Monthly Archives: November 2009

This is why. . .

. . .human editors are important:

Just Random

I was watching the movie, Milk and saw this credit:

Brian Yates Sharber – Gay Man

How could they pick him out?

I visited a friend in the hospital. Nothing serious but I get there and he’s whining,

“I don’t know if I can go on living.”

It’s just a broken clavicle you fucking pussy. Alright, he’s feeling bad. I’ll give up a human moment and shore him up a little.

Okay, enough. You’re getting out tomorrow. Stop the fucking whining. I doubt anyone’s ever died from a broken clavicle. But, from his lack of will to live, you’d think it was a telethon worthy killer.

“I just don’t think I can go on.” He says again.

So I lean over to the next bed, grab a pillow, stand up while fluffing the pillow, then lean in placing the pillow near his face.

“Okay. This’ll only take a minute.”

He freaks out.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I toss the pillow on the other bed.

“Your will to live’s back. Guess I cured ya.”

I see a customer with his family at a restaurant. The next day he comes into work. He’s telling me he’s late with payments because he’s been out of the country for the three months.

“As a matter of fact, I’m coming here directly from the airport.”

Hmmmm. Okay, this seems like a lie. Maybe he thinks that’ll be more dramatic. You know how people sometimes say they just got back for days after a trip? Maybe he’s one of those.

“Really?” I ask. “How long have you been back?”

He looks at his watch.

“Less than an hour. I was in Germany for three months.”

“Really?” I don’t doubt myself. I know I saw him, in America, the night before. “Where were you? Friends of mine live in Fuckinglair.”

“No, I ah, didn’t get there. I was mainly in Dusseldorf.”

“You must have been there. Fuckingliar’s right between Dusseldorf and Assenholen.”

“Ah, well, I did do some drinking there so, you never know.”

“Trust me, I know.”


It’s not often I spend the evening with someone who hates me. As far as I know. But this night I know I was in the presence of someone who hated me on sight.

The evening didn’t start like that. I was visited by two friends from the music days. They were passing through town. It was nice to see them and, for some reason, maybe it’s because I hadn’t seen them in a long time, maybe because they’re the ones who usually do the entertaining, but, I started telling a story and just kept going.

We were having fun. We were having laughs. I must have been saving up for this occasion because, about half hour later, I was already planning my next half hour.

Then the door bell rang. It was a friend I’d made plans with and his new girlfriend.

“Get me a beer.” He said upon entering.

“You know where the fridge is, ass ear.” He hates that. He has very fleshy ears. “Get all of us one.”

I’m quickly introduced to his new girlfriend as he walked to the kitchen. I shook her hand and went back to my set.

Although my friends were still enjoying themselves they couldn’t help but notice the distinct air of distaste the new person was having for me and my jokes.

Her date comes back, hands us beers, and I finish my story. I know I’m not going to keep going after this story. The mood is beginning to change.

Now I have three people laughing and one person staring wide-eyed. I’d been told to be on my best behavior because she wasn’t used to people like me and this was her first trip to the big city.

She’d only been to Boston once. On a school trip. She’d spent her entire life in some podunk New Hampshire town. Now why in hell, with all the people he knows down here, would he choose me to hang out with? I’ve never said I had bright friends.

I finished my story, my friends finished their beers and started to leave. One of them asked if I really was going out with those two. Sadly, I said I’d promised. They wished me luck and reminded me not to work blue.

“I’m not going to work at all. I think I talked enough for the evening.”

When they exit we chat with for a while. He’s catching me up on his doings. He tells me about her. All the while she sits there staring straight ahead with her arms crossed.

I tell them we should get a move on. We get in the car and she starts to ask me questions.

“Do you always swear so much?”

“Are those typical stories that you tell?”

“Do you really think those were funny stories?”

And those were the non-insulting questions.

I ‘good behavior’ her but I catch my friends eye in the rear view mirror and he knows I’m going to sticking a can of whoop up his ass in the very near future.

I want to fly under the radar now. Get in, get out. I have to use all my effort to not start ripping this horse-faced, sputtering, hayseed’s nose off and shove up her ass so she could, indeed, sniff that her shit also stinks.

Get in, get out. That’s all I’m looking for. And wouldn’t you know it? It’s this night where I run into everyfuckingone I’ve ever met. Hockey buddies, a tennis student, a musican, friends, neighbors, strangers who were sucked into my vortex. Every few minutes someone would stop by or wave.

“Does everyone know you?”

“Just the cool people.”

“I guess I’m not cool.”

“You’re not even lukewarm.” See? Proof I was on good behavior. My first thought was, “Don’t underestimate yourself. I heard you’re frigid.”

We finish eating and leave.

“Let’s go here!” My friend offers a club we used to go to.

“Let’s not.”

Before they go back to the land of pig fuckers, he wants to show her a real big city night club.

“Well,” I think. “At least it’ll be loud and I won’t have to listen to her.” Always look on the bright side of life!

We get to the club and there’s a line and a cover. I go up to the doorman and he lets us in. I’ve known him for years.

“We’re not supposed to do that. It’s rude.”

“Then stay outside.” I say walking up to the bar where, of course, there’s a bartender I know who runs around to give me a big hug and kiss.

She orders us a round on the house and my friends date is appalled.

“How can all these people like you?”

“Because they know I don’t usually associate myself with tight-assed, fuck wads. Tonight’s just a special occasion.”

She is appalled! She is incensed! She’s about to say something else but I hold up my hand,

“Shut the fuck up, bitch. I’ve been listening to your backwoods bitching all night long and I’m fucking done.”

“Hey, Chris. . .” Her boyfriend begins. Just as quickly he rethought his decision.

“Good to see you haven’t gone all backwoods retard yet, chumbrain.” The bartender hands me the drinks. I hold one out to her. She takes it. “Enjoy your drink. Just remember to keep your mouth shut because if you say one more insulting thing I’ll tear you from your Payless knock off shoes to your Nutrasweet addled brain.”

It was amusing to watch her fade behind her boyfriend who was looking anywhere but in my general direction.

I hold my beer aloft.

“Here’s to you two!” They turn slowly towards me. “I hope you never have kids because once it found out you were it’s parents it would become the first in vitro suicide.”

The rest of the evening was perfect because no one, other than friends, spoke to me.

That’s not exactly true. When I got out of the car she rolled down the window and called me an asshole.

“That may be true but I’m not stupid enough to be fucking someone with genital herpes.”

He doesn’t (to the best of my knowledge) but I bet they had an interesting conversation all the way home.

Ecology Song Of The Week

TB has Music Monday so I guess today’s Song Sunday.

“Dude,” says the old hippie. “Music was so much better in my day.”

You gotta love kids songs about a cataclysmic event.

“The ice caps are melting, ho ho ho ho ho ho, all the world is drowning, ho ho ho ho ho ho!”

Metallica Pussy Cats!

A Phone Call

“Is this Pakky’s liquors?”


“Do you deliver?”


“Did you ever deliver?”


“What time do you close?”


“Isn’t that early for a liquor store?”


“Then why do you do it?”

“Because we’re not a liquor store.”

There was a pause.

“Did I dial the wrong number?”


End of conversation.

Thirty seconds later phone rings.


“Is this Pakky’s?”


“Do you deliver?”


“Good. The other guy said you didn’t.”

“He must be new. What would you like?”

She gives me the order.

“That’ll be $64.75 and it has to be paid in cash.”

“No problem.”

“And the order can only be given to someone with a valid state ID.”

“Yeah, okay, yeah.”

“What’s the address?”

“Seventeen Cleveland street. How long will it take?”

“About half an hour. But if we’re late let me give you the number of our direct delivery line so you can complain.”


“Do you have a pen?”

“Let me get one.”

She goes away for a moment. I can hear 3-4 voices in the background. She comes back.


“6 1 7 5 5 5 7 1 7 1.”

“6 1 7 5 5 5 7 1 7 1.”

“Great. Make sure to call if he’s not there in half an hour. We’ve been having trouble with our delivery guy lately. They may give you a coupon or something to make up for it.”


Are you wondering what number I gave her to complain?

Business line for the local police.

Be Who You Are

Whatever you are, be that. Don’t make excuses. It is what it is. Don’t blame something else. You are what you are. If there’s something about yourself you’d like to fix, like my pals over at No Butts About It, then gawdspeed. But, until you’ve started moving toward gawdspeed, no excuses.

That may seem a harsh bunch of words and you’re right, but, if all you do is bitch about something yet do nothing to fix it, I get a little tired of hearing the same song.

There was a, to quote the great comedian Gabriel Iglesias, fluffy woman yelling while standing in front of me. She was ranting, not for the first time with me, that she couldn’t control her weight due to a thyroid problem. The irony that she was doing this while chomping on some chocolate frosted cake thing was not lost on me.

I knew she wasn’t in the mood to have me do the old Kevin Meaney about just wanting to get a really big tan so I just stood there as she ranted herself red in the face while alternating bites of her tasty snack.

I didn’t know what I was more concerned about. Her ranting so hard something internally popped or how in the world I was going to heimlich her if need be.

I knew I had to say something, even just to distract her. But I really also thought she should seek someone more qualified to speak to so said,

“If that’s true, you really should see someone because you’ve got a serious case of thyroid rage going on.”

Random Brain Pops

Although these two things don’t have anything to really do with each other they are in the same format so I’m lumping them together.

I was doing cat maintenance when Closer by Nine Inch Nails came on. And this popped into my head:

Closer by Nine Inch Kitties

You better listen it’s true.
You are trained to take my cue.
You have to work till you’re through.
You better do what you do.

Feed me; I better get my kibble.
Feed me; I’ve got no time to waste.
Feed me; the only thing that works for me
Feed me I can’t get it myself.

I want to eat this like an animal!
I want to put it in my inside!
I want to eat this like an animal!
My whole existence is flawed.
You got opposable thumbs.

You can have my stinky doo doo.
You can have the smell that it brings.
You can have my absence of faith.
You can have my everything.

Feed me; take down my cat food.
Feed me; it’s the tuna I smell.
Feed me; you make it perfect.
Feed me then go anywhere else.

I want to eat this like an animal!
I want to put it in the inside!
I want to eat this like an animal!
Would you like your face clawed?
Then feed me before the dog.

Chew every morsel, never say please.
Filling my stomach, licked off my knees.
I eat the food that helps me to survive.
It’s the reason I stay in this dive.

I was talking to someone who fancies himself a comedy writer. He was trying to be out there but it wasn’t working. He was sounding like a ranting mad man. I told him he was pushing it and it wasn’t working.

He, of course, said bad things about me and said, “Oh yeah, if it’s so easy why don’t you come up with something?”

I don’t get writerly competition. It makes no sense to me. I may have to compete with you for work but I don’t get why they have to resort to snaps.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ll always take the challenge. I may not understand why but it doesn’t mean Mrs. Zell raised no coward.

I prattled off about ten things lickety-split, just idiotic mis-matched phrasing, before he asked me to stop.

When he left I had a bunch of random dumbness with no good use. Whenever that happens to me I just write some lyrics.

Standing here thinking
My fantastical thoughts
While twirling away
With my armpit hair

Such as, how do we get buttermilk
When there ain’t no butter teets?
I think the thoughts that hit my head
Like putty ain’t silly and is Abe Vigoda dead?


Thinking the thoughts
That may sound bright
The truth bares out
They only bring fright

Who is anti-gravity?
It’s such a cool thing
Can you abort a born again
In the first trimester?

Would you like Hitler better
If he had a fu manchu?
Did the guy who invented the vacuum
Have a thing against cats?

Thinking the thoughts
That may sound bright
The truth bares out
They only bring fright

Wouldn’t it be cool if
baseball really used bats?
How come they get so pissed
When I crap in their dumpster?

I can’t believe the girl scouts
Rejected my perfectly slogan
Make s’mores, not whores
Sounds like a winner to me

As tough as it would be
To be an outgoing agrophobe
It’d be a much harder life
Being a priest with tourettes

Thinking the thoughts
That may sound bright
The truth bares out
They only bring fright

I’d love to be a secret agent
. . .or do I?
All these thoughts prove is
The boy just ain’t right.


Let’s just start off by saying assumptions are bad and will often get you into trouble.

For example, until I shipped her ass out of town, an ex couldn’t believe that two of my friends, one a mechanic type who looks like an axe murderer, the other a refined, brilliant, world traveler, not only got along but truly liked each other and had a lot in common.

I was standing next to a pregnant friend. We’ve known each other for a long time, she knows what to expect when around me, so was laughing when I said,

“You know when the kids born we’re going to have to build a plywood box or a dozen layers of spackle over that soft spot. You know I just gotta poke that bastard.”

A woman overheard us so had to speak. I won’t bother going into not only listening to the conversations of others but then joining in. That’s an all new potential problem source.

I guess that’s one difference between me and normal people. They have no compunction about joining in on the conversations of others. I don’t get it. Has it ever turned out well for them? It’s never when they interrupt me.

One time I was talking with a traumatic rape detective. We’re having a private conversation over beers. Just a few laughs when a stranger must have taken our frivolity as an invitation.

He sticks his face in and the fun screeches to a halt until the cop says,

“Hey, haven’t I arrested you?”

The guy spies the cops badge and beats a hasty retreat. We’re happy he retreated but I had to ask.

“Nah,” the cop said. “Never met him but it always makes them fuck off.”

The woman was asking all the normal baby questions, gender, health, if it’s the first before asking me,

“Are you going to be in the delivery room?”

“Delivery room? Are you kidding? I wasn’t even in the conception room.”

Although everything I’ve said is true, she’s quite taken aback and begins to tell me something about my bad attitude or something. I don’t know, I wasn’t listening. I was formulating a plan so horrific the next time this woman, who may be wonderful, I don’t know nor care, thinks long and hard before sticking her face in private conversations ever again.

“I’m just kidding. I was in the conception room.” I pause. She relaxes. Silly woman. Didn’t she ever read Peanuts? “I was the cameraman.”

The woman’s fully flustered. We’re laughing and I can see she’s not sure if we’re crazy or insane. So I decided to get her off that painful fence.

“We’re just kidding. So, let me ask you a question.” When I get that sentence out and notice that she didn’t leave I knew I had to teach her a lesson. “After the baby comes I’m thinking of getting a vasectomy. But I’m worried.”

“There’s nothing to worry about. It’s completely. . .”

“Oh, I’m not worried about getting cut up or not knocking her up. Who needs more mouth-breathing morons.”

I lean in, point back at prego, and whisper, “It’s a good she’s good looking. Dumb as a naked bacon fryer.”

I stand straight, look her in the eyes (What the fuck is she still doing here?) and say,

“I’m concerned after the vasectomy my cum will taste like dead swimmers. You have any knowledge about that?”

She’s leaving as quickly as she can. I figure I can get one last shot across the bow to make sure she never butts in again.

“Hey, it’s all about her! She’s a gagger as it is. I just don’t want it to get worse.”

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