Happy Thieving Genocidal Maniac Day Everyone!

I feel very strongly that I have a civic duty to announce on Columbus Day exactly what we Americans are celebrating. I lack the words to improve in any way those directly from the horse’s mouth. The below is an actual entry from Christopher Columbus’s journal contemporary with his landing in the Bahama Islands and encountering the Arawaks, they being the native peoples:

“They… brought us parrots and balls of cotton and spears and many other things, which they exchanged for the glass beads and hawks’ bells. They willingly traded everything they owned…. They were well-built, with good bodies and handsome features…. They do not bear arms, and do not know them, for I showed them a sword, they took it by the edge and cut themselves out of ignorance. They have no iron. Their spears are made of cane…. They would make fine servants…. With fifty men we could subjugate them all and make them do whatever we want.”

Wow, what more can you say? You have no choice but to respect a mutherfucker who says “I’m going to exploit, enslave, and outright murder a population because they seem too goddamn nice to stop me”, and then goes out and exploits, enslaves, and outright murders a population because they are too goddamn nice to stop him. Do what you say you are going to do, I guess? I said I was going to lose 10 pounds this summer and I lost zero pounds this summer, kind of puts my lack of resolve into perspective, huh?

I am always at a complete loss on Columbus Day as to why we continue to celebrate this cocksucker. Let’s get together and keep the banking/school holiday, rename it Go Take a Walk in the Woods and Enjoy the Fall Foliage with your Family and Pets Day, and be done with it. Was ol’ Chris a crazy-assed adventurer with giant brass balls? Absofuckinglutely. Was he also an extremely evil person infected with one of the worst cases of insatiable greed in recorded history? In spades. I’m not saying they are innocent of exploitation entirely but could we at least switch it to Lewis & Clark Day? I’d feel a lot less like taking 20 showers on the second Monday of October each year if we could just name it Lewis & Clark Day. I don’t want to hear about what a great guy Christobol was; I want to listen to this: Sleep Now in the Fire

Enjoy your day off, play with your kids, go nuts. Just don’t buy into this bullshit. Christopher Columbus is nothing more than Pol Pot, Mao, Hitler, Stalin, but with a great P.R. team. *This could just be sour grapes on my part. I work in the financial industry yet I’m part of the 10% of the financial industry that doesn’t get the day off. If Columbus had been responsible for maybe just 100,000 more deaths I think I’d have the day off, but it would seem he stopped just short. So double fuck you Christopher, ya prick.

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Well, the Planet’s Fucked, No Biggie

I’m going to do my very best to keep the preachy as fuckedness of this post to an absolute minimum. The United Nations report on climate change, 2014 edition, which is set to officially drop in the next couple of weeks, is arguably the biggest game-changer since Snoop Dogg’s “Doggystyle” in 1993. The New York Times reported the pertinent details from an advance copy prior to finalization and official release. Suffice it to say we’ve reached the point where we can no longer pretend that our drunken lout of a son is just working through some post-college malaise and will rise from the desert like a phoenix shortly and become the CEO of a fortune 500. He is 41, black-out drunk at your annual Christmas party, lives in your basement, hasn’t worked in 6 years, has a dust ring around one nostril, has been working on his “hit screenplay” for 11 years, and just grabbed your neighbor’s 19 year old daughter below the belt….in the front. There is no more sticking your head in the proverbial sand and hoping for the best. A fundamental shift in what we as humans consider “success” will need to occur, and rather quickly, or quite simply put some day in the no longer distant future we’ll all die of asphyxia. Sure, maybe we’ll find a way to inhabit another planet ala “Total Recall”, but probably not. Feel free to read for yourself at http://www.ipcc.ch/ but I warn that you are about to have a “just woke up morning after party you don’t remember butt naked next to a Haitian prostitute with a pet monkey and a needle habit, and no condom packaging in sight” level panic attack if you do. I’ll summarize: All the shit they spooked us with back in the early to mid-90′s that might happen in hundreds if not thousands of years so who gives a fuck because no one we ever know will have to deal with it……is happening. And the heavy, stenching, foulest shit will be at our doorsteps in the 2050-2100 range. As in my daughters’ children will be greatly affected. People I will hopefully get to meet some day. Sea-level equatorial nations, fucked city. Deserts where there used to not be deserts. Mega storms with increasing frequency. Finally the dreaded runaway greenhouse where we all just quit breathing. If you don’t care about some of this occurring to your near-term descendents, then you are quite simply a fucking prick. Of epic proportions. Republican legislators for example. The legislators I can handle because they are in bed with big oil and big oil is incongruous with fighting climate change. Support green initiatives and you don’t get voted back into office. Easily understood. It is their fucktard, braindead rank-and-filers who are most puzzling. They make no money from big oil yet still regurgitate the talking heads and their brain-washing arguments regarding the climate change “myth”. Get your head out of your fucking ass you WASPy shitheel. You run a business office which means you are smart enough to understand that just because this past winter was one of the coldest on record in the upper Midwest, does not negate the fact that this past January was the hottest in recorded history on planet earth (it was). If you don’t give a shit about a fundamentally altered way of life for your grandchildren and their children, then you are an even bigger raging asshole than I previously thought, and that was a high bar to begin.

What is the answer? I’m no scientist and don’t have even one good harebrained idea to float by you. Something involving big space helmets maybe? I wish I had something but I got my Economics degree from the College of Arts and Sciences, which means I can draw you pretty graphs about things that should happen, ceteris parabis (a nifty little Econ term borrowed from Latin meaning “all things being equal”, e.g. occurring in a vacuum, which cannot in reality happen, rendering all my graphs no more than pretty little still life paintings), but I don’t have any real scientific thought for you. I’m also pretty fucking far from being a model citizen as pertains to environmental responsibility. What I do have is a small, not even close to all-encompassing list of ideas which are on the “not much sweat off your balls” end of the pain-in-the-ass spectrum. Without further adieu, here goes:

Stop voting for the GOP. Just stop it. Am I saying Vote Democrat? Absolutely not. I myself stopped voting Democrat 4 years ago and I can’t envision going back without a sea change in the party’s on-field effort versus campaign trail bullshit rhetoric. In fact I am becoming increasingly frustrated and scared that the current administration is turning America into Oceania. Back to the point, you aren’t voting for small government, state’s rights, and fiscal responsibility anymore when you vote GOP. You just aren’t. In fact it has been a long ass fucking time since a vote for the GOP was a vote for those olde tymey principles you think you’re voting for. The party has devolved into old white anger that hates everything black, is xenophobic apparently thinking their own ancestors sprouted from the United States earth somehow through hard work and abhorring charity, seemingly wants every have-not in the country to die of starvation in the street as they smugly say “you should have worked harder”, and denies science in the face of staggering evidence. The overwhelming majority of Republicans are good, intelligent people. However the growing fascism evident at each and every national convention doesn’t represent you in any way, shape or form. Research people who have a history of actually changing things rather than someone who slips you a roofie at the bar and promises to be a “change” from all those other guys who have fucked you over. (I think it is time for the rational population within the Republican Party to break off and start their own thing independent of whatever the party has become at the national level) Again, I’m not at all fond of the Democratic Party either, but at least they aren’t openly shouting down science like they’re protesting outside the fucking Scopes Trial.

When you shower, turn off the water while you suds. Get wet, turn off the water, lather up your hot zones of armpits, ass crack, and crotch (I advise full body but I’m not here to be the shower police), then shampoo your hair. Turn the water on and rinse off. Turn the water off. Put conditioner on your head (yes I still do this despite being bald, but that is a story for another day), lather up your face, blindly feel around for the handle, turn it back on and rinse off. I did it this morning and it barely sucks at all.

Unless you are in an Ebola hot zone or traveling anywhere else which has liquid bowels in every tap-filled glass, for the love of Crom stop buying water bottles.

If you still leave your sink faucet running while you actually brush your teeth, instead of just to rinse off the brush, then you are a hopeless asshole and should join ISIS. Seriously stop reading and go run over kittens with your lawn mower, you prick.

If available start frequenting a local farmers market. The food is fresher and requires far less fossil fuels to get it into your belly. Yes, it costs more. But guess what, it has far more nutrients than the shit you buy at the store, so you don’t have to eat as much. It all comes out in the wash, except that you’ll be a little healthier and there will be less shit in the air.

Again, if available in your area, find a butcher who sources locally from farmers that pasture and grass feed their cows. Cows eat grass, always have. I’m not an evolutionary historian, but I doubt there are any records of cows shucking, then eating corn off the cob. Much the same as humans, cows, like any other animal who has eaten one way for 99.9% of their species existence on earth, when suddenly fed corn and corn derivatives, shit gets fucked. Large scale cattle farming is Cryptonite to the environment.

Same goes with salmon; at no point did they ever leap from the banks of rivers and harvest corn. Don’t eat farmed fish. Finding real deal wild caught fish is a bitch, but worth it.

Reuse shit, if you can. Grocery bags for example. Use old toothbrushes to clean small places. If you took vegetables or a dry sandwich to work or school, you can reuse that Ziploc bag. Do NOT reuse condoms or tampons.

Lastly, and this is where as a habitual line-stepper I go from losing a friend or two over this to losing several; stop driving your cars to your air-conditioned, heated church every Sunday. Your God has no interest in stopping climate change and in fact He/She seems to be in cahoots with those who like to renounce climate change. Instead of consuming resources to worship the megalomaniac, get the whole fam damily out for a long walk. Mom, dad, kids, Fido, Nanna, Papa, whoever makes up your little clan, get out and worship nature for a few hours. At the end go to a park and have a picnic, stop in to the local pub and mingle with your neighbors over a pint, stare at clouds, whatever. Of course the pastor might have to give up his Cadillac over the loss of business, but he’ll survive.

And in the end it appears as though my first promise has been unkempt. Preachy as fuck. I can live with it considering what we all are staring in the tits in the coming century. Since Total Recall, I like everyone else who saw it, has been fascinated with the chick with three tits. But not fascinated enough to go trough all this to meet her.

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Stick Figure Family Car Stickers: Another Reason I’m Stupid

Yet another mind-blowingly easy way to trick stupid people out of their money, and here I sit holding my dick getting pissed about it. www.familystickers.com 100-Me Zero. I’ve detailed similar missed riches in a previous post regarding Joel Osteen (though I’ve since been fact-checked and realized I incorrectly attributed “The Purpose Driven Life” to him–wrong, some other asshole entirely). Now I sit on the sideline with a backward cap and a clipboard merely watching as a scumbag with more balls than me rakes in Pet Rock cash and sips champagne from the cleavage of only the cleanest strippers. These decals do serve an important societal function, that of clearly marking for the general public exactly who the fucking nerds are so that no one has to waste valuable free time socializing with the decal bearing family before arriving at the fact they are in fact fucking nerds. Outside of this one Scarlet Letter function, they are unequivocally and without defense, awful. Oh look at our zany little family. We have a dad (love how the dad is always shown first, he being the head of the family, the MAN), a mom, three kids of decreasing size, and check this out: we also have a dog AND a cat! We need everyone to know exactly what is in our family, including all stalkers, child molesters, perverts and the busy-body public at large. And even better if we’re being marked by criminals for theft or abduction they don’t even have to sort through our garbage! We tell them everything they need to know on the back of our Odyssey! They can quickly pick out which child they want to abduct, or easily plan a burglary. They know exactly which and how many animals they need to account for when they break in! Bring one raw steak to throw at Dexter when they crowbar the backdoor, kick Mittens in the face once and BAM, it is open season on the electronics and maybe even a panty-raid in mom’s room! Take one cell phone pic of the back of the mini van to remind yourself the oldest girl is a cheerleader and the next oldest child, a son, is clearly trapping a soccer ball underfoot, therefore you can count on weekday afternoons when dad and mom are at work, the eldest two children are at their athletic practices and, wait….there is another kid? No worry, as you can see this kid has only one little squiggly line hair coming out of its head, so clearly a baby. In kinder care so come right on in, throw Dexter a t-bone, punt Mittens in the face, and you’re the king of the castle until almost dinner time, easy breezy Japaneezy. Now all they need is to make a sticker with a hovering “E=MC2″ over one of the kid’s heads and then all the insufferable people who have self-diagnosed their kid as “gifted” will be able to notify the driving public at large via mini van window. Wait, there’s my million; a self-diagnosed gifted kid decal for car windows! Does calling “DIBS!” on my own Internet blog count as legally trademarking something?

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The Pajama Bottoms Trend is Pure Shite

Bonus points for the porkfat

Listen up assholes: It isn’t outerwear. The last straw officially broke the camel’s back last night, 21:00 central time in Oak Park, Illinois. I was walking Scout for his evening constitutional when a couple, of the biblical “one man and one woman” variety that only religious wingnut corncobs care about anymore, went gallivanting up the block in contrast colors pajama pants. The male sporting blue with an absurdly fugly pattern whilst the female was similarly adorned in a red pair. Fuck you, fuck you so much. I’m not talking about lovestruck teenagers here either but rather grown ass people in their 30′s. I could see the malice in Scout’s eyes as he shit at them, but to his everlasting credit he refused to waste barking energy on such low lives. This trend, which was obviously born of extreme boredom and the most vapid of minds at the middle school level, should have died somewhere in the lunch room of Springfield High School. Boldly pissing in the face of common sense and reality it persists still, and apparently has become “acceptable” for adults. I’ve got news for you: It looks like fucking shit on your apathetic 13yo daughter and on you, her parents, it looks like fucking shit squared. No, cubed. Get your head out of your ass Mr. & Mrs. Dorkwad. You aren’t hip and you certainly aren’t cool. Once you leave middle school and you want to be a slack ass piece of shit with no self-respect you wear sweats, track pants, yoga pants, end of chat. Baggy flannel PJs with “sailor kitten” pattern are for little girls or grown men watching the FBI extract the hard drive from their computer in their mom’s basement. If you are screaming this loudly inside for attention then please, for the love of Crom, get a neck tat, have an extramarital affair, get a haircut that was edgy 10 years ago, find Jesus, buy a used Miata, adopt a pit bull, start smoking grass, trade in your minivan for a newer minivan, tell people at parties that you are a huge AC/DC fan but only the Bon Scott years, whatever floats your attention seeking boat really. I implore you, on behalf of society, don’t wear little kids sleepwear outside of your home like they’re a pair of goddamn khakis. Because when you do, this time Johnny we both lose. One of my good friends is a college professor and I can only imagine this is a goddamn epidemic at the collegiate level. On par with ebola.

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Fantasy Draft Rager Details

Got the fantasy football draft party deets on lock down bitches! This is going to be like infinity cooler than last year when we got to the private party room at Applebee’s only to find it had already been rented out to a bunch of dudes for their Dungeons & Dragons draft and we had to do it in the corner behind the bar (Again sorry about that, honest error on my part and now when I Bluetooth a voice command to my iPhone calendar app I double-check the calendar afterward). Bullshit those dudes wouldn’t let us crash their D&D draft party though, they had a sick wing and jalapeno popper spread. This year we be goin’ to The Tilted Kilt! Booyahz! If there is one thing we love as much as a fantasy world created as a layer on top of the second-hand sports we already watch but don’t actually participate in, its white trash chicks with bills to pay and titty tattoos pretending they might fuck us if they just didn’t have to pull a double today. Man I can’t wait! My nephew Luke is in the Audio/Visual club in high school and has permission to borrow an emcee system and will be announcing the draft so we make this shit authentic like we’re at Madison Square Garden and not The Tilted Kilt in the strip mall on Jefferson and Oak. Do you guys like watery, flavorless beer served from headache inducing pump draft? Me too. Our own keg of Miller mutherfucking Lite customized with our own fantasy league logo. What is our fantasy league logo? A badass fucking dragon spitting fire, that’s what. I made it with my son’s Knights and Dragons stencil set but the wing separators on the stencil are both torn so to be honest it looks like a cobra puking with a cloud behind it. But still pretty fucking cool? Just in case anyone gets hungry (Hah! Who doesn’t get hungry after pounding Miller Lite’s in a strip mall…..) I’ve got a serious party spread ordered. Chips, check. Mozzarella sticks, check. Wings, duh, check. Mini club sandwiches, check. Pepsi for Mike due to the little glug-glug, vroom-vroom, crash-crash incident that resulted in a stint in rehizzle this summer, check. I tried to get pizzas but they said we had to commit to six large and I was concerned we couldn’t eat that much pizza what with a full chip spread as an app. So no pizzas. But if you really get a stiff on for pizza there is a Papa John’s in the strip mall. You’ll of course have to eat the pizza at Papa John’s or outside because they won’t let you bring Papa John’s into The Tilted Kilt. Total bullshit but it is what it is. Oh wait, did I mention Tilted Onion Stack? TILTED ONION STACK, CHECK MATE. This is going to be the premier party of Labor Day Weekend 2014. My wife and kids are going to a lake house owned by some d-bag guy my wife works with. He has a speed boat and some jet skis and is Italian and lifts weights all the time and zzzzzzzz, sounds fucking lame as shit to me. We’re going to rock the socks off that party all night long. Well until 6pm, we only have the room rented until 6pm. But after we can totally get another table at The Tilted Kilt if any of you other bros’ families are spending the weekend at some Italian dude’s lake house and wanna party and watch some late season baseball on the big screens until we have to leave at 11pm. This Titled Kilt closes early because of zoning laws affecting the strip mall. It doesn’t matter. We’ll be full of Miller Lite with the ill-fitting jerseys of large African-American males on our backs, the world is our oyster. And if anyone responds saying they have to check in remotely via Bluetooth because of some queer-assed family obligation, guess what pussy? You draft last. Don’t worry though, I’m sure the Cleveland Browns second wide receiver will score you a ton of points. Oh, and just to save everyone whispering to me on Saturday “Who is the little Indian guy you brought with you?”, his name is Sunil. Works in programming at my office. Fucking stud at spreadsheets. You’ll be glad he’s there.

I’ll see you fuckers on Saturday. I hope those Dungeons & Dragons nerds are there, I’ll tell them that only dorks play fantasy Middle Ages while the real men play fantasy SPORTS. I wish I would’ve thought of that last year when they told us we couldn’t hang out in their party room, but I was too pissed.

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Time to Step Up My Haircut Game


My haircut has grown stale and it is time for change. Step into a new hairstyle and all the confidence that comes with it. I’ve thought long and hard and I think I’m going Samurai. As seen above or possibly more like the lead singer of Tool used to rock, just one long ass ponytail originating from the middle-top of the skull, shaved elsewhere. I’ve documented my own hair loss on this site before, but a brief recap is in order:

-Shortly after leaving college I noticed that some areas of my hairline seemed to be under-staffed up front, off to the sides
-To combat this I just quit cutting my hair
-No one ever explained “layering”
-As a result I had a blonde mushroom for a head
-I looked like David Lee Roth
-The under-staffing issue inevitably became full-blown retreat of a French Army fleeing from the Horst Wessel song magnitude
-I had power alleys. One of the only ballparks in the league where it was 360 to straight away center but 420 to the power alleys
-The power alleys became a peninsula. I could live with a peninsula, kind of rock a Phil Collins sort of look, I mean Keyser Soze was a badass right?
-I’m now at the point where the peninsula, due to climate change, is becoming an island
-You can still walk or drive to the island during low tide
-We’re a couple more years of Chinese industrialization and vehicle purchase away from the island only being accessible via ferry or personal watercraft

As a result I’ve more or less shaved my head. I don’t break out a razor and cut myself 15 times a week but I dial the clippers down to a 1-guard and have at it. When you have a head like the Jolly Pumpkin had a kid with Charlie Brown, it is a solid look. But I’m ready to spice things up a bit which is why I now plan to shave the rest of my head, but let the island patch on top grow out 36 inches. How fucking rad would that shit be??? Can you imagine how utterly fucking sweet it would be to walk into Parent’s Night at my daughter’s preschool with a giant Samurai ponytail? I can already hear the whispers, “Oh my fucking gawd, who is that ass kicking machine? I’m so confused….the khakis and button-up blue oxford says run-of-the-mill suburban nerd dad but the top tail says leader of a dune buggy gang in a post-apocalyptic Mad Max movie. Quick, someone offer him some soda or Chex Mix before he gets pissed”. I’d have to beat the chicks off with a stick. Instead of walking into a room like a nobody my wife would start storming through doors like “I’m with StudHead, get us a fucking drink”. My daughters would be all, “Oh your dad is an investment banker at Goldman Sachs, how interesting. Our dad has that hair.” Boom, silence. I would stare down each and every mutherfucker I pass on the street, kids and old ladies included. You see the hair and you want the hair, but I am the hair. Like Katy Perry, you’re gonna hair me roar.

That last sentence was pathetic, embarrassing, and patently unfunny. But I had to. Not sure why but I had to. It was as though outside forces guided my typing fingers. Can’t take it back now.

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My Grandmas are Absolute STUDS

Delores and Jeanne, you absolutely, positively, fucking crush it. Five kids each, all of them still alive with all ten contributing to society. I have two now, the second having arrived in May, and my wife and I are physically and emotionally CRIPPLED. Zombies. Whiny little bitches waiting for fairies to come and help us somehow. May as well just curl up inside a liquor bottle and cry. Actually I already tried that for a few weeks and it didn’t work, so I laid off the sauce. And mind you I’m of the modern man generation who actually does stuff. My grandpas were olde timey men who “brought home the bacon” and wouldn’t know how to work a diaper if they took an entire semester of Diapers 101 in college. So largely my grandmas were on an island. I haven’t a fucking iota how they did it and still made dinner and didn’t hang themselves from the ceiling fan. If given the choice of a life of celibacy from this point forward or a third kid; well fit me for a monk’s habit and call me “Brother”. Fuck. That. Shit. The baby doesn’t sleep worth dick and the three year old bitches from sun up to sun down. She starts bitching at us before her bedroom door is even open in the morning, and it is coin toss whether her last words of the day will be “Good night” or “I hate you mom and dad go away and die” (not really that, but the sentiment is the same). My parents were in town for a night this week and when my wife was given the opportunity to drive into the city to pick up pizza and sit in parking lot rush hour traffic withOUT any kids in the car, the excitement with which she jumped at the chance was similar to if Bradley Cooper walked up to her on the street and asked if she wanted to run away with him and get married. When we were in Maui two weeks ago I was pretending to use the bathroom while actually scanning flights on the iPad to Guam. One-way flights. One ticket. My grandmas had 2.5 times this many kids. Why? Whatever insane answer they have to that question my hat is off to them both.

*Don’t any of my cousins get cute and actually show this to our grandma. I’ve got enough to deal with and don’t want to add the stink –eye from grandma at Thanksgiving dinner for my foul mouth to the list.

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It is All Over for Me

I may as well get a blue tooth ear piece and a fuckin’ fanny pack because it is clearly curtains for me as a marginally with-it person. Although it would seem, and maybe this is another example of how out of touch with hip society I really am, that fanny packs are currently en vogue. I don’t know whether to shit or go blind. If there was ever a time where I was cool, that time is safely in the rear view mirror, and objects in the mirror are probably not closer than they appear. Maybe I’m deluding myself by thinking I had even a moment of coolness. Whatever it was and for however long it might have existed, today it was terminated with extreme prejudice.

I was driving to the gym this morning the usual ungodly hour of 05:30. It is a strange hour. The early crowd is heading to work while the late crowd is coming home from whatever it is they do, with weirdos and crackheads sprinkled in for good measure. During my drive my eyes are beginning to work as the high fat coffee I consume each morning starts to warm up the synapses in my brain. I listen to music and depending on what place I am in the morning wake up cycle it could be lively rock or it might be the classical music station and the soothing voice of my main shit stain Carl Grapentine. Today it was 93.1 WXRT and Lin Brehmer. WXRT is an excellent alternative rock station. It isn’t what it was 10 years ago but still pretty damn good when put up against the usual blather that passes for a station in this era. As I sat waiting for a green signal at Harlem and Randolph a new song began. I was swept up in the beat and the bass like a bathroom floor pube in a Hoover; I was powerless against its suction. My eyes narrowed and my head, as if acting on orders given by the music alone, began to bob. As the intro became verse my trance was savagely destroyed by his voice. It was unmistakably Chris Martin. I was headbeat, unknowingly, to, to……it was just, I mean, I can’t really understand what was happening….it, it, it was……..it was fucking Coldplay. Red rover red rover, your life is over. The self-loathing was so suffocating that I pulled off the road into a desolate parking lot and wept. I wept until my tears ran dry. I wept for the life which just officially ended. I wept for the plight of Gweneth Paltrow as a downtrodden famous tall hot blonde billionaire mom. I wept for the Nine Inch Nails album I bought when I was 15 that I knew I could never listen to again. I wept for the minivan that I now realized was an inevitability. I stopped weeping when the cop approached the window and tapped on it, checking to see if I was about to blow my brains out with an unseen piece. Knowing that I was already dead I laid my soul bare and told him what happened. He was ten years younger than me and thus recoiled in horror, then tried to hide his disgust and patted me on the shoulder and said “I hope things get better, sir”. He walked back to his cruiser where I’m certain he blasted some sort of cool music to erase my loserdom from his memory.

I don’t know what to say. What is the lesson in all this? I guess it is to enjoy your youth, kids. One day you are drinking beers at your home bar in college with your buddies talking about chicks you want to slay, and the next you’re sober at 5am fucking headbeat to the new Coldplay joint. I don’t even know what the fuck happened in between. May as well walk into the gym and sit my ass down on a recumbent bike and read a goddamn James Patterson novel while slowly turning the pedals. Join a fuckin’ fantasy football league. Start shopping for my wardrobe at Kohl’s. Not because I want to but because it makes too much sense. Celebrate my Kohl’s winnings with a feast at Olive Garden. Drink in the suburban mediocrity; let in ease down your throat. I tried to mount a counterattack by blaring some Sex Pistols and throwing weights around but to no avail. I knew the truth. The other gym patrons knew the truth. The odor of Coldplay acceptance hung thick about my person. You cannot run from that reality, try as you may. Mark it down:


The day my former self was slain by my new lame self. Gimme the new Coldplay joint, a Bud Light, let me get my cell phone tucked right in there nice and tight on my belt holster, and let’s head out to the new Guy Fieri restaurant. But we gotta get home early, I’m delivering Capri Sun and orange slices to the soccer game in the morning, in the Odyssey, bitch.

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I Crossed Paths with a Mythical Beast

It was a day like any other. The skies were not ominous and no portents of doom were apparent. I strolled into the gym as I would any morning; over-tired, miserable and recoiling from 1,000 megawatts of fluorescent light assaulting me from every direction. Despite being a massive complex therein lies only two squat racks. Woefully insufficient for the number under membership but I suppose when the people ask for Cybex and Nautilus machines to rest their porkfat on while they gear up to tell friends and coworkers they “worked out this morning”, you give them what they want. Normally when I approach “my” squat rack and find it being used by some sorry asshole doing shoulder shrugs, dead lifts with too much weight and their back perfectly curved the wrong way,¬†or 25% range of motion “pull ups”, I am filled with murderous rage of a very primal flavor. Not this morning my friends.

My approach to said squat rack began as relaxed and confident. Then I saw it. I stopped dead in my tracks, my body rigid as my pulse quickened. I was the definition of caution as I tried to determine if it had seen me yet. On only a few occasions had I encountered in the wild, real-time and in its natural habitat, this particular specimen: The Perfect Back Squat. Truly breathtaking to behold. This is the equivalent of being out for a hike in the hills of northern Pakistan and just happening upon a spotted snow leopard eating a fresh bharal kill. If you aren’t awestruck then you aren’t alive. The specimen, as was expected given it was executing a perfect form back squat, was incredibly fit and powerful. I immediately averted my gaze as it is not wise to make direct eye contact with Perfect Back Squat. You must let Perfect Back Squat know that you recognize its alpha status lest it throttle you. While avoiding eye-contact I couldn’t help but admire its grandeur. Back was perfectly arched-the right way-it dropped its hindquarters past parallel on the descent, and the eyes were always on the skies. The load was appropriate to ensure struggle but not at the expense of breakdown in form. Obviously the norm is for the bar to be overloaded with weight, the back arched towards the wall behind the squatter, the head down with bar partially resting on prone neck, and one if not several of the same species hooting encouragement at the abomination of form waiting to injure itself so that it can have the upper hand in a pitched battle of “So how much ya squat?”. Perfect Back Squat doesn’t enter into a “So how much ya squat?” duel because it doesn’t fucking care. A thoroughbred derby horse doesn’t race a fucking donkey out behind the barn. To do so would be to cheapen itself.

I continued to sit mesmerized as Perfect Back Squat cleared the bar (of course it breaks down its area when its done, what did you expect?) and stalked off back into the ether. There was a cool, disinterested confidence in its gait and gaze as it set off to its lair, the type of organic arrogance born in knowing you are the top of the food chain. When I felt it was safe to emerge from my partially hidden vantage point I moved carefully to the squat rack and felt the bar; still warm. An eery silence was left in Perfect Back Squat’s wake. Sure, I could’ve taken out my cell phone and snapped a photo but I didn’t want to disrespect the magical moment nature afforded me. Some things are better enjoyed unimpeded by technology. Who knows when, or even if, I’ll see such a rare beast in the wild again? Some people will go their entire life and never see Perfect Back Squat even once.

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Better Lock Your Doors and Load Your Guns

Zombie Christ

Because Zombie Christ is about to hit the streets, and he wants brains. Risen and hungry. All the zombie movies, all the zombie TV shows, all the zombie genre fans, all of them, need to remember who the OZ is: Jesus H. Christ. Without him there ain’t no Night of the Living Dead, no The Walking Dead, no 28 Days, none of that shit. So all the zombie lovers out there need to bow down and kiss the OZ’s ring.

I recently began Game of Thrones. All the ladies out there better belt up your trousers tight and get The Vapors ready for this admission: I freaking love the Feudal Fantasy genre. Can’t get enough. My hard partying lifestyle (up at 4:45am most mornings, work out, work, home, in bed by 9:30pm every night) cannot take on the HBO series right now, so I’m taking in Game of Thrones via book form. Not e-reader either. Print. A pile of bound paper with ink on it. Do I make you horny baby? With Good Friday here and me giddily immersed in a tale of kings and knights and goblins and omens, I cannot help but think the story of Christ could meld seamlessly into Game of Thrones. No one would even bat an eyelash. Consider it:

In an ancient time under an ancient moon, a teenage girl is impregnated by the God of Gods. But not by the God himself. He sent a ghost as his proxy. So the teenie bopper is knocked up by the lead God via ghost. I bet that was hot sex! Nope, there was no sex. I’m unsure if it was some sort of vapors to the cooch or what, but there was no intercourse. So the youngster carries the baby and delivers….and here is where it gets good….a blonde haired, blue-eyed babe, despite the fact she is from the Middle East and the baby should look like Yasser¬†Arafat or UBL from a genetic standpoint. Instead she gives birth to some sort of Aryan Superman who is basically the prototype for Hitler Youth. So ominous and mysterious! Some low-level under-king wants him dead so he has to go chill in a cave for a minute. Grows a beard, does some stuff ( ;) ) in the cave, absolutely blows up the scene about 30 years later. With an interesting plot twist. His dad is a straight-up nasty mofo. Flooding planets because the partying has gotten out of hand, raining fire and brimstone on fuckers, I mean just consider Abraham. Dude was going to kill his son to impress God. What??? Abraham is about to carve his son up and God steps in at the last second and is like, “PSYCHE BITCH!!! You’re in the club already! Holy shit man, you were gonna actually stab your kid to death! You are a hardcore mutherfucker. What if I had come down with explosive diarrhea and didn’t stop you in time? Your kid would have bled out on this rock dude. BAHAHAHAHA! Man, I can’t wait to tell your kid someday that you were going to murder him just to be in our gang, he’ll be so pissed bro!” That is one demented dude. Despite this, Jesus is all about love and peace and tolerance. Except that he hates queers, undocumented immigrants, Muslims, and also Liberals. We’re still trying to locate the exact passages where he says he hates those groups, but we know they’re in the Bible somewhere, and when we find them, whoa boy, you’re all gonna be sorry. Some dick executes Jesus and we’re all sad and shit, but then guess what? Zombie Christ rises!!! The Game of Thrones author is not creative enough to make this particular story up. It is pure gold. We’ve got Zombie Christ walking around haunting some people, comforting others, getting brains where he can, all the while his posse has been driven underground where they are writing his story. Actually no one started to write the story until at the earliest 30 years later, but I’m sure they remembered everything perfectly and got every detail straighter than a priest’s dick.

Board up those windows tight, reinforce your doors, load the guns, and guard your brains. The Zombie Christ is risen.

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