas for women:
1. A scary witch wearing lingerie and showing her bottom.
2. The Bride of Frankenstein on her wedding night, wearing a thong, high heels and showing her bottom.
3. A car accident victim who happened to be wearing a teddy at the moment of impact. And the impact made her bottom come out.
4. A mummy wearing a sexy nurse outfit instead of gauze.
5. A sexy nurse.
6. A whore.
7. A slut.
8. A girl dressed as a whore or slut.
9. A girl who shows her bottom.
10. Girl bottom.

Pumpkin seed recipe:

Soak pumpkin seeds in vodka. Pick out pumpkin seeds. Drink.

Halloween pranks:

1. Tell a friend that you want to give him all your baseball cards, but he has to come to the graveyard at night to pick them up. After he follows the trail of baseball cards that leads to a particular headstone, he will discover that his name is etched on it, with the death date being the current date. As horror overcomes his face, punch him in the throat and bomb his car. Enjoy the mutual laugh.

2. Make a friend sign up for a non-interest-bearing account, but TELL him that it is an interest-bearing account. When he confronts you, hit him in the face.

3. Ask a friend to come over under the pretense that you are thinking about killing yourself. Then when he arrives, tell him you misspoke and that you meant to say you're going to kill HIM. After the BANG flag comes out of the end of the pistol and he is laughing, knee him in the groin.

Word scrambles and Fill-N-Da-Blanks:

haolweeln
k_ll

In conclusion, Halloween is a fun and safe holiday for the whole family.

There's No Place Like Home

2008-10-24T12:59:00.000-04:00

I don't like scary movies, and I don't like rollercoasters. Basically, I don't like anything that makes my body go into fight- or-flight unnecessarily. I just like making love to a tipsy woman (bonus information).

When I was little, my parents let me watch all kinds of things that were inappropriate for kids. I remember watching one horribly scarring TV movie called The Dark Night of the Scarecrow. Like most movies of the 20th century, Charles Durning was in it.

The plot was simple: A group of hateful men wrongly blame a mentally disabled man for an attack on a young girl. They track him down to his hiding place – inside a scarecrow outfit in the middle of a corn field.

As we look into his quivering eyes, the three men blow him the damn away. Then, over the next two hours, we watch the scarecrow kill the men.

If my traumatized 6-year-old brain remembers correctly, one bad guy was killed in a grain silo, one was fed through a wood shredder and Charles Durning got a bellyful of pitchfork. Or was that in real life?

For years, I saw that scarecrow at the foot of my bed at night and behind my eyelids on sunny days. I even remember his name – Bubba Ritter.

But Dark Night of the Scarecrow does not compare to the most wicked, not-for-kids movie of all time, The Wizard of Oz. This is pure evil for a child.

Let me run down the list of things Dorothy endured that are well-suited for bringing on a child's mental apocalypse.

• Flying monkeys who tear apart your friend? Check.

• Evil woman riding a beach cruiser outside your window during a tornado? Check.

• Candy-cane looking legs that roll up like party favors and retract under a house post-mortem?
Check.

• Veiny trees with angry faces that hate you and hurl fruit at your friends? Check.

• A green witch who makes your life a living hell before you cause her aquatic death? Check.

• Someone threatening to kill your dog? Check.

• A poppy field that makes you trip until you hit a road prophesied by little people? Check.

• An old man who looks like he is from the Monopoly game, and who takes off in your only mode of transportation back home? Check.

• Judy Garland? Check.

Now do you see why I hated this American classic? It should be removed from the children's section at the video store and placed properly in the "Movies for People Who Want to Check Out That Pink Floyd Thing" section.

But as long as scary movies are making money off our need for an adrenaline rush, I will continue developing my new film, The Dark Night of Dorothy Gale.

Ever seen a scarecrow wearing ruby slippers?

You know how I know you're gay?

2008-10-17T15:00:00.001-04:00

When I was in middle school, it was very important how you carried your books. In seventh grade, every hip student had to carry his books in an athletic bag. Not a backpack, not a messenger bag and, for the love of dead William Buckley, not a briefcase.

It was also tragically unhip to use one's locker, so everyone carried every book in an athletic bag. Mine weighed about as much as a Mini Cooper.

Then, overnight, every cool kid switched to NO BAG. Unfortunately, I was left off that Twitter feed. So I showed up to school one day, books bulging out of an athletic bag, and saw other kids walking around with books stacked under their arms. They looked silly with their arms bowed out in giant book-filled parentheses, but it was the new way. I quickly adapted by ditching my bag near the band hall and feigning innocence.

After NO BAG came THE BACKPACK, but you could only wear it – and this is important – over one shoulder. Two shoulders, and you were crossed off the lists for heaven and Sadie Hawkins.
Do you know what it meant if you wore your backpack over both shoulders? You were gay. Yep. That was the way you announced it in those days. No tearful confession to parents followed by nervous admissions to friends. All you did back then was wear a backpack over both shoulders. The no-locker rule was still in effect, so the 70 pounds of books would routinely snap a clavicle.

Then, one day I went to school and noticed that everyone was gay. Yes, they were all wearing their backpacks over both shoulders. I saw my opportunity to pounce, and began establishing my social dominance. "Ha, ha! You're totally gay, dude. And you, too! And you, too. And ..."

A quick survey revealed everyone two-shouldering it. Suddenly, I had that startling, heart-pounding epiphany we all have at some point: "One shoulder is now gay."

And so it goes.

I am sure it is still like that. The shifting sands of adolescent coolness are a weak foundation on which to build your self-image. But really, what choice do we have?

The Ladies Man

2008-09-12T09:27:00.001-04:00

Being a superstar media personality, people are always asking me, "Cubber, as a superstar media personality, can you tell me the best way to pick up women?"

I tell them, "after you bring my entrée, I'll tell you." Stupid question-askers are always asking me questions, and bringing me entrées.

The truth is, I wasn't always this successful. There were dark days of making out with cougars with muffin-tops at neighborhood Applebee's, before I turned into the Cervix King. I discovered the hard way that there are some pickup lines D.C. women don't respond to with open legs. I'll share a few with you now.

"I went to clown college." – Clubber Lang 2003

There was a time when I thought I had found my special purpose, so I started a clown ministry. I mainly went to old folks' homes and tried to shoot apples off their heads and stuff. It was a disaster. I Kevorkianed seven members of the Greatest Generation before I switched to juggling.

Juggling flaming bowling pins at hospitals seemed like a good idea. Unfortunately, I didn't quite understand the "Oxygen in use" signs, and I blew up two ICUs before hanging up my singed rainbow wig. Now I simply tell women I went to a "small elite college that only admits 10 people a semester." I don't say it is the first 10 who buy the outfit from their store.

"I am a cobbler." – Clubber Lang, 2004

After college, I worked for a shoe repair place. Well, let me tell you, women don't find "cobblers" sexy. It is just one of those professions that seems antiquated and somewhat rural, like you should be working out of the hollow of a tree and wearing a felt hat.

So I learned to reword my job title as "shoe restoration executive." Soon the chicks began to like me because I was confident, shoe-related and an executive. Plus, I'd break into their homes at night and fix their heels.

"I write a blog." – Clubber Lang, 2008

Women universally respond to this one with a throaty, "you're not the gay-looking one with hair over his eyes who's not funny, are you?" So now I simply say, "Hi, I'm Ben and Skin."

Then I lie back and enjoy their sweet, sweet girly attention.

I Call It Celebration

2008-08-15T09:27:00.001-04:00

I am a new man because I have started painting.

A week ago, in a low tide of ennui, I rummaged through my old things and pulled out the oils and acrylics, set up the easel, and let myself descend into the madness of creativity.

I finished seven paintings before I realized I had no brushes. (I was using a mop and a table leg.) But oh the joyful birth of some fresh, new thing! The rapture of terrifying creation! My artist's soul flowers and erupts all over you. I am a new man, but I have retained my cellphone number and ninja reflexes (important).

It is only because I know of the artists that have gone before that I am humbled enough to say I am better than them. This, then, is a song of myself, to be sung provisionally to the tune of "Paradise City." This is libel, slander, defamation of character.

Right now, I have two major works in progress.

The first is a work of large scale. Almost 20 feet tall, the entire exterior wall of my apartment complex. It is a wistful portrait of a young mermaid with oversized, flaming red male genitalia. She is sympathetically riding a unicycle and cutting the hair of an ex-president. But which ex-president? We don't know, as his face is obscured by the juggling badger with even bigger male genitalia. This work's meaning is clear, and the whole composition serves as a straightforward critique of poor lighting conditions in the dark. The dog represents loyalty, and the centaur represents all the other centaurs that couldn't make it.

The second work is much more intimate. It is of two peasant parents making love on a haystack of my baby pictures. The man is seen sympathetically smoking a pipe and injecting some sort of performance-enhancing drug. The woman is seen in profile, flipping off a centaur and enjoying talk radio. The mermaid can be seen in the background (look for the big red silo). This portrait is called "Heroes."

I know some people fear that if they release their creative soul, they will go mad, but I am proof of the opposite.

Go to work!

Clubber Is Drinking

2008-08-11T14:59:00.000-04:00

There is an old book called The Pop-Up Mice of Mr. Brice by Dr. Seuss. It is a great book. I loved it when I was a kid.

Mr. Brice has a problem. His house is infested with anthropomorphized rodents who possess mad skillz and quirky traits. He doesn't hate them or try to kill them. He just wants to tell you about them. He is simple and unmarried like that.

There is a two-page spread near the front of the book that features 26 little doors, each with a letter of the alphabet on it. When you open a little paper door it will say something like "Jimmie is eating Jam,"or "Katie went to Kalamazoo." You go through the whole alphabet like that, picking a letter and opening the door to learn about the little mouse who lives there.

Sadly, Mr. Brice died in 1984 of flu-like symptoms (speculation), but he would be happy to know that his "house of mice" has gone digital and is worth millions of dollars. It is called Facebook. If only Mr. Brice had an RSS feed to keep tabs on his many mice, like I do.

Here is what my mice were doing as of this morning:

* Amanda is retouching her fingernails.

* Bob is making a square peg fit inside a round hole.

* Charlene is mad at her mother.

* Danny broke his bowl.

* Eric is regretting his decision.

* Farrah is happy to be alive.

* Greg is appearing at the Ballroom in Arlington.

* Hiram is talking jive.

* Ingrid sold a painting today!

* John is mourning his dad.

* Katie is no longer bicurious.

* Leah's new haircut is BAAADDDDDD.

* Mark is listening to Johnny Cash.

* Nate's whisky is poured.

* Oliver is trying to clean up the mess he made.

* Pam is totally bored.

* Quinten is calling off the wedding.

* Ricky is editing tonight.

* Sven is giving a performance at Borders.

* Tim misses his wife.

* Ursala is slowly becoming an astronaut.

* Vicki drinks top shelf.

* Walt is wondering why you are yelling.

* Xander is gay for himself.

* Zac is wrapping up at work and about to meet up with Dave.

* Theodor Geisel is 6 feet under, rolling in his grave.

Zero Hour

2008-05-16T10:11:00.002-04:00

Zero Hour. Midnight – and it stinks to stay and stinks even more to leave. Four more hours of bar time. The girl who is spitting in my ear fails to gain my attention. She’s in a humanistic mood this week – it’s been a month and a half since her last attempt at such compassion.

“So what do you think about homeless people, in general, about their status as humans, how they’re relegated to the fringes, how they can’t look themselves in the mirror with an ounce of self-respect?”

“Can I be frank? I don’t think they work hard enough, as a general observation.”

Her brow furrows

“And goddammit, the good news for do-good hodge podge’s like you is that the bastards can’t afford a damn mirror! All they get is the occasional reflection of themselves in the window of storefronts that they stumble by – and you know you never get a good look at yourself in those – it’s always misleadingly complementary.”

She is already halfway across the bar as I finish my last point. Her mascara is smeared slightly at this point from a faint tear that has developed in her eyelid.

I long for the day when I am 45 years old driving 95 mph in a luxury sports car down the West Side Highway. Because isn’t that what it means to be alive? To break the law in a way that is both subtle and communally acceptable? Find someone that you want to break the law with and bleed tears of enthusiasm as you revel in your collective subversion of order.

How did I find my way to Home Depot? 23rd and 3rd. The bar was getting old, I suppose. The mild-mannered 30 something approaching me with a half-anxious smile and a heinous orange apron will serve as my victim for the next hour. At first I start eagerly rattling off how I need to build a treehouse for my son, just like in those putrid commercials.

“How ya doin’, sailor friend? I’ve just got to build my son a treehouse and you’re the man to help me do the job!” I say with the rank essence of gin spewing out of my mouth.

He winces slightly as he realizes how close my proclaimed goal matches those portrayed in the commercials. He seems suspicious of me – this sweaty 20 something in a ripped collared shirt and not wearing any pants.

He seems to know that I know that they don’t sell wood in the Manhattan Home Depot. He also seems to know that I know that I am going to throw a hissy fit when he informs me of this piece of information that I am already aware of. He can already see me screaming like a hot 9 year old (?) girl about how un-American that is.

What he doesn’t know is that this is all part of a vendetta I’ve been harboring for a long time. Why stick a fucking Home Depot in the middle of this concrete jungle if all it’s going to amount to is a glorified ceiling fan shop – with a few floor samples thrown in? This moment has been coming. My excitement reeks – it is palpable. I want this guy to go home regretting even decision he’s made for the past 30 something years of his quiet life.
“The truth is”, I continue before he can cut me off, “my hand has been aching all day from close fist punching the rat-tailed psycho this morning…………” I pause and smile….. “and I guess I feel a little bad about that, not that I wanted to have him at all, just for the summer, just ‘til his mother finishes middle school and lands a job.”

The poindexter flashes me a look that almost conveys that he is impressed with my scenario if he weren’t glaring so many yellow teeth.

“We don’t sell wood in the Manhattan Home Depot, you’ll have to go to Brooklyn for that, I’m afraid.”

I fart loudly. And then make something that resembles a cry of ecstasy when it finishes.

He has become visibly uncomfortable since I have started mimicking his physical movements. When he raises an eyebrow, I raise an eyebrow. When he scratches his ear, I follow suit (despite my reservations about such an abhorrently low brow gesture).

As a tear starts to roll down his cheek, I realize that he is challenging me. I must rise and meet the challenge. I must muster a tear or be forced to give up this charade.

I close my eyes and think back to that day at the ocean. I am five years old and frolicking happily in the bright waves of Jones Beach. My dad, jealous upon seeing the outpouring of such pure adulation, throws a full Milwakee’s Best in my direction which lands squarely on my forehead. The unconsciousness I succumbed to is actually fairly peaceful. The part that I’m hoping will conjure tears has to do with what a burned out teenager muttered to his slack jawed cohort when I regained consciousness. “That dude waited a good 30 seconds to calm his own coughing laughter before he called to the lifeguard.”

Nothing comes. I panic.

I then think back to 7th grade when I got caught masterbating in a dark corner of the school library with a copy of Machiavelli's The Prince open in front of me. Better than sex – I still stand by it.

He wins, I suppose. I can’t convince myself to cry.

“Congratulations!”, I yell. “You’re not the small testicled ironing board of a blue collar whipping boy that I thought you were.” With a quavering hand, I hand him a receipt for the $1200 loafers that I bought today and walk happily out into the night.

XCIX. Clubber's Inner Demons

2008-05-10T16:38:00.008-04:00

I apologize, good reader of blog. I haven't posted in awhile. I have written two fairly lengthy entries that I ultimately deemed too personal and not funny enough to satisfy your sick mind. So I deep-sixed them, leaving you high and dry and without the comedy we have all come to expect and loathe from me. Since I doubt anyone wants to hear my cheap insights and pitiful introspection, I'll stick to something I know you will enjoy. Pure midget porn.

Rusty, the sticky midget, held his mouth open, ready to receive the agitated flagella of the used car salesman that towered above him. A drop of sweat collected then fell from the salesman's forehead and hit Rusty in the goatee. "This will be the last time," Rusty swore to himself as the sweat cut a rivulet from the perimeter of his whiskers to the corner of his mouth.

"It tastes like old water and kosher salt," the Jew/midget thought.

Rusty had told himself "Never again," many times during the past three days, yet he knew he still had three more movies on his Vivid contract. The Jorgensen vice tightening on his privates served as further emphasis that the Mayor had no intention of letting Rusty out of his contract. And if that wasn't enough, the introduction of an eel into Rusty's interior would certainly make him reconsider his profession, the pediatrician thought as he decorated a birthday cake.

The Senator just grinned from the shadowed recess of the family room as the bullets lovingly passed through his head.

Forget that. I don't know what I was talking about there. I find that I have way too many ideas of what to write about here and then I think of good reasons why I shouldn't write any of them. Too many ideas, not enough command of the language. Forgive me.

Talk of nipplesheilds and failed Superbowl ads has taken its toll on me. I am going to end it all. But first I want to die naturally and save old batteries. I just love irony. And ebony.

To Ponder: What does "everything" include and can it ever weigh more than itself? If I could be one thing for all eternity I would be a Singularity. Emoticon.

If you are like me, and are left-handed, you have always been fascinated by the murder-suicide pact. I personally have backed out of two of these. Yet not after courageously blowing the living hell out of the other persons' head-body-mouths. Think of a Gallagher show, but with less watermelon and more gray matter.

I don't know what the hell I am talking about. Call me.

The point is that I can't seem to cheat on my wife without bragging to her family about it. Taunting them actually. "If you all weren't so related, I wouldn't have to do this," I say while wiping the antifreeze from my mouth. Then I laugh for 100 minutes and punch an antelope if one is wandering by.

This all brings us to my pants. I make $40,000 a year and I still can't find the right kind of pant to compliment my friends as they enter a dinner party. You ever sit around trying on different arms and wondering why Puerto Ricans smell? Of course not. You can't try on different arms! Except always.

Here's a little tip: Next time there is a lull in the conversation, and your pastor is locked in the closet, I encourage you to clock a guy named "Rudder" in the nose, and say "how 'bout that, you piece of SHI*!"Have a good day. And please pray for me.

I am on a mule right now.

XCVIII. Anti-socialism 101

2008-04-25T16:07:00.004-04:00

My basic goal every day is to not get pregnant. But after that, my next goal is to avoid speaking with another live human being.

I complain about the world being this way because it is a fashionable gripe, but I secretly do everything I can to avoid interacting with other so-called humans. I remember the wisdom my father imparted to me every year on my birthday: "Son, if you avoid eye contact, then maybe, just maybe, they won't knife you." Then, with tremendous fanfare and laughter, my father would knife me for emphasis.

The truth is that I am painfully vapid and I know any conversation will increase the possible exposure of this dangerous social flaw.

If my cell phone rings, my heart starts racing. So I mute the ring and procrastinate checking the voicemail for a few weeks while I get drunk.

If my doorbell chimes? I dive under old clothes and hold a quivering pistol to my head while sweating and mumbling prayers in improvised Spanish. I hate that I am like this, but I have social anxiety. And bird flu.

I think the whole world is becoming a collection of isolated cocoons rather than the interactive corpus God intended it to be, and that's fine with me as long as I don't have to issue pleasantries.
E-mail, voicemail, tall fences, HVAC, disease, fear, all of them are important allies in my quest to remain in a womb of anti-social bliss.

Are you like me? Take this helpful quiz to determine if you are a homicidal misanthrope.

• Do you pray to Sweet Sweet Zeus that you are delivered unto voicemail when you call someone, just so you can avoid that warm feeling of interaction?

• Do you wish your side fence were 12 feet tall instead of a stingy eight?

• Upon entering a restaurant with another diner present, do you simply eat in the alley?

• If someone tries to "make plans," do you claim leprosy?

• Do you load up the adjacent theater seat with scrap metal?

• If someone says "hello," do you make your eyes real big and scramble up a tree?

Put your pencil down. Give yourself two points for each "yes" answer. Add it all up and you'll find it equals a lonely but increasingly common life.

XCVII. The Pope Wears Prada

2008-04-18T10:39:00.001-04:00

The pope visited the District this week and expressed concern over American Catholics' tendency toward moral relativism and lax adherence to Catholic doctrine.

How dare he attack our flag like that! Has he never heard of the Bill of Constitutions that declares all men are equal in the sight of the Lord? The problem is that this guy is German and doesn't understand our American ways. What he needs is a good Vatican III to update the Catholic faith to attract lapsed U.S. Catholics back into the fold.

Here are seven ways to get Americans interested in Catholicism again:

1.) Less emphasis on morality: Americans hate a killjoy. We like the idea of morality, but we like hedge funds and Jell-O shots more. Change the name of the Ten Commandments to the Ten Suggestions and make hell more of a payroll deduction than a destination.

2.) What do people want? Communion: Put Communion at the beginning of Mass and give each congregant a tumbler of wine that they can nurse throughout the service. Actually, give them the choice of beer or wine. And offer well drinks at half off during weekday services.

3.) Put some "Extreme Catholic Challenges!" into the service: A guy has to read the Gospel while in a terrarium of hungry Norwegian rats. Another guy has to grab a wafer from the defending priest. And have judges. I recommend a Brit, a thin/fat black guy and a Percocet zombie.

4.) Even more pope merchandise: Let's ramp it up. This is America. Why doesn't the pope have his own NASCAR sponsorship or theme restaurant? "Have you tried the fried cheese at Pope's? It's sinful!"

5.) Utilize YouTube: Have the Pope jump a moving luxury car. Have him sing "Chocolate Rain" in a rich baritone. Have him tell us to leave Britney alone. We love stuff like that. Short, high-fiveable and funny.

6.) Elect an American pope: We are the greatest country on Earth – we deserve to have the papacy. But he needs to be a celebrity, someone like Brad Pitt. You know, hot but soulful.

7.) Or maybe we could just try to follow the religion as it is.

XCVI. A Luby's. A Lang. And a Dream.

2008-04-10T14:03:00.008-04:00

These days, class runs through my veins like bulls through the streets of Pamplona. I dine at only the finest restaurants the District has to offer – Potbelly, BK Lounge and Good Guys. A tab under $200 insults me. I speak 30 different languages – elvish and Ebonics among them. My cigars are hand-wrapped by milk-chested maidens, deep in the recesses of the Amazonian jungle. I never walk, but casually stroll from place-to-place. If you order me a drink for less than $20, I will descend upon you like a chapter from the Old Testament.

My tastes, however, were not always so refined. I come from a long line of Langs who ate because they were hungry, walked because they were trying to “get somewhere,” and got their lap dances from dangerous minorities. I’ve done my best to try and block these embarrassing origins from my mind, but inevitably some memories are too potent to overcome, like that smell of hooker spit ruminating in the bathtub of my heart.

My father was a simple man with simple tastes. He liked his bourbon straight and his women gay. He would come back from his days in the salt mines stinking of sulfur and covered in sheep’s wool. He would collapse into his green lazy boy and pound a few shots of whiskey, and then pound on me.

“You’re about as useful as a shit-flavored lollipop!” he would scream, which I knew meant, “I love you.”

After tiring himself out he would sulk wearily to bed to await his next day of unfathomable failures.

His only solace was Sunday. Every Sunday we would all cram into our lime green Oldsmobile station wagon that always smelled of wet dog, probably because our dog Kibbles bathed in it. Being the youngest, I always had to sit in the backseat that faced behind the car. Sitting backward made me carsick, but my father felt this made me “more of a man.” It’s ironic that after his 56th birthday, my father had a transgender operation. Now I call him Berta.

We would cram into our Oldsmobile and head to his favorite restaurant – Luby’s Cafeteria. Luby’s Cafeteria is like the restaurant version of NASCAR. Pure Americana. Excess is the name of the game. Five dollars will get you three trips to the salad bar, as many chicken-fried steaks as you can handle and a life promise of triple bypass surgeries. You sit amongst fluorescent lighting, fake plants and blue-haired old ladies who all think you are that whipper-snapper grandson of theirs that doesn’t call anymore. To me, this was hell. But my father loved it.

He entered Luby’s like a kid entering a candy store. That old gleam would return to his eye and he would hop up and down excitedly like he had to use the restroom and just couldn’t hold it. To him, the buffet was a smorgasbord of possibilities. Perhaps a better future lay within the mac and cheese. He would grab his tray and pile it high with fried catfish and green Jell-o, and top it all off with chocolate cake covered in gravy. He would bound to the nearest open table and begin. Arms flailing, sweat pouring he would shovel ungodly amounts of food into what before seemed a small mouth, but now resembled a black hole. He looked like an octopus during mating season. The only thing we knew to do was to keep away. My mother was the only one who dare near him during these feeding frenzies. She would gently wipe the sweat from his brow and deliver the Heimlich when necessary. My brother got within 5 feet once and lost his left leg. He now poses as a war veteran and panhandles on the streets of Nuevo Laredo.

After several hours and numerous threats by the manager, we would emerge from the cafeteria a changed family. We would return home and my father would sit contentedly in his lazy boy massaging his throat while my mother and brothers would take turns salving his underarms with apple juice. I sat in the windowsill observing. I knew that it was fleeting and the following Monday brought with it bourbon, beatings and broken dreams, but for those few hours, we were the happiest family in the trailer park.

XCV. April Fools

2008-04-04T10:05:00.008-04:00

I am the master of the April Fools' prank. Around my office they call me "Clubber," but they should be calling me "Elaborate April Fools' Day Prank Guy Who Gets Us Every Damn Time."

Let me put it this way, if I were a prank-playing karate guy who was also the best at karate, I would be a black belt. Does that give you an idea of the scope of this thing that I am talking about?

April 1, 2005: I find out the password to my co-worker's e-mail, then in the breakroom I post all the inappropriate and suggestive e-mails he has been writing to some lady. I mean, this guy was talking about getting her pregnant and buying some house for her. Way-over-the-line stuff. Later, I find out the e-mails were to his wife, so I take the prank to the next level. I take a tire iron to his car and stage it to look like some vandals did it!

It was classic, and he totally fell for it. I got busted when I asked for my tire iron back.

April 1, 2006: I call the receptionist claiming to be the president of our company. I tell her she is fired and then I tell her that she can keep her job only if she sleeps with "Clubber." The trick backfires because I call from my extension and my name is on her phone, so I have to think fast. I hang up, run over, and punch her.

It was classic! You should have seen the look. When security was taking me out I was screaming "April Fools'," but the sirens kinda drowned me out.

April 1, 2007: I put Post-it Notes all over my cubicle. I mean over everything – the phone, the Zen rock garden, the termination letter, everything. Then I page myself over the intercom.

When nobody comes to my cubicle, I realize they've caught on, so I have to think fast. I run home and call in a fake pizza order. They deliver it and I pay. When I close the door, I fall down laughing. I hate pepperoni! Classic!

April 1, 2008: I write a story about April Fools' that editors won’t even post until the 4th! Amazing! What will I think of next?

XCIV. Clubber and the Magic School Bus

2008-03-28T14:26:00.001-04:00

"Are you sure?" she said. She had her dark hair in rollers, and her eyes looked at me from under the hair dryer dome in the beauty parlor.

I hated the beauty parlor. It was in a double-wide trailer outside of town with worn linoleum and wrinkled women's magazines that I wasn't allowed to look at. But when you are 10, you go where mom goes.

"Yes. I think it will be fun," I said over the noise.

"OK. We'll ask your dad," and her eyes went back down to her Redbook and I went over to the window and sat, happy and silent, looking out at the pines.

I may have been the only kid in America who actually WANTED to ride the school bus. Everything about it appealed to me – the magical door crank, the green vinyl seats, the bumpy, hypnotic ride. I loved seeing all the kids de-seat in unison when aggressive driving and road bumps combined. My drivers were all characters.

Coach Franklin was about 6-7 and as nice as a picnic. I remember watching his chalky knuckles grip the thin steering wheel and work it back and forth like a cross country skier. That wheel must have had 2 feet of play in it.

Coach Franklin was all smiles and big laughs until some kid crossed the line and his eyes cut up to that rectangular mirror and narrowed. Then he would thunder "I'm gonna beat your butt," and every kid shut up. When a guy looks like Patrick Ewing, you don't want to test his follow-through.

Calvin was my second bus driver – 5-8, 95 pounds, and gayer than a parade. I guess I don't really know that for a fact, but he talked with an almost impossible lisp, wore Elton John glasses and sported pink fur coats behind the wheel, even in the hot months.

Calvin's sworn enemy was a project kid named Miles who always made sport of Calvin and his "boyfriends." I always thought Calvin gave him pretty good lip back, until one day Calvin just dropped Miles off in the middle of nowhere and told him he would never ride his bus again.

My last memory of Miles was of him giving an entire busload of open-jawed kids a two-finger salute as we lurched away from an old lumberyard. Calvin muttered his cuss words as Miles yelled his and retreated in our dust. Calvin didn't drive us anymore after that, and I never saw Miles again.

My last bus driver was an old white woman named Inky. She was diner-waitress feisty and smelled like she had just plowed through a carton of Winstons.

Her face was gray and wrinkled like brain matter, and she loved me. She called me Mr. Natural because I sang a song that had a million words in it and those were two of them.

Inky died late in the school year and I stopped taking the bus. I went back to silent rides in my dad's Toyota or chatty rides in my mom's Oldsmobile, but I always missed the bus. Beauty shops, Blue Bird buses and pine trees through windows are the scenery of my youth.

XCIII. La Primavera

2008-03-21T10:33:00.003-04:00

Today is the first day of spring, and yes, I took a new lover.

It is not easy, this getting a new lover for the spring, but when you have plumage like I do (a Honda with leather trim), the women present their hind quarters for enticement in procession.
The only bad part of mating season is fending off the lesser males so you can breed freely and often with your females. How do you fend off lesser males? I usually plant drugs on them and call the cops. They then mate in prison, where DNA is shared widely but ineffectively.

When I was younger and didn't know how to land a new lover for the spring, I watched a lot of animal documentaries to see how it is done. These left me completely traumatized. It appears that all animal sex is rape. Sure, there is some mating dance, but when it gets down to business, the violence, aggression and attempts at escape convince me that a female in the wild isn't afforded second thoughts.

Being a more refined sort of creature, I took what I could from the animal kingdom (the gentle but forceful bite to the neck, the firm grip) and left the rest (the spraying of urine on her den, the lack of showering) and set out to enter the world of dating and mating.

I was unsuccessful at first, but I quickly developed the guidelines that have since made me a top flight male. I share them now with you, in hopes that you will have a successful mating season.
Clubber's guide for men on how to take a lover for the spring.

1. Strut your stuff. If you have a great car, keep it clean and show it off. If you have a great apartment, use any excuse to get a potential mate to see it. Women are attracted to males with resources. Learn from my experience. "Hey, wanna see a dead body?" is a horrible play on curiosity to get a girl back to your apartment.

2. Know the right time. Wait for a strong positive signal. Just because a woman says she can relate to you doesn't mean you can immediately reach out and start honking her chest, especially if she is relating to you because both of you recently had family members die. I really misread that one.

3. Give her a sense of competition. Women are attracted to males they feel are getting attention from other females. Have a good-looking female friend approach you during a date and flirt with you for a few minutes, then leave. Tell your new date it is one of the many girls at work who have been after you but you won't date her because it is company policy. Her competitive juices will start flowing. Then honk her chest.

4. Don't make a play for her female relatives in the same mating season. I once had a girl bust me with one of her relatives. My excuse of "well, your grandmother may not be around next year" didn't pacify her. I then tried to honk her chest and made it worse.

5. Finally, possess over $2 million. In fact, forget all the other ones, this is all you need.

Clubber's guide for a successful mating season for women.

1. Say yes.

XCII. This is Atlantic City

2008-03-18T10:27:00.000-04:00

“Well?...”

“I’m sorry?” I mutter in a knee-jerk response

“I SAID: do you want cream or sugar?”

As I come back to earth I quickly realize that I’ve become hypnotized by the pale, heavy-set woman pouring out what seems to be an infinite amount of Morton’s Iodized Salt out of industrial container into the metal grate holding the “freshly prepared” French fries. It reminds me of an hourglass. I contain my gagging.

I catch some semblance of laughter in the gap-toothed cashier at McDonalds staring me down with a voice that conveys mild confusion for not answering expeditiously.

I recollect myself. “Can I have this?” – I say pointing to a paper Spanish version of the menu - “I want to work on my mexi-speak.” She sends a cold grimace my way and I savor the fact that I don’t have to smell her rank breath any longer.

This is Atlantic City.

I ride in the backseat of Bill Slezell’s car down the “strip”, holding onto control of my bladder for dear life, but I can’t help but notice that the 40 m.p.h. winds carry an undeniable scent of stale urine left by locals and tourists alike who, much like the rest of the country, regard this entire place as their toilet. My bladder retention efforts are more pointless than futile.

This is Atlantic City.

When we pull into the Howard Johnson, uneasiness takes over as I realize that these are the people and this is the place to which I am supposed to entrust my life for the 2 or so hours I plan on sleeping that night. The thought alone chills me to the bone.

To make matters worse, we hand our keys to a Russian man speaking broken English who appears to have a greater proficiency in contract killing than second languages. “Car bomb? Pistol with a silencer? Either way, we’ll go out with a bang” I tell my friends, feigning sarcasm and hoping at least one will disagree. When the light switch flips on and the cockroaches scatter under the covers, we determine that we need to make haste in capitalizing on our night.

This is Atlantic City.

The casinos are packed with the typical fare. Crying men. Crying women. Most are wondering how they’ll break the bad news to their spouse and contemplating simpler alternatives that would result in their spouse cashing a life insurance check.

I shrug them off defiantly by repeating “you’re a winner damnit, you’re a winner!!” over and over in my head. In order to skirt around the $8.50 price tag on cocktails, I post up at the closest roulette table and wait for one of the over-50 waitresses to come display her unfortunate looking silicone flesh boulders and take my drink order so I can calm my nerves.

When “Matilda” arrives, I put on my sunglasses so she can’t see my eyes are closed to avoid exposure to her visual application for “Plastic Surgery Gone Bad” (Tuesdays on FOX) and mutter “Double Gin on the Rocks” over and over till I’m sure she’s gone.

In my waiting I manage to lose $100. Matilda never comes back.

This is Atlantic City.

Cut to 4 hours later. In a drunken binge I’ve somehow managed to acquire $500 on the craps table by shutting my eyes and letting the chips fall where they may. I refuse to save it, deeming it as “fake money.” Credit card debt can wait.

This is Atlantic City.

I motorboat my way to happiness at the “Stopless Go-Go” only find that the sweater puppets I’ve thrust my face into happen to be those of Matilda, who evidently is a jack of all trades. When I wipe up the vomit and pay the manager for damages, I sprint back to the Ho-Jo, lock the door and pray.

This is Atlantic City.

The brown morning light that sneaks in between the curtains is blinding, though my crust-covered eyes won’t fully open, so I am spared the full blast of this New Jersey Sunrise. I wake to find that all of my possessions are apparently still just that, and in a cruel twist of fate, my life has been spared. I rejoice when I see that my Jim Beam bottle still has at least 2 good sips left, a perfect complement to a Ho Jo breakfast.

This is Atlantic City, and I don't want to leave.

XCI. The Island of Doctor Curious

2008-03-11T17:21:00.002-04:00

Zark Throbmyer looked down at his tie. He was wearing his salmon-colored tie – the one he wore when said he wanted to “swim upstream”. It always puzzled me why he chose to wear a tie, and only a tie, when we were in the steam room. Zark reminded me that the steam room was the new hot spot for business development so he needed to look his best. I reminded him not to do toe-touches.

We showered, avoiding the eyes of feverish old men shooting come-hither glares our way. Freshly dressed, Power Cs in hand, we walked back to my house. In between paint-huffing sessions, we received a call from Dr. Ake – a local mad scientist who spent his summers following the carnival from small town to small town. He mentioned that a distant relative of his, Dr. Curious, was in town and was touting his new “transportation” pills. These pills, as Dr. Curious had explained them, were the revolutionary “next step” in travel. Apparently, after ingesting, you are supposed to click your heels three times think real hard about where you want to go. Then, you are magically whisked away to any number of exotic locations – Tahiti, Hawaii, Atlantic City.

Needless to say, I had always wanted – but never been able to afford – to see Myrtle Beach at sunset…when the descending apricot sun shoots rays of golden warmth on fair maidens dressed in vomit-stained jean shorts and sporting Poison tattoos. Intoxicating.

Zark and I donned our neon spandex and rollerbladed over to Dr. Ake’s office stopping intermittently to show off our radical skills to gawking onlookers. When we got there, loud disturbing noises were reporting from the inner office. The kind of noises you expect to hear at demented petting zoo. Hysterical laughter followed by mewing sheep….It smelled of wet cement and mildewed towels. Zark mentioned that he had forgotten to wipe again.

Dr. Ake led us into the inner chamber where we had our first encountered with this Curious fellow. We gathered around his hammock as he strapped on winged anti-gravity boots that he felt made him "invisible." We stood awkwardly in front of the large Mapplethorpe as Curious danced around us, drawing close to an ear here and there and whispering, "Where am I now?" and giggling.

After strapping him down, we got down to business. We took the pills. They were gravelly and tasted like tang. I closed my eyes and clicked my heals three times and wish, wish, wished for Myrtle Beach. I opened my eyes and I was still in the office. It was then that Curious mentioned that it usually takes a few hours for the transportation for occur. For this, I tickled him until his hysterical laughter slowly faded and he convulsed into dreamy death.

Goodbye funny pill man.

Three hours went by and I still did not find myself in Myrtle Beach. Defeated, I went to work. I was 5 hours late and needed to come up with a good excuse. I leaned over to the guy in the cube next to me.

“Do I look sick?” I asked

“Well, not ill if that’s what you’re asking?”

I cackled frantically and reminded him of my ninja skills.

I got up and skulked over to my boss’s office, trying my best to feign illness. He was hunched over, looking intently at a stack of Necrophiliacs Anonymous magazines on his desk. “Mr. Bodine…I’m sorry I’m late. I’m really not feeling well. I just can’t seem to keep anything down.” I let some shit trickle down my leg to show him that I meant business. I call it trickle-down-fecal-nomics. I’m a big Reagan fan.

He jerked his head up, blood vessels spurting from his eyes.

“WHO YOU CALLIN’ A PSYCHO!” he demanded.

“Ahh…no one…” stammering.

“Who the hell are you? Do you have my money?”

“What money?...no…I’m Clubber. I…”

“Get outta here you goddamn freeloading cocksucker!” screeching.

He chased me out of the office with a large staple gun he kept taped under his desk in case things ever “got real”.

After a long metro-ride, I made it home in time to watch the Hey Dude re-runs on Nick at Nite. Melanie is such a fox. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, I was drunk and stumbling down a boardwalk. Half-dressed 200lb women were hanging out of store windows yelling that they would do “anything” for a dollar. Old men sporting mullets and wearing tank tops stood smoking Pall Malls and drinking forties. In the distance, I heard the faint strumming of a Poison Power Ballad. The sun was setting. I looked up and saw a sign that read: “Welcome to Myrtle Beach: Where Class meets Sophistication”.

I had made it. I looked at the descending sun and thought, for the slightest moment I could hear that hysterical laughter. And I knew that somewhere, Curious was looking over me.

XC. The Red Phone

2008-03-10T10:09:00.001-04:00

Many experts are saying that Hillary's scary "3 a.m." commercial is the thing that put her over the top in Texas. In the commercial, we see grainy nighttime footage of sleeping children with an ominous phone ringing in the background. Then we hear the earnest tones of the movie trailer guy saying something like ...

It's 3 a.m. and your children are safe and asleep. But there's a phone in the White House and it's ringing. Something's happening in the world. Your vote will decide who answers that call, whether it's someone who already knows the world's leaders or someone who's dad was a Muslim. It's 3 a.m. and your children are safe and asleep. Who do you want answering the phone?

I know my answer. NOT HILLARY. Hillary is accustomed to calls at 3 a.m., but it's usually related to Bill getting locked out of some chick's apartment wearing only a dress shirt, one navy sock, and a ball gag. So Hillary will be pissed from the moment the phone rings.

"Where are you, you bastard?"

"Madam President, it's your Chief of Staff. Pakistan is marshaling forces on the Indian border. We must prepare a response."

"Stop covering for him! Is he with that tramp from the tobacco lobbyists again? I bet he's got a ball gag in his mouth," she says.

"Madam President! We must scramble to the Situation Room."

"I tell you what I am going to do. I am going to scramble to throw all his [expletive] out onto the west lawn. See how he likes that."

Maybe that is unfair to Hillary, but not to Bill. I also dislike the prospect of John McCain answering the phone. McCain is a crazy old man with a get-off-my-lawn temper, the kind of dotard who just swings his cane at any commotion.

"Mr. President, China has just invaded Japan."

"Well, then go ahead and bomb Japan."

"I'm sorry, sir? China is the aggressor."

"Oh, then bomb India, and send out for some hamburgers. This is going to be a long night."
"Sir, I don't think you understand what is going on."

"I sure as hell do. Burger King is doing that thing where you can get a sack of burgers for five bucks. I figure there is 20 of us, so 13 sacks ought to do it," says McCain.

"But India will strike back with nuclear weapons."

"Yeah? Well, then order India some chicken sandwiches. And don't call back."

So that leaves us with Barack Obama. How would he respond to a 3 a.m. call to the White House?

"Hello. What? What happened? I am putting my clothes on now and I'll be down there in a minute. What? She locked you out? I can barely understand you, Bill. Are you wearing a ball gag?"

That's why I like Barack.

From a new commercial ...

It's 3 a.m. and you are caught wearing a ball gag outside of some skanky masseuse's apartment. Who do you want answering the phone? Barack Obama. (Cut to Obama standing outside in the night air.) I'm Barack Obama and I approve this massage.

Catchy.

Interlude.

2008-03-06T14:06:00.005-05:00

"It's Not the Heat - It's the Humidity"

Upper middle class 20 something’s are a notoriously wavering bunch of misfits. This is a specific group of young men and women I’m talking about here. Wealthy enough to have not paid for college, poor enough to not have a legitimate trust fund; dashing enough to appear at an occasional party of social importance, derelict enough to sometimes succumb to flatulence in public; with enough spending power to go to that new trendy bistro on corner and unload 80 dollar on dinner, putrid and vile enough to stutter and lose social footing when trying to casually insert a Shakespeare reference into a conversation about the weather and such. With pitiful five figure salaries and the sudden shock of financial independence washing over them like a consuming blanket – they can at times fall into routs of poor decision making and generally unimpressive behavior. They often do not have Perfect 10 models on their arm when hanging out at bars but act with enough cocky grittiness to confuse one into thinking that they possibly should. They drink cocktails to legitimize their swagger and join fraternities at the age of 12. They go to summer camp in the foothills of some arbitrary southern state and feel remotely like actual men years later as a result. They foiled the myth of Santa Claus in the Easter Bunny before they could walk and rarely give change to homeless people simply on principle (even if they can feel the change that they do have cutting into their tightly clenched fists in the pockets of their 2000 dollar suits (the bills for which are reflected disarmingly and unwaveringly on their credit card statements)). There are about 23 million of this type of person living in America and I happen to be one of them.

Subsets of this surprisingly vast category of citizen do, of course, exist. A particularly special and misunderstood group of gentlemen and ladies are those who subscribe to the following set of characteristics. They flocked to urban mega-spheres immediately after completing undergrad in order to shed their sense of petty, small-town worthlessness. They live in Manhattan. They drink wine, but only to sober up after a weekend of repeated rounds of boilermakers, dead hookers, and forgotten details. They work in finance in some facet and, although they can think of 150 better and more desirable sounding jobs out there, they would be startlingly miserable in each one. These captains of industry drudge through long days, often for the sole purpose of being the last man standing in the office. At around 11 or 12 pm they like to sneak into the CEO’s mega-suite of an office. There they’ll set forth ballroom dancing in their underwear, for, according to their ill-informed pea brains, this is where they shall sit one day and they therefore supposedly deserve to undergo such forms of self-congratulation. They might even sign onto his computer and amuse themselves that way. One common tactic for this fitful minority of twenty something nitwits is to change the computer screen’s background to an image of gay porn. When they are able to calm the laughter that they immediately induce through this action, usually accompanied by tears of joy, they change it back to standard issue corporate one that formally stood there. Over at the family portrait that sits on an adjacent shelf, strategically angled toward the desk, they will often begin to make out with the two dimensional smiling image of his wife. For they will supposedly one day reap such spoils. They might have been already caught in the act of this midnight ritual once or twice – and it may be costing them a small fortune to keep shut the cute, supple mouth of the Venezuelan maid. There are about 12 million of this type of person living in America and I just happen to be one of them.

A certain and more specific group of these nerdly nobodies has to live with disappointed fathers who will never forgive them for not going into the military after college. Things escalated last Christmas for these doomed souls when they lashed out at the dinner table exclaiming “the navy is for queers!” They didn’t believe this statement that they had so inappropriately uttered but, rather, sought to shock their grumpy, cardigan wearing dads. Needless to say, they all ended up doing wall-sits for the entire night seemingly waiting for the mythical fat man in a red suit that they knew would fail to appear since they were in diapers. That such a figured exists in the modern world seemed improbable then and it seemed most preposterous at this most recent Christmas disaster –as our delinquent subset of America’s quadriceps collectively burned like the dickens. There are 4 million of this unfortunate type of person living in America and I just happen to be one of them.

“So what”, you say? “Tell me something I don’t know?” Sure we’ve all seen this dime-a-dozen group flaunt about through the streets of the city and burrow into their usual haunts. I’m sure I’m not telling you anything you didn’t already know. But what about me? In this innumerable bunch, what sets me apart from the millions of boarding school drop-outs who stole money from their parents to bankroll their xanax habit at the age of 14? As they say—and by “they” I mean treacherous plebites who have bigger pit stains in August than they do savings accounts—“It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.” It’s not the predictable Christmas-time, family table outrage that I consistently perform that allows me to feel alive and distinguishable. And it certainly is not the kicks to the ribs that I deliver to those who I suspect attended public school. It, rather, has to do with the homeless mission that I set up. Most unpredictable, eh? I’ve finally figured out a way to give back instead of take, take, taking all the time. These hand-selected and hopeless individuals are taken into my studio workshop and are offered the promise of a 7-course meal at Brasserie in exchange for a small favor: three fully transcribed copies of the Illiad in three difference Romance languages. Ha. One guy, purely by chance, and only with the help of my gracious interpretation of his scribble, almost made it past the Incantation in Portuguese a couple of weeks ago. Splendid!

- The Barking Aristocrat

LXXXIX. Dear Valentine

2008-02-14T12:46:00.002-05:00

Dear sweetheart,

I am so sorry about our Valentine's Day yesterday. Please know that it did not come off the way I had planned it. You have been such a great girlfriend and I'll do anything to keep from losing you, even if that means breaking it off with your sister. (Sorry you found out so publicly.)

About yesterday. I thought breakfast in bed would be a nice touch. I did not realize that startling you awake with an air-horn while straddling your chest with that tray full of boiling soup was such a bad idea. But we got it cleaned up, didn't we? A little teamwork, huh? And hey, now I know what bleach does to expensive bedding. I learn from you and love it!

And sorry about the puppy thing. I knew he was listless when I bought him, but I didn't realize he had such little time left. I stashed him where you wouldn't see him until I can come over tomorrow and bury him. By the way, don't open the bread box.

I hope you like the other gift too. They say those tickling rabbit ears are like magic to a woman. I should have warned you not to open it in front of your mother. Wasn't thinking. But her reaction was priceless: "Just like mine, but smaller!" Still laughing.

I thought lunch was when it all got back on track. That place had great food! I know you didn't like the atmosphere, but I think most people agree it's kinda kitschy to lunch in a topless joint. You were so patient as I got my dances. I kept looking over at you because you were so beautiful. Sorry about putting your hand on the girl. I totally misread that one.

Boy, that dinner sure did set me back a few bucks. But you are worth it. I could eat like 10 of those Awesome Blossoms. I don't know if it was lack of sleep or all the beer, but I am sorry about your dress. Vomit doesn't come out easily, I know. And sorry about trying to use bleach again, I should have remembered from the bedspread thing, but my memory was hazy. Did you carry me home, or was it that security guard? And what's with calling the cops? You'd think they'd seen a man punch a waiter before.

Anyway, call me today. I want to take you out for a nice dinner tonight. And later, we can put the ointment on my rash. That always gets me going.

Clubber

LXXXVIII. I Want to Love You in Oil Country

2008-02-13T14:21:00.004-05:00

Saudi Arabia just outlawed the sale of anything red during this year’s Valentine’s Day celebration. This should come as no surprise. Islamic Fundamentalists do not like to have a good time. I wouldn’t mess with these guys though. Word is that they chop each others’ heads off like Phil, the closet homosexual bully from 5th grade, playing with Barbie Dolls (Also outlawed in Saudi Arabia unless she is wrapped in a wash cloth and beaten for staring at Ken).

I’m not so sure that these Saudis are so backwards though. Sure, America is the land of the free where everyone has an equal voice and equal rights. I love America, but America isn’t perfect. I think the Saudis are on to something, and maybe, America could learn something from them other than how to overcharge for gas.

They preach the word of Mohammed as a way to a paradise with 100 virgins. It does not sound like a bad place to me. Britney Spears won’t be there, so we don’t have to hear about her anymore. Madonna won’t be there either, and Cindy (name?), that slut from Friday night that gave me the itch, certainly will not be there.

We can all party with the blessings of Mohammed, enjoy ourselves with virgins, and make toasts with overflowing flutes of sparkling grape juice (Alcohol not allowed). In the meantime, the Saudis have a pretty good plan. Let me explain.

You know when girls are around in a social setting, and the guys are all horsing around and laughing. Girls always try to chime in, but they aren’t funny. I know you know what I’m talking about. They might say something like, “Hey Jimmy, that was funny.” Then, she will proceed to giggle and sip her Cosmo from a straw. Well, what if you could remedy that situation. What if you could tell her to shut up and sit in the corner with a bag on her head? Wouldn’t that be great? In Saudi Arabia, you can do this and the women do not even get upset! It’s like a dream come true.

On a side note, when a group of unnamed college friends drink a little too much and go a little too far with an unnamed girl, the Saudis will actually throw the whore in jail and let the friends go about their daily business. It’s truly unreal.

What’s the point Ivan? My point is gentlemen is that you should have a few buddies over to drink and watch the game this Valentine’s Day. If your woman protests, you tell her to think about all the poor girls in Saudi Arabia that can’t enjoy this day because of the crazy terrorists. If she still objects, then you better go Hezbollah on her ass later without her consent and make her blow up multiple times before calling the police.

LXXXVII. Give Me More of that Western Store

2008-02-08T12:27:00.000-05:00

“Well Hey Yourself”

God I feel like so much more of a man every time I say that... or “howdy”... or “fella.” I’ve been a huge western kick lately. It started with movies (3:10 to Yuma, No Country For Old Men, Tombstone, Brokeback Mountain), but now my hobby has become a full-fledged obsession. I’ve bankrupted myself on 10 gallon hats, spurs, saddle blankets and more spittoons than you can shake a stick at. Why I just spent all my money I saved from the summer of 2006, when I donated semen 3 days a week, on a pair of authentic Doc Holliday worn boots from ebay ($1,850).

But it’s not a waste - not to me. Think of the romance of it all. The worn wood creaking under your feet as each new hit of the heel of your boot strikes the plank announcing your presence as you make your way to the Saloon. Double swinging doors fling open as you take in the scene, peering across the room with squinted eyes. Evaluating, making sure there are no itchy trigger fingers because you never know, at any instant, a man may toss his table over with his knees and draw two 6 shooters from his hip, but not before you skin your own smokewagon and make a canoe out of his head. (Thanks Wyatt Earp).

You throw caution to the wind, pace on in, challenge men to card games and light a match with your beard stubble. You take slow, strong puffs off of your cigar to calm the nerves of your own itchy trigger finger. “Barkeep - fetch me a bottle of your strongest gut rot!”you say just before you drown out the screams of the men you’ve killed with a bottle of whiskey and a syphilis ridden local maiden. You awake, don’t consider showering, and ride off the next morning to your next bank heist or dentist appointment.

Ahh the “Wild West.” They didn’t call it that for nothing. Now the closest thing most have to that experience is the “western omelet” special a your local Applebees. Sure it’s delicious, but where’s the excitement? What has become of our country? I long for a simpler time. When banks could be robbed and draws at high noon settled disputes. No “rush hour.” No “traffic jams.” No “lawyers.” No “class action lawsuits.” No “sexual harassment in the workplace.” None of it! Just good ole fashioned men being men and women being there. The way it was and is meant to be.

Alas this is the dream of a hopeless romantic. But the good news is that in addition to the obvious solution of watching any western you can get your hands on, there are other means to preserve the feeling of a old west lifestyle. Here are my personal recommendations:

1. Rape and Pillage. Literally. You know how in movies you always the ‘badass’ say something along the lines of “when I see something I want, I take it.” So next time you’ve got your eye on your coworker’s stapler or wife, let your sense of entitlement take over and have your way with it/her.

2. Carry a Six-Shooter. That should be obvious. No man is truly a man unless he’s carrying weapons. And the more the better. A good rule of thumb is that if it doesn’t make a loud noise when you use it, it’s not a weapon (i.e. throwing stars - only cool during a “ninja phase”).

3. Go by a Nickname. For instance, if your name is Steve and you’re good at cards, you can be “Ace Sleeve Steve.” All the best legends of the Wild West had a nickname of some description. If you’re really lucky, your name is something like Stifle, Biskey, or Churder and the nickname is basically already done for you.

4. Ride a Horse. Anywhere and everywhere. Living in Washington, D.C. it’s more commonplace to see horses than most. Feel free to gun down any other man you see on horseback and take his horse back to your stable/garage.

5. Play Cards Nonstop. It really doesn’t matter where you are cause gambling is universal. From Saloons to bathroom stalls, no place is off limits. A word of caution though. Try to utilize a “home court advantage” so to speak by playing somewhere that you can easily mount a gun to the bottom of the poker table in case you lose the deed to your house and need to get out of a pinch.

Remember, nobody ever remembers the guys that pay taxes on time and stay faithful to their wives. When your heart beats no more, what will it say on your tombstone?

I’m off to Subway.. And Hell’s comin with me!!

LXXXVI. Close Encounters of the Sexy Kind

2008-02-08T09:26:00.000-05:00

I am intrigued by UFOs and extraterrestrials. They play on my sense of mystery.

Those little gray, unemotional figures with big liquid-black eyes that sneak into bedrooms at night may scare the hell out of other people, but to me they're just potential sex partners. Call me un-picky – and horny. Let me hear from you, ladies!

My fascination with aliens began when I saw Close Encounters as a little boy. It freaked me out tremendously, but I couldn't turn away, kinda like seeing a dead mouse's belly rippling with maggots. Actually nothing like that, but similar. [Please omit.]

Now we have aliens appearing over Stephenville, Texas, and my alien-loving pants are going crazy. I want to have my own close encounter. I want to be the ambassador for the human race in our new intergalactic relations.

If I had my druthers, I would drive down to Stephenville in my Civic and be taken aboard their mother ship, and be given wine and table dances until they strap me down, slap my face, and steal my ovaries. It would be an honor. I want my ovaries to populate other planets with hybrid man-goats. (I never thought I would have a chance to write that sentence.)

While I am on the Stephenville mother ship, I will tell the aliens all about our culture, the drugs, the random violence, Carrot Top. I will also mention some of the bad stuff, like olive loaf and Dane Cook.

It is a pretty big job being the lone representative of the entire human race. You not only have to know world history (The earth was founded in 1492 by Eli Whitney driving the Mayflower), but also you have to have skills (home building, shooting from beyond the arc). I think I could do it.

If you spot a UFO that has landed, you should remember a few simple tips to avoid appearing hostile.

Never point at an alien. They take it as a sign of aggression. Instead, make your hand into a fist and shake it at them while screaming with bared teeth. This pleases them.

Don't board a craft without being invited. Aliens are creatures of propriety. It is especially bad form to use their powder bath for serious business during heavy meals.

Finally, always send thank-you cards. No matter what organic matter they harvest from you, send a card. Here is a sample:

Dear Aliens from _______,

Thank you for the pleasant visit. I really enjoyed your company, even when you ripped out my _______ and put it in a mason jar. I hope that you will visit again soon and probe my ______ with a 20-foot-long ________. Take care and remember: We can't even get along with each other, so we'll never unite against you.

In Him,

_________

LXXXV. The State of Union is GOOD

2008-01-29T10:14:00.000-05:00

In case you didn't see Monday's highly divisive State of the Union address by President Bush, here is a transcript.

SCENE: Representatives and senators settle into assigned seating. Republicans on one side, Democrats on the other. On the front row, Supreme Court justices subtly adjust garters under black robes. Cheney is wheeled in on a dolly and strapped into his chair. A plate of raw steak is placed nearby to pacify him. Bush approaches the podium and begins.

"My fellow Americans, I would like to start off tonight by giving a big shout-out to Martin Luther King."

Everyone stands and applauds. In the gallery, former Sen. Jesse Helms Googles "Martin Luther King," and remains seated.

"Now I realize that in a system of two parties there will always be differences. But I know we can all be nice and civil with each other, can't we?"

Both sides of the chamber grumble and shift in their chairs uncomfortably.

"After all, we are here for a united and strong America."

Some congressmen are seen hiding their "Republicans Rule" and "Democrats Do It Better" pennants.

"Now, let's talk about our progress in Iraq."

Republicans erupt in cheers while Democrats pretend not to have heard him.

"We must continue to fight for freedom and ensure victory over our dirty enemies."

Republicans jump up on their chairs and high-five each other. Democrats look like they have just received a 5 percent chance of living.

"Calm down now. We are winning the war in Iraq and it is because of the courage of our leadership!"

Republican leaders stand again and chest-bump each other. John Boehner is seen mouthing the words "My house! My house!" like he just sank a three-pointer from half court.

"Now it hasn't been all good for me. My Social Security reforms were soundly defeated..."

Democrats erupt in cheers and wave pennants wildly. Ted Kennedy begins folk dancing as several Dems mount shoulders and begin celebratory chicken fights.

"But I am still the president..."

Democrats drop pennants and dismount shoulders.

"And I will be president for one more year."

Republicans laugh and break out in impromptu team-building exercises.

"Sometimes I wonder if America is headed into her darkest days."

John Kerry stands up and applauds. His tempo fades as he notices the entire room is seated and looking at him. A final handclap echoes off the back wall as he sits, looking ahead blankly.

"But make no mistake, we must keep up domestic spying to find out what's going on!"

Republicans bring out a birthday cake and sing "For he's a jolly good fellow" while Democrats vomit and pass out.

Somewhere in a grave in Virginia, Thomas Jefferson rolls over.

LXXXIV. My Elections Are Always Long, Hard

2008-01-24T15:47:00.001-05:00

Every election I get all jazzed up to do my civic duty, yet it inevitably turns into a revealing act of shame and disgust. Just like lovemaking.

So with all the hoopla over the upcoming presidential election, I’d like to share my last voting experience….

On the day of the 2006 Texas Gubernatorial election, I gathered my materials – the recommendations from the Lubbock Avalanche, some printouts from Web sites and a firm feeling of voter indignation – and drove to my polling location. I was going to vote, and vote hard.

The woman at the registration table couldn't locate my name on voter rolls, so I let her have it.

"Ma'am, don't disenfranchise me. You wouldn't like me when I'm disenfranchised," I said with the devil in my eyes. A shaky hand passed me a ballot, and I walked over to an empty polling booth. It was flimsy, and I made a note not to lean on it.

I began to blacken my first bubble when the pen misfired. So I shook it violently until the remaining ink ejaculated across the flimsy tabletop. It was a mess, and in quick recovery, I attempted to wipe it up with my hand, which is always a poor notion. Ink spreads like syrup, randomly and without mercy. My voting booth skittered across the floor as I followed it, wiping frantically. Finally, I was forced to issue a weak "sorry, sir" to the gentleman whose ass stopped my forward progress.

With evaporated authority, I asked the woman for another pen.

"Having problems?" she grinned. I made a mental note to pray against her.

I started in on the ballot. Man, was I all over the place. In an orgy of frantic panic voting, I voted independent, Democrat, Republican and Libertarian. I knew nothing about any of the candidates, and I was voting for offices I had never even heard of, but I couldn't stop myself. I felt like a drunken slut giving herself to whoever had the sexiest name. I felt stupid. It wasn't until later that I even figured out Libertarians had nothing to do with libraries.

I had been voting for 45 minutes, and I was growing weary. I glanced around and envied the fresh, springy steps of straight-ticket voters as they walked away from the shredder into which we all equally feed our ballots. Then it happened. I leaned on the plastic voting booth, and it gave way. Down I went in a fantastic tumble of newspaper, ink and relief.

I popped up like a stunned prizefighter and stared at my mess. There was a black stencil of my forearm on the floor beside a torn, half-completed ballot. I ran out of the polling place with hot tears on my cheeks, hopped into my car and trained the rearview mirror on my face. I looked like a chimney sweep that had just seen a sad movie.

Later, as I sat in the hot shower, I swore that I was never again going to be seduced by the civic siren song of empowerment. Next time, I swear, I'll ignore the peer pressure that compels me to "vote, vote, vote." I know I'm not really ready for the responsibility.

LXXXIII. Life Lessons

2008-01-18T13:59:00.000-05:00

The following are stories from my poor-selling motivational book, Who Touched My Peter Principle?

Jimmy was always small. In elementary school, the boys would pick on him and call him "Shorty," "Runt" and "Jimmy." He was also shunned by the girls, who would snicker at his thick glasses and extra arm.

But Jimmy always carried hope that one day, others would view him as special as his parents viewed him. They would see beyond the physical oddities and witness a brilliant and subtle mind that was full of compassion, kindness and ninja tactics.

One day, a fireman came barging into Jimmy's classroom.

"The gymnasium is on fire. We need every extra hand we can get! Come on!"

Jimmy looked down at his extra arm. He knew what he had to do. He closed his notebook and rose from his desk. He waited for all the kids to scurry through the door before he stole the teacher's purse, bought liquor, and three-fisted it behind the Dumpster as the sirens wailed.

LESSON: We all can't be heroes.

John huffed down the sterile hallway, his slippered feet gaining unsteady traction. His eyes nervously glanced down at the tray full of rattling test tubes. "I must get these to the safe room," he thought.

He heard gunfire behind him. The Libyans were advancing. He knew he couldn't let the tubes fall into the wrong hands.

Botulism. Ebola. Plague. The labels frightened him even more than the report of gunfire up ahead. If a tube broke, death would spread quickly through the DC area, and then the Western Hemisphere.

As he rounded the corner, a pack of Camel Lights on the security guard's desk caught his eye. He balanced the tray on the desk and fiddled impatiently with the lighter.

Then, almost as if in slow motion, the tray fell and shattered into a smoldering, jagged heap. John slid his back down the wall and sat on the floor. He inhaled the Camel smoke deeply and checked some scores on his iPhone.

LESSON: Don't sweat the small stuff.

Alison was a middle-aged woman with an anger- management problem. She had driven an honest-but-simple husband away, and was now left alone in the small house with plastic fruit on the table and a defunct mower in the shed.

She wondered where it had all gone: the dreams, the plans, the left foot. She dipped a pudgy stump in the bath water. With romance novel clutched in hand, Alison reclined in the water and began reading about the man with the long hair, kissing the maiden with a tender tongue.

Suddenly, a brilliant flash appeared around her, and Alison felt more alive than she ever had. Before it went dark, she saw the clown silhouetted in the doorway, and the toaster in the tub.

LESSON: Don't trust clowns.

LXXXII. It's Wonderful Knife!!

2008-01-15T16:47:00.000-05:00

The days after Christmas time are some of the best of the year. It's always the same. Everyone returns from their respective holiday getaways and tries to out impress each other with the material possessions they acquired from people they pretend to like. It's touching.

For me that time is great because it's when I come down from my annual 3 week Robitussin binge and realize that some parts of life are actually worth living for (e.g. Lobsterfest). This year was especially fun because I awoke to a man in brown banging at my door holding a mysterious package. I prayed this wouldn't be the same lame stunt my parent's pulled last year by sending me an empty box labeled "fan mail."

It occurred to me that this man might actually have something of value to me so I decided to let him go freely after I signed for the package. Turns out it was a most wonderful surprise!! Three different sets of Japanese steak knives, all reasonably priced (just under $1,000) and an authentic Samurai sword as sharp as a tac - sharper even - With a dragon right there on the blade!!

As I rummaged through the packing peanuts, mildly cutting my hands here and there, I managed to put together some semblance of a memory from the night I purchased these. The receipt indicated that on December 24th, when I was no doubt in my deepest stages of recreational drug use and was pretty 'tussed up' as I like to say, I saw an advertisement for Japanese steak knives on QVC that were capable of slicing through various things: pipes, shoes, house pets, bottles, you name it!

So there I sat, with a world of cutting potential at my fingertips. You wouldn't believe the things you can find to cut if you are so inclined. I started with shoes, just as an attempt to prove the man in the hairpiece on the shopping network wrong. But it was flawless, just as he described.

Next came bigger challenges: three ring binders, sewage pipes, bones, diving boards. Yet nothing, and I mean nothing could stop these knives. Now, I bet you think I'm going to tell you I found something they can't cut. Well you have no idea how wrong you are. Chain link fences. Barbwire. Handcuffs. I feel free as ever with these knives in my hands.

Finally, I have a reason to live. For once in my life I have found myself on the cutting edge, and it tastes sweet, sweet as the Grape Robitussin I just polished off.

LXXXI. Clubber Lang: Total Man

2008-01-08T10:33:00.000-05:00

If you have not already heard the name Clubber Lang® on the various talk shows, or in support groups, you soon will. I am the next evolutionary step. Born without hair, wisdom teeth, appendix or decency. As most of you know, I am the desire of all women, and the envy of most men. I have owned more Cadillacs than Elvis, and weigh 200 lbs. less than his bloated Percodan-enriched body. I have had more women than Warren Beatty, Wilt Chamberlain, and Ellen Degeneres. I am the embodiment of the American Dream, the personification of mastering one’s own destiny.

But I was not always the picture of success. No, I am from humble, almost modest beginnings. My story is a sad one. I was born at an early age to biological parents. I was born in a manger. Despite the historical success of manger babies, early indications indicated that mine was an uphill battle. As a child I was chubby and fat. Then I made a discovery.

My dad worked in a garage where he would repair various cars and charge people for it. One time while I was visiting I became thirsty. I reached for my water but accidentally grabbed a container of antifreeze. I gulped it down.

I had never been sicker.

Over the next week I lost 155 lbs. of pure weight loss. Vomiting, sweating, jaundicing, you name it, I was doing it. But as miserable as I felt toward that antifreeze, I couldn’t deny it’s effectiveness as a weight-loss agent. That’s when I decided to pull off the manufacturer’s label on the gallons of antifreeze and put my own Clubber Lang’s Majik Wait Loss Elixir® label on them. They sold like hot cakes, which I also sold.

Next thing you know, I had marketed my product to trailer parks (as elixir) and to garages (as antifreeze) around the Southwest and surrounding counties.

I soon left my ragged childhood behind and became a wealthy business typhoon that no one would ever suspect of being an uneducated trailer park go-nowhere man. That’s right. I pulled myself up by my bootstraps to become the embodiment of the American Dream. The poor man’s Horatio Albert, if you will. I have learned all of life’s secrets along the way and now I want to share them with you.

We’ve only just begun!

LXXX. New Year's Resolutions

2008-01-03T12:28:00.000-05:00

I make resolutions; I don't make "personal enrichment goals" or "quiet promises to myself." I make good, strong resolutions, hard and fast, without mercy, until I am spent. This is the year that you will see a completely new and different Clubber in print. A bolder, more bold, betterer writer who thinks before he speaks and ... just everything.

My writing will become alive, quickening your pulse, shortening your breath, causing butterflies from cervix to sternum. You'll call your friends with breathy exhortations: "You've got to go to 101-stories. You won't believe what Clubber wrote about nutmeg (or whatever I am writing about, nutmeg just being an example here)."

It is a publishing fact – detailed accounts of my adventurous life sell papers, even the free ones. My biography is the poetry of a well-lived life, and I owe it to you to transport you with my words. You'll be there as I hunt boar in the Loire Valley, smelling the copper of cooling blood wafting from my knife as I feed you phrase after terse phrase.

You'll taste the warm wine of a Spanish morning as the sun breaks over the Valencia rooftops and I nudge the crow-haired beauties entwined on the bed and tell them to get the hell out. You'll be there at GW Hospital when my test results come back.

Ladies and gentlemen, I experience life so you don't have to, and I am resolved to let you live vicariously though me in the coming year. If there is one thing that I have learned it's that Persians press charges. But something else I've learned is that there are no guarantees in this world. Actually there are, but they are mainly for exercise equipment and mattresses. Please disregard.

I think of Whitney.

Whitney Houston, who once held the entire world in her hand, is now selling her enema kits, blood-crusted coke spoons and Versace evening gowns (size: Crank Whore) to settle outstanding debts. But I swear to you, I will never sell my Crank Whore gowns, even if they don't fit and are covered with another man's nutmeg.

Happy New Year.

LXXIX. Special and Spicy Holiday Viewing

2007-12-20T15:40:00.000-05:00

When you write a blog for a major metropolitan daily, you get a lot of mail. Most of the mail is threatening, but some of it is a plea for you to review some Great New Product. It could be a book, a movie, a fish tranquilizer, or maybe even a new, flavored condom. (Tastes OK.) This year, I received five Christmas specials on DVD with notes requesting favorable reviews. Here are my findings:

Rudolph, the Emo Reindeer. In this updated tale, Rudolph, in his dark-rimmed spectacles, attends a suburban reindeer school and rarely smiles. Donner plants some chronic in Rudolph's messenger bag, which is full of angst-riddled poetry. The climax occurs at a Fall Out Boy show when Rudolph jumps on stage, strips nude and holds his forelegs out in cruciform as Donner's bullets pierce his heart. Two and a Half Candy Canes.

Santa's in Trouble! Andy Dick plays Mrs. Claus, a jolly femdom who tortures Santa into signing over his land to Wal-Mart so she can fund her growing smack habit. Santa is played by a pitifully ailing Kirk Douglas, whose best comedic lines are buried under slurred speech. The reconciliation scene is actually tender, although way too graphic for most families. One and a Half Candy Canes.

Johnny Has Two Daddies This Christmas. We follow the story of little Johnny, whose family has undergone a massive transformation due to divorce. The final scene – where Johnny's mom realizes that "it had nothing to do with her" – is priceless. Five Candy Canes.

Frosty the Self-hating Cutter. Shortly after Karen and her friends make him from the newly fallen snow, Frosty grows sullen and withdrawn. Refusing to enjoy his corncob pipe or family vacations, Frosty prays for the temp to creep above 32 degrees so that he can "be at peace." Musical numbers and choreography save this dark tale. Three and a Quarter Candy Canes.

Santa's Been Drinking Again. Not even worth reviewing. Stars Margot Kidder as the abused but faithful wife. Gun violence might be unsuitable for smaller children. No Candy Canes.

Trojan Extra Spicy. The ribs make it more enjoyable for some, but most will find the jalapeño taste distracting, if not painful.

Merry Kwanzaa.

LXXVII. Letters To Santa, Part Deux

2007-12-14T10:07:00.000-05:00

While I fully realize that I posted a letter to Santa just two short weeks ago, I also realize that that fat "jolly" shadow of an elf has not been prone to listen to me even in my darkest dispare. So, I have elected to give it one more go. "The old college try" as it's sometimes referred to. Claus you'd better weigh each of my words carefully. Here goes....

Santa,

I hope my second letter finds you well. Me? Not so much. I am crying as I write this. (Got maced.)

I get so sad this time of year. Some say it is Seasonal Affective Disorder or AIDS for short, but I think it has something to do with $53K in credit card debt and a bench warrant in Rockbridge County. What do you think?

Can you believe I am a year older? I know that you don't age because you are powered by dark forces and Intel, but mortality really blows. Let's face it. I might not be alive long enough to see an Olsen twin die. Actually, I take that back.

Some may think it is crazy that a grown man still believes in Santa, but I will hit those people with a mallet and soup while singing "Bingo was his Name-o" on horseback. Who's crazy now, Claus? I dare you to look at me.

I was arguing with one of my buddies about you yesterday. He said if you could deliver all your presents in one night then you must be omnipotent, but I bet you can still have sex.

Most Merciful Santa, will you look into your magic snow globe and tell me the true meaning of Christmas, and also how the Nats will do next year? Write back.

I must confess that at one time I doubted you. I once laced your cookies with horse tranquilizers. The next morning, we found my dad passed out in the storage shed in a pile of presents. I guess he learned not to mess with you! I can't believe he tried to steal the presents you left and put them in the shed.

My father used to encourage me to believe in you. He used to say:

"If you stop believing in Santa, he won't bring you presents."

"If you stop believing, you will die."

"If you question Santa one more time in front of your sister I am going to cut you."

Jolly Elf, I am not going to ask for toys this Christmas. I am so over that. In the Bible it says, "when I was a child I spake as a child, and when I became a man, I thought the word spake sounded funny." I ask that you give all my presents to other kids this year, Santa. Preferably blonde ones from middle-class backgrounds.

I hope you have a great Christmas this season, or are you Jewish? I never thought to ask. That's crazy. Santa, Jewish? (That's like saying Jesus was Jewish!)

Anyway, take care and Merry Christmas.

LXXVII. A One Horse Open Sleigh

2007-12-07T15:55:00.000-05:00

For the past half a decade, in the middle of each December, my friends, their hot wives and I climb into a horse-drawn carriage and ride through Rock Creek Park to look at Christmas lights and drink wine under the stars.

Sounds fun doesn't it? It should be. But it isn't.

Last week, on the warmest night of December, the Carriage Friends and I donned our tank tops and coaching shorts and headed out for our annual holiday ride.

John, the jerk of the group, arrives with a bottle of wine in his belly, a 40 in his hand, and an edge that drink wouldn't smooth. "Merry Christmas, Clubber. Gonna ruin our night again this year?"

His wife, Rachel, leans into me and confides she is worried about her husband, not for the drinking as much as "the pill-mixing." I misinterpret the signal and try to stick my tongue in her ear.

With fresh handprint on my face, I climb into the carriage and jockey for position near Clara, the prettiest of the wives and the one whose virtue suffers most under drink. "Mind if I sit here? You know, in case I get sick." I smile to little response.

"Leave me alone. I just lost my dad," she says. I laugh off the news and wait for her next glass of wine.

The carriage lurches forward and crawls into the wonderland of Rock Creek Park. Sculptured lawns, dancing waters, twinkling lights, the footfalls of a horse on pavement – it all seems like a recipe for fond memory-making. But you're not accounting for the horse smell. It is overwhelming. Our horse is sweating a stew of stink through his winter coat, which he grew in anticipation of a winter below 80 degrees.

Hank then starts up with his "Sure wish I could afford a place like that" talk. He is pointing at a 45-room Italianate manse. He inhales sharply through his teeth and cocks his head to the side."That guy's gotta be worth a hundred mil," he says. "Betcha his trophy wife is even blond down there. How do you feel about that, Clubber?" The women shift uncomfortably, so I try to scoot a hand up under one of them.

The stench then takes a turn for the worse. "God, what is THAT smell?" Clara asks.
"Oh," the hard woman piloting the carriage pivots. "Switched old Remy's food here and his innards ain't taking it too kindly." We all stare at the bulging Santa sack under the horse's tail. Libidos quickly cool. Christmas is never cheerful on the business end of a Clydesdale.

"Driver, can we take a shortcut to get back? I've got an office Christmas party to get to," I say.

"You can just get out here," she says.

"Are you serious?" I say. "We're two miles from where we started."

"Get out. In fact, I want you all out," she says, then tilts up her flask.

We climb down and watch as the carriage retreats into darkness.

"Anybody up for a Christmas skinny dip?" I say. "I hear dancing waters."

LXXVI. Letters to Santa

2007-12-03T15:13:00.000-05:00

Clubber, Age 5

Dear Santa,

I have been a good boy this year. I will leave cookies for you that my mom makes. I like Christmas. I want a toy dump truck that you can really put dirt in. I want a doctor's kit. I want to be a doctor when I grow up. Thank you. Merry Christmas.

Clubber

Age 9

Dear Santa,

My mom still makes us write these cards because of my little sister. If you are real, I would like a go-cart. The one with the 5HP engine at Western Auto is the one I want. Thanks. I dare you to prove yourself real by giving me this.

Clubber

Age 14

Here is a list of my Christmas demands:

I want a new bike. I want a video game system. Anything over $200. I want a motorcycle. I like the BMWs. And I want any cash you might have on you. If you don't give me this stuff, you are disproving God.

Clubber

Age 18

Santa,

I don't need you. I have the whole world on a string. I am young, thin and I am going to be a rock star! I will make a million dollars and everybody will be jealous of me. My mom is still mad at me for not going to college, but she'll be kicking down my door to get to my millions. Ha!

Clubber

Age 24

Dear Santa,

You win. My life is a wreck and a total waste. First of all, I beg for your forgiveness. I have done so many bad things this year. The cheating, the stabbings. But isn't it you, oh merciful Claus, who forgives all those who ask for it? Please, God doesn't accept my prayers anymore because he says that I'm drunk.

I am so deep in debt, Santa, I don't know what to do. I bought this house I can't pay for. And I just got a call that they are going to take my car away. My current girlfriend is pressing charges even though she has healed nicely.

Please, Santa, I beg you to kill me. If only I had become a doctor like I had always wanted. But nobody ever gave me that doctor's kit. ...

Clubber

LXXV. I Am Thankful

2007-11-15T14:11:00.000-05:00

Jessica, you ignorant slut. (I've always wanted to say that outside the bedroom.)

Let's not kid ourselves. Thanksgiving is a nightmare of death.

Every year my family gathers, ostensibly to offer thanks, but really to traumatize the children. As a child in my grandmother's country home, I would stare with Rochester eyes upon the dead animals obscenely displayed on our table – the turkeys with legs spread wide, revealing vulgar openings stuffed with twigs, onions and car parts; the roasted fetal pigs in suggestive configurations behind shrunken caramelized squirrels; and the live possum swimming in the stew. My backwoods family cooked strange stuff.

One embarrassing Thanksgiving, I learned that the buffalo penis was actually a centerpiece, not food. Grandma kept it there to keep her "fertile" (rhymes with textile). I was halfway through it before she slapped it out if my hands and told me to put my clothes back on.

Grandma had three rules in her house: Don't go in the middle bedroom, stay in well-lit areas, and don't move suddenly around Grandpa. He kept a pistol. I also learned to avoid the aging great aunt whose self-neglect had produced a full billy goat beard and the trailing smell of potty.

Eventually, my family died off in farming accidents and insurance scams, so I now celebrate Thanksgiving alone. And you know what? I miss them, every one of them, even the drunken uncles with roaming hands and determined libidos. Thanksgiving isn't the same without them. I guess you can say family is important to me.
I am thankful for your listening.

LXXIV. Ivan Stands Strong

2007-11-08T15:40:00.000-05:00

Call me old school, but there are a few things in Ivan’s life that Ivan won’t ever change. I stand strong by my hobbies and rituals. Sorry, but I am a fairly conservative guy.

I do have a few skeletons in my closet though. Listen, aborting gay fetuses is a man’s choice. There, I said it. Liberalism, so sue me. Nonetheless, I am a social conservative. I don’t fear change, but I do abide by the law: If I am not broken, please fix me.

There are a few rituals that I have abided by over the years. I was never a bully, but I wanted the younger kids in the neighborhood to be locked in the bathroom with me when my bowels moved. I quit that though. Legal reasons.

Still, there is nothing wrong with dressing up as a fat woman, is there? I liked to dance as a young man or as Cecil, an obese, middle-aged woman. If it makes me feel sexy, lock me up and throw away the key.

I stole as a child. I walked right out of Wal Mart and into Toy’s R Us with my mother. Security stopped me on the suspicion that I was wearing only size 20 women’s lingerie. As a child, I focused mostly on candy though. Theft was easy in those days. Stealing makes me feel bad these days though. The merchandise does not belong to me, and I don’t belong on the Registry of Sex Offenders.

Until recently, I continued to IM my friends. My parents canceled my AOL account last week. They are really conservative. We don’t have a DVD player or high speed internet, so I rely on chat rooms when I’m lonely.

They said my “obsession” is affecting my life. I would not call my “all-night hobby” an obsession. My friend said I can download AIM for free. We aren’t friends anymore. I told her in gif 1, “Listen, I have a college degree, and I’ve never heard of it. How could you possibly know that and where would I get it? P.S. Can you send that pic again?” I talked down to her, but she’s a pretty smart 6th grader.

All in all, I stick with what works. Young girls are easy because Cecil makes them laugh. Excuse me, I’ve got mail.

LXXIII. Halloween Greetings

2007-10-31T11:34:00.000-04:00

Dear Goblin Ghoul,
Halloween comes but once a year. Me? More often. Bring a towel.
Clubber

Dear Accommodating Halloween aquaintance,
Mind if I come over tonight after trick or treating? I'll need some place to wash off all the blood.
Clubber
PS. Buy soap.

Hello Spooky Apparition,
What do you think is scarier, a witch or my sweating PCP fueled body working on top of you? Don't talk, I'm almost there.
Clubber

Dear October 31st werewolf,
What is the difference between this Halloween and Labor Day? You lived through Labor Day.
Clubber

Dear Mummy scare scare,
Instead of saying "trick or treat," I like to say "gunshot or strangulation"
Clubber
PS. Choose wisely.

Hello plastic spider ring wearer,
Some people see a graveyard as a peaceful repository of former people. I see it as a promising collection of future lovers.Lend me your shovel.
Clubber

Dear Witchy Woman,
They say it is bad luck if a black cat crosses your path. But I say it is bad luck that you moved into my neighborhood. Get ready to become a statistic.
Clubber

Dear costumed Fall friend,
What do you plan on doing when the clock strikes midnight? Me? I will be trying to hold the gun steady as I watch you cry and unconvincingly make love to your best friend.
Clubber

Hey there end of October person,
Some people think nothing says Halloween like a tastefully carved Jack o lantern. But I think nothing says Happy Halloween like a tastefully carved opening in your diaphragm. Breathe deeply and feel my love.
Clubber

Hey there ghoul spooky,
It's Halloween. Time to be thankful for what you have. A healthy body, and safe happy home. Author's note: You will lose one or both of them tonight. Be prepared. I work fast.
Clubber

Hey Goat head,
Roses are red, violets are blue, if you try to protect your backside, I'll do it there too.
Clubber

Dear Religious Halloween observer,
Want a Halloween treat? Look me right in the eye and you'll meet God.
Clubber

Dear attractive Halloween party attendant,
Wanna know what we'll have in common tonight? As you strain against the ropes begging for your release I will be working on my own.
Clubber

Dear Halloweiner,
What do you do when you love someone so much that it makes you want to kill them? I send them a card. Happy Halloween.

LXXII. A Tired Heart & A Lung Dart

2007-10-25T17:30:00.000-04:00

"BOY! Pass me another lung dart... And don't stop your dancin'!" said my grandmother in raspy tones as she finished what had to be her 30th cigarette in less than 2 hours. As those words came out of her mouth, I always used to wonder why she sounded that way. I came to realize that it was from the cigarettes, not from her rubbing sandpaper on her larynx as I had originally suspected.

She was playful like that. Whenever I came over she told me that if I stopped dancing, so would her pacemaker. She had all these cute nicknames she used. For me she usually chose "boy" or "kid" or "devil child." But for cigarettes, it was almost a certainty that I could expect to hear "cancer stick" or "lung dart" come out of those wrinkly lips of hers.

For some reason she took pride in mocking cancer in the face. She seemed unphased by the fact that at least 10 of her friends had died of lung cancer. However, during that summer I she took me in I learned so much - how to mulch, how to paint, how to make a molatov cocktail - but the most important lesson I learned from granny was to never let anything stand in the way of you and what you love - especially not "scientists" or "doctors."

My summer spent with her couldn't have come at a better time in my life. Just before my parents left to spend the summer in Amsterdam, they told me that my best friend in the world for 15 years, my dog Scampers, had gone away to live on a farm.

My heart sank. How could he do this? My best friend.. leaving me to run away and go live on a farm? It was so tough to take. After all, he hated the outdoors. I wish my parents had put him down rather than have him leave me without an explanation or a chance to say goodbye. I vowed right then and there that I would never trust anyone again, especially not house pets cause I knew, out there somewhere, Scampers was laughing at me. It still makes me sick to think about.

But Grandma made me feel whole again. The chores she gave me were only the tip of the iceberg. I'd sit back and listen for hours on end as she meandered between sleep and story. "Grandma's little bartender" she began to call me as she'd call for a "cancer stick and a everclear shot." But making drinks and lighting cigarettes were a small price to pay for tales of jumping rope with Abraham Lincoln and romancing Julius Caesar. There was so much wisdom in that 4 foot 11 frame of hers that was just dying to get out.

I suppose that came to fruition as she did eventually pass on during one of her stories. The doctors said she died from a combination of "loving too much" and "lung cancer." But I'd like to think she had so much love in her heart that she gave to me and up in the heavens, she knows that by filling me with wisdom and experience, she left the world a better place, which is a lot more than I can say about Scampers the Traitor.

LXXI. Halloween is the Bestest

2007-10-25T17:09:00.000-04:00

Halloween is my favorite holiday. I love dressing up as a goblin and sending threatening notes to ex-lovers. But I love Halloween more.

As a kid, I liked the sense of mystery that Halloween contained. There were always the razor blades in the apples to artfully eat around, the dirty needle surprises in the heart of popcorn balls – and these were just the treats my parents made for me.

The other Halloween constant was the old lady on the block that was rumored to be a real live witch, as evidenced by her porch light being off on Halloween. We took that as proof positive she was worshipping Dark Forces and feeding on the crimson protein of the slow kid from the block over. In reality, she was probably just sleeping off the dialysis. Poor thing.

To be clear, you may trick-or-treat legitimately until about the sixth grade. After that, you can trick-or-treat ironically until the ninth grade. After that, you can't really call it trick-or-treating as much as casing houses.

As a tax-paying American, let me be the first to say that there is too much of an emphasis on "treats" and not nearly enough on "tricks" during the ghoul season. The good trick is an underused social grace. What better way to meet the neighbors than tying a skinned pet to a prominent oak and then watch as neighbors emerge from their houses to mingle in wild speculation?

And what about the bonding that occurs after sailing stray concrete through double-paned windows? The neighbors may curse you and even involve law enforcement, but secretly they will appreciate your good-natured fun.

As a boy, my favorite Halloween hijinks were painting misleading epithets on neighborhood homes. "Yankee go home!" I would gleefully spray across the house of a native Texan. "We don't need your kind!" was a poignant critique of a white Protestant of average income two houses down.

And who could resist the subtle charms of my ironic admonition "No graffiti" scrawled across the broad arms of a majestic ranch house?

It is this sort of playful creativity that makes Halloween such a laugh riot for the whole family. Speaking of families, mine disowned me.

LXX. Animals slaughtered for beauty and wealth

2007-10-18T10:36:00.000-04:00

The rich are very pretty. Except the old ones. They are kinda gross. But for the most part, rich people are prettier than you and me. Why is that?

I have spent a lot of the past 10 minutes thinking about it, so I am kind of an expert. The following are my theories with brief explanations in English.

1. Wealth attracts beauty. Rich men marry the hottest women then have hot offspring who will breed with the hottest of their generation and so on, until eventually they have the ability to fly. This is not just my theory; it is my hypothesis.

2. Wealth creates beauty. Rich people have the money to buy flattering clothing. I never really understood this until recently. The cut of clothing can make a tremendous difference in how you look.

I love Goodwill – 70 percent of my worldly goods come from there – but their sizes are way off. The cut of an average T-shirt from Target is potato-sack huge on me. For casual day trips and lesser errands, this is fine. I simply put on the T-shirt, cinch it with a rope belt and go out without pants. I resemble Hercules' younger brother, Jercules.

3. Wealth encourages beauty. There is pressure for rich people to look good. They often shower and wear makeup out of pure peer pressure. However, in my 'hood, it is a mad dash to not care. There is no social coercion to look presentable because everyone has basically given up by age 30. We don't do 401(k)s or exfoliate because of our collective conviction that none of us will amount to anything. Hell, we still wear jorts and mullets in the belief that old fashion is proven fashion.

4. Wealth hates corn syrup. Go to an expensive restaurant and look at the portions. You pay 48 bucks for a tablespoon of fish. Go to a dive chain and you can get a washtub of spaghetti for $4.95. The reason? Food places know that un-rich people are obsessed with "perceived good value," so they sell us on bulk. We don't care that it is loaded up with corn syrup and lead paint, we just want the damn "Snow Shovel Full of Casserole" that we ordered.

Now, the super-wealthy are a different matter. They basically come full circle to embrace homeless chic. It is the middle-of-the-pack rich where you find hotness.

So what can we do to become as hot as the rich? Make more money.

LXIX. The Playground of Imagination

2007-10-08T11:06:00.000-04:00

"Mr. Lang, where will you be flying with us today?"

"Far from local authorities," I laughed.

Her mouth became a line segment, like the Jack in the Box Guy, so I withdrew the joke.

"I'm sorry. Fort Worth," I offered.

Her smile returned. "And will you be checking any bags?"

"No, my wife isn't with me!"

Her face was now completely erased, just a peach-colored smudge framed by frosted hair.

"I'm sorry. Yes, just a trundle full of liquids and some skis."

It was the third time I had flown in two weeks, and I still loved it.

When I was a boy, we were poor and air travel was a rarity. So was parental love and food. But I distinctly remember my first time on an airplane. I may have been 7. I pressed my nose to the glass at the gate and watched the planes take off and thought I must be the luckiest kid in the world. Also, I didn't understand why the planes wings didn't "flap."

Upon check-in, I was given a small plastic airplane – the kind they used to give kids before budget constraints and terrorists made the world suck. I can still recall the feel of it. It was smooth and round like a Tic Tac. On board, I just held it in my little hands, disbelieving that someone actually gave it to me. A shy kid like me certainly wasn't worthy of such treasure. To this day, it is the most magical thing I have ever received. (The second came from a girl named Jennifer in college who had a forked tongue.)

Now I am all grown up, and I feel a little self-conscious because I still find airports and airplanes magical. I still turn my head with the roar of a plane to watch it climb into the sky, imagining the destination and the people who are trying to get there. Are they happy? Are there any hermaphrodites?

Airports are like little cities with restaurants, free CNN and possibilities. You can fly anywhere, anytime. And 11 days ago I was in DCA's D terminal with only one thing missing.
"Mr. Lang, have all your bags been in your possession since you packed them?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Here is your boarding pass. Gate D21. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Yes. Do you guys have any more of those little plastic airplanes you used to give away last century?"

She hunched her mouth to shoulder and spoke into a transceiver. "Security ..."

LXVIII. I Won't Rest, Till I've Got Hair on my Chest

2007-10-03T15:20:00.001-04:00

"Drink this. It'll put some hair on your chest" said my brother's best friend Leonard Davies as he handed me what would be my first, but certainly not my last, pull off of the moonshine bottle.

When I was 13 I went to my distant cousin's wedding in Dogwater, Tennessee. It was in this mosquito-ridden, sweltering, back-country land that I first experimented with a number of homemade substances that altered the well-being of my mind and undoubtedly took years off my life. Long story short, I spent a month there one night.

Those words echoed in my ears for ages it seemed. "... it'll put some hair on your chest." I quite frequently mistook similar genial catch-phrases for nuggets of wisdom at that time, especially when it came from my older brother or his accomplices. As a most impressionable child, they were also the types role models that a young man who's father was in and out of prisons and mental health facilities might look up to.

Having been a big fan of Burt Reynolds for some time, I decided to try my best to look like him. I had the greatest leather jacket I could acquire, but obviously at the "ripe" young age of 13 (as I was told in various online chat rooms) I would continue to be for the most part hairless, especially on my cherub-like face and non-muscular chest.

So you must see how the words "it'll put hair on your chest" would intrigue me so. Let me tell you, drinking out of a clay jar with three X's across the front will certainly enhance your time, but it will not in fact put hair on your chest.

I spent a large portion of the night sucking every drop I could from the moonshine container and an even larger portion of the night swearing at relatives, urinating on bridesmaids and sleeping in the wedding cake that I knocked over.

When I awoke in the hospital, my mouth tasted of charcoal. Indeed, I did not have hair on my chest. My first inclination was to suffocate Leonard for lying to me, but I learned that the real lesson here was not to believe in everything you are told. Only whiskey will give you hair on your chest - trust me, I have 8 of them.

LXVII. Ivan Stands on His Own Two Feet

2007-09-20T15:12:00.001-04:00

Feet have never been of any interest to me. They are the things I walk on. I suppose if I lost one it would be of some concern, but for now, I ignore them and allow my toenails to grow out.

However, I have had the fortunate displeasure of having rather large feet, some of the biggest I have ever seen. Or licked. In fact, my feet are usually brought up in normal day-to-day conversations.

Mr. Drago, my homophobic father, traditionally begs the preacher at church to explain why he caught me stuffing my overgrown feet into my mother's high heels as a pre-adolescent teenager. I was 18 and wearing her bra.

Girls always gawk at the size of my feet. And socks. But, they can never fit my toes into their mouths while fantasizing about them when I shower.

As rumor has it, men with large feet and hands are well hung. I have yet to see any evidence of this. Many of the girls that I have been with probably have the same conclusion. I can usually tell by their disappointing facial expressions when I close my overcoat and walk away in shame.

Clown Feet is a name that I am called a lot. Not because of my feet, but because I enjoy spending time with children.

With big feet come big blisters. Anytime I exert physical strength, it seems my feet become two war torn countries full of blisters. Oddly as it sounds, because my feet are so crowded with blisters, the damn blisters decided to take a stronghold on my genitals.

I was always the most feared grave digger in middle school. My big toe had its own nickname. "The Deep Punishment" is what they used to call it. I would torture my friends until they cried, gagged, or bled.

I may rid myself of them some day, but for now, it will be a size 15 for me please.

LXVI. Are you getting a fair shake?

2007-09-20T14:43:00.000-04:00

Look at your hands right now. Did you wash them after the last time you did your evil in the restroom? Be honest. Santa-Jesus is listening, and giggling.

A new study was released this week that shows a third of men do not wash their hands after using a public restroom. Twelve percent of women are swine too. Sickening. I am disgusted and aroused.

Could this be true? Haven't I routinely witnessed co-workers intent on spreading their crotch patina to the rest of mankind, masked as greetings and well-wishes?

"How are you Clubber? Still having legal trouble?" a co-worker asks while doing the middle-finger palm tickle during our handshake.

"Oh, just a little," I say, remembering 15 minutes before when I watched him sprint out of the restroom, giving the sink a wide berth. Then I stick my fingers in my mouth hoping he has the plague. I am weird like that.

Because I am a Blogger (Latin for "More Important"), I decided to do my own research.

Yesterday, I bought a clipboard and fashioned a crude police badge from some old box tops and stationed myself inside our office restroom. Not more than five minutes into my experiment, a woman slapped me for peeking under her stall, clearly not respecting my lab coat.

I had a hunch I'd have better luck in the men's room, so I packed up my digital camera and adult magazines, put on a new disguise, and went next door. The first of my male co-workers came in. "Hey Clubber, why are you dressed like the Easter Bunny in a lab coat?"

His candor caught me so off-guard that my Australian accent failed me.

"Bonjour!" I said so loudly it startled me.

He walked into the stall and I saw his pants hit the floor. As he took up his residency, another guy came in, my boss Fielding Troutman. But for the sake of anonymity, I will call him "Mr. My Crotch is Your Crotch." He stood in front of the urinal.

"So why the bunny suit, Clubber? You doing kids' parties again?"

I meowed to throw him off.

After he was finished, he karate kicked the urinal handle and walked right out the door, smiling at me. Disgusting. "Stall Man" then flushed and came out.

"So long, lil' bunny Clubber!" he said, and went out without a drop of water on his hands.

It's official – 100 percent of the men in my office do not wash their hands after unleashing, and 100 percent of the women hate scientists.

The next time a co-worker sticks out a hand that looks like he just plowed through a bucket of fried chicken in the bathroom, I will cough into my own fist and say, "Oh sorry, you probably don't want to shake right now, I might have the plague."

LXV. Forget the Go-Kart, I'll Take the Magic Kit

2007-09-17T12:18:00.000-04:00

...and not just because Criss Angel is my hero. No, no...when I was a boy, my wish list was meager – a go-kart, walkie-talkies, a BB gun and a magic kit. I was convinced that my life would be godlike and manageable if I only had these four tools.

With a go-kart, I could navigate highways and take long trips in rough terrain; outrunning my bad acid trips and the millions of bats that were always on my tail. With the walkie-talkies, I could communicate with my friends from forward positions and deliver whispery intel about what my dad’s wayward adventures. With a BB gun, I could become an expert marksman for hire, available to certain shadow organizations. And with the magic kit, I could command the attention of the brown-eyed girls from a block over. Chicks dig magic.

After much negotiation, and several years of therapy, I was able to secure two of the four. I got the walkie-talkies and an early education that same day when a trucker with a repeater detailed his methods of pleasing fat women. My friends and I listened with wide eyes and shallow breath until I slowly turned the knob to OFF and decided to postpone puberty for two years.

And by the time the BB gun was placed in my hands, it had been rendered paintless and impotent by my brother. It was a hand-me-down, and the firing spring was so spent that I had to aim a good 25 feet over a target to arc the BB into a hopeful trajectory.

Now my mother, a Southern Baptist because she felt the Apostles were Baptist, had always impressed upon me the idea that magic tricks were vaguely associated with the devil.

"Magic works because the Devil is showy," she would say.

"But Mom, Jesus turned water into wine," I would offer.

"Shut up!"

"OK, Mom, but can I have a go-kart?"

"You want to run up under a car and take your head off?"

"No, just the go-kart."

"Shut up!"

Well, I am in my 20s now, and we put Mom in the ground seven years ago. She crawled out, but I am hell-bent on fulfilling the toy list of my youth. So two days ago, I went shopping. I didn't buy a go-kart because I didn't want to look like Herman Munster zipping through the neighborhood with knees drawn up like a praying mantis, so I bought a magic kit.

I am really excited. This weekend I will put on my very first magic show. My first trick? Making my unfulfilled childhood disappear.

My second? Making it reappear.

LXIV. Mr. Drago's Prayer and Ivan's Lesson

2007-09-07T14:10:00.000-04:00

It was bedtime again, and just like every other night in 3rd grade, I was waiting for Dad to come in and help say my prayers with me. I waited anxiously to recite the prayers I had memorized over the years as this was a nightly ritual between me and my father.

I must have dozed off that night because I woke up to the crashing of dishes and blood curtling screams. I pulled the covers over my head trying to hide myself from the intruders into my home. Shaking uncontrollably, I tried to peak through my covers to see the door. Just as I had found a view, the door creaked open. Light began to flood the room, and the outline of a man entered the room.

"Wake up Ivan. It's time to pray," my Dad whispered. I didn't question my father as to what had happenned in the other room. However, I knew something was wrong. The usual stink of whiskey was missing from my father's breathe. He climbed onto the bed, leaned in towards my ear, and began speaking...

And so it begins...
The journey that ended has begun
And what has begun will soon end.
A once blooming flower falls as a dying carcus.

The vultures of death consume the
Flames of the starving children.
Feast on the hearts of your young friends.
The giggling of innocent youth has been
Drowned by blood and suffering of days past.

Open your eyes to the darkness
Breathe the air in the great vaccum.
Feel the nothing around you.
You have become it.

As the dawn rises so too does the fear
of tomorrow.
Giant explosions fuel the great soul.
Tears of blood fall from the heavens
When the existence of so few ends.

I too have experienced what the select few have.
Soldiers of darkness defeated.
Stand on your feet and believe.
Believe that all is for not.

Nay, believe what you may.
You are part of the great night.
The night that changed men forever.

Feel it course through your veins
As it ignites your soul and turns the heart to ash.

Breathe and believe...

My father grabbed my head and kissed a long, drawn out kiss on my forehead. He left the room and shut the door. I missed the meaning of my father's prayer. However, I did learn one thing that night. Never switch your father's heart medication with the dog's worm vaccine.

LXIII. If the Air Runs Cold, It Must Not Be Sold

2007-09-06T11:41:00.000-04:00

"Why don't you get a new car? You drive the oldest car of any of our friends and I'm afraid that thing is unsafe," she said.

I swigged my beer and kept my eyes on the TV. "Why don't you go into a room you feel more comfortable shutting up in?"

The sharp, stinging handprint on my cheek was a gentle reminder of her love.

"I am serious. You car is falling apart," she lovingly yelled.

It was then that I issued the line men have been issuing since 36 months after the first sale of a Model T. "Sweetheart, it's paid for."

"But your medical bills from one wreck will total more than the money you are saving by driving it," she said with a hint of Vulcan in her voice.

Then I uttered the second-oldest line.

"It gets me from A to B, sweetie."

Of course, I have failed to tell her about the handful of times my car has overheated, stalled out, or needed essential parts such as alternators or transmissions replaced, because I didn't want to worry her. Plus I didn't want her on my ass.

"Look, I know you are frugal, baby, and that is admirable in theory. But it's maddening in real life," she said. "I haven't ridden in that thing in two years now because it is so nasty. You have floorboard trash and fast food wrappers seat-high. You have gum smashed into the carpet, and the whole car smells like sour milk. It's not like you love that car or treat it like your baby. Time to get rid of it. What do you think?"

"I think this is the one where Mr. Burns releases the hounds at Homer's company party."

"Dammit!" She yanked the remote control from my hand and threw it through the bay window.

I stood up. "Sweetheart, I am from Texas! And that means I don't get rid of an old car until the air conditioner runs out. Understand? If the air blows cold, it must not be sold."

She left it alone and went into the other room. I stared at the smoky grayness of the TV screen.

She's right, I thought. I have an ABS light permanently on, the MAINTENANCE light is always on, the knobs are missing off the radio, and the interior smells like the State Fair on week three.
But I just can't get rid of something that it would take too much energy to clean out.

LXII. Ivan's Inner Demons

2007-08-27T14:22:00.000-04:00

I have been absent for far too long. For those of you who have never met me, I offer you a list of my most Unusual Habits and Characteristics:

I am terrified of the homeless. I believe them to be much wiser and stronger than me.

I stare at women in the Metro. Young, old, skinny, fat, black, white. All of them. I like to hover close over them.

I recently bought an iPod Nano just for my GWAR! albums.

I am most comfortable sitting on the Porcelain Throne.

I have pets, but I haven’t let them out of their cages in years.

I make sexual advances on any co-worker that gives me the time of day.

I like to offer to pay for things, but I truly hate to spend money. I usually find it to be a waste.

I convince myself that I have reoccurring heart attacks. But I love to eat cheese by the bushel, so I put up with them.

I used to dress up as a fat woman throughout my early childhood.

Sometimes, I forget to breathe.

I love romantic comedies. I know Serendipity by heart.

I am convinced I am surrounded my morons. Then, I forget to zip up my pants until lunch, and I second-guess myself.

I enjoy dropping off and picking up Dry Cleaning.

It's nice meeting you all.

-Ivan Drago

LXI. Lippincott's Revolution

2007-08-27T14:07:00.000-04:00

I can't remember the last time I felt true sanity...

It's been years since I had a pleasant dream...

I still feel uncomfortable in my own skin...

Fear and paranoia have taken over my life...

The glaze of hatred has engulfed my mind...

There are so many ways to begin the story of my last attempt at escape from the depths of the virtual abyss. Let me begin.

To Whom It May Concern: It was the evening of the 4th of July in Manhattan, and as usual I was waking from a self-induced coma in an unfamiliar place. A booze cruise was in store for the evening, so I headed to Carlisle Hall to clean myself up. In preparation for the party, I fumbled around in the medicine cabinet popping pills and dousing my eyes with hair spray. I was filled with nervous excitement.

My friends carried me to the taxi, and we headed to Pier 81 to board the Citylights Cruise Ship. There was music, free food, free booze, and girls....all the things that a single man could ask for. After stumbling into the food display and knocking over the entire buffet, I was greeted by the skipper and the crew with harsh looks. I decided I needed to collect myself in the bathroom and wash water over my burning eyes. I ran through the door to what I thought was the bathroom. It turned out to be a dark stairwell down into the depths of the ship.

I tumbled down the stairs and hit my head on some sort of metal contraption. A dark haze filled my mind as I drifted off into the abyss. I awoke to the nudge of a man dressed in a full tuxedo. He introduced himself as Lippincott Pavlik, and he offered me a drink. He lifted a cup and dipped it into a canister. I took the first sip and it burned the entire way down. I couldn't help but notice the strong fumes reminiscent of diesel fuel.

Cup after Cup, I listened to Lippincott Pavlik describe rumors of the revolution he was leading from the underground. He was not an anarchist. Rather, he dreamed of a world where humans were no longer slaves to wires of electricity, cable, and computers. You see, these many wires struck fear in his heart. I too feared wires, so I longed to join him, and he told me when the first rocket sounds, I would be of use.

That is last that I remember from that evening. I have been instructed by the NYC Police Department to write down my statement. From what I gather, just as the first firework exploded in the nighttime sky over Manhatten, I emerged from the belly of the ship completely naked screaming "Hail the Revolution" and throwing other patrons of the boat overboard.

I have been in custody for a little over 4 nights, but I know Lippincott will free me from the binding chains of this reality.

LX. Hazy Nights

2007-08-27T14:03:00.000-04:00

“STOP HIM. HE IS GOING TO KILL HIMSELF!”

Allow me to take you on a journey that may or may not have occurred on the evening of June 17th, 2006. If you will patiently follow me through these strange events, you might be able to salvage the last bits of my mind from breaking from reality. I send you two gentlemen this message at a most urgent time.

Please, follow me. Without any plans of our own one lonely New York night, my roommates and I placed an order for the plant of plants with Max, a delivery boy. Forty-five minutes following, our delivery arrived. Not to waste anytime, we inhaled the sweet perfume to our hearts delight. Soon enough, the familiar fuzziness engulfed my body. Laughs ensued. Unable to quench our thirst for this magnificent plant, we followed the hazy cloud of sweetness further into the night by consuming this plant of plants different ways.

Upon satisfaction, an unsuspecting, brave soul placed a DVD into the dark Playstation 2. From the start, the movie seemed to be a shameful, softcore pornography following the same plot as Eurotrip.

As my mind wandered, I thought why not turn this movie off and talk philosophy. Plato, Aristotle, Socrates……..These were the men I admired so. As I sat pondering their insightful writings, I encountered a double-whammy that shook the very foundation of the universe.

Without warning, the plant of plants started to take control of my body and mind. Things were not as they seemed. Headrushes…chattering teeth…waves of nausea…fear of death…fear of all things...screaming demons…bleeding walls. Just as I leaned into tell my roommate to take me to the hospital, I glanced at the TV screen. What lay on that screen may have been the vision of the gardens of hell. Far from the softcore porn that once was, I found myself trapped in a torture chamber while a man was burning a young girl’s eye out with a blowtorch.

My eyes shut and I screamed. I soon returned to the world of light as my friends shook me from the dark oblivion. As light flooded my eyes however, I realized that my friends were no longer friends, but the demons that keep me up at night. I tore out of the dorm room and sprinted down the stairs into the fresh air that is New York City.

Cautiously, I glanced around to make sure that the demons had not possessed the lost souls on the streets. Slowly, I began to laugh nervously. The laughter soon turned into hysterics as I realized that I had probably consumed too much and was just freaking out.

Hahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

Feeling a bit better, I was overwhelmed with hunger, so I headed towards the nearby McDonald’s to enjoy a cheeseburger. I sat in line nervously craving a cheeseburger. When things began to feel a bit calmer, I decided to turn and speak to the patron next to me as I received my change and cheesburger, “Wow, this line is so….” With bleeding eyes, she screamed, “STOP HIM, HE IS GOING TO KILL HIMSELF!”

The doors burst open, and a man weighing 468 pounds ran towards the registers. He dove over the counter and stuffed approximately 56 sandwiches including wrappers into his gullet and choked to death.

Unable to speak, I walked quietly out of McDonald’s into New York’s busy streets leaving my cheeseburger behind due to a loss of appetite. I returned to my room and got into bed only to dream of pleasant meadows and puffy clouds……ZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

LIX. A New Beginning

2007-08-27T14:00:00.000-04:00

my friend's life couldnt have gotten worse our senior year of high school. to begin, his tore his knee up in football during summer practice, so his hopes of leading his team to the state finals as starting quaterback were crushed. His girlfriend returned from studying overseas and broke up with him after having relations with another kid on her trip. his dad not only was arrested for insider trading, but also was having an affair with the man that he gave the information to. his mother immediately divorced him and began drinking quite heavily. his hunting dog "rover" was run over in the road after chasing a ball in front of the lawn man's truck.

yep, things were not going well for this man. finally, he broke down in the chill of the winter at my house while enjoying beverages with my father. he cried and cried. my father, an older man, was there to comfort him and talk things out with him. i went to sleep and let the big man heal this young man's wounds.

the next morning, with fresh snow on the ground, my friend was a new man. you could tell his spirits were lifted. my dad had lifted him up. we both went outside to enjoy the fresh fallen snow and enjoy my friend's spiritual uprising.

my friend told me things were okay now. my father had said the rights things. he said, "Advice is like snow; the softer it falls, the longer it dwells upon, and the deeper it sinks into the mind."

jokingly, i threw a snow ball towards him. the snowball hit him in the face. i toppled over with laughter.

The snowball's impact blinded him in both eyes. nonetheless, his words were wise.

LVIII. Cat Food

2007-08-27T13:57:00.000-04:00

I was sitting by my computer and pondering whether or not i should expose myself to this curiously attractive female foreign student in the stall next to me. Then, the destiny of my old friend Miles popped into my head.

Miles, David and I were friends in junior high. We were your typical junior high kids, faces full of pimples and large collections of child pornography. during the afternoons, we would all go to David's house and fish in the creek behind his house or throw the football. David's family had a lot of cats.

I know what you are thinking. who's family has a lot of cats? Well, David's family did and David's dad would always warn us about going in the basement alone and letting the cats outside. David's dad was a curiously small man with a large blond mustache and small glasses. He usually wore a turtle neck and jeans that were too small for him. Sometimes i thought i would hear David's dad purring...

One day, one of the cats got out. David's father was furious. he screamed from house for David and Miles to come inside and for me to go home. I found this odd but followed orders.....I would later find out that Miles left the door open.

Days went by and Miles was never seen. David stopped talking to me. I thought this strange so I approached David's dad in carpool line to ask him about Miles. His only response was a hair-raising hiss.

That afternoon, I crept towards David's house to try and see what was going on. No one was home, so I went inside. It stank of cat litter. I heard noise from the basement. Nervously, I crept downstairs. The lighting was dim, but I could see figures.

I flicked on the lights. The scene that I saw still haunts me today. Davids father was sitting in the middle of the room on a stool completely naked with a feline in his arms. His legs were crossed and he was petting the feline while hissing at the pile of cats that were on the floor consuming Miles' body...

I ran and I ran fast. To this day felines scare the absolute shit out of me.

LVII. Trusting Pigeons?

2007-08-27T13:54:00.000-04:00

One day, a few years ago, on a lazy summer afternoon, I was lying down on a towel in the backyard with my pa. like usual, he had a stiff cocktail in his hand but he began to snore. squinting my eyes, i looked up to see a pair of pigeons soaring through the air, flying back and forth, playing with each other. i began to laugh and try to encourage them to play, "Play my little flying friends!" I yelled. Well, this brought my pa out of his slumber.

Angered, he told my to quiet down and slapped me across the face, which he always told me was a sign that he loved me. My dad use to love me a lot when I was younger. He would hit me with just about everything: his boot, his belt, the butt of his gun. I love my Dad.

About this time, he took a long pull from his drink and began to lay back down when all of the sudden a hunk of bird droppings fell from the sky and landed gently on my Dad's cheek. I began to laugh and laugh. "Look Dad, you have poo poo on your face. HAHAHA, my little flying friends played a trick on..." WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! I was silenced.

When I came to, Pa was standing with a shotgun upon his shoulder aiming at the two pigeons in the air BAM! BAM! He shots those two pigeons and all that was left were two fluffs of feathers falling to the ground. I began to shed a tear for I had just lost my two little flying friends.
"You cut that out. Those damn....hiccup...pigeons shat on me. You can't.....hiccup....trust those animals...Hiccup. This is a....hiccup...celebration." Pa pulled from behind his back a bottle of champagne. Pa began to uncork the bottle of champagne when all of the sudden I heard shrieks and a ton of flapping. I looked at my Pa for help but he was surrounded by a horde of pigeons. I heard a loud pop, and ol' Pa fell to the ground.

The pigeons subsided, but Pa just lay there. I went towards him and leaned down. He was bleeding from his nose, but he quickly grabbed my arm. He began to whisper, ""Every boy becomes a man, my boy, but not every man can become a boy like your old man."

I never quite knew what he was talking about that day but I will take those words to the grave.
That was the last I ever talked to my poor Pa. The corkscrew must have hit him square in the nose and caused brain damage, but they don’t believe me. I loved him so much that I decided to show him one last time the extent of my love. I ran to the tool shed and grabbed his old baseball bat and began to pummel him with it hoping that he would feel my love for he had taught me well.

The cops never believed my story. I tried to explain about the attacking pigeons and my love for my dad, but they didn’t buy it. And to this day, I am very, very distrustful of pigeons.

LVI. The Wrath of Aladdin

2007-08-27T13:49:00.000-04:00

When I was a young child, I was not allowed to watch fantasy movies or any movies from the magical world of Disney. Perhaps my parents reasoning was because I was terrified of them and would start talking in tongue afterwards. I was in therapy for quite some time when I was younger, but that’s neither here nor there.

The real reason was born with the death of my childhood friend, Carmen Hulgernorf. Carmen was an overweight child with an oddly shaped head. For some unknown reason, Carmen had difficulty with his vision due to his crossed eyes. He had self-induced brain damage from running square into walls for the beginning of his short life.

Very unattractive and socially awkward, Carmen was always the receiver of harsh words and jokes. Yeah, kids used to really whoop ol' Carmen's ass. Despite his hardships, he trucked on for one reason and one reason only. Mr. Walt Disney's imagination changed Carmen. On Saturday afternoons while the other kids were outside playing and swimming, Carmen would sit in front of the TV and watch Disney movies and eat pounds of chocolate. Due to his lack of vision, he would sit real close to the screen and I tell you it was magic. Carmen's eyes would straighten and start to glow. I would sit with him on occasion just to see the change in him. It was truly inspiring.

Well, Carmen started to act very oddly when away from the movies after a 2-month binger in front of the TV. He started talking to the Disney movie characters like they were really alive well after the movies were over. At nights, he would wake up screaming that Bambi was about to die. I started to put a little space between Carmen and myself. I hate myself for it to this day.

One rainy day, I was walking back from school and noticed a crowd gathering at Carmen's house. I jogged up to the crowd only to notice that Carmen was standing on the roof. I yelled, "Hey Carmen, get off the damn roof!" I had just picked up using profanity at the time because I heard the older kids using dirty language. Carmen yelled, "OK, here I come!"
Shockingly, Carmen jumped off that roof and for a split second I thought he was flying.

NO, he fell like a rock, wrapped in some sort of cloth, and landed with an unpleasant thud. We later found out he was killed on impact. I ran to his body and found him smiling and wrapped in a rug. The scene was very weird. My friend was dead and wrapped in a damn oriental rug.

I asked his mom where he had been and she said he had been locked in his room for 8 straight days, so I ran in his house and up to his room. There, playing on the TV for the last eight days straight, was Aladdin himself flying on a Magic Carpet ride. I have never hated a cartoon that much in my life. Aladdin stole my little, awkward, ugly yet gentle friend. And that damn Walt Disney guy can go to hell for all I care.

I was in therapy for a little while after that because I was caught drawing a picture of the Princess raping Aladdin, but to this day I don’t think I have ever recovered.

To Carmen...

LV. Bax's Handicap

2007-08-27T13:46:00.000-04:00

Greetings,
Most of you probably don't know this, but yesterday, July 11, 2005, marked my parents' 23rd Wedding Anniversary. I called home and congratulated them. However, remembering back to my preteen years, I suddenly realized that this same day marked the unfortunate event that occurred to one of my dear friends.

Frederick O'Flanny, another one of my friends that you all know, had a younger brother named Baxter Flannigan O'Flanny IV. Bax, as we used to call him, always hung around with Flanny and his friends. Unlike Flanny, Bax was in decent health. However, he had deathly fear of water. He could not take a sip from a glass of water or take a shower. To bath, his mother would have to use heavy sedatives and place him in the bathtub during his unconscious state and scrub him down. Spending afternoons at Flanny's house during the summer thunderstorms was not possible because of the shrills and shrieks coming from Bax's mouth. He would hide in the closet much like a scared dog and cry for hours. Even on a misty day on the drive to school Bax would lose it and we would have to tie him up in the car so that he wouldn’t rip his eyes out and tear his skin off.

Bax's fear all stemmed from one event early in his childhood. Bax was only 4 at the time. His grandmother was staying with them over the holidays. One day, Bax ran inside from playing outside and needed to use the facilities. Flanny was in front of him and occupied the first bathroom in the hallway. Bax could not hold it, so he ran into the guest room bathroom to use the toilet. Much to his surprise, his grandmother lay in the bathtub completely naked taking a bath. The horror that Bax felt at the sight of his nude grandmother put him into shock. He became blind for two weeks after he came out of his coma. Since then he was terrified of water thinking it could make a person's body look like that.

When we moved to high school, Bax started to take therapy for his situation seeing as how it was a terrible handicap. A few years went by and Bax was showering alone without sedatives and liked to dance in the rain. As a celebration, Flanny, our friends, and I decided to throw him a celebration. We blindfolded Bax and drove him out I-20 to a secret spot. We paid for our tickets and led him into the park. Bax was so excited and he just couldnt wait to take off the blindfold.

We stopped in the middle of the park. We took Bax's blindfold off and screamed, "welcome to white water!" White Water is a big water amusement park in atlanta that is usually visited by people who have no business wearing a bathing suit.

Within seconds, the excitement drained from Bax's eyes and they filled with fear.

Overwhelmed, Bax dropped to the ground dead. Well, the next summer ol' Flanny went to sea for his treasure so that was the last we saw of the O'Flanny family. They have given me wisdom though. Years later I thought to myself about ol' Bax and said aloud, "Overcome your fears, for a life full of fear leads to death alone."

LIV. Lunch with Three Gentlemen

2007-08-27T13:44:00.000-04:00

I had, what some might say in some small circles, an interesting lunch on this day the thirtieth of June in the Lord's Year Two-thousand and five. To all of you special people who have been invited to numerous amounts of cocktail parties and special education festivities, you probably have no clue what the inside of the Memorial Club smells like. This is where your employers probably dine on a hot summer day like today. Well, it smells fantastic but that’s not the point.

The point is I was invited by some advisors of the White House to dine at such an establishment. After being transported to the club via a new Lincoln limousine, I stepped from the car, buttoned my jacket, and stepped inside into the cool air. I was running behind and felt ashamed and nervous so I had begun to break a small sweat as is typical to do in a moment such as this one.

When I arrived at the table, I was greeted by the three gentlemen and given the title "Fielding, my good boy." To my vexation, the men turned out to be nothing of what I thought they would be. One was wearing a spectacle, one was smoking a pipe, and one wore an absurdly tall top hat. All were clad in English style tuxedos, which were hand sewn in the streets of London by old fashioned tailors. All three men liked their brandy, so we toasted to good health, good faith, and good fortune. Johansson Holvitzer was the leader of this trio, so he led most of the conversation chirping at me from time to time to make sure the brandy had not caught me droopy eyed and toggled eared. He told stories of how he had built his family fortune from steel manufacturing and "under the radar" human trade as he called it. The other two gentlemen's names were Edward Earl Yoganspiel IX and Frederick Frances Durbenfield XXI. They built their fortunes through the adult entertainment industry and the spinach farming empire, respectively. When asked how I thought the market was going, I said, "Good, I guess."

At this point, brandy after brandy was served and drank until we retired to the smoking lounge to have an after lunch cocktail and one of Cuba's finest cigars. Being a mere amateur to these men in their habits, the brandy began to wear on me like fingernails on a chalkboard. Needless to say I was neck deep in brandy. Well, Edward started leading us in song to the British National Anthem at the same time shaking his cane around like a wild man. The last thing I remember was singing.....

And that’s when I woke up, in song. How weird is that dream......I might be losing my mind.

LIII. The Chief from Etowah

2007-08-27T13:41:00.000-04:00

One of my dearest childhood friends recently told me a funny story of what i thought was a family-planned move overseas....

It started like this...

One hot afternoon day, Tom Pratt and his father ventured to the Etowah Indian Mounds in Northern Georgia to visit the natural phenomena of buildings mounds for no apparent reason. They visited the museum, which was delightful and then decided to explore outside and walk around. Tom Pratt refused because he was so hungry, but the snack bar was closed that day so there was no food available. Tom ran ahead of his father frolicking in th pasture towards the woods. His father ran after him laughing, "Tom you come back ya hear?" Tom returned out of the woods minutes later with a glaze in his eyes and a smile on his face. His dad picked him up and they walked up the stairs to the top of the Indian mound.

Once at the top, the view was amazing. You must realize that the mounds are over 100 feet tall. There was not a bad view on either side. All of the sudden, to Tom's surprise, a nice looking Indian man with a headdress and a loin cloth appeared next to him. Being polite, Tom said, "How?" which startled Tom's father.

Tom and the Indian man talked about life and love and rituals of the old tribe all the way home in the back seat of the car for the Indian had traveled long distances and needed a lift. Upon return, Tom told all of his friends including myself of the wisdom the Indian man had given him. We were all amazed. Tom claimed that the Indian and him continued talking every once in a blue moon or when the wolf did howl. Shortly thereafter, Tom and his parents decided to move away from Atlanta or so we thought.....

Reading in the newspaper years later, I found that our old friend Tom Pratt had committed suicide by carving an arrow and shooting himself with a bow and arrow. Tom's family had committed him a month upon return from the Indian mounds and doctors could never find the cause of his problems. Oh, how I loved the stories of the wise old Indian....

LII. My Last Chance

2007-08-27T10:37:00.000-04:00

5:27 A.M. - August 18, 2007 - Las Vegas International Airport

It's nearing 5:30. My flight left an hour ago, and I have no means of getting back to Washington.

My life has spun out of control in the past 48 hours as blurred vision and drug-induced altered mental states drove me to lose every cent that I have acquired in 23 years on this planet by chasing the green spots on a red and black soaked roulette table and consoling with a Slovakian prostitute named Jasmine ($2,000 per hr). The smell of alcohol is the only identifying feature I retain.

The homeless man that lives outside of my building, Dirt, used to tell me the that Las Vegas is the city that makes dreams come true. You may be asking yourself why I took the advice of a homeless man on this matter, and as of right now, I'm wondering the same thing. However, over the past several weeks, Dirt has become the only confidant I have left.

I've never been a superstitious man, but ever since I came to Vegas, I've been doing everything I can to get an edge - wearing different color socks, carrying a lucky penny, spitting on the cocktail waitress - but nothing has worked.

Someone once told me "bad luck is better than no luck at all." I consider that man to be the dumbest I've ever met, much more so than Dirt.

So here I sit. Vegas Airport. An expired boarding pass. Soiled pants. No money whatsoever. And now my computer battery is dying.

I'm eyeing an old lady from 25 feet away. She seems senile. My mind is running at a thousand miles an hour. I know what I have to do. I will convince her I'm her grandson, borrow $10 from her, put it in the slot machine, and buy my way home with my winnings. It HAS to work.

It's always worked in the past.

LI. To Read or Not To Read

2007-08-23T09:53:00.000-04:00

According to a new study, one in four Americans doesn't read even one book a year. So what? Does that mean we're illiterut? I don't think so.

I hate the cultural snobbery of people who take such evidence as the decline of civilization. The bottom line is that we can get our info and entertainment in other ways. Like from porn.

I am a poor reader. I can't read quickly because I must read EVERY SINGLE WORD CAREFULLY or I feel guilty. My thinking is that the author wrote every word intentionally, so I should read it intentionally. Because I must analyze style, word choice, pace and voice while I am reading a book, all reading is damn exhausting. Like porn.

But I love books. I have a lot of books in my house. How many? I went and counted for this column. I estimate around 1,500 to 1,600 books.

I have read most of them partially and probably revisit them once every couple of years. Rows and rows of pretty oak shelves holding books with bookmarks sticking up around the 1/3 or halfway mark – that is what I hate about myself. I just can't finish all the things I start, like yard work or marriage. When I go back to revisit a book, it reminds me of my past failure, so I simply pour another whiskey and do the old "I'll just see what a pistol feels like up against my head" trick.

For me, reading a great book really knocks me on my ass. A good book stays with you and shapes you unlike any other art form. Someone who has thought so clearly, researched so thoroughly, and worded so beautifully deserves untold riches.

But the sad fact is that most authors don't make jack. Whenever I go into a bookstore and look at all those books and think of all those lonely, uncompensated hours spent writing them, I get horny. So I hit the adult store, and then call this divorced chick I met online.

L. Fear and Loathing in my Bedroom

2007-08-14T16:11:00.000-04:00

My mother is a fear-mongerer of the highest order. Looking back, I realize now that my whole childhood was based on manipulating my behavior through fear. Let's take a look at my mother's pearls of wisdom.

"If you go to bed with wet hair you'll get pneumonia." You could walk around the house with wet hair, but God forbid you recline with it. I was always on the brink of "catching my death of pneumonia." Not just suffering pneumonia, mind you, but catching my DEATH of pneumonia.

Pneumonia had a close cousin in the household fear game. Worms were also a huge threat. If you bit your nails, you would get worms. If you ate raw anything, you would get worms. If you walked barefoot outside after it rained, you would get worms. Touch a dog, get worms.

Worms were always at the ready to tunnel into your body and set up a festering colony of spaghetti-like death at any moment. One time, my mother confided in me that my thin friend Thomas, who could eat large amounts without gaining weight, had tapeworms.

"And the only way you can get rid of a tapeworm is by holding your face over a boiling pot of cabbage," she said. "Then the worm, all four feet of him, will exit through your nose because he loves cabbage." As you can imagine, my eyes were as big as dinner plates when she told me this. I also dumped my best friend without explanation.

Speaking of eyes, eye health and safety were huge concerns in my household. I was always on the precipice of losing my eyesight.

"Don't sit so close to the TV or you'll ruin your eyes."

"Don't do that! You'll put your eye out!" ("Mom, I'm fluffing a pillow.")

My medical facts were gleaned from a woman who taught me, "If you swallow your gum, your appendix will explode." Yet, when I came home and said some playground kid told me that if I drank Dr Pepper with Pop Rocks my stomach would explode, she scoffed. "Well, that is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard," and added, "but if you swallow a watermelon seed, it will grow in your stomach."

In my mother's book, there was nothing in nature as filthy as a bird feather. Touching a bird feather was tantamount to sharing needles in an Ebola ward. Certain death.

My father was not above getting into the fear game either. Dad always threatened to "sell me and my brother to the gypsies." He would even place fake calls to them from time to time when our behavior especially needed modifying. Our only reprieve from such calls was in December. Then he would make fake calls to Santa.

XLIX. Field of Bad Dreams

2007-08-02T10:38:00.000-04:00

I am a sworn enemy of the paid downtown parking lot. I hate these joints.

I hate the parking garage for sure, with its multiple levels of confusion and trapped exhaust, but it is the open, unattended lot that has me throwing rocks at an empty guard shack and arguing with any Nigerian in a blue shirt who approaches with a handful of ones.

With the parking situation in downtown Washington being what it is, I am forced to park in one of these every so often. It is hell.

Here are Six Truths about all downtown parking lots that you cannot deny if you want to be my friend:

1. They were all paved before Jesus and feature huge plates of displaced pavement. Therefore, when Mr. Haul Ass in the Continental presents you a sharply turning tire, you enjoy a fusillade of missiles firing at your shins as you try to high-step to safety.

2. There is always one exit/entrance that has the long smile of a rusty cable stretched across it that is hard to see, which, for the drunk pedestrian, creates a decapitation risk or a limbo opportunity.

I have run into this cable twice in my life as a motorist, once detoothing the grill of an F-150, and the other one passing easily over the roof of my Miata, giving me a private entrance.

3. I don't exactly know why, but every bottle broken within a 50-mile radius will end up in the downtown parking lot for a shard convention. This makes my daily choice of moccasins particularly "iffy."

4. The yellow lines will be so pale and of little guidance that accurate parking will be plain guesswork. I often get out of my car and realize that I am double-parked. Then I have to get back in and reposition my truck enough times that I lose all interest in personal hygiene and Victor Borge records. (Note: This is highly individual.)

5. For the love of the Internet, can't we invent a more secure payment method than the slot-stuffing shim on a cable? Yesterday, I worked with the precision of Michelangelo for six minutes to get all my bills in that little slot, only to discover my estimate on the parking space number was woefully inaccurate. I accidentally paid for the guy in the Continental. He laughed when he saw what I had done and left me by the slot bank, mouth open, shim in hand.

6. Finally, I have noticed that the unattended lot brings out the worst in me. I always try to cheat the system. I will short them a dollar out of some vague protest at the $3 asking price, or sometimes I will not pay at all in a dim conviction that they lack the authority to enforce a price.

In conclusion, the only good thing to happen to me at the parking lot is that the Continental guy got an insufficient payment ticket on his windshield. Seems like he was a dollar short.

XLVIII. Dear Lance

2007-07-30T11:13:00.000-04:00

As I rummaged through my case of porn yesterday, looking desperately for the one where the people have sex, I came across a letter I wrote to my once-hero Lance Armstrong. At the time he had seemed so down-to-earth, what with his one nut and everything. Turns out, however, Lance began a questionably erotic relationship with Hollywood bad boy Matthew McConaughey and the sometimes attractive Sheryl Crow, and never answered my humble correspondence.

Dear Lance,

I heard that you won the Tour de France (?) for a seventh time and I just wanted to congratulate you. I couldn’t find your e-mail address so I’m kinda hoping they get 101-stories in France or Paris or whichever country you are in.

So what’s up? Was it hard training for the Tour de France? What kind of bicycle did you use? I got a Huffy (sp?) a few years ago but can’t figure out how to ride it. I think it needs a chain. Did your mom know you raced? I think my parents wouldn’t give me permission. They don’t like the French because they fought against us in the Gulf wars. My Dad says if he ever meets someone from France he will call them “freedom fries” not “French fries.”

Anyway. What is going on? They say that you are from Plano but I don’t believe it. Like someone can ride a bike across the ocean. Wasn’t born on a turnip truck! What gear did you use in the Tour de France (sp?)?

I’m trying to think of what has happened since you have been gone … Oh, my cat died. Rickets. He was old. My parents had him I think before I was born but he would always make a mess on the rug and make my dad mad. It looked weird. I think he would eat rubber bands. Plus, they bombed London.

Hey, if you ever come to Texas, you should come to my house. We have the extra bedroom since my sister started dating Juan and Dad made her move out. We could go for a bike ride around my block. You will probably beat me, because I have to use my feet on account of the no-chain thing. Anyway, glad you won. If you ever need someone to ride with you in a Tour de France somewhere, just let me know. I could borrow a chain and we could try to win! Anyhoo, good job, I’ll be rooting for you.

LYLAS,

Clubber Lang

P.S.: Have you ever won a Super Bowl?

XLVII. Setting the Record Straight

2007-07-20T11:21:00.000-04:00

My Uncle Morton has to seem (on the surface) like the most timid guy you could ever meet. You know the type, the type that has never left his small town and has no intention of ever doing so. Sure, he wanted to see the world, but to do that he would look no further than the local bookstore, "Still A Crook's Books." He had a room packed to the brim with travel guide books. Barbados, Antarctica, Baghdad, Laos, Bratislava, You name it - he's read it. He must have had 200+ travel guide books, all of which made it seem to him like he had truly seen the world.

When his wife, Krystal Creed, finally passed on at the ripe old age of 102, he was devastated. She meant everything to him. As one of the world's premier geriatric pornstars, she had gained fame and fortune for her breakthrough role in "Aged to Perfection" and had truly taught him the meaning of love. He couldn't shake the image of her love scene with Domino Monroe that had gone so horribly wrong.

Sure, he had the money she left him, but he lost the one he loved and now life seemed meaningless. He would often tell me that when he looked deep into himself to see what the future holds, he would visualize a huge empty hole of nothing. Kind of a bleak outlook for a 33 year old guy who'd just lost his 102 year old geriatric pornstar wife that was worth her weight in gold.

From then on I took on the mission of giving his life purpose again. My first inclination was that he needed to get out of that small town and spend his money traveling to see the world, but that idea went out of the window pretty quick since he said he had already seen the best that the world had to offer on the pages of his hundreds of travel guides.

It was about that time that I saw an advertisement in Sky Mall magazine for a Guinness Book of World Records. "That's it!!!" I stood up and exclaimed before the plane was diverted away from Washington.

When I got out of custody I rushed to the book store, grabbed a copy of the Guinness book and began scouring the pages for a record that he could break. I then called Uncle Mort and told him my plan. I had found how he was to leave his legacy.

At first I was intrigued by the "longest distance for a pogo stick ride," which was 23 miles. Since Uncle Mort was born without legs, this would prove to be impossible. Next on the list was "heaviest elephant ever tackled by a sub-150 lb person." After a month of training and fasting, he was at the perfect weight. So I wheeled him as fast as I could at the 4 ton elephant we had located, and the result was tragic. He snapped his pelvis in 3 places and spent the next 6 months trying to recover, which he never really did.

At last I found one that seemed realistically attainable - "Most King Cobras ever fought at one time." The record was 2 and there were no restrictions on weapons used or whether you even had to win the fight. I mentioned this to him, and I'll remember his words for as long as I live - "This will be my legacy. I will take on 35 King Cobras in a locked closet with a shotgun. It will be the grandest of all Guinness Records. I may not come out victorious, but I will have made my mark on this world."

I filled out permit after permit and finally managed to make his dream of fighting 35 King Cobras at once in a locked closet with a 12-gauge a reality. When I shut that door, I never expected him to survive and of course, he didn't. But I do think that somewhere, up in the heavens, Krystal watched her husband fight valiantly and was rejoiced to finally my Uncle Mort with her once more. I still shed a tear every time I read that letter from the people at the Guinness Book of World Records that denied his record from entering the books due the "illegality" of the attempt.

XLVI. How to Write Good

2007-07-19T10:03:00.000-04:00

Have you ever wanted to be writer, but just didn't know how to get started? Take it from me, someone who has had tremendous success publishing vacuous pieces with a 500 word quota: Writing can be fun and profitable with little money down.

A lot of people want to be as successful as me. That's understandable, although unrealistic. Yet, I have made up a list of pointers to help you in your quixotic quest.

Mistake No. 1: Quitting your job in order to devote your full time to writing. This is always a bad idea. The better idea is to write on company time and leech benefits. You can also hide behind cubicles and fake plants taking notes on co-workers for character traits and story ideas. "Susan had a lazy eye and was having an affair with Chuck, the gimp from HR who smelled like Funyuns."

Mistake No. 2: Not writing a best-seller. I have always been amazed at people who choose not to write a best-seller in order to write about something they have a passion for. We don't care about your relationship with your alcoholic dad. We want a Quidditch match or a character named Bourne. Sex scenes are good, too.

Mistake No. 3: Using clichés. I have seen a million and one writers who don't realize that clichés are as tired as a worn-out old carpet in Grandma's house on Christmas morning, as it were. Think outside the box, push the envelope and always make certain you are playing offense.

Now let's talk obstacles facing the new writer.

Obstacle No. 1: The blank page. One of the most difficult things for a writer is facing the blank page. This is easily remedied by throwing blood or gravel on the page to make it less white and more unblanky. Then you can step away from the desk and start to drink without guilt.

Obstacle No. 2: Subject matter. What should you write about? I have always found that a good way to start off a story is "I am great because ..." It never fails to lift my spirits and inform the reader about her world.

In order to let you in on what we writers call "process," I am including an excerpt of one of my poorer stories with accompanying notes on where I went wrong.

"Hey, reader! Long time no talk. Here is another self-involved un-relatable story about me and my annoyances at things in the world. Quidditch match, Quidditch match. I was at the supermarket. Bourne!"

You can see I had a strong beginning, but I didn't inject enough of myself in the piece right up front. People like to see my name as soon as possible. Also, I think I was somewhat lazy in my introduction of the Quidditch match. I should have said "Clubber Lang was playing Quidditch and having sex against Jason Bourne!"

Always remember, you should never write empty words just to reach your word quota. Let me repeat, you should never write empty words just to reach your word quota. You hear that? You should never write empty words just to ...

XLV. Piggy-backing Pottermania

2007-07-16T10:00:00.000-04:00

I get the question so often that I'm sick of it: "Clubber, how did you become such a good lover?"

But another question I have been getting a lot lately is the one I wish to discuss: "Clubber, what do you think will happen in the next Harry Potter book?" (The book is due for release on July 21.)

The answer is, I have simply been with a lot of different women, many of them Thai and paid. The answer to the second question is more complicated and less infectious.

I admit that I am behind in my Pottermania. I am halfway through the first book and have seen the first two films, but I don't remember the second one. Is that the one where Harry does magic?

But since I have personally seen platform 9 3/4, the hotel where Rowling wrote the book, and the viaduct that the Hogwarts Express traverses, I feel I can speak with some authority on how the final Potter book will unfold.

My top five predictions for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows:

1. Harry will start a band with some muggles and score a minor hit on the UK charts with "You All Everybody" before a mysterious plane crash makes him drown while waving to a Scotsman.

2. Hermione reveals how she got that name. In a disturbing scene echoing 1992's The Crying Game, Harry comes face to face with the truth of "Herm"-ione's gender. But does that stop Harry?

3. Ron Weasley befriends a new Slytherin student nicknamed "The Fonz" and stars in his own spinoff recalling happier times. Ron then goes bald and sentimental as a director.

4. A roving gang of drunken Quidditch fans destroys Hogwarts after a match. In the subsequent investigation, Professor McGonagall is found to be having an affair with a female softball player.

5. Harry's experiments with recreational drugs intensify and the final scene of book seven will be an emaciated Harry spitting up on himself and uttering the new anti-drug catchphrase "Listen up, muggles. Don't be like me."

No matter what happens in the magical world of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, one thing is certain – I am a wizard at love. Wanna see my Nimbus 2000?

XLIV. It's just vacation, but I may not come back

2007-07-09T11:05:00.000-04:00

I prepare for vacations the way Pharaohs prepared for death – on a grand scale and with my organs in mason jars.

I must have my entire life squared away. I put the will on the desk, leave passwords in secret envelopes, and put the love doll in a Dumpster (to be retrieved later).

The house must be cleaned, and projects I have been working on for months must be completed. I don't know why. It's not like I would have completed the projects had I stayed home. But there I am, the last minute before I have to leave for the airport, frantically organizing my first-grade baseball card collection.

Truly, it is like I am preparing for death rather than a fun vacation. I even leave instructions for an estate sale and "talking points" for my obit.

There are many different kinds of vacations, from the chaotic slapdash family car trip to the backpacking Himalayan soul excursion.

I always go far away and alone. Because of this I get nervous when the departure date approaches, because I suspect my soul-searching is going to find a person I don't particularly like.

In reassessing my life, I come up with the same to-do list. "Be kinder to humans, get started on career, quit work, tan ..." The vague anxiety I experience stems from the fact that I leave so much stuff undone.

Every year I predict that I will not return from summer vacation, but this time I might actually be correct. I am heading into that hot spot of beautiful people and everyone’s favorite make believe world – Los Angeles.

So by the time you read this, I will either be dead, or I will be injecting my ass with collagen so that it looks “perky.”

Vacations are fun like that.

XLIII. ¡Viva Washington!

2007-06-28T09:56:00.000-04:00

In addition to being an award-winning porn star/inventor, from time to time I write speeches to make ends meet.

A few months back, Mayor Adrian Fenty rejected my commissioned inauguration speech with a firm but polite note. Not being one to waste my work product, I publish it here for historical purposes.

Ladies and Gentlemen Washington, D.C.,

I am Adrian Fenty and I am your strong new mayor! Thank you, thank you. We are gathered here today to witness the ushering in of a new era, a new horizon of hope, and a new dawn of possibility. Also there are refreshments.

I know Washington has been divided in the past, along north-south lines, along economic lines, and along racial lines, but I think we can do better. I would like to add musical lines, and body-type preference if possible.

Together we can and will make Washington a city we can all be proud of, and less likely to get shot in. I want Washington to be the best city in the District of Columbia. Period. Exclamation point. Tilde.

My fellow citizens, this is our finest hour! Maybe finest hour and a half. Depends on traffic. I promise you are about to see a mayor unlike any you have seen before. I will be the strongest mayor you have ever seen. I am about to start carrying a gun.

If I see something I don't like, panhandling, a Texan, I am going for the gun. No questions asked.
Right now, I would like to lay out my broad plan for a new Washington, but we don't have a smooth surface, so we'll skip it.

Under my leadership, Washington will take its rightful place, south of Baltimore and east of Sacramento. [Pelvic thrust to audience for emphasis.]

Tony Williams is here today [applause]. Tony served Washington honorably and tirelessly and we should give him a proper send-off. Here ya go! [Dip Mayor Williams back and kiss him fully and hard.] Vincent Gray, you are next!

In conclusion, I would like to say something that I can't remember right now, so let me just add a line from my favorite song. "Rollin down the street, smokin indo, sippin on gin and juice."
Thank you, and may God Bless Washington, D.C.!

[Fire pistol in air, take off shirt and creep on girls Hybrid Hank style.]

XLII. Carpe Diem

2007-06-22T09:28:00.000-04:00

"Clubber, would you say you have led a full life?" Greg asked with a tail of spaghetti curled around his chin.

"By full, what do you mean? A lot of women?" I poured some more chianti.
"No. I mean a FULL life."

"I don't understand. You mean like a lot of money?"

"You don't get it. Something more important. Do you ever feel like your life is missing something?" he said.

"Are you trying to tell me you're gay, Greg?" I asked in hushed tones as the waitress walked by.
"No, no. Damn, no!"

"Oh," I said, hiding my disappointment.

"A counselor once told me to write my own obituary. Said it was a good way to gauge my self-worth and reassess my life."

"Did you do it?"

"I did, and it changed me."

I could see he was talking about something that was painful and important. So I made fun of him and slashed his tires while pretending to be on a bathroom break.

But it got me to thinking – what kind of obituary would I have? Wouldn't it be a good idea to pen my own obituary instead of leaving it to chance and vengeful relatives? I went home and grabbed my pen.

Clubber Lorraine Lang, 52, homemaker, peacefully entered into sweet communion with our dear sweet Eternal Goodness on Friday after a lengthy car crash, which he survived. He later succumbed to a bobcat.

He was preceded in death by his great-great-great-great grandmother and ... a whole lot of dead relatives (names available upon request). Survivors include his brother, James, and most people reading this.

Born at an early age in 1979, Clubber quickly became older. He excelled at math and English, but not well, and was held back consequently. After a disappointing career in journalism, Clubber learned to read. When that didn't overcome his illiteracy, he became a world-renowned musician, scoring a minor hit with "Maggie, Won't You Slap at My Drawers." His love of singing was only surpassed by his hatred for Etruscans. In lieu of flowers, please grow marijuana.

Services will be held at Pecan Grove Memorial, with a light lunch and cake served afterwards. Bo Diddley performs. No cover.

XLI. Thank God for Fathers

2007-06-15T11:51:00.000-04:00

Dear Dad,

Just a little note to wish you a Happy Father's Day. I know we haven't spoken in some time, and that is partially my fault. I have had allergies.

I hope you are not as embarrassed of my being your son as you often "joke." Most of my problems are behind me and I'm actually doing fairly well now. I now dress exclusively as a male, and I no longer cut.

I am employed. I work for a lobbying firm and moonlight as a stalker. I know what you are thinking – "Oh, boy, Clubber dun gone and gitted hisself a fancy job." Well, the jobs aren't that fancy, Dad, I promise. I am still a humble man. Sometimes I even slap my handlers for ordering me $15 drinks in front of unfamous people.

I have so many fond memories of my childhood. I remember the little piglet you got me and sis for a surprise one day. I also remember you bludgeoning and quartering it in the living room for steaks and winter sausage. Good times.

Remember when I stole the neighbor's lawnmower for your birthday present? I was 5, but I will never forget what you did for me. Thank you for taking blame in order to keep me out of trouble. Too bad it was your third strike.

Many years have passed and I don't want us to grow even more estranged. That's why I have included some publicity shots of "my latest look." Keep 'em close; they haven't dropped yet.
Speaking of pictures, I have kept your photo – the one with you making that funny face – on my bedside table all this time. Do you remember when that picture was taken? You had just emerged nude from a whorehouse and a police dog latched on to you. You could always make me laugh. Even when you were punching me. Happy Father's Day, Dad.

Your Son,
Clubber

P.S. Are they still screening your mail?

Dear Son,

I am assuming this is a little joke for your column. I know you are obsessed with having a hard-scrabbled upbringing for literary purposes but keep me out of it. Your mother will have Sunday dinner on the table at six. Don't be late or drunk.

Dad

Dear Editor,

Please omit my father's response and publish with new publicity shots. Make me look humble.

Clubber

XL. The Buzz is in the Air

2007-06-01T10:14:00.000-04:00

Last night as I sat at my favorite bar enjoying a much deserved cocktail, hand moving rapidly inside my trench coat, I glanced toward the television in the corner of the room. Expecting to see the usual soft core porn, I was a little unbalanced (but strangley excited) when I saw that the proprietor of the bar had switched the channel to the National Spelling Bee. Suddenly, a flood of unpleasent memories hit me like a the hooker who just wouldn't do as I told her. So many scars from childhood speeling bees. Why must we subject our youth to such pressures?

"Hey, buddy!" cried the waitress. "Why ya got a trench coat on? It's 90 degree outside!"

I scowled at her and quickly buttoned my fly. But I digress...

I consider it cruel to have a televised competition between grade-schoolers. Isn't a spelling bee filled with enough pressure without Ryan Seacrest saying "Oooh, Mandy! You just couldn't get glycogenolysis. Are you sad right now? I bet you feel like this failure coupled with your natural pre-adolescent angst makes you want to start cutting."

Too uncomfortable.

Am I the only one who remembers that we have spellcheck? I can't spell worth a dam and I get published every weak.

I entered a spelling bee one time. Third grade. I studied the dictionary for a whole summer, at gunpoint. I remember looking up the barrel at my mother's determined face. "Now you're gonna get in there and win this family some money. I'm tired of working," said my mother, who had been unemployed for the better part of a year.

"Yes ma'am," I said.

The day of the bee arrived, and I was so nervous I threw up in the car four times. "You stop your vomiting and spell the hell outta those words up there, ya hear?" she said.
"Mom, I drank rat poisoning to try to get out of this," I confided.

"Honey, roll up your window. I am trying to smoke," she said.

At the school, I climbed up on stage in my vomit-stained Ewok shirt and started spelling. I made it to the final round. I had already lost 16 pounds in water weight from sweat and emesis.

My big word came up – ornithophilous.

I asked for origin. "Latin," said the man.

I asked for it to be used in a sentence. "Ornithophilous, as in, 'Please spell ornithophilous.' "

I darted a glance over to my father. He punched a fist into an open palm and mouthed menacing words of encouragement. I looked to the front row. My mother pitched forward in her seat with wide eyes, poised to tear up the lottery tickets in her hands. This was my moment to save our family. I summoned all the powers of hell to spell one last word correctly.

"Ornithophilous. P, X, wait ... X, 3, Foxtrot, Y, Charlie, Y, wait, can I start again?"

"No, Clubber," said the judge.

"Well, is he right?" my father asked in a loud voice.

"I'm afraid he is incorrect. Please have a seat, Clubber."

"You son of a bitch!" my father yelled, then tackled me as I passed. My mom started screaming, "I'll never go to beauty school. You have ruined me!" And the whole crowd laughed. Ever since then I haven't been fond of spelling bees.

XXXIX. Call Me Bigfoot

2007-05-23T09:37:00.000-04:00

"I think I'll mow the yard with my new mower, then sit out in the back yard and enjoy the evening while catching up on my e-mail," I told her as she kept reading. "I am really excited about reducing my carbon footprint."

She turned a page and read the first sentence aloud, but under her breath, before falling silent again.

"Don't forget, I am fixing hummus tonight!" I said. She covered her face with the magazine.

I put on some eco-friendly sunscreen and pulled the reel mower from the shed. I had let the grass get taller because I read somewhere that it is "healthier for the grass."

A reel mower is not powered by gas or electricity. It is the kind of mower our great-grandparents used. They used it because it was their best hope of getting the grass shorter. I use it because I care. I care deeply, about being judged by my other Mac-owning/ NPR-supporting friends. My great-grandparents didn't care like this. Only a few of their friends had Macs.

I pressed play in the sunshine and pure Beatles goodness poured from my iPod as I pulled on my hemp-fibered gloves. I began pushing the mower. I got about two feet before the fescue had covered it and completely clogged the blades.

"Damn grass is too tall," I muttered to God. I raised the wheel height and started pushing again. Three feet this time. I raised the mower to its maximum height, so that even though the grass was technically "cut," a lion could still successfully hide in it.

I quickly discovered that to ensure uniformity of grass height with a non-powered reel mower, one must back up and go over every inch of turf about four times. Therefore, I completed one side of The White Album before I had completed one length of the front lawn.

I was really sweating now, and eco-friendly sunscreen was coming off my face in sheets. I mowed and mowed and mowed and mowed, pushing like hell through the tall grass, and backing up to do it again. The mower model is formally named "the Classic," but they ought to rename it "the Sisyphus."

When I got up under the trees I received an extra surprise. Sticks will stop a reel mower dead in its tracks. It is violent too. After the fifth time my momentum doubled me over the handles forcing out a primal scream, I gave up. I went to the back yard and burned a barrel of oil and opened a coal factory.

XXXVIII. Five-Minute Adventures (Pt. 1)

2007-05-21T12:14:00.000-04:00

by Sack Madin

I hit the snooze button on my alarm every morning for at least 45 minutes. These are the quietest, most still moments I get all day, yet they are also the most exciting, arousing, passionate, frightening, bizarre times I ever experience. The closest I feel to being alive.

This morning I hit the snooze button and proceeded into the river with my dad. The river wasn’t familiar, but I felt like I had been there a hundred times before. We both rowed along in single crew boats, sometimes rowing alongside each other, at times seemingly a quarter of a mile apart from each other. We commandeered some of the most brilliant looking boats I’ve ever seen. They were all wood with the grain emphasized, extremely thin and rather short for a crew boat, but were buffed to a patent leather shine. Mine had a yellow lacquer finish with white detailing. I think my dad’s was green.

The water was a completely opaque midnight blue, almost black. It shimmered a million tiny mirrors, the sun striking it at a harsh angle. The spray from the oars chilled my skin like it does on the first warm day of spring when the waters still flow winter cold. I had on a white t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Breezes ruffled the leafy green vines at the water’s edge. They billowed and spilled over each other down the sides of the hills leading to the river. None of the river’s banks were accessible because of the superfluous foliage. I’d never seen the species before. It looked like some kind of kudzu or Asian ivy, but pillowy soft. It was certainly persistent.

The air smelled clean but hostile. It was sweet but cold. Unarguably organic, but antiseptic like a doctor’s office.

As I rounded the bend in the river, the banks began to narrow and I couldn’t see my dad behind me because I’d gained a fair distance on him in a short amount of time. Usually this happens because we are fishing and he stops at every tasty spot while I cruise on ahead to new water, but we didn’t have the rods with us today. We just kept rowing towards our destination.

At first the splashes were small. This excited me because splashes mean fish are around. Big fish. But I remembered I didn’t have my rod so I’d have to remain a polite observer, taking in the experience as a connoisseur of nature events. The splashes grew bigger, and I could have sworn I saw a tiger’s head come out from the water in the middle of the splash. It was white as snow. I saw it again, and it was definitely a tiger’s head. I could distinctly see the triangle nose and ears and teeth bared. Its features emulated the shape of the splash in the water. It kind of roared as it came up, presumably for air.

The splashes stopped for a second, and I didn’t know whether to wait for my dad or to move on ahead. My choice was forced when the horse, white like the tiger, splashed out of the water and shook and thrashed and crashed back below the inky surface. This was the only confusing thing, because I didn’t know if it was tigers, horses, or both below me. I didn’t know if the tigers were chasing the horses underwater, or if they were jumping for another reason.

The next horse rose out of the water and kind of hovered, white, half way out. It vibrated as if it was shivering. It rose out of the water alongside me and maintained its height, just like a synchronized swimmer, except it didn’t smile. It had a nervous, crazed look in its eyes. Its mouth and teeth were locked in a sort of half agape, rigid angle, like it stopped in the middle of chewing. I realized as it rocked in the water that it’s shivering was not from cold, but from movement and fear. It was kicking to stay afloat.

As much as I was magnetized to this phenomenon, I began to row intently away from it. It saw me and began a slow arc in the water, turning around to follow; it didn’t cut like a quarter horse but angled with the grace of a greyhound bus, jerkily making the rotation. Fascination continued to battle my fear, but I kept moving. Suddenly I realized the horror and beauty of the situation. This water-horse was runswimming for its life. Sharks, not tigers, were taking passes at its exposed legs and it kicked mightily below the surface for both fight and flight. I knew this. I knew the tragic scene below; the horses evading capture from sharks, not tigers, and I knew the cold midnight currents were about to run red.

The water-horse gained on me, now moving like an apparition all too real. It was now grayish white. Its front limbs were locked, hooves down, frozen in an upright gallop-kick. The expression on its face never faltered, and now it stared me in the eyes. It wanted my boat, the only source of refuge from the sharks, and it wanted me out of it. A strange dynamic, the water-horse engaged with the shark, actively pursuing me with ill intentions. I wanted to help the water-horse, but it wanted to kill me, and the shark wanted to kill the water-horse, and vice versa. We would never fit on my boat even if I offered him safe passage. And even then, to where?

The water-horse’s lack of reasoning frustrated me. If I gave him a ride, we would both sink and die. If he knocked me out, I would die, and he would die later as he would have no means of steering the boat and would slowly starve. He was out of options, but would not resign to his fate. I didn’t know if I loved him or hated him for that.

He gained on me, hooves now hanging over my head. I thought about trying to talk to the water-horse, to reason with him.

XXXVII. I Can Be Your Hero, Baby

2007-05-16T15:00:00.000-04:00

Spider-Man 3 made $4 trillion in its first minute of release, why? Because the Devil's plan is working? Sure, but also because all humans love superheroes.

It might have to do with our own fragility in an uncertain world, or perhaps it is a way of working out our own idealized self through art. For me it was always more about the unitard, but whatever the reason, superheroes sustain our imagination and make us pay nine bucks for a movie.

I have been obsessed with superheroes since I was in the third grade. While other kids were playing games and developing potent social skills, I was drawing the entire League of Justice on my Trapper Keeper and hitching up my Wonder Woman panties. True story: For my prom, I went as Aquaman. Stag.

But I wasn't content worshipping existing superheroes – I invented my own. Every day at school, I would sit in the lunchroom, friendless and soiled, creating new superheroes and villains from whole cloth.

I created over four million. Figgy the Pudding Slinger, Altruistic Man, Skippy the Abortionist, all mine. I knew the day would come when Hollywood would be handing out development deals to anyone with a vague superhuman idea, so I filled my notebook and waited for the day. Now I am so confident in the profitability of my creations that I haven't put a dime in my 401k. I want to help you become as potentially wealthy as I hope to might be someday. Maybe.

You, too, can create your own blockbuster superhero to sell to the studios with my Clubber Lang Show Superhero Matrix. A good superhero must have a unique superpower, a vulnerability and a cool name. Take a trait from each category, blend, let cool, then sell the hell out of it to the studios.

I have provided enough raw material here for hundreds of superheroes, but please don't be greedy. This is my gift to the entire world, not just you.

SUPERPOWER
X-Ray Vision
Flight
Invincibility
Strength of 10 men
Drives well

VULNERABILITY
Can't pronounce S's
Unable to defend self
A bleeder
Bad credit score
Hates conflict
Yodels

NAME
Unremarkable man
Chris
The Backpeddler
Giggling Tom
Abominable Sandwich
Sports Panties