Thursday, August 17, 2006

Smoking Hot

I’d like to dedicate this post to all of you out there who have been smoking for more than twenty years. I quit smoking sometime around January, after thirteen wonderful years of heavy addiction. I have recently started up the sexy sexy habit because I am weak, and smoking makes you cool, which I am again, thanks to the ciggies. That being said, I know that smoking is gross. I’m not happy that I smoke, even though it is awesome, and I absolutely understand if someone who doesn’t smoke won’t sleep with me because of it. I won’t agree, but while I’m duct taping your wrists and ankles and throwing you into the trunk of my car, I’ll understand. Seriously though, smoking is disgusting, which is why I’m quitting again, any day now, because I can’t end up like the lady who sits an aisle behind me at my awesome job.

To paint a beautiful picture, imagine if you will a pair of distressed leather cowboy boots crafted masterfully in the “slouch” style, but with eyes and a mouth. If you can’t, then imagine one of those ladies in her mid forties who looks like she’s in her mid sixties because she tans so much that her face looks like saggy leather. Either way, you’re imagining the lady who sits an aisle behind me. Now before you start feeling bad about how hideous this lady has made herself and blaming it on society’s obsession with youth and bronzed beach bodies, I just want to make clear the fact that this woman is an absolute bitch. I mean that, and would not take it back even under the most extreme of tortures. In fact, I almost dropped the c-bomb. That being said, she looks like god stretched aged leather over a skeleton and called it a person. Like he was really hung over one day and was all like, “Yeah, I kind of half assed that one. Whatever, all part of my loving master plan.”

You may be wondering to yourself, my little imaginaries, “What the hell does leatherface have to do with smoking?” If you wondered this, give yourself a high five, but not in front of anyone, because they’ll think you’re crazy, unless you can seamlessly segue into a soul clap and start singing a spiritual, in which case give yourself another high five and start all over again. I’m going over the gruesome details of how this woman looks because I want to hammer home to any young women who smoke and tan regularly that in not too long, your skin will look incredibly bad. Not that it looks good now. Honestly, if you’re “tan” in the middle of the winter anywhere north of San Diego or Corpus Christie then you already look bad. I don’t know who you’re trying to fool. It’s like when fat girls wear shirts that expose an unthinkable amount of cleavage. Yes your breasts are huge, but that doesn’t disguise the fact that you’re three bills baby. Hog titties are only attractive if they’re affixed to someone who is either, not a hog, or a slightly overweight but still attractive woman, someone my friend A-Train would refer to as “an acceptable hog.”

Yes we’re getting a little off course here, but all of this is important information that you may need to laugh off now and later internalize and convert into an unhealthy drinking addiction or some form of eating/psychological/cutting disorder. The reason that I bring this up is because smoking and tanning seem to go hand in hand. I’d be willing to bet a lot of money that there aren’t many trashy fake bake girls out there who don’t smoke. It’s just the way that sluts are, and if wild accusations have taught us anything, it’s that tan girls who smoke are huge sluts. Huge. And we all know that huge sluts become the trashy woman who sits an aisle behind me at work, which is awesome, if you’re someone who loves being absolutely disgusted on a daily basis, which I’m not, so it’s not.

Now there are levels of disgusting out there in the world, levels that I have created and put into place in my head for whenever I am confronted by something that is truly disgusting. The levels are as follows:

1.Crooked teeth, hippie stench, toilet water, 40-year-olds, Olsen twins

2.Ass antlers, track marks, water sports, 50-year-olds, Madonna

3.Back hair/fat, the clap, pregnancy, 60-year-olds, Sarah Jessica Parker

4.Moustaches, crack whores, scatological sexual acts, 70-year-olds, Paris Hilton

5.Femullets, bestiality (snakes), skull fucking, the 70s, santorum, babies, Alabama, Niccole Ritchie/anorexics, being fucked by a frozen piece of shit, babies

The woman who sits an aisle behind me at work is rocking out at a solid four, because she’s 40ish, looks 60ish, and coughs up phlegm like she’s been inhaling cum instead of cigarette smoke. Nothing is worse in my entire eight hour day of being screamed at by self important stock brokers and insane old people than hearing the alligator lady almost choking to death on her own mucus after her seventh coughing fit in less than two hours. Seriously, I dry heave at least twice a day. So without coming to any real conclusion I’ll end this post by saying, “Thank you, woman who sits an aisle behind me, for absolutely demolishing my work week,” and thank you, tan slutty smokers, for keeping me in the poon… or my friends in the poon anyway, because I write a blog, so I obviously have never even seen a vagina.

Thursday, August 03, 2006

Bitch Rooster

My brother calls himself the Bitch Rooster. He says, "In times of great darkness Shane, remember the words of the Bitch Rooster," and then flips me the bird. I haven't done laundry in two and a half months and my Grandpa is dead, just. I hate my job more than Southerners hate homosexuals, which is a lot, and I'm pretty sure that I have my very first cavity. I am fatter than I have ever been in my life. Somebody hates me, and I know that most of you are thinking what I’m thinking… Jesus. Life is good ladies and gentlemen. But you know what? I’m not going to complain. I’m not going to cry about how hard everything is. I am not Fiona Apple on her entire first album. (I really like her most recent album, so get off me.) Do you know why, my little fictional friends? BECAUSE MY BROTHER CALLS HIMSELF THE BITCH ROOSTER! I mean how fucking sweet is that?

What does your brother call himself? Justin? Stevie? Big Mike? Does your brother go by his last name? Does he have a cute nickname like slugger or lil’ something? All I have to say is that your brother’s name/nickname is not anywhere near as sweet as the Bitch Rooster. Plus your brother doesn’t say something sweet about great darkness and then refer to himself. Your brother eats baloney sandwiches and wears sleeveless shirts. Sleeveless fucking shirts! I hate your fucking brother and hope that he gets busted for selling weed out of your parents’ basement. Your brother is trash. In fact, when I think about how shitty my life is these days, I’m going to condition myself to start thinking about your brother, and the super fat girl he knocked up, and it will make me feel infinitely better.

“Where is this all coming from?” you ask? I’m not exactly sure. I know that I’m mad, at your brother, mostly because my brother is way, way better than your brother, and this upsets me, because how is it possibly fair that my brother, the Bitch Rooster, share the same title as your brother, the dog rapist? I’m not really sure. It’s like trying to figure out why the sky is blue, or which hand is better to masturbate with, because, you know, the right is more effective, but the left feels strangely special, am I wrong? Whatever the reason, I just wanted to let you know that while I love you, your brother blows. Your sister also blows, but in a very different way. Do you see what I did there? You can’t just make quality jokes like that. They have to come to you. Like a message from JC, who’s obvious hatred of me is outweighed by the powerful sweetness of the Bitch Rooster, who would like all of you to know that your daughter sucks. Seriously though, he’s making a shirt.

Saturday, July 08, 2006

The Baby Disease

I work in an environment where everyone has given up on their dreams, or they lack the actual skills to do anything other than work in an office doing absolutely nothing of importance. I have no problem with this, as I am a strong proponent of the fact that, in most people's cases, you will never end up living the life that you envisioned back in elementary school when everyone was lying to you about how you could do anything you set your mind to. This is why I can often be overheard telling children to abandon their dreams now and instead start building up their 401Ks. It's hard to listen to people who still have hopes of writing a novel, or going back to tech school, or getting married to a rich guy. It's also funny, so by "hard" I mean "hilarious."

Never before have I been surrounded by so much despair, masked by cute sayings hung on cubicle walls alluding to god's love, or the importance of perseverance, or adorable things a kitten peeking out of a watering can might be thinking. It makes me want to cut myself, you know, just to release some of the pain. You know what I'm talking about. Anyway, as a result of this despair most of the people in my office have caught the same disease, babies.

Now before you jump down my throat with your "science," and start screaming at me about how babies aren't a disease, but instead a beautiful gift from heaven, let me make clear that I know where babies come from. My mother was a Lamaze instructor. When I was four years old I got to go visit mom at work on movie night. She thought that it would be more interesting than the other nights, you know, when they weren't showing women screaming obscenities while they were being cut open so that the doctors could more effectively pull a gruesome bloody alien out of their stomachs. Needless to say, it fucked me up a little. I'm not saying that I have to envision the afterbirth when I climax, but it helps. So yeah, I get that babies aren't technically a disease, but after a few days in my office you too might start double bagging it when you spend a passionate evening with your lady/prostitute.

Seriously, in the unbearable year and a half that I've been working at my job, no less than one third of the women in my office have become pregnant or given birth. That, my friends, is a fucking lot. In addition to this, at least eight of the men in my office have knocked up their old ladies. My office consists of only about sixty people. Take in to consideration that many of these people are aged beyond the birthing years, and we're looking at a shit ton of preggos. It's pretty much the most disgusting thing I've ever even thought about. In addition to all the people who caught the disease, almost everyone else already has kids. I'm talking the smoking hot new girl, my wicked hot boss, the girl who's not that cute but looks sixteen so I would do her anyway. Pretty much every bangable woman/girl in my office has got a little pet human running around at home. If this doesn't smack of despair to you, then you should be reading another blog or are somehow related to me.

Now I'm not saying that having kids means that you're giving up on accomplishing anything worthwhile in life. What I am saying is that if you choose to have kids, you've pretty much decided that your little pile of flesh is going to be your worthwhile accomplishment, and that your other dreams can wait for eighteen years. So if your kid doesn't turn out almost perfect, you've pretty much thrown away your aspirations for nothing, unless you count a lazy fuck sitting on your couch and complaining that you never buy him the right kind of juice something. I also think that while it is important to populate the world with more hungry mouths, especially when there are so many children already in need of a stable home, there are probably more important things that one could be doing with his or her time and money. I mean, I get that it's important to pass your DNA along, as opposed to raising a kid who might not look like you, or be white, but I really don't get it at all, and it's fucking stupid.

Before I get too preachy, let me stress that there is always a right thing to do. When you think about it logically it's probably better in the universal scheme of things to adopt a kid than have one of your own, but at the same time it's probably better to buy girl scout cookies than kidnap a girl scout, and who honestly does that? The whole point that I'm trying to make here is keep your fucking baby virus away from me and enjoy your Camry. While you fasten in your car seat I'll be doing blow off of a hooker's ass. At least one of us is living our dreams.

Monday, June 05, 2006

Things Probably Suck For You Too (But This Is About Me)

I feel like I haven't been open with you. You, the imaginary people who read this blog while I attempt to amass enough material so as to effectively pimp said blog to my friends, family, more popular bloggers, prisoners, small children, and literate lab animals. I've been too reserved, and I can sense that you pretend folks want to know more about me, Seep, and how I feel about things. Well let me tell you figments of my imagination what. I feel bad about things, things like my life.

Every morning I wake up around nine thirty, giving me forty some minutes to get out of my house in time to make it to my sweet ass job trading stock for a gigantic corporation that is in the process of consuming every bank and credit union in the United States. For a brief moment when I wake up I feel pretty good because I am almost certainly drunk, only to realize that drinking blackberry brandy and eating bananas until 4:15 in the morning is not the best way to prepare for a day of work as emotionally satisfying as helping rich people get richer tends to be.

After my morning routine of vomiting while trying out masturbatory techniques that I learned in the Cosmo article about how to drive you man wild, and a few bites of sour cottage cheese, I skip out the door to the tune of my roommate hate fucking his horrible girlfriend. I jump into my car, put in Nick Cave's Murder Ballads, and peel out in my quality automobile in an attempt to be no more than nine minutes late to work.

I own a shiny red Ford Focus with decals on each side. There are little grey racing stripes on all four doors of my car with an abstract squiggle near the trunk. It looks like sperm is running off my car as I drive down the road. The previous owner must have wanted people to know that he molested children. The alignment is way off due to a slight misunderstanding that I had with some booze and a curb, and it feels like the there's an army of little men doing road construction in my back seat every time I turn on the air conditioning. I hate my car and wish it was dead.

Within the first month that I owned my Focus, I had to get the ignition drilled out and replaced while I watched some pile of white trash stumble out of a bar named Big John's and break his hand by punching a handicapped sign. I got to see a fat 45-year-old man cry in a parking lot, and for this I am forever grateful. However, the experience was not worth the $250 it cost me to replace my ignition cylinder. If he had turned to his buddy and tried to kiss him it would have been, but he did not. He got into his car and drove away. I'm pretty sure he ran over a kid on his way home, otherwise the dead kid I drove by later that night was just a coincidence.

If you are considering buying an American car, I suggest that you buy a Focus, because I'd like to think that all of you make believe people are as miserable with your cars as I am with mine. The point is, my 15 minute commute in my vibro car that pulls hard to the left while existing as an unmistakable advertisement for spooge, is the best part of the first nine hours of my day. What can I say, I love driving drunk.

My work day is pure joy, if you interpret the most mind numbing, soul crushing, cubicled rape of one's individual thought joy. Luckily I do, so it's hard not to whistle while I work, you know, except for the huge corporate cock in my mouth. Never in my life have I cared less about the people with whom I interact on a daily basis. There are brokers in New York whose families I would murder in front of them, just to watch the look on their faces as I screamed, "This could have been avoided had you managed to say THANK YOU! Now watch me skull fuck your wife." I know that was a little rough, but I'm just saying what we're all thinking, plus, no one is reading this anyway. Seriously though, people who don't think about this stuff at work have already gotten it out of their systems. Think about it.

After a solid eight hours of doing as little as I possibly can while retaining my only source of making papers (that's slang for making money), I jump back into the sperm mobile, and thanks to the alignment and air conditioning, literally squiggle home. This is when my real day begins. My real day of eating microwave dinners, watching network TV, and drinking either Silver Wolf or White Eagle vodka. I also play video games, and from time to time I go cruising, looking for a hot chick to try and push into my brother's minivan. Let's be honest though, the girl would have to be weaker than a one-armed Niccole Richie in order for me to get her in the van, so it's mostly an excuse to drive around and get beaten on by ladies. It turns me on, I can't help it.

Sure there are other things that happen throughout my day. Sometimes I eat lunch, other times I hang out, every once in a while I go on half hour crying jags under my desk, but for the most part it's just like I've described it. Awesome. I'm pretty psyched about how well things are going so far. At this rate I'll be afflicted with leprosy watching reruns of The View by October. At least I'm not Star Jones, that loose skinned vampiric freak of nature. She's like a walrus that eats human flesh, but a more disgusting version.

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

A Message To My Coworkers

I know what you are thinking. I am not a magician or a Satanist or a Dominican fortune teller, but I know what each an every one of you is thinking. You’re sitting in you desolate beige cubicles, the ones that you’ve tried desperately to soften with Hallmark cards and fractal calendars, wondering if the cake is bad or if, conversely, it is good.

For those of you who are unclear as to what exactly I am referring, I speak of the cake that sits at this very moment in the middle of our moderately sized office, the office across the hall from the bank on the third floor. This cake that was created to honor the departure of our very own learning and development consultant, Shelly. This cake that we eat in her name, quite literally, while we sing her praises during our ample ten minute work breaks. This cake that we relish, or would, in a perfect world.

In a perfect world I would be 7’6” and would ride an amphicyonid, better known as the extinct Eurasian bear dog. I could drink a gallon of milk and then immediately do one thousand crunches on an exercise ball. I’d talk to ladies instead of creepily smelling their hair as they walk by. Unfortunately gentlefolk, this is not a perfect world, and so our trepidation keeps us in our carpet covered corkboard boxes lusting after a giant cake, a cake that is covered in frosting and filled with love for us all.

I know that you’re afraid, terrified even. I can feel in my bones, hear it in the electric whispers of my headset, see it in your hungry eyes, I can not smell it though, because I have allergies, and all I taste is cake. I taste cake for each and every one of you, and for your children, and for your children’s children, and for the ladies whose hair I stealthily smell. And after all of this tasting I have only one thing to say to you all. The cake is good.

You would be a fool to doubt my intentions, to question the plans that I have for every single one of you. You would be bat shit crazy to think for even a moment that I don’t care for you like kinkajous care for honey. That being said, in the words of LeVar Burton, you don't have to take my word for it. Your brother Oscar has spent much time researching the cake. He has analyzed, scrutinized, and lobotomized the cake. He has pored over every last inch of the cake. There is not a granule of sugar that has escaped Oscar’s careful eye. After all of the time and effort that he has put into his research he has come to one conclusion, one truth that can not be denied, one fact that stands out amongst all fictions. The cake is good.

So rejoice my friends. Ignore utensils and stuff your faces. Drown in the spongy goodness that is cake. Let nothing stand in your way. Let no man or woman steal this righteous joy from you. Have your cake and eat it too. Let yourselves eat cake. You've made your cake, now sleep in it. Celebrate, and above all else, know that the cake is good!

Saturday, May 13, 2006

Thanks A Lot

Dear Friends,

This has been a long time coming. One would only have to look at me to see that I meet the requirements of a blogger. Great. In addition to the fact that I look funny (as in unattractive), I have had moderate success in the past with writing in various instances. So here you have it, in my ongoing quest to make myself even less appealing to women, I am writing a blog. I will never have sex again.

Despite how sad things have gotten, all of the phone calls and emails of support that you've never sent me during the last few years have helped a lot. I still think that I'll make it a few more months, before the monster that is Karkov vodka consumes me like the starving beast that it is. Thank you so much for everything. It's because of you, and only you, that I'm at home alone, drunk on a Saturday afternoon, writing a blog. If it wasn't for video games and all other forms of entertainment that so effectively drive women away, I'd probably be viciously depressed and this whole blog thing would be the final straw to push the camel over the edge or something.

I don't want you to worry though, because that would require you all to stop spending time with your new families, and working at your high paying jobs, to notice, the next time I see you, that I just drank the bottle of Vanilla Mint Listerine that you had in your bathroom, and now I'm rummaging through your kitchen knives. Seriously, your new baby looks just like every other stupid white baby in the world, it's pink and hideous. Does it have a tail or something? Is it so enthralling that you can't even take a second to watch your good friend try to eat a light bulb? I'm aware that it's a Wednesday evening and all, but I'm Listerine drunk, and this story will be hilarious when you're retelling it in a few months. Your baby will still be there, it's obviously not going to get up and go somewhere any time soon. It's not like babies just up and die you know, and if they do it's only because their parents didn't love them enough.

Anyway, the point is that I'm writing a blog. That's an abbreviation for web log. I know you're too busy fixing up your new house and having sex to keep up on the internet lingo. I call it Prison For Words, because my brother always said that's where we'd end up if any government agency heard the way we talked to each other in my parent's basement. You used to be a part of that, and now you don't want to hang out anymore because you say I've gotten too angry and I'm drunk all the time. Well fuck you guys, I'll drink as much as I want and I don't care if you call the cops. By the way, when I told you your girlfriend was hot, I meant fat.

Enjoy the blog assholes. When I get way rich from my sweet blog, I'm gonna' call you and tell you that I can see my reflection in the rear view mirror of my brand new Audi TT when I'm having sex with prostitutes. That'll show you jerks.