no handouts for tricksters and liars

i love evil in all its forms. i would like to introduce to you shirley nagel, who doesn’t hand out halloween candy to obama supporters or their children. i love her. she knows you have to take a strong hand with tomorrow’s youth, and they must learn, a vote against mccain is a vote against peanut m&ms. god bless you shirley!

watch the 2 minute news story here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jbkBE0lWeYU

ps: keep a careful eye out for an angry parent who dressed up as rosie o’donnell!

thank you for being a friend

Halloween Costume 2008: The Golden Girls. Best Costume Ever.....

some people think its funny, but its usually wet and runny

i like sharing, and i am going to share some of the virtues of crohn’s disease which takes away my dignity. since my surgery in april, i have been enjoying my remission, including chowing down on past forbidden foods such as salad, cashews, shredded wheat cereal and whole grain breads. by mid august, my body started to reject my new diet, and reminded me that a cut with the knife will not temper its insatiable lust of internal organ self-destruction.

how did my body decide to speak? through nail biting, asshole clenching, raging diarrhea. at first i brushed it off as too much fiber or too much vodka the night before, but when it started waking me up at night i began to suspect crohn’s involvement. then it began to wake me up multiple times at night, with great urgency forcing me to knock things down on route to the bathroom (its hard rushing with a sleepy head and complete darkness but worth not soiling yourself).

and sometimes, while deeply asleep, my body wakes me up to late and i begin to shit myself. just a little, but enough to force me to wash my underwear out at 3 in the morning and frequent enough for me to stuff tissues in my underwear as to not have to wash more underwear out every night.

btw - how does the body know when you are getting closer to a toilet and amp up the need to go even stronger. by the time i unlock the door and run to the toilet, my intestines begin to churn harder and my impulse to crap becomes stronger. the closer i get to the toilet, the stronger the urge – until its impossible for me to grab reading material no less unbutton my pants.

my constant diarrhea and toxic gas has pushed chris to the brink, sitting me down to discuss how I need to go to the doctor. let me tell you, nothing is more humbling than your live-in partner telling you to see a doctor because as he puts it “your farts are worse than when you had blood farts.”

fun crohn’s vocabulary:

blood fart (n.): noxious gas that escapes my body by

first going through my intestinal tract which his full of

stale rotten blood from bleeding sores.

nothing smells worse – nothing. not nyc garbage trucks on an august afternoon, not filled diaper pails, nor sulfur pools. blood farts are at the top of the disgusting odor chart.

one positive side effect is my ass must be in top physically shape – or at least my asshole. there have been so many times that I have to cletch my asshole tightly closed, as not to have an accident during a meeting, walking home, or ironing for that matter, my bunghole must be ready for some type of olympic game. special olympics that is.

as you can plainly see, i needed help and something had to be done. i made an appointment with my guru, dr. silvera, and i am back on humira. thankfully, they have “improved” on the technology and now give you a pen to stick yourself (rather than a needle), which controls the speech in which the medicine is delivered – which is horrifyingly slow. it makes me scream out loud, which is unnerving for anyone in the apartment and i would guess my neighbors, but this is the price you pay not to be on the brink of shitting yourself all day and night.

aren't you glad i share?

autism leads to the new michael phelps

from cnn:

walter marino shouted to his 12-year-old son, christopher, as he drifted farther away in the Atlantic Ocean.

"to infinity," the father yelled.

"and beyond," christopher replied.

an autistic boy who spent 12 hours stranded in the atlantic ocean enjoyed himself during his ordeal, his father told cnn. walter marino said his son doesn't fear death because of his disease and therefore remained calm. walter marino, who was swept out to sea with his son, said he took comfort in christopher's calmness, fostering his own survival. "it was a big entertainment roller coaster for him, that's what got me through it -- because he wasn't freaking out," marino said.

as mr. marino stated, his son doesn't fear death. once mr. marino found the neighborhood boys beating christopher with sticks chanting "rain man, rain man." this was also a proud moment for mr. marino, as christopher didn't show any fear then either. in fact, christopher hardly ever shows any kind of emotion. he just moans and rolled his eyes back in his head. Mr. marino usually can tell when christopher is enjoying something, as his moan becomes more severe - just like the day at the beach when his father lead his fearless son into the ocean and quickly became separated from him. christopher was moaning pretty loud, and mr. marino read this as pleasure, as he is surely correct. kids with autism can not get enough of repetitious activities like treading water or tying and untying shoelaces.

to infinity christopher! said mr. marino.

and beyond (gurgle, moan) says christopher in return, while his eyes roll back in his head.

an beyond, young christopher, and beyond......

sister anna louise

my friend just reminded me of our childhood piano instructor, sister anna louise. i went to a catholic school which still had some nuns teaching children. my mother and aunts would always tell horror stories of nuns beating them with rulers and in general, physically abusing them until they could recite their multiplication tables without using their dirty sinful fingers.

although i didn’t go to catholic school during its rockin’ heyday like my mother did, we still had nuns or sisters who for lack of sanity or pleasure beat the shit out of us for no real reason. one such nun was sister anna louise – our half deaf (i kid you not – she had two hearing aids) music teacher. to earn a little extra green on the side (no doubt to pay for her sexy gray woolen skirts or quite possibly boxing lessons) she taught the privileged kids in my little home town piano. my sister and i were some of those lucky children.

sister anna louise was part of the sisters of st. joseph, whose motto (from their website) is “together, we live, pray, and work for a more just and peaceful world.” sister anna louise’s personal motto was “i must break you.” missing notes on the piano were cause for minor breakdowns for sister anna louise, usually accompanied by a quick slap on the hands or thug on the head. and god bless your little childhood soul if your “hands got lazy” and played with flat fingers or if you didn’t practice until your little 7 year old nails fall out or you held that note a little too long. staccato, staccato! she would screech and slap you on your ear (which by the way really hurts – she would use the open hand approach - much like pol pot). really, i think she taught piano to lend her the opportunity to abuse young children.

anyways, as a child who was just developing this large jar of emotional anger i carry around with me today (which does not lend me to losing weight), i hated her. i still fucking hate her. i don’t really believe in hell, but it comforts me that her willowed old corpse might burn their one day.

my mother use to cart her around town and take her to lunch (i guess she thought she was getting closer to god, and lord knows she needed to burn some bad karma off). i would always get updates from her, which i always responded that i didn’t care. when my mother passed, sr. anna louise came to my mother’s funeral and announced very loudly “she’s gotten much fatter – she was always so fat.” of course being almost completely deaf, she can’t hear herself, but everyone else did.

personally, i can’t believe she is still alive (and she is – my mother’s close friend has now pick up where my mother left off on updates regarding the sadistic cunt and i learned at kara’s wedding sr. anna louise is alive and kicking – most likely a toddler who hasn’t learn to sit up straight). it just goes to show, true hardcore evil doesn’t really die. true hardcore evil lives long enough to make others wipe their asses and change their diapers once again.

where's my transgendered hero?

in fun news from my hometown, a woman drove over 5 people, killing one outside a gay bar in rochester, new york. at about 2am the women (susan arena - anyone know her?) speed into a group of people only to be stopped by our tranny hero, karen ann bills.

karen ann comes to the rescue with her cane, i kid you not, and ax. she throws the ax into the windsheild of the man slaughtering driver and dares her not to move.

bravo karen ann! i especially like the interview she gives with her trusty teddy bear sitting besides her. every super hero needs their sidekick. again, my neighbors suck and only wish i had a karen ann living next to me, in case i ever need her services of an ax.

below is the link to the story (with video on right) of karen ann's proud moment. karen ann does not appear until the end, and it is worth the wait!

http://www.whec.com/article/stories/s541725.shtml?cat=566

how do you say ching chong chinaman in spanish?

it’s funny how overt racism can appear in main media. and i am being completely honest – i think it is hilarious in 2008 when let’s say the spanish olympic basketball team finds it acceptable to give themselves epicanthic folds for a publicity photo at the 2008 beijing olympics. to make it funnier – it includes pau gasol who is not only a star on the lakers but a unicef ambassador.

i find it outrageously funny when the star of mtv's the hills (honestly i don’t watch it, but i do watch the soup which gives me the blow by blow of reality television characters embarrassing themselves week after week) discuss on tyra banks if he were to adopt a child from africa he would call him “dunk,” as in dunk the ball in basketball.

how about adam sandler’s quest to make the most homophobic movie ever – as in i now pronounce you chuck and larry which has two “men” who have to kiss each other (ewwww!) to get health benefits. you know i could make out with a girl for health insurance without needing to wash my mouth out with scope immediately afterwards - hell i do it for 10 bucks. follow up that gem with don’t mess with the zohan, who is a post israeli army hair dresser and insert your own multiple gay jokes here.

finally, one of my favorites is a rochester cine-plex staple of senor nacho, a cartoon figure dressed in a sombrero, green, red and yellow poncho, handlebar mustache and white pants asking you to consider purchasing some gooey orange cheese nachos! andale, andale! arriba, arriba! who creates this? what artists draws this and thinks - oh my god, this is the perfect example of a mexican?

my grandfather used to call my toyota a rice burner. he also called brazilian nuts “nigger toes.” i use to think he was old and only the old are racists/homophobes. my mother uses to recall when “sugar babies” were called “nigger babies” and “einee minee miney moe, catch a nigger by its toe” was the original lyrics to the well known nursery rhythm. she pointed out that these were wrong, she was not as old as my grandfather. my grandfather is long dead, but luckily for humor sake, racism and homophobia are not. although bothered and hard to believe these things happen in this age, it only takes a moment until i laugh at their absurdity. just like the austrian who kept his daughter/mother of his children locked in the basement for a decade, it is the absurdity that makes it funny. strike that, austrians win = much funnier than the spanish ching chong chinaman faces. sorry spain, you must settle for the silver medal....

pills, thrills and foreign pharmacies

i see buying somewhat illegal narcotics abroad as an entitlement. it is a human right violation that i can not purchase tylenol with codeine in the states and by god i am going to exercise this right given to foreigners as much as eating a croissant in montreal or drinking shiraz in australia. in fact, i am going to purchase as much as the pharmacy will allow me. so what if I am carrying 5000 codeine tablets across the border, i earned them.

when entering a foreign pharmacy, i put on my best innocent face and try not to look like the lecherous drug hound that i am. chris always gets embarrassed and tries to pretend he doesn't know me. recently in quito, ecuador i found a very accommodating pharmacist who was willing to let me purchase as much valium as i wanted. i asked for a box, and he came back with a huge green box. when asked how many pills were contained inside, he said 500. out of the opposite corner of the store, i hear chris yell “no.” i understood this very strong “no” to mean chris did not want to travel around with a valium drug mule. i bought a respectable 20.

unfortunately, due to a harrowing bus ride through the andes on mud roads and steep deadly cliffs, 20 pills were not enough. while back in quito, i tried another pharmacy to score some more. this time they were not so accommodating and the pharmacist tells me to speak to a doctor. when i ask where you can see a doctor (calling their bluff and trying not to look like a total crack head), they say they can get one and all of sudden i am being led down a long hallway and end up in an office telling some foreign doctor i need a script cause i am going on a 3 day bus ride to la paz and don't want to freak out. he gives me the script and i have it filled and leave the pharmacy 20 minutes later to a very upset chris wondering where the hell i was.

chris is not the only one who becomes ensnared in my exercise to purchase fun white pills abroad. during a very long road trip with my father through the southwest, i bullied him to about 15 mexican pharmacies in the border community of cuidad juarez, which should be called cuidad shitty, searching for anyone who would sell me vicadin. i eventually scored some, but didn’t have enough money, so i had my father buy them for me.

the lesson of the story is, if you are abroad with me, i will stop in the local pharmacy. traveling is fun, but traveling on an assortment of colored pills is just a little more fun. i can’t wait for southeast asia.

américa del sur, primera parte

Note: I sent this by email to many of you before – although frankly it was way too long and I would be shocked if anyone had the time (patience) to read about my gallivants. I broke it down (because i know you all have attention disorders) and edited it for your reading pleasure – because it’s all about you.

we touched down in bogotá about 2 in the afternoon. i was thrilled and could not wait to start our 16 (later adopted to 17) day tour through bogotá, colombia and a good cross section of ecuador.

when we got in the cab to be taken to the hostel platypus, i felt immediately we were no longer in the usa. our taxi driver pimped out his ride with some booming speakers and one of those tiny steering wheels that look like it belongs in a go cart rather than a car - which actually made some sense since the car was the size of a go cart. he then tore through the city streets barely missing other cabs, trucks, meridians, light poles and pedestrians. i began my foreign country taxi buddhist chant:

"thedriverdriveseveryday….iamsureheknowswhatheisdoing….andknowshewon'tkillthatchildontherightside"
or
"ohmygodohmygodohmygod…stoplookinginthefront…justlookthesidewindow"

the bogotá 500 ended at our hostel which lonely planet describes "the kind of backpacker mecca..." thereby insulting Muslims everywhere. Although it wasn't the crappiest hostel i have ever stayed in (that award goes to the china train station hostel in hohot which did not charge extra for the feces on the floor), it was no mecca. it’s the type of place where you wear your shower shoes in the bathroom and for that matter, you never take off your shoes at all, and pray you don't get bed bugs from the college futon bought in 1984 which you now call your bed for three nights.

we quickly escaped to grab some food and the closest place turned out to be an israeli owned cafe l'jaim which was to have some awesome typical latin food of shwarma. since i am an awesome new jew, i was all for it. i kept saying we are going to la ham in which chris was quick to correct me saying it probably stood for l'chiam. i never said i was a good new jew.

my expectations of bogotá or should i say my stereotype was a bunch of coke smugglers funding their guerrilla war to smuggle more coke. okay, maybe i wasn't that stereotypical, but what i found in bogota is one of the most charming cities i have ever been in. it is a complete cafe culture with many people on the streets strolling the cafes, shops and outdoor markets. the first evening we stumbled upon a street fair complete with a transvestite comedian (comedy loses something when you only understand every 30th word), jugglers who set fire to tennis rackets, and traditional dancing. it was an amazing stumbling find - the kind that makes you want to travel forever.

the only downside was my street meat envy. bogota had huge chorizos on a stick topped off with a potato rolled in rock salt. YUMMY! i avoided this because my intestines are a fragile flower that I must tend to or they will pluck me out of the country. Other street food I passed on to not be airlifted from yet another continent included homemade donuts with glowing goo dripping from their powdered sugar middle, grilled corn with kernels the size of my thumbnail, and special herbal tea which I thought smelled wonderful and chris believed it was made from sewage.

more in the next blog....

1 ad

i believe religion serves many needs – good and evil. i also believe one of the most important needs filled by religion throughout history is entertainment . you’re bored working those salt mines? chant to allah five times a day. hot day in the rice paddies? meditate with buddha. tired of picking up twigs to keep your fires a glowing? worship the sun god. the list is endless.

what else did people have to do? theater – maybe on special occasions. parties – again something most peoples could not sustain everyday.

in the past century our entertainment options have multiplied, but one true option is worthy of worship. with the dawn of dvr or 1 ad (after dvr), my life begins again. dvr is my new god.

dvr lets me whiz through programming at the attention deficient speeds i demand. no more commercials, no more hosts introducing america’s funniest videos leaving me waiting to see an overweight housewife trip over her overweight dog, and no more five minute recaps of lost trying to piece together its absurd plot and multitudes of insignificant characters dying by mysterious fog, polar bears or that creepy leader guy with the bug eyes. dvr is efficient, it is personal, and it is glorious. all hail dvr.

now well into 2 ad, i have become addicted to dvr. i no longer can watch live television. even if i am watching a program live, i will tape it and watch something else, so that i may return to it when i am able to zip through it.

my mere worship had grown to fanaticism. watching non-dvr television is blasphemy and i firmly believe a hate crime. catholicism never really worked for me, but I am proud to say that the ideology of dvr fits my lifestyle just perfectly. so please excuse me, as i need to lay fruits around the dvr box and light a candle to chant that it’s little green light never burns out. Amen.

sometimes good friends go bad, then crazy

chris and i had a interesting 4^th of july in dc this weekend visiting my long time friend michelle. the weekend was full of weird moments flashing michelle's true crazy potential. she was stoned the entire weekend (putting a bowl to her mouth the minute she awaken) which you would think would relax her but in reality didn't seem to phase her; it just made her repeat things over a thousand times ('we have to go at 230pm to meet my friends' was vocalized about a dozen times - each time she would get more agitated and angry at us for reasons unknown). michelle also was unable to do one thing for more than 15 mintues without feeling the strong urge to leave or do something else. sometimes, if we were in a museum, she would text message me 100 times stating: she was bored, going out for a cigarette, where are you, bought a bracelet cause she was bored, standing outside, i really don't want to be here anymore, smoking another cigarette, do you want to go, where are you - all within a 20 minute period of time. she also can no longer hold a conversation for more than an hour without bringing up some horrible trauma in her life. on saturday night, we got in a confrontation at a bar which i (and therefore chris) walked away from her to go back to the apartment. that is when the real crazy kicked in - leaving her screaming "my mother was a heroine addict" and "i was molested when i was 9" in between throwing things against the walls.

chris and i decided to flee her apartment for a hotel room. michelle sums up her anger here in one of the many, MANY emails/sms messages to me (i have changed nothing):

“look, i didn't know i was offending chris. but the way you approached
it mike was way out of fucking line in my opinion.

my real friends tell me to my face if i am offending them. i HONESTLY
didn't realize i was doing anything WRONG.

was winning the game pissing him off?
was i being too whatever?

i asked you to come here so i could have a FRIEND around to get over
BRIAN and what do you tell me to do?

STOP CRYING BABY, GET A THERAPIST

GEE THANKS FRIEND. THANKS FOR THE HUG, THANKS FOR THE FUCKING SUPPORT.
THAT'S ALL I FUCKING WANTED. BUT NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO YOU HAVE TO TELL ME
TO GROW UP AND STOP CRYING.
I DON'T STOP.
MY MOTHER IS A HEROIN ADDICT, MY BROTHER IS IN A HOME, MY FATHER IS IN
A HOME, I WAS SEXUALLY, MENTALLY AND PHYSICALLY ABUSED BY SO MANY
PEOPLE YOU CAN'T COUNT THEM ON YOUR TWO GAY FUCKING HANDS. I FUCKING
HATE YOU. YOU ARE THE WORST FRIEND I HAVE EVER HAD.

I WENT TO FUCKING BRIAN'S LAST NIGHT CAUSE HE IS MY ONLY FRIEND WHO
WOULD HELP ME LAST NIGHT.

you have so many people that just love your funny nature so much but i
know the real ASSHOLE you are.
I hope one day you realize how controlling and what a fucking dick you are.
maybe not. oooh look at me, i am so cool i travel all over. ooooh
look at me. i am so awesome i get to go all over cause i am so
fucking great.

take a minute and think about what a jerk you are.
i know i have my faults. i don't deny them, i list them, i work on
them, i deal with them.

you, you laugh and make fun of everyone.
is that your defense mechanism to make fun of people who are NOT like you?

YOU ARE GAY. HA HA YOU'RE GAY. GAYS ARE RUINING THE USA. YOU WANT
TO HEAR THAT ALL THE TIME FROM YOUR FRIEND?

ALL I WANTED WAS A FRIEND CAUSE I WAS GOING THROUGH A HARD TIME WITH
LOSING BRIAN, BUT YOU DON'T CARE ABOUT FUCKING ANYONE BUT YOURSELF.

WHAT DID I DO THAT WAS SO FUCKING OFFENSIVE?”

needless to say, i don't think i will make it on michelle's christmas card list this year. i think the above sums up how our weekend was. although the fireworks were pretty awesome, as was the afghani exhibit at the national museum of art. ttfn.

hot steamy dog shit

whenever i am confronted by our furry four legged friends, there are two things that instantly go through my mind a) is it going to jump on me and soil my clothing and b) will i feel compelled to pet it and therefore suffer from dog stink on my hand. i know all owners of dogs are adamant their dog is clean – guess what? i don’t care how fucking clean your dog is, there is always residue dog stink on your hand after petting it. although there are varying levels of stink; some less than others, there really is nothing as repugnant as an “outside” dog’s vile dander on your hand after pretending to like canines and scratching its back.

and if your dog slobbers or breathes its hot little doggie breath on me, i am not exactly ready to gush on how cute he/she is. many times, it is not the dogs fault for being annoying – like it wasn’t properly trained or it’s dressed up like a doll by its owner. honestly, in nyc people put rain boots on their little purse dogs. i firmly believe that people who dress their dogs beyond a jaunty little bandannas should be euthanized.

not being one to hide my emotions on my face, immediately when confronted with a slobbery dog, the owner will say “you’re not a dog person, are you?” i want to say “yes” – because i feel if i say “no” it makes it look like i am a bad person and let’s face it, my personality is so borderline i don’t need another item to weigh in on the “evil” side of the lady justice weight measure. so i say yes, but it is a lie – which makes me wonder, is it worse to lie about liking dogs than actually not liking dogs?

another sex in the city moment there. that damn movie is everywhere right now. i don’t really hate the movie as much as the hags that can’t wait to see it. i use to watch sex in the city on television and liked it. recently, while mending at home on my back for five weeks, i tried repeatedly to watch the reruns and just found myself nauseated by the pathetic storylines and ‘hipper’ than bitchy attitude all four main characters have. i guess i can see some sort of camp value in the upcoming flick, but that would be a lie – and i’ll leaving lying to whether or not i like dogs. i guess the real point here is: will i ever be able to end a paragraph with a question without envisioning sarah jessica parker typing on her bed about the latest dipshit she’s dating?

and since we are talking about dogs in the city (drum roll, please), i would have to de-evolve to be reduced to take a thin plastic bag and pick up hot steamy dog shit off the sidewalk every morning/night. it’s just never going to happen. not only that, but i curse all city dogs owners who pollute our sidewalks with brown stains, who are the real culprits in the waifs of urine we are so lucky to smell, and who kill more trees than bette milder can plant.

now, don’t get me wrong, i am really not against dogs. to be honest, i actually find them comforting to have around. i understand the bond one can have with an animal – i loved my childhood dog, ginger. she was so important to me that when i was 7 or 8, i planned on taking her with me when i ran away (side note: i would tell my mother i was running away, usually after a good beating, and her response was always “i’ll pack your lunch,” classic karen).

to sum it all up - i guess i like the concept of a dog, just don’t make me pet them.

NOTE FOR FRIENDS WITH DOGS: there are always exceptions to the rules, and there are dogs i do genuinely like – so please don’t ask me whether i like your dog or not, cause the answer is always yes, whether i do or not.

my phone, my nemesis

there are moments in which i am capable of super human strength, much like the incredible hulk. in fact the incredible hulk and i have one important key characteristic in common - we can only summon our super human strength when we are angry. we differ as i did not obtain this super power by some failed government experiment (like rachael ray) - mine is purely genetic - from the deep pit of anger which pretty much defines my mother.

many schoolchildren used the "my father can beat up your father" analogy to boost their pride. i can say with ease that my mother could kill your entire family within 5 seconds - not so much for my pride, as more of a warning to you. karen (my mother's name to the outside world, or 'killa gorilla' in fight club) could summon up hateful rage to stomp out many evils in our house - like beds made WITHOUT hospital corners (for those savage pigs who do not know what hospital corners are - it is when you corner tuck the sheets in a perfect 90 degree angle), watching tv before 4pm, or pretty much anytime she was annoyed.

a special offense which would unleash quick and immediate tirades (read: beatings) was to eat food on the forbidden list. karen was a heavyweight fighter weighing in around 300 pounds (give or take a bag of lays or two) which gave her a special interest in the quantities of food available in house at all times. food falling below certain quantities would bring about beatings. this created a special food edibility pyramid in my house which only the local culture (myself, my sister and my father) could comprehend - although many times the locals could not understand what the beast wanted. in karen's house, all foods had levels of edibility - depending on where they fell on the pyramid. a food on the forbidden list (food seemingly purchased for consumption, but in reality evil booby traps set by karen to release her inner rage) ranged from anything from pretzels to fruit to bread.

not only were foods categorized but also weighed - so that if any one member ate more then the allotted or "fair" amount, karen could (and would) quickly squash such uprisings. my mother was like a somali warlord with the key to the wheat harvest and no one in the family was going to establish any other order.

in fact their was an actual key which unlocked a pantry, which my mother would hold, to protect the precious stash of food stuff from the groveling peasants. at one time, this included 14 cake mixes and matching icings - because karen knew my sister and i were aching to bake a wedding cake behind her back and not share a crumb with her.

besides a locked pantry and established fear, my mother also had a hidden stash of food in her dresser - which would include multi-pack bars of candy, snack chips, nuts and other assorted treats any good diabetic needs. i knew all these secrets because, like my sister, i was part of the food resistance.

to digress, i too have inherited the ability of irrational blind rage - which i have been somewhat successful in suppressing with my drug and alcohol abuse. at times though, like the hulk, i loose control and become enraged - mostly on inanimate objects which laugh and taunt me.

since purchasing my razor (spelled razr by the assholes at motorola) phone, it has belittled me with mystery rings, scourged me with unintended photographs, and in general made calling friends and retrieving voice-mail unnecessarily difficult. this past sunday, while driving home from the national alliance of mental health fund raising walk (i kid you not), the phone mocked me for the very last time - incessantly ringing to tell me i had a voice mail - which i was already alerted to every 20 minutes for the previous 3 hours. my face turned green, my body grew, at first twice and then three times the size as normal and then, i snapped the phone in half.

now, many people would think i snapped the phone where the hinge was (as it was a flip phone). that my friends, would be for those without super hero strength. i snapped my phone in half right below the 4,5,6 buttons. later, i learned from the razr gestapo that i snapped the motherboard (her words, not mine) in half and rendered the phone useless (one tiny step below its original ranking if you ask me).

therefore, i do not have a phone at the moment, but look forward to my new blackberry i purchased online. i hope it is fully trained not to annoy me or else i may have to unleash the rage again in a sequel - 'son of killa gorilla.'

daddy needs his medicine

my favorite day is when i get to drink vodka until i start dancing around my living room to music on demand videos, then lay on the couch until i fall "asleep", wake up at 2am and debate whether i want to make the effort to take out my contacts or not (i always rally and take them out - ripping my corneas in the process - but they grow back, right?). of course this activity is one you can not do everyday or else you create habits that are frowned upon by your spouse who yet again has to listen to you belt out the lastest kayne west song. i love kayne west when i am drunk. no, this is a hobby you can only enjoy every now and then, and guess what - tonights the night!

mmmm, the vodka is so cold.

today was the first day back to work after "the man" took some of my intestines. it went fine, i am sore but nothing a fifth of vodka won't cure. it is very strange that the concept of sitting is painful. walk, stand, jumping jacks, dancing to kayne west is fine - sitting, painful. but that is what vodka is for.....

is daughter raping funny?

this was my facebook photo for a while. i thought it was funny, apparently some did not. i think it is funny cause it is so disturbing and so wrong. i mean its not like i dressed up as a poor abducted child for Halloween (BEFORE the body was found, thank you). is laughing at the horrible in the world so wrong? is it still wrong if i work for a non-profit?

jesus, so as i was writing that last sentence; it reminded me of sarah jessica parker's character in sex in the city - which by the way is coming out in a few weeks and i am so fucking excited. first i am going to make cosmopolitans with some of my close, yet completely different, assortment of friends (read: all white friends) - you know like an hbo version of the view (except we are all white). we will sip our tinis and talk about boys and then cry cause no one will love us cause we are a living cliche. it is going to be soooo fun. by the end of the night though, like the movie, someone will die. seriously, if you are going to see sex in the city movie, someone should die.

so back to my main man who keeps his incestuous family locked in the secret basement, while his non incestuous family lives above without any knowledge, i still think it is funny. but i relented and changed my photo to paula deen - although, to be quite frank, i don't see the difference.

inspired by friends

so ruske and jenna have both started blogs and inspired me to as well. at first i thought the idea of blogging to be obnoxious, but i actually really enjoy reading (and judging) jenna's notes of cultural differences between london and nyc (way to figure out you need to walk on the opposite side of the sidewalk as well as the road - how many poor bobbies were trampled before you realize this?) and ruske's browbeating of anthony to weed the garden. So I want to join the fun and welcome you all to make viscous comebacks.

i think this will be fun, or maybe i am really high or maybe a little from column "a" and a little from column "b"......