Everything is wrong with me
Friday, October 29, 2004
I love Halloween. I don't really know why, since I'm such a pussy when it comes to scary things. One of my oldest and worst memories is from when I was in first grade and my class decided to participate in a school-wide talent show. For the show, we were to dress up as zombies and do some choreographed dance to Michael Jackson's "Thriller." "Thriller" was huge at the time, but being a total pansy, I avoided watching that damn video like I avoid trolling internet chatrooms to arrange for random sexual encounters (wait - that comparison really doesn't work). However, when we were preparing for the talent show, the class had to watch the video. My friends picked up on my nervousness about having to see such a horrifying video, and broke my balls endlessly (back then, we would have said "teased", since I don't think I knew what balls were then; I don't even know if they had descended by that point). Finally, when the video was about to start, I acted like a tough guy and watched the whole thing. I haven't had a decent night's sleep since. That werewolf transformation seriously fucked up my shit for a long time.
But I love Halloween. It's the one night a year that you can dress up like an idiot and get away with it. For example, a few years ago, I went out as Eddie Murphy. A few hours and a handful of barbiturates later, I was stopped by the cops for soliciting a beejer from a transvestite named Sugarbush. When I explained to the cops that it was all part of my Eddie Murphy costume and Sugarbush was in on it, we all had a good laugh and the cops left. Then I got the teethiest blow job I've ever had in my life. I think you can still make out a nice little mark left by Sugarbush's top left incisor on my bird. Definitely not worth the $6, two cans of Coors Light, and half an Italian hoagie.
But anyway, Halloween is good for two things:
1) Slutty women. I don't know when the phenomenon of women using Halloween as an excuse to dress like depraved skanks happened, but I think the gods that it is so. From what I remember, even as late as high school, girls had nice, normal costumes: cat, witch, devil, etc. Now, only ten or so years later, girls have much more complex costumes: slutty girl dressed as a cat whose cleavage is pouring out of her skin-tight costume, woman of ill-repute dressed as a witch who looks like she'll blow anyone within a radius of ten-feet, whore wearing a devil costume who after you've had twelve beers actually appears to be asking to have sex in a bathroom, topless girl who simply no shirt on, etc.
And this is completely awesome. Halloween is the last glimpse of the power of women’s sartorial sexuality. You see ladies, men (and gay women) love the spring and summer, because you all wear less clothes. Those first days of spring are some of the best of the year for the men (and gay women), as you all shed the puffy jackets and overcoats in favor of low-cut shirts and skirts. It's truly magical. All spring and summer we enjoy staring at your gorgeous bodies (except those belonging to fatties), taking in as much as possible because we know that the cyclical nature of the weather will soon deprive us of these beautiful views.
And Halloween is last bastion of gawking. We know that soon you'll be all bundled up, but on Halloween you can wear that skimpy little leotard, paint whiskers on your face, and call yourself a Cat. Better yet, it's totally ok for us to look and admire your awesome "costume".
So fucking sweet.
2) Candy. Well, I think this pretty obvious. Candy is fucking awesome, except for that terrible Halloween candy corn, which tastes like ass and is on par with those terrible fluffy chicks that everyone eats around Easter. Gross.
Top Five Halloween candies:
2) Reese’s Pieces
3) Anything with Caramel
4) Peanut M&M’s
But, alas, I will not be going out this year for Halloween, as this weekend I am going to my old college roommate’s wedding in Rhode Island. I am ok with this, because weddings/open bars are awesome, but my roommate Brian is crushed. He’s not going to the wedding, and we had an awesome costume planned: Hall and Oates. That’s right; we were going to be the greatest musical duo of all-time that still has full use of their legs. This works well, because Brian kinda looks like Daryl Hall. Me…John Oates...not so much. But I could have gotten a gheri-curl afro wig and grown a little moustache. Crap.
So have a safe and Happy Halloween. And ladies, please wear something extra slutty. Really. Because it’s going to be a long, cold winter for those of us with penis (and gay vaginas). So help us out. Please.
Thursday, October 28, 2004
My co-workers are really good people. They are very good at what they do, and very nice to me and understanding when I completely fuck up an assignment. And no, I'm not just saying this because any day now they're going to find this site and it's going to be VERY awkward and potentially fatal (for me, when I kill myself for losing my job).
I consider myself very lucky: I'm 25 years old, not a professional athlete, movie star, or rock star, and I really like my job. Sure, I'd rather sit at home all day, get paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to talk about how fat I am, and eat bowl after bowl of chili, get high and dance around to Wham in way-too-small boxer briefs, spend three hours a day masturbating in the shower, but hey - life isn't perfect.
The problem is, like I've mentioned before, I'm the youngest by at least five years or so, and most of my co-workers are in their mid-thirties or older. This isn't exactly a "problem" but it inhibits be from fully entering their circle. It also makes me a little nervous around them - since I can't really talk about kids or mortgages or problems with my water heater, I keep to myself, lest one day I inappropriately mention something about how I got really fucked up two weeks ago and nearly drowned in the East River or about how messed up I got on pills last Christmas and after getting into a fist-fight with my brother, burned down our kitchen then wept for twenty-two hours straight.
What also makes me nervous around them is that they are a lot more qualified and educated than I am. There are six other people who do exactly what I do. One has an MBA from Cornell, two have PhD's from Princeton, one has a JD from BC, another has an MA in International Studies from Johns Hopkins, and then there's me: 25, a man lacking all all ambition who graduated college based solely on luck, charm, Sign Language, Theater, a number of Communications courses (zing!) and four History classes with a professor who was at least 320 years old and one time gave the same exact lecture every day for a week straight. Seriously, by the third semester with this guy, his arm could have fallen off in the middle of a lecture and I wouldn't have batted an eyelash.
Where the hell am I going with this? This afternoon, I walked into my boss's office to drop something off I had prepared for his review. As I was leaving, he said, "So how is your class going?" He's a really cool guy, so I started to shoot the shit and told him that class was going well, that I had my mid-term recently, etc etc etc. He asked if it was a Russian history course, and I said yes. He then asked if I spoke Russian. I frantically tried to think of how to say, "I speak a little Russian" in Russian, even though that would be the ultimate douchebag thing to do, but I couldn't come up with it, as I've learned that most of my Russian vocabulary is being gassed out of my brain thanks to my newly-found love of nitrous oxide.
Anyway, I said in English that I only speak a little Russian, and he said, "Well, you should talk to Jessica [a co-worker in a foreign office], because she has her Master's in International Relations from Johns Hopkins and got it in Russian or Russian Studies."
We both sort of chuckled, and I sensed an opportunity for a joke, so I said, "Yeah - [mimicking talking into phone] Hi Jessica, this is Jason. Can you tell me how to say the possessive plural for 'boys'"?
I couldn't have thought of a better fucking noun than boys? One that wouldn't cast doubt on my sexuality in front of my superior, giving the impression that I spend hours each night in front of a computer screen, arousing myself into a vitriolic fit looking at naked pre-teen males? I mean, boys?
As soon as I said it, I realized that I had done something flamingly homosexual. Not only had a made a fake phone with my thumb and pinkie and held it to my ear in a jovial manner, but the first noun that came to my mind was "boys". Sweet.
[Also, asking for the possessive plural of "boys", an already plural noun, is redundant. Correctly, I would have asked for the possessive plural of "boy". Just pointing this out because I know one of you assholes would email me about it.]
And I swear for a split-second I saw a look in my boss's face that was said, "Boys? Jesus Christ - take your flame-thrower out my office before you light my desk on fire, nancy boy." There was some awkward chuckling before I pulled a Lloyd Christmas and said, "Well...see you later!" and walked out of the room.
"Boys". Terrible. Just terrible. I feel like I should walk back into his office and invite him to a strip club with me and my buddies. Or go in and say something like, "So, that Salma Hayek's got some big-ass titties, eh? Man, I'd love to touch those gorgeous, giant breasts, being as I'm straight and all. I would even like to have sexual intercourse with her, preferably without a condom, since condoms are for pussies" as I take a giant swig of Bourbon and pat him on the back. Also I'm wearing a cowboy hat, but a straight-looking one.
Instead, I'll just sit here in my office and sulk. What an asshole.
[Me, not my boss. My boss is great. Super great, if he's reading this.]
I still can't believe it, but the Boston Red Sox are World Series Champions.
"The Boston Red Sox are World Series Champions." My god. That's like hearing, "Jason Mulgrew can walk up three flights of stairs without collapsing into a seizure" or "Jason Mulgrew has normal-sized genitalia and a very healthy heart that's not 55% mozzarella and 20% Country Crock" or "Jason Mulgrew has had consensual sex with a conscious, non-deceased woman in the last twelve months", except it's actually true.
One message to New England sports fans: now shut the fuck up. I got tired of the Red Sox fans whining while the Pats were kicking ass, and now you're the most dominant sports city (region) in the nation. So shut up. Philly - no championships since 1983. Boston - three in three years. So shut up. I'm happy for you, drink your champagne and enjoy yourselves, but shut up (and yes, maybe I'm a little bitter that I didn't get a chance to go up to Boston to join in the revelry, but maybe I'm also bitter because I have chest pains constantly and could go at any day now having accomplished nothing save for a crappy website).
1) Was anyone else shocked to see that Jeannie Zelasko has a giant ass? Good lord! I guess all that sitting behind the desk speaking non-sensically about sports alongside Kevin Kennedy (who played Leo, the leader of the rival Scorpions in 1978 hit "Grease") didn't do much for her 34-24-44 figure. Don't get me wrong - I'd still love to give that ass a work-out - but wow. Jeannie "They Call Her Crisco, Because She's Fat In The Can" Zelasko. Got a nice ring to it.
2) Theo Epstein, the 30 year-old Yalie who is the general manager of the Red Sox, can pretty much sleep with anyone he wants within a 250-mile radius of Boston. I'm not limiting this to women; I'm sure there are a least two million or so male Red Sox fans who are willing to make love to Theo Epstein out of gratitude. He's 30, and that's his life. I'm 25, and I'm trying to get out of a work luncheon meeting so that I can go to the cafeteria because they have baked mac and cheese today.
Only five years to go to make a change...wish me luck.
And again, congratulations to Sox fans everywhere. I am quaking with jealousy. You bastards.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
my shitty roommate Ben, commercials, oral sex and obligations, emails, IMs, music, and the Sox
So my stupid fucking roommate Ben won $1000 this week.
See, my buddy Hal ran an NFL Survivor Pool. I don't want to get too into details because, though not overly complicated, I happen to be overly lazy, but at any rate fifty people put in $20 each, and Ben won the pot.
$1000. I could not think of a person who deserves it less. Not because he has money, but just because it should have been me. Especially because of the way Ben's going to spend it. When I asked him what he'd do with his $1000, he said, "I don't know...I have a wedding in a few weeks, and the plane ticket was kinda pricey, and I have to buy a new suit, so I guess that's what I'll spend it on."
So, so lame.
Good lord - if I had won $1000 in a football pool, you'd better believe that the people at our local liquor store would like me a lot more. This is to say nothing of the lovely, Eastern European and Latin American young ladies who ply their trade nightly at Private Eyes over in Hell's Kitchen. I'd probably break it down thusly:
- $100 on good liquor from the liquor store
- $100 on lap dances for my roommates
- $400 on one hell of a night of drinking/booby-seeing
- $60 on this
- $200 on extra large Magnum condoms just to impress the hot girl who works behind the counter at CVS
- $100 on presents for my family
- $40 on lunchmeat
And Ben's spending it on a suit and a wedding. That is, until my roommate Brian and I murder him in his sleep tonight.
Oops - did I just write that?
A couple of thoughts on the commercials that Fox has been showing incessantly during the baseball playoffs.
1) Fox has shown that promo for "House MD" so many times that the visage of Dr. Gregory House will forever be burned into my memory for as long as I live, and perhaps in the afterlife as well, until after a few months in Hell I kill myself because of my involvement in a bizarre love triangle with Eleanor Roosevelt and Lieutenant Dan from which my only escape is to die twice (Did he die? "Lieutenant Dan? Lieutenant Dan?!?")
[By the way, let the record show that after mulling it over for quite some time I called both my roommates and asked, "Who's a good fictional dead person?" - not a standard question on a Wednesday afternoon. I explained the situation, and how I wanted to use Lt. Dan, and they nor I could think of anything better. Just a little rare, behind-the-scenes glimpse at what goes on here at EIWWM. Look for the loaded DVD to come out in March.]
2) "My Big Fat Obnoxious Boss" is going to not only change the way Americans view television, but also change the way we treat each other. This show may single-handedly erase racism, world hunger, and sexism in one fell swoop. I have such a boner.
3) Nothing is worse than those IBM commercials about being "on-demand". The two guys talk about I have no idea what (business or technology or some shit), and I hate them. I also hate the one in which they ask, "Do you guys ever talk about anything but servers?" I can't adequately express my disgust and anger at these commercials. And I know those two guys are actors, but, so help me god, if they ever cross my path in real life I will murder them with a really old pair of pliers. Mark my words bitch.
4) Also on the murder list are Terry Bradshaw and Howie Long. Good lord. Enough with the Radio Shack commercials. Terry, you were much cooler when you were the mildly-retarded Steelers QB who couldn't spell "cat" and was manic-depressive and got divorced eight times. You were almost a role model for me. And Howie, I liked you a lot better when you were a Black & Silver-wearing hardass who went to Villanova.
Also, my roommate Brian told me that either the lead singer of Judas Priest or Elton John was quoted as saying, "If I could fuck any man, it would be Howie Long". Can anyone substantiate this? Please?
5) You know what commercials are good? The Holiday Inn ones which talk about "thinking better in the shower". In one, a guy in a towel invents an invisible plane, in the other he invents a dog translator - funny shit.
Those are good, but why do so many commercials suck? Can someone help me with this, or get me a job in advertising (paying at least $250K, requiring me to work from noon until 3pm Tuesday through Thursday)?
Great emails with my buddy Dom from Boston earlier this week.
Background: Dom was hooking up with this girl Mary for a while. I don't really know much about their relationship, but she apparently gave awesome beejers. Also, she's very artsy-fartsy. The relationship ended amicably, and the talk every once in a while.
So anyway, she emailed Dom and invited him to some play or some shit she's in. We were emailing about it, and I knew he didn't want to go. As I have written, there's nothing more awkward than seeing a girl you're hooking up with acting in a crappy play or singing in an a capella group, because those things are just so incredible lame they make me cringe.
Finally I asked him whether or not he was going to bite the bullet and go see the play. He replied, "Well, I guess I should. I mean, she did eat my semen. So I guess I owe it to her."
True friend, true. And what a gentleman. Ladies, if you're interested, Dom is currently single.
Speaking of emails, I've been terrible at answering (most) of them. I'm sorry for this, but I'm just really, really lazy and there are WAY too many of them. If anyone is interested in being my intern, let me know (WOMEN ONLY please).
Duties would include:
- answering my emails
- paying my bills (preferably with your own money)
- cleaning up any accidents I might have while drunk
- letting Brian stare lasciviously at you at all times
- making sure I don't do anything too stupid while drunk (including but not limited to: eating glass; getting hit by cars, buses, subway trains; lighting my beard on fire; trying to stop my ceiling fan on full blast with my forehead; etc)
- being shirtless 85% of the time
- baking carrot cakes of various size
If interested, please send your resume to firstname.lastname@example.org. Please note again that only women should apply, and please, no fatties.
Speaking of emails (or something), I have removed my IM name from my profile. I never thought I'd have to do this, but you people are crazy and harass me too much while I'm on my computer trying to arouse myself. It's very annoying when you're just at the perfect point of the porno when Kira Kener's about to get blasted and DickBoy211 IM's and says, "Are you really that hairy? I am hairy too."
So if you have the IM name, consider yourself lucky and don't go putting that shit on eBay or all the chatrooms out there.
"Shady Lane" Pavement
This song ends three times, and says the word "god" twenty-four times, including "oh my god" eight times in a row - twice. And it's still awesome.
"Bitten By Beautiful Teeth" Sahara Hotnights
My friend Kasey keeps suggesting kick-ass music to me, and a lot of the bands have girl lead singers. I don't know if she's doing this to turn me into a homosexual wannabe rocker-chick, but this is a good song. And maybe I'm interested in being a homosexual wannabe rocker-chick - what's it to you mother fucker?
"Kick Out The Jams" MC5
"And right now, right now, right now, it's time to...KICK OUT THE JAMS MOTHER FUCKER!"
This song is going to be my wedding song when I finally hit it big and marry that 19 year-old half-Cambodian, half-Danish sex pot when I'm 38, 450 pounds, and completely addicted to quaaludes and cinnamon. I also like to refer to it as "The Jason Mulgrew Cocaine Anthem", because, well, my family may be reading this, so I'll leave this alone. Anyway, when listening to this, do so in an open space, lest shit get destroyed. Every hipster neo-punk band rips these guys off, and for good reason.
"The Girl I Love" Led Zeppelin
Speaking of kick-ass - wow. Zep's running on all four cylinders on this bluesy jam, and they are really fucking rocking. Listen closely to John Paul Jones' bass playing - love it love it love it.
"Even If You Don't" Ween
Good old Ween. I could probably include one Ween song a week and not run out of songs for, well, a while. This one was recommended to me by Alex in CT, and it's a nice little ditty which rhymes "pissed off" and "jerk off". Pretty, ain't it?
"You Don't Have To Say You Love Me" Elvis Presley
Man, this song gets me. How many times have I said this to a woman: "You don't have to save you love me, just be close at hand" (Sorry, I'm thinking of, "If you tell anyone about this I'll fucking kill you!" That's what I say to women all the time. Sorry.) Still, a lovely, sad, powerful song. Elvis was truly King. King of Vicodin. And Cyclobenzaprine. And Valium. I should stop now.
To the Red Sox:
I want you to win, but please don't do so tonight. Can you do it tomorrow? Because then I might be able to take a half-day and go up to Boston, and I really think I have a good chance of procreating if you win, but only if I'm in Boston. Which is where I won't be tonight, but where I may be able to be tomorrow night. Understood?
So don't win tonight. I'm rocking my playoff beard for you, and I think this is the least you can do for me.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
busy busy busy
I have to be very short today because I am muy busy (that's Spanish for "very busy"), but two quick notes:
1) My mid-term went ok. I needn't get too into the details lest I bore everyone to death, but I think I did just ok. At least it's over, and now I have a whole two months to do absolutely nothing academically before I have to cram again for the final. Morale: never learn from your mistakes. Really, that's for losers.
But thank you for all the emails and good karma. You guys never let me down, except in the sexual favors department. But I don't have the strength to get into that now...
2) I'm rocking a playoff beard. I noticed that the last time I shaved was the day the Sox won Game 4 at Fenway against the Yanks, and I haven't shaved since.
I don't really know why exactly, since, though I'm rooting for Sox so I can do some looting in Boston, I'm not a die-hard fan by any stretch. I guess I just want an excuse to go to work looking like a hobo, because man, do I look like shit. I usually have a half goatee (no moustache) to cover up my weak-but-triple chin and now I have this gross half-grown in beard growing around it. On top of that, I really need a hair cut. And my hair gets kinda weird and wavy when it's too long, so I have a giant Conan O'Brien-esque wave in the front of my hair. Half-goatee, scruffy beard, and Conan wave. Not my best look.
Yes, I know this post is terrible, but I told you that I'm busy.
Here, read this. It'll make you smarter and angrier, and there is nothing more dangerous than smart, angry people. Especially if they have sharp knives and are all coked up. Trust me - very dangerous.
(Thanks to Donnie Fiedler for the link)
Monday, October 25, 2004
Jason Mulgrew's Guide To Cramming
Cramming, though not on the same plane as making stained glass, winning hot dog eating contests, or completing a successful armed robbery, is an art form. And, if done properly, it can be a great benefit to the student who is too lazy or too cool study, since we all know that reading the material when it is actually assigned is for nerds and Asian people.
Fortunately, I have been blessed with an incredible ability to cram. Early in high school, I was a nerd. I spent hours on my Latin grammar, read all the books assigned in my English class, and poured over my algebra. Also, I was masturbating at least three times a day. It was great (the masturbating, not the studying).
Then, something happened - I don't remember what exactly, as I was really into pills at the time and was hanging out with a bad crowd consisting mostly of bikers and junkies and dating a German-born prostitute named Mia and thus I don't remember much from '93 - '95. But I realized, "Wait, a minute - I could work my balls off, study hard and do all my homework, miss social engagements and be a loser, and get a 3.8. Or, I could essentially do nothing but review everything 24 hours before an exam, and start all my papers only 48 hours before they are due, have fun, and get a 3.5. I think my choice is pretty obvious. Also, are all guys' birds this small? Because mine looks pretty small."
And so I crammed in high school. Cramming in high school was easy because I didn't really have much else going on, as though extremely popular, I had a job that took up my weekend nights and no driver's license because I'm an asshole (eventually got one late senior year). My priorities were basically: 1) go home and masturbate; 2) make sure you don't get caught masturbating. And grades are only part of the equation for the high school student because of a little thing called the SAT, which I was able to work around well enough, with pure luck and a sexual favor or two.
And then I crammed in college, with the help of like-minded roommates and a little thing called "snorting Ritalin". Cramming in college was great - the all night library sessions, working yourself into such a trance that before you knew it you'd have read hundreds of pages and spent hours in your cubicle, tearing into some shit that you were certain you'd never need to know or use again. And there was a great pride in cramming in college. There's nothing like studying a semester's worth of Survey of Bio in 28 hours and getting an A- on your mid-term. Well, there are a lot of things that are better than that (eating a big fucking sandwich, breaking in a wild horse, eating a big fucking sandwich while breaking in a wild horse), but that's pretty good.
And all this cramming got me to where I am now - sitting in my big, fancy (well, it's not really that big or that fancy) office in Manhattan, making way more money than I should (not that I have this money, as I spend at least double what I make), spending my day checking fantasy sports and making personal phone calls.
This past weekend I was pressed into cram mode again, as today I have a mid-term for my grad class in Russian history. It's been a while; I graduated in 2001, and since then I've haven't been in a real academic environment. And I've never before been in an academic situation where I have something else to do besides studying, as my work day is roughly from 8:30am to 7pm (including commute) every day. That only leaves me five hours to eat dinner, drink or smoke, check fantasy sports some more, write various diatribes calling for a race war against all New Zealanders, etc.
So I was a little rusty this weekend as I got into cram mode. Below are my five tested and true pointers for cramming, and how I did after with them taking three years off from studying.
1) Get a good night's sleep
It is important on the night before cramming to get some rest. If you try to read 300 pages of 17th century British social history while sleepy, it just ain't gonna work. Therefore, the night before the day before your test, you should get a solid night's sleep and wake up refreshed and ready to go.
On Saturday night, the night of the celebration of my roommate Brian's birthday, I started drinking at about 7pm. When at the end of the night I rolled off my bed in a drunken haze to shut off the music I was listening to because it was keeping me from sleeping, my clock read 6:06am. In the eleven hours between, I had countless Bud Lights, shots, and mixed drinks, and spent a whopping $187 on booze at the bar. At the end of the night, there was no food to be found, so I ate a slice of white pizza from a pizza box that had been sitting on my kitchen counter since Thursday. In the process of heating the pizza, I dropped two bottles of beer I was drinking on the floor, sending shattered glass everywhere. I gave up on the bottles and drank whole milk straight out of the carton with my old white pizza. My sleep was fitful, drunken, and replete with bouts of intense stomach pain. And yes, I am single.
2) Get an early start
When you have to cram for a test, don't dilly-dally in the morning. Wake up, shower, and start right away, as most people are sharpest in the morning. Also, the more you study earlier the less you have to study later. Remember, time is of the essence.
I woke up on Sunday at 1:30pm. I checked the internet and sports scores, went back to bed, beat off, and finally left my bedroom at 3. I ate half of a carrot cake from Dean & DeLuca. I took a long shower, got dressed, and finally was ready to study. It was 5:15pm, exactly 24 hours until my mid-term. Only 800 pages to go.
3) Go to a quiet place where you won't be distracted
It's best to get out of the comfort of your room and go to a library. Your room offers too many distractions: internet, TV, music, the phone, etc; the library has nothing but quiet and books. Since this is the first time you're reading this material, it's important to read it actively, not passively while doing something else. The library or another quiet place is the best place to do this.
I got to the library at Hunter at 5:45. My goal was to read at least 300 pages of the material. The library closed at 8, which gave me two solid hours.
However, I forgot that the library at Hunter is hoochie-mama central. Lots of super hot ghetto 18 year-old Puerto Rican girls wearing tight half-shirts and jeans that look painted on. I spent most of my time at the library fantasizing about said hoochie-mamas, how I would walk up to the one at table across from me, and say something smooth like, "Look, I don't know you, and you don't know me. But I know there's something between us - I can feel it in my soul. If I'm wrong, I'll walk away right now and I'll never see you again. [with conviction] But I'm not wrong."
At that point, she'd stand up from the table, look deep into my eyes, her body just brushing up against mine, put her hand down my pants, and say, "This is now mine." Then we'd have crazy freaky sex right there on the table in the library, then once again in the stairwell of the library, then once more in the bathroom on the 4th floor. Then we'd go get a pizza. She'd pay.
Result? I got hungry and left the library at 7. Pages read: 50. Pages understood and digested: 7.
4) Remain focused
It's important while cramming to keep your eyes on the prize. Keep your focus on the material. Pay specific attention to areas you think will be asked about. No matter what, don't drift off.
I got home about 7:30 or so, and was depressed. And what do I do when I'm depressed? Drugs, mostly. So I smoked just a little bit of pot to see if it would help. It didn't. I tried reading, but I got really caught up on the words "sobriquet", "syncretic", and "lionized". These have to be the awesomest words ever. Also, I got really caught up on the story of how in 989 Prince Vladimir chose Orthodox Christianity over Islam as the "state" religion of Russia, supposedly saying, "Drinking is the joy of the Rus and we cannot live without this pleasure." I mean, that's just awesome. Choosing a religion for millions of people, the impact of which would determine the course of world history for hundreds of years to come, simply because his people like to get drunk. Fucking awesome.
5) Don't panic
You must stay calm. Know that really it's only a test, and soon the whole thing will be over. The worst that can come of the experience is a bad grade, which you deserve anyway. Also know that everything always works out for you anyway, so, really, whatever.
Being a little high made me a little freaked out. There was a lot of, "Oh my god, it's 9pm and I have a mid-term tomorrow and I still have to read 700 pages! Also, I haven't even reviewed my class notes! What am I gonna do? God damn it I'd love some Tostitos right now!" and "Damn it! If I had just read even 15 pages a day, I wouldn't have this problem! I am such an asshole! When will I ever learn? And where the hell are those Tostitos?" The good news is that after some Tostitos and a couple of Unisom, I was able to calm down and fall quietly asleep, without having done any more preparation. Oh well.
And now here we are, a few hours from the test. And honestly, I couldn't care less. I am grossly under-prepared and banking on the incompetence of my classmates to make me look good by comparison. There's pretty much nothing I can do now, save for relax and write a really long post.
So I ask for your collective well wishes and good karma this evening from 5:30 to 6:30 tonight (Eastern Standard Time). Sure, I don't deserve this, and I deserve to do poorly on this test, but I certainly don't want that to happen. Besides, you guys owe me one. So just send some positive energy my way, and like the Wailers sing, "Everything's gonna be alright".
Friday, October 22, 2004
crap and crap again
Because I'm an asshole, I have to read about 800 pages of dense Russian history this weekend for my mid-term on Monday.
The situation is so dire that I actually took the day off today to get this crap done. I have a couple of vacation days to burn before the end of the year, so what better way to use a vacation day than sitting in your apartment "reading" about Ivan the Terrible but thinking about cake and boobs?
The good news is that at least I'm keeping it real, and not deviating from the style that made me a superstar in college.
The bad news is that I have to read about 800 pages of dense Russian history by Monday. Fuck. If I had read only 20 pages or so a day, I wouldn't have this problem.
So that's all you're going to get from me for today. Wish me luck, and have an excellent weekend. Be sure to have a drink for my roommate Brian, whose birthday, though yesterday, will be observed on Saturday.
Also, from the "How To Not Get Re-elected" File, see Entry #1. What a fucking asshole. A terrible tragedy indeed, but cutting off alcohol sales and banning the televising of the games in bars is not the way to handle the situation, unless we are in Russia. Are we in fucking Russia?
And I'm not just saying this because I'm a drunk, but because I am a citizen. So there.
Thursday, October 21, 2004
homeless self-love, the Red Sox, Asian ladies, computer problems, elevator problems, dry cleaning and my terrible neighborhood
This morning I got off the local 6 train at Grand Central and switched to the express 5 train. While waiting for the 5 to come, on the platform across the tracks from the one on which I was standing was a homeless man, sitting on a crate, reading a magazine. I looked a little closer, and noticed the magazine was a porno. I looked even closer, and I noticed he was masturbating.
If this isn't the best possible way to start your day, well, I don't know what to tell you.
[I'm not sure what I mean there: Do I mean that seeing a homeless man masturbating is a great way to start your day, or do I mean that sitting on a crate and masturbating in public is a great way to start off? I'll leave it to you to decide.]
And really, good for him. He's thinking to himself, "Shit, I got no job, no home, no nothing - but that ain't gonna stop me from beating my dick right here on this crowded subway platform."
I salute you Mr. Homeless Man. If more of us had your courage, fortitude, and willingness to satisfy ourselves sexually in any place and at any time we wanted, the world would be a much better place.
And, naturally, when he finished, I applauded. Say what you will about me, but I always give credit where credit's due. Unfortunately, my slow clap didn't catch on and I think it weirded him (and the other commuters) out, but then the train came, so it was cool.
So...anyone happen to catch that game last night?
All I'm going to say is that if Boston wins the World Series, I will die. I know this, and I am ok with it. I'm planning on going up there if Boston takes any sort of 3 to whatever lead, so I can go apeshit with the rest of the city, loot stores and burn down houses, and maybe conceive a child.
Surely, this celebration will only end in my death, be it at the hands of Mr. Stolichnaya, at the feet of hundreds of rampaging Massholes running from the cops after burning an effigy of Babe Ruth and a fat dude who looked like Babe Ruth in Faneuil Hall, or because of blunt force trauma to the head because I tried to make out with some toothless Dorchester skank while her boyfriend Sully and his buddies Mikey, Tommy, Joey, Jimmy, and Billy looked on.
But you know what? We all have to go out sometimes, and only a lucky few are able to make our exit doing what we love. In my case, civil disobedience - pantsless.
On second thought, I don't want to die, because I've never made out with an Asian girl. How has this not happened? Say what you will about me (my new favorite phrase), but I've made out with a lot of chicks in my lifetime (not so much recently though). Big and small, tall and short, crazy, and, well, crazier, but I've never made out with an Asian girl.
Every guy I know has made out with an Asian girl. Shit, my buddy Doug is married to an Asian girl. What gives? Just another thing to add to the "Things I Must Do Before I Die" list, along with having sex while skydiving and beating up a cop in uniform.
I mean, damn.
[And yes, my email address is email@example.com. But please, I can't afford more than $40. Thank you.]
STILL this fucking searchmiracle thing is on my computer, highlighting key words on every damn page.
That's it - I'm just going to retire. Not resign, but retire. I'm going to walk into my boss's office, thank him for the opportunity he gave me to work here, and then calmly explain that I spend 75% of my work day writing dick jokes on the internet. I'll then continue to explain that I was quite content doing this and working at the same time, but a bug infected my computer and it drove me crazy because it highlighted the word anal every time it appeared on a god damn web page.
Then I will go to some warm climate where I will wait for death with flair, telling the local children stories from my travels in the South Pacific, stealing inconsequential items from supermarkets, and selling fireworks.
Sounds pretty good to me.
Re: my elevator troubles. Many of you wrote in with two suggestions:
1) Take the stairs. I can't do this; I'm on the 21st floor. Sure, I'd have gravity on my side, and gravity has always been a friend of mine, but the thought of walking down 21 flights of stairs to start each morning just isn't appealing to me. But that's not saying much - the thought of putting on pants when I wake up (I sleep in a t-shirt and nothing else; and not a long t-shirt either) isn't so appealing either.
2) Take the elevator up and just ride it back down. I can't do this either; I'm on 21, and the building has 35 floors. It's bad enough to get in at 21 and stop at 15 of the remaining 20 floors to have the doors open, see pissed off residents sigh in disgust as the doors slowly close on the packed elevators that they can't fit into, and continue on to the next floor. I think this might even be worse than just sitting there waiting.
The good news is that as a quitter who is used to bad things happening to him, I've resigned myself to this inconvenience. So there.
My dry cleaning/laundry bill today? $46. That's for one week's worth of laundry, five dress shirts, and a suit. Ouch.
In my current Upper East Side neighborhood, I probably spend about $120/month on laundry/dry cleaning. In my old one in the Lower East Side, I had Korean immigrants who not only didn't speak any English, but I don't think they spoke Korean or any other language for that matter, happy to do my laundry and iron all my shirts for about $50 a month. Also one time I paid one of them $20 to come to my place and shower and let me watch. I thought it would be a little awkward, but both he and I were actually quite comfortable.
I know I've said it before, but I will say it again: moving to the Upper East Side was the worst mistake I've made in recent memory. Do NOT move here. Ever. I'm not saying you have to go to the super cool LES, which is so chock-full of hipsters I had to take 50mg of Valium before I went out every day lest I start kicking their asses indiscriminately for being such pampered, supercilious because they're so cool pussies, but do not come to the Upper East Side. Trust me.
And now I'm all hot and bothered.
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
thanks, but please stop
I don't ever post from home, but I thought this warranted it: thank you for all the emails suggesting ad-aware to get rid of my pc problem. I can't tell you if this has worked or not, because I didn't get your emails until I got home from work, and that's where my computer is.
So no need to send anymore emails about the cure of my pc ails (we broke the record with over 120 emails in a day, actually a half-day - not bad). I can't reply to each of you individually, but thanks a bunch. When I needed you most, you didn't let me down.
Now I'm so going to give you a handjob next time I see you.
I have a terrible problem on my hands.
My work computer is affected with some sort of worm or virus or whatever (I don't know what I'm talking about, since anyone who knows about computers is a nerd, and a "nerd" is the last thing I am, aside from "haver of consensual sex").
Basically, this thing from searchmiracle.com has infected my computer. Any time I bring up a webpage, this "worm" will look through the page, and seek out words to highlight and link it to the result of a search performed for said term on searchmiracle.com.
For example, any time I'm looking at a webpage that contains the words games, travel, health, mba, bed, moving, etc, these words will appeared underlined in the text and hyperlinked back to the damn searchmiracle results (and it doesn't have to be whole words - for example, it could say embedded and the "bed" will be underline and hyperlinked).
At first, I didn't think too much of this. Sure, I didn't like it, but I am in no position to have the people from IT looking into what I download, or what sites I visit, or how much time I spend on the internet, or who I email and what I say in my emails. That is a can of worms that I would like to leave closed at any and all costs.
But eventually I noticed that this fucking searchmiracle thing links other words. Word like sex and xxx and, most damningly, anal.
This is bad. Really, really bad. All day I look at analyst reports, and analysis. Sometimes, my boss will be in my office standing behind me and reading the same analyst reports over my shoulder. It can be very uncomfortable when, in plain and obvious view, every time the word "analyst" or "analysis" appears in the text of the report on the webpage, anal is underlined and hyperlinked.
So please, I know a lot of you are computer nerds - you have got to help a brother out here. I downloaded something called "Spybot - Search and Destroy" but that did nothing. There is really no way I can report this problem to IT, because in a matter of hours after doing so my boss would call me into this office and read me some of my finer emails:
My boss: "Jason, I want to read you something and ask for your explanation on it."
My boss: "Ok, here goes:
'That bitch Cara - I bet her bush is HUGE. Seriously, you can just tell a mile away. I'm talking late '70's-up to the belly button-pubes four inches long style. Still, I would fingerblast the shit out of her, but she's so dank and nasty I'd put a condom on my finger before doing it, or at least wrap it in my shirt first, or maybe put it in my some hoagie wrapping, because I'm sure her roommate The House has plenty of spare sandwich wrapping lying around. Not that I even remember what fingerblasting is like, since the last girl I fingerblasted was that fat bitch Chunky Monkey, and I think I had to actually lift up a roll or two of her fat to get to her [said in a Borat accent] vagine. I don't remember much though; I was so drunk that night I probably would have stuck my dick in an electrical outlet.'It goes on and on like this for four pages, and at one point you write 'Cockass bitch motherfucker cock balls poop bitch balls fuck.' Can you explain to me not only why you wrote this, but also why you felt compelled to do so on company time, at 11:03am on a Tuesday morning?"
Me: "Is it too late for me to resign?"
So help me out here. I'm dying. Literally and figuratively, of course.
Last night I went home and heated up some delicious leftovers. After consuming the nearly two pounds of food, I thought to myself, "You know what? I'm not going to have dessert. Nay, I'm never going to have dessert again. I'm just gonna quite cold turkey."
Less than two hours later I had eaten three donuts.
In my defense, number one, I totally forgot about the whole "no more sweets" promise. I was watching the game, and I had a lot going on, what with all the, um, you know - I had a lot going on.
Number two, I didn't mean to eat all three donuts. You see, I had one, and noticed that though while it was still delicious, it was going a little stale. So, rather than waste such deliciousness and let the other two go stale, I took it upon myself to eat the rest, to ensure good karma.
I remember being you and my mom going on and on about "not wasting" and "eating everything on your plate" because there were starving kids everywhere. I'm sure she said this to make sure I got my daily nutrition, and never imagined that it would become the basis by which I live my life.
Have a giant plate of food in front you of? Eat it all - don't waste it. Hear that there's still a little whipped cream left in the canister? Hold it over the stove to melt a small hole in it from which you can suck it out - don't waste it (note: do NOT try this as home, as the pressurized canister will burst). Drunk and coming home at 5am and noticing there are some floaters lying around? Drink 'em up, even if they have a cigarette butt or two in them - don't waste them.
How impressionable we are whilst still young.
Two things I have to clear up first:
1) I am not a Yankees fan.
2) I am not a Red Sox fan.
That being said, Curt Schilling's performance last night in Game 6 has kept me weeping all day. I'm not ashamed to admit this; I believe it's ok for a man to cry. Especially when sports and/or dairy is involved.
But Schilling...what BALLS. What a real fucking man. I don't want to go too into it, because the stories are everywhere, plastered on the internet and morning newspapers across the country, but with dislocated tendons snapping on every pitch and an ankle leaking blood through his sock, Schilling willed the Red Sox into a deciding Game 7 tonight at Yankee Stadium with a remarkable seven-inning, one-run performance, when on Sunday this same Sox team was only three outs away from a sweep at the hands of the mighty Yankees.
Good lord. The Boston Red Sox, one of the most "cursed" franchises in all of professional sports, now stand one game away from not only finally beating their hated rival and advancing to the World Series, but are one victory away from the greatest comeback in sports history (and I write that without the slightest hint of exaggeration or hyperbole).
[A few days ago, I wrote on here about how all I wanted, as a long-suffering Phillies fan, was some exciting baseball. Um, yeah, I think I got it.]
My question now is: how could anyone not be rooting for the Sox tonight? It's an incredible story, and the identity of an entire region hangs in the balance. Many have written that Sox fans even (gasp!) like losing; that the trials and travails of the Sox are the core of their very existence. Without these disappointments and heartbreaks, the Sox would be just another ordinary team, and their fans would be like any others throughout the country. The Red Sox and their fans like being losers, because, in essence, it defines them. It gives them a reason to be.
Anyone who is a real sports fan would agree that's hogwash. As someone who would give a testicle and a half and three inches off my penis for a championship (knocking it down to negative one inch long), I and most Sox fans would gladly trade a history of coming up short, a culture of losing, and an identity as the accursed for that sweet, sweet championship.
And now they have a chance to get one step closer. Tonight, Game 7, Red Sox versus Yankees. You can bet yours truly will be glued to the couch tonight, pizza on one side, another pizza on the other, watching the drama unfold. My prediction: Yankees 7, Red Sox 3.
Come on - they can't win. They're the Red Sox!
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
attention New Yorkim
I don't mean to sound all super cool and hipster on you guys, but Ted Leo and The Pharmacists are playing this evening at 6pm at the Virgin Megastore in Union Square. Since I've listened to "Timorous Me" about 600 times in the past three days, I hope to go, but it's at 6, so I don't know if I'll be able to leave work that early. Crap.
Ted Leo fucking rocks. If you're looking for something to do, you should definitely check it out (it's free!). It's the exactly the music I would make, if I were much more talented and much more cool and much, much less chubby. Also, I love the falsetto shit, since I too have a beautiful falsetto voice. Although mine is not quite as good as his. And he's a much better guitar player. Did I mention he's thinner?
For listening material, in addition to "Timorous Me", check out "Where Have All The Rude Boys Gone", "Dial Up", "The High Party", and "Me and Mia" (from his new album, Shake The Streets, to be released today).
But seriously, you should go. And if you see a fat dude in yuppie work clothes rocking out amongst a sea of hipsters, alternatively throwing punching in the air and violently rubbing his crotch (what can I say? the music moves me), swing by and say hello. I'm not saying it'll be me, but it's nice to be friendly anyway.
homicide imminent! homicide imminent! alert the authorities!
I still don't know if I've calmed down enough to write about this, but perhaps it'll be cathartic.
AGAIN, an elevator in my building is being refurbished, causing major wait times for an elevator. This is going to continue for ten more days.
It's very hard for me to express how angry this makes me. I tried before on Friday, but the fact is that I'm just not good enough of a writer, so I'll break down my time this morning nice and simple like.
9:00 -- Already running late for work (which I must be at by 9:30), I hit the "down" button on the elevator.
9:00 - 9:04 -- Listen to the whole song of Weezer's "Say It Ain't So". First elevator arrives, but, as it's packed, I can't fit in. The elevator leaves and I hit "down" again. Let out angry grunt and begin pacing.
9:04 - 9:09 -- Begin pacing back and forth more quickly, slowly building up rage. "Without You" by Motley Crue comes and goes. Still no elevator. Become determined to write letter to building manager, asking him how the fuck it could possibly take ten fucking days to redo the interior of an elevator. Elevator comes. Again, it's packed. Twitching and involuntary spasms affect my right side, as the door closes. I hit the "down" button again.
9:09 - 9:14 -- Would willingly commit any hate crime, even against fat Irish Catholic men with bad facial hair. Pacing now frantic; sweating. Thoughts turn to murder and electrocution. Put on early Beatles songs like "Love Me Do" and "I Want To Hold Your Hand" to help calm down. Doesn't work. Hands are beginning to hurt from being so tightly clenched. Finally, elevator comes which is roomy enough for me to enter. The collective murderous rage in that elevator could have taken over the entire Northeastern US by force, with nothing but butter knives and rubber bands.
9:15 -- Get downstairs to see that it's raining. Reach into bag to get umbrella, and realize I left it up in my apartment. Blood starts pouring out of my eyes. Knowing it would take about as long for me to go upstairs to my apartment to get my umbrella as it would for me to go to my mom's house in Philly to grab one, I walk two blocks in the rain. Steam is coming off my body. I burn down four buildings in two blocks, and eat two toddlers.
And of course, since it was raining and underground steel trains that never get wet can't function in dampness, the trains were packed with angry, wet people and the commute took an hour.
Now all I need is for my doctor to call and say, "Remember how I said you didn't have any STD's? Well, long story involving a series of hilarious adventures short, you have four of them. My bad dude. Oh, also you have heart disease."
And writing this didn't help - now I'm even more pissed off.
I'm going outside to pick a fight.
Monday, October 18, 2004
Friday night was a very weird and depressing night. As I've mentioned before, I am broke. Not "I can't hang out with you tonight because Monday is the night I got to Spanish Harlem to suck dick for cheeseburgers" broke, but "I really can't be spending $7 a drink at a bar and have 15 of these drinks and order out $25 worth of dinner four nights a week" broke.
So after work on Friday, I had only one goal: get drunk and watch the Yankees-Sox game at my place. Knowing that both my roommates were out of town for the weekend, I had a special Jason night planned: some wine, some candles, Maxi Priest and Roberta Flack softly singing "Set The Night To Music", and of course wrapping up the evening by masturbating in front of my open window, swaying back and forth because it's hard to beat off standing up and drunk with your pants around your ankles (trust me - it is).
But it was not meant to be. The game was cancelled due to rain, and Fox instead showed that terrible David Arquette movie "See Spot Run", the one with the dog in it. After throwing up all over myself and my couch, I pulled myself together and made a sandwich.
Depressed, I channel-surfed and pounded some wine before eventually deciding that I would go to the Blockbuster nearby to rent a movie. Not a good decision.
See, Blockbuster on a Friday night at about 9pm is not a good place to be for a half-drunk, lonely manic depressive for hasn't shaved since Wednesday morning and is seriously considering the seminary to justify his celibacy. Everyone in the store was either a happy, young couple looking for a movie to watch and cuddle to, or a really hopeless-looking single person. It was unbelievable. About a dozen or so twenty-something couples of all races walking around arm-in-arm, saying things like, "Well, I guess I could watch 'Love Actually' if you really want to" and "But babe, we got the movie you wanted to last time - now it's my turn" as I sobbed loudly into my hands and shook with tremors of sadness (and lust).
Also, there were about a dozen loners walking around. I'm not talking about "loners" in the dangerous, mysterious but cool sense; I'm talking about people who look like me, but older. You know, mildly successful single people in their early thirties looking for a constructive way to spend their Friday night. And I take it back, they didn't look hopeless, but that's what kind of made them seem hopeless to me. The fact that they were content with this plan, thinking, "Well, I don't have anything to do or anyone to hang out with, so I think I'll go to Blockbuster to get a movie and watch it alone" made it me very sad, and even more determined to propose to the next girl I kiss.
I wound up leaving the Blockbuster without getting a movie. And to be honest, I don't even remember what I did on Friday night, so I got so drunk (all by myself!) that I basically blacked out. I know I talked on the phone for a while to my long-lost friend Alice, and I remember going to bed at 3:30 (though I started drinking alone at about 6:30), but that's really all I got.
Exciting, I know.
But next weekend is my roommate Brian's birthday, so at least there is a light at the end of this week's tunnel.
[Jesus, I just read this over and it sounds like I'm going to kill myself. Good lord. Honestly, I'm not going to kill myself. It's just really too much work. So let's talk about something happier!]
The Philadelphia Eagles are making me happy. Very happy. But they're also making me scared. Very scared.
The other day I was on the subway and thinking about what would happen if the Eagles won the Super Bowl. Sure, it wouldn't be on par with the Sox winning the World Series (which isn't gonna happen ever), but those whiny New England fans have gotten two championships in the past three years from the Patriots, so excuse me if I instead of offering a shoulder to cry on, I push one of them down three flights of stairs.
I thought about an Eagles' Super Bowl victory, and tears started welling up in my eyes. God didn't bless me with a large enough vocabulary to accurately describe what this would mean to me (instead, he doubled me up on the chest hair and love of mashed potatoes), but I can only say that it would be, without a doubt, the highlight of my young life so far.
What could possibly be better for me? Graduating from college? Big deal - any asshole can do that. Having sex for the first time? My first time was a miserable, awkward experience, replete with a lot of "I'm sorry" and "Is this right?" and "Damn it - I thought this would be easier". Getting a job? You're supposed work, jerkoff. No, this would be IT for me. I think they only thing that could even come close to something like this is the birth of my child, but since god and I had a falling out he's going to make all of my kids retarded, so I think the Eagle's Super Bowl win is better.
I don't want to go too into it, but I'm investing a lot of emotion into this team. It could be love. And when my love goes bad, well, let's just hope my application for a permit to carry doesn't get approved. For everyone's sake.
Another sports related item: Carlos Beltran, you'll want to take the 4 train. That runs express on the east side, and will take you right to Yankee Stadium no problem.
A random sampling of words or phrases typed into google that brought people to this site:
- "curtis martin" and marriage license
- "lindsay lohan"+orange+tan
- "under armour" washing smell
- alex mosley of cult jam
- choada, slang
- lhaso apso brings good luck testimony
- fucking in the rain
- std "white blotches"
- pubescent nude gymnasts
And my favorite, dangers of eating pussy.
Because really, if this site is about anything, it's about the dangers of eating pussy. That's actually what I was going to call it before going with "everything is wrong with me", but I went for the subtle approach.
Another thing is that a lot of people who's name I've mentioned on this site have been getting googled. I always ask before using an email from a reader if I can use their full name, because once it's out there, it's out there baby! And believe me, these people get googled and people are coming to this site to learn about them.
So please remember this the next time I have an email post and ask if you want your full name used (if my laziness desists for even a moment, I'll do one Friday, so if you have anything good, or any thought-provoking questions, send 'em in). I know that I have made myself virtually unemployable for the rest of my life because of this site (Potential Employer: "This Jason Mulgrew looks like a good candidate. Let me just look him up in Google...what's this 'everything is wrong with me'? Oh dear god in heaven! Sweet mother of Jesus Christ himself!"), but I don't want to drag anyone else to the unemployment line with me. Unless they're offering a handjob. Because then I'm down.
Friday, October 15, 2004
thoughts on a Friday
I don't know what theatrical pairing I'm more excited about: Queen Latifah joining forces with Jimmy Fallon, or George Costanza finally (finally!) pairing up with Theo Huxtable to create the greatest television the world will ever see until, at the earliest, the 23rd century.
First, The Queen and Fallon. I know you've seen the previews: a buddy comedy featuring Fallon as a bumbling cop and the saucy Queen ("We gotta start playin' to your strengths, and thinking ain't one of 'em") as a cabbie who helps him track down a gang of bandits led by (are you ready for this? I don't think you are!) the model Gisele Bundchen! Como se dice, "Oscar"? Also, como se dice, "I would rather eat my brother's shit using as chopsticks two hypodermic needles filled with retard than pay $10 to sit through two hours of this crap"?
But I think I'm even more pumped that the television gods have smiled upon us and have delivered unto us a savior, a reason for me to make myself throw up the dozen or so barbiturates I just took. Costanza and Theo: Gold. My first question: "What took so long?" My second question: "You're fucking joking, right?" In this show, Costanza and Theo are hosts of a sports talk show, and George has a crazy family! Also, the Ghost of Enis Cosby plays the role of the Theo's crazy and shot up roommate! Hilarity is guaranteed to ensue!
Friends, studios are putting up millions of dollars to produce movies and shows like these. Millions and millions of dollars. Meanwhile, I sit alone in the bedroom of my 21st floor apartment throwing flaming garbage out my window at people below, eating my fingernails and stale bread and washing my clothes in my sink with soap taken from public restrooms because I'm broke, and driving myself to the point of arson because of my unbearable depression and rage.
I know who reads this site. I know how many of you read it. A lot of you do (well, I guess all of you do, if you're reading this right now, but that's not the point). You're telling me not one of you has a uncle in entertainment, a cousin in publishing, an illegitimate child that works as a strip club bouncer and can get me a lapper at half price? Nothing? Not one person in entertainment? Anyone? Bueller?
In the words of Maggie O'Hooligan, "T'anks for nuthin'!" Damn it.
[Two '80's movie references in two sentences? Sweet.]
Speaking of movies, has anyone seen the commercial for the new Sarah Michelle Gellar movie, "The Grudge" (who am I talking to)? It's probably the scariest commercial I've ever seen. What the fuck is up with the little boy with the cat face who meows, and that girl crawling on her hands and knees down the stairs? Holy shitballs! How is it that Janet Jackson can get crucified for showing a little nip for a half second while something that will give me nightmares for the next three or four years is shown repeatedly on prime time television? There's no governing body to determine what is too scary for a commercial? Shouldn't there be one?
Or am I just a total pussy?
My friend Justin completely stole my idea for a make-out mix. Though they don't have the same exact songs, the basic premise is the same, with one minor difference: he listens to his when he's actually kissing a woman, whereas I listen to mine when I have a bellyache from eating too much ice cream too quickly and I want a good cry.
I am vengeful, angry, and shallow person, so I became determined to get back at him, hopefully by stealing his car. When I realized he didn't have a car, I decided to sabotage his make-out mix.
About two weeks ago, my friends and I were over his apartment, when I snuck onto his computer and dropped the Natalie Imbruglia classic "Torn" into his "Mood" mix.
On Sunday of this week, Justin called over to our apartment because the weirdest thing happened: he brought a lady home, put on his mix, and as they progressed and were navigating together through the musty realm of love-making, "Torn" started blaring from his computer and totally ruined the moment. My response, "Wow, that's weird dude. And hilarious."
Well, Justin, I know you're reading this, and I did it. I sabotaged your mixed and stopped you from getting ass. You better check yourself before you wreck yourself. That'll teach you to ever steal my steez, bitch.
And if this doesn't make me the awesomest person of all-time, I don't know what does.
Recently, in my terrible building in my terrible neighborhood, they were redesigning the interior of one of the elevators. The management informed us that this would take ten days.
My building has 34 floors, and each floor has apartments A-M. There are about 1000 people that live in my building. We have three elevators.
What happens when one of the three elevators is out of commission? I have a miserable fucking week.
The comic Norton has a joke that there is no greater rage than the rage one feels when another person is keeping them awake with their loud snoring. I agree, but waiting for an elevator can be pretty bad. Especially when you wait five minutes, then one comes, but it's full and you can't take it. Then four minutes later, another one comes, but it's also full and you can't take it. Finally, after three more minutes, a third comes, and though it's full you push your way on, in the process elbowing a toddler in the head.
Do you know how long 12 minutes is? Especially 12 minutes at 8:30 in the morning when you haven't slept the night before because when you close your eyes you become a psychopath and you don't want to go to work because you're convinced your secretary is trying to poison you? Seriously, look at the clock right now, stop reading, and come back in 12 minutes. I'll wait.
That's a long fucking time, isn't it?
I just don't know why it takes TEN DAYS to redo the interior of an elevator car. They couldn't find anyone to work around the clock and bang this out in a day or two? I mean, ten days? I think I could build a fucking time machine in ten days.
[A joke I made on numerous occasions to others in the elevator in the hopes of meeting some people in my building. However, they would glance over, give an obligatory "Just leave me alone, jerkoff" smile, and look away. It's like as soon as I moved in, terrible rumors started swirling about me. "Did you hear about that new guy on 21? Mulgrew? I heard he strangled like eight babies in the '70's, when he wasn't fixing college basketball and burning the American flag." I mean, I'm just trying to make friends here. Assholes.]
I am dying to see a picture of Kobe Bryant's accuser. I thought I could easily do this on the internet, but googling "picture kobe bryant's accuser", brings up so much crap, and any link I click on doesn't actually have the photos, but four hundred pop-ups instead. Can someone send me her picture? Please?
Before I started having sex (bear with me here), I never understood cheating on a beautiful woman. It's safe to say that I would burn down on orphanage full of Kosovar refugee children to get a handjob from Kobe Bryant's wife, but yet he cheated on her. It's also safe to say that I would that I would murder a puppy a day with my bare hands for the rest of my life to catch a blow job from Halle Berry, and yet her husband cheated as well. Why would anyone ever want to cheat on such a beautiful woman?
1) No matter how attractive a woman is, it just gets old. I'm not saying after a week, or a month, or even a year, but after a while of hitting the same shit every day (or in my case, twice a month and on federal holidays), it just gets old. Most men are able to deal with this, and I guess some people are actually "in love" (pussies), but guys like Kobe and Halle's husband are not like mortal men. You see, they cheat...
2) Because they can. Chris Rock has a great bit in which he says, "Man is only as faithful as his options." I can't imagine what's it like to be able to sleep with any woman you want. Good god almighty. I don't even have a joke here, because when I think about that prospect I can't even think straight. I don't know what I'd do with myself if I could sleep with any woman I wanted without any effort, since I spend at least 80% of my energy thinking of sleeping with women, thinking of which women I'd like to sleep with (pretty much all), thinking of when I'm going to sleep with them (anytime is good for me really), and most importantly, thinking of how I'm going to get them fucked up enough to sleep with me (GHB, or as I like to call it "grievous bodily harm", which is much less potent than Rohypnol but still effective).
Good god...I have to start talking about something else before I have a conniption.
My buddy Fred is always sending inappropriate emails to me at work. Nothing overly terrible, usually containing a lame sexual innuendo, but just enough to make you wince and delete it right away. This doesn't happen every day, but with enough frequency to warrant a "Dude, you can't send that stuff to my work email" email once in a while.
Recently, a group of us were emailing back and forth to each other, all using our work addresses to bust balls about, well, me actually. Eventually they left me alone and my buddy John wrote something about how he recently returned from Vegas with 35 of his friends from Brooklyn. My friend Brendan responded with something like, "35 guys from Brooklyn? That's a lot of hair gel." Then Fred wrote, "You heard about the Brooklynites in WWII, right? For every fifty Jews Hitler threw in the over, he threw in one guy from Brooklyn to grease up the pan."
I feel terrible even repeating this joke here, but I think it's ok, since I almost exclusively date Jewish girls (actually, I think every girl I ever even kissed has either been Jewish, gone to BC, Northwestern, or Georgetown, was from New Jersey, or loved cats, but that's another story), and I've always been down with The Tribe.
But my goodness. I couldn't reach for the delete button fast enough, and in the process knocked my water into my phone and spilled it everywhere. Then I deleted it from my deleted items, and restarted my computer just to be safe.
Everyone responded to Fred saying things like, "Dude, are you crazy? This is my work email!" or "Great, I think I just got fired" or (as I wrote) "First, that's really not appropriate, because you know I love Jewish girls as they are excellent at 'blowing the shofar' if you catch my drift. Secondly, I don't know if you know this, but a lot of NYC lawyers are Jewish, so I don't think it's wise to send such emails to me when the guy who signs my check and more than half of our managing committee celebrates Rosh Hashanah." His response? "Lighten up." This from a guy who gets mad if you send him an email with the word "shit" in it.
So Fred, I'm calling you out. Actually, I'm not calling you out, I'm just begging you not to send me any more emails that have ANY sort of inappropriateness to my work address (and yes, I realize the hypocrisy here, as I'm at work right now writing about "needles filled with retard" but still).
That is all.
Some music to close (see, I put this last, so if you don't give a shit, you can just stop reading).
- "Slaveship" Josh Rouse
The fact that this song is called "Slaveship" irks me to no end. It's equivalent to the Beatles calling it "Let's Assbang" instead of "All You Need Is Love", since this song is a hand-clapping, piano- and bass-driven sing-along that at one points says, "I love you/Would you marry me?" But it does so without being corny, and is possibly the catchiest rock song since Marah's "My Heart Is The Bums On The Street", which I pimped way back here. Get both of them.
- "Loving You Tonight" Squeeze
Whenever I hear this song, I can't help but sing it. Also, I can help from rocking my hips to and fro when the song goes, "Loving you tonight/Feels good". Did you know that the guy singing this, Paul Carrack, was in Squeeze only briefly and had limited singing duties, but he also sang their biggest hit, "Tempted"? He then went on to perform in Mike + The Mechanics, who gave us such glorious and fantabulous hits as "In The Living Years" and "All I Need Is A Miracle" (which coincidentally is one of the greatest music videos of the 1980's, and perhaps the entire millennium).
- "Stay Monkey" Julie Ruin
I don't know if I'm supposed to be terrified or turned on when I listen to this song. How about both? So trippy and sexual and scary...I'm getting weirded out and excited just writing about it.
- "Combat Baby" Metric
A Canadian (gasp!) band, but pretty cool. I don't know anything about this band, but I know the lead singer is a woman, so if liking this makes me gay, well, that's something that I'll have to deal with. The song is about three of my favorite things: fighting, relationships, and forgery. Well, it's not about forgery, but I do love me some forgery.
- "My Lonely Sad Eyes" Them
If you like Van Morrison, you have to listen to Them. This is early Van, before he got all "Browned Eyed Girl", and it's basically just a bunch of dudes from Belfast rocking the fuck out on rock and roll and R&B covers. Really, really good shit.
- "Playground Love" Air
Sure, they're French, but this is quite simply the greatest song to make-out to ever. Ever. Not that I really have a lot of experience in this department, and maybe the reason I don't have a lot of experience in this department is because I say things like, "This is the greatest songs to make-out to ever", but really, let's not judge. It's Friday.
[Have a good weekend.]
Thursday, October 14, 2004
two quick notes, one inappropriate, the other sports-related
Christopher Reeve. I know I’m late on this, but I was out sick yesterday. And I know I tried to leave this alone, but I just couldn’t. Three things:
1) To the endless amount of eulogizers in the press: you know Christopher Reeve was not actually Superman, right? See, he was just an actor playing Superman. I think I read in one of the seven articles about him in the NY Post, “He was a great man, and we are forever indebted to him for saving Metropolis, and the world, time and time again.” (Not that I read the Post, because I’m way too smart for that.)
2) No disrespect intended, but Reeve’s resume aside from Superman isn’t all that impressive, something that you would never have guessed judging from those calling him “one of the greatest actors of his generation.” One of the greatest actors of his generation? In what? Deathtrap? The Bostonians? Village of the Damned? I don’t think so, my friends. Superman totally kicked ass, but calling Reeve one of the greatest actors of his generation is like calling me one of the most sober softball players in the history of Boston College intramural sports.
3) This is going to read like a bad stand-up bit (well, this whole thing kinda reads like a bad stand-up bit) but Reeve started speaking out and donating money for spinal cord injuries after he had been injured. It’s not like he’d been this great philanthropist and fund-raiser who happened to get seriously injured. Shit, if I was multi-millionaire who got freakishly crippled, you’d better believe that my ass would be raising all sorts of money for spinal-cord research, and it would have nothing to do with philanthropy, and everything to do with my ass wanting to walk again. I'd be out there, stumping (no pun intended) every single day for some money for spinal cord research. Reeve raised something like $24 million in ten years; you can bet I'd break the $100 million mark in five. No doubt.
Still, he kicked ass, and I don't mean to dishonor the dead. I'm only trying to make jokes at another's expense. And yes, I know I’m going to hell. So fuck you.
I can not imagine what it's like to be a Red Sox fan. What a bunch of hopeless losers (the Sox, not the fans). Because if it doesn't happen this year (which it ain't), it's certainly not gonna happen next year, with Pedro playing somewhere else and Giambi's .300-40-120 back in the Yankees' lineup. Bear in mind I say all this as someone who is currently rooting for the Sox, so he can loot and commit arson in various parts of Boston after a Sox World Series win.
But good lord - can things be going worse right now?
- Curt Schilling, the missing piece who was supposed to lead the Sox over the Yankees, had a phenomenal regular season, going 21-6 with a 3.26 ERA and over 200 K's. He and the Sox looked so good that Vegas actually had them as the favorites going into the ALCS. So what happens? Schilling blows the start he was acquired to ace and gets rocked, injuries or re-injuries his ankle, and is most likely out for the post-season. Ouch baby, very ouch.
- This completely nullifies what the Sox perceived as their strength: starting pitching. Also, I guess I missed the memo that was sent letting everyone know that Sandy Koufax would be playing the role of Mike Mussina, and Bob Gibson would be playing John Lieber. Good lord. No disrespect to Arroyo and Wakefield (because I'm sure they're reading this), but I think it was kinda important for the Sox to take at least one of the games in which Pedro and Schilling started. But I'm not a professional...
- The Sox are 1-36 in the first 6 innings of each game. Johnny Damon is 0-8 with 5 K's. Something is going to have to give here folks.
The result? Boring baseball. Sure, there were maybe 2 1/3 innings of exciting ball, but the Sox are getting whupped right now, just absolutely whupped. My new prediction: Yankees in 5.
But hey, at least they have the Pats. Which is nice. You know what I have? Terrible Philly sports, except the Philadelphia Eagles, who will only break my heart in the end. Oh, and Ben & Jerry's "Oatmeal Cookie Chunk". Wow. Have you had this? I mean, there are no words. No words, except "God Bless America".
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
now really sick
I’m out sick today, and I think this is it. I have a fever, chills, dizziness, a monster erection, a sore throat – I think I’m checking out of this world, and moving onto the next (which, for me, will obviously be hell).
I know that my death is now imminent, because I have no desire to masturbate, drink or get high, or even eat the delicious double sausage, egg, and cheese bagel I had delivered this morning. This is surely the end.
So therefore I’d like to thank all of you for your support and encouragement throughout these months. Your emails have been a source of inspiration, and in the case of those who sent me pictures of your boobs, masturbation, and I treasure each and every one.
Sure, it would have been nice to get a least a fucking handjob out of this whole thing, but it’s too late for that now. Instead, I’ll just haunt the shit out of you guys. Know that whenever you are pooping, you will not be alone. I will be there in spirit, quietly humming “I Only Have Eyes For You” and combing my hair.
I have only a few regrets, which are listed below in order from least regretful to most regretful. I regret:
- not getting the chance to really fuck up that Clay Aiken bitch
- not telling my roommate Brian that I secretly am in love with him
- the whole July 1994 Phoenix incident
- jerking off a dog when I was 14 and just so damn curious about sex
- not masturbating at work as much as I should have
- not sleeping with two women at the same time
- setting fire to all those African-American churches in the South in the ‘90’s
- not sleeping with four women at the same time
- all those Green River murders
- not sleeping with three women at the same time
So that’s it – I’m a goner. In lieu of flowers or cards, please send cash or checks, as I leave behind a monstrous amount of credit card and gambling debt to my next of kin, and possibly (keep your fingers crossed!) a child (ALWAYS bring your own condom to a brothel, even if you’re all coked up and telling people you’re George Washington and showing everyone your balls).
God bless, and good night. For my last words, I’d like to take a lyric from my favorite poet of all time, Mr. Russell Jones (aka Ol' Dirty Bastard, Big Baby Jesus, Dirt Megirt, Unique Ason, Osirus):
You give me your number, I call you upBreathtaking. Simply breathtaking.
You act like your pussy don’t interrupt
I don't have no problem with you fucking me
But I have a little problem with you not fucking me.
Adieu dear friends. Adieu.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
sick and miserable - bitch!
So I wrote this long post about Christopher Reeve and Ken Caminiti dying and I just couldn't post it. I don't know if I'm becoming a total pussy or growing a conscience or whatever, but I could not put it up. The good news for you is that it kinda stunk anyway and wasn't very funny, as I fumbled with and failed in the delicate task of making fun of dead people. I can do fat jokes, racism, and the homeless with no problem, but the recently deceased? That can be kinda tough.
And now I've got nothing. I'm feeling like shit because my throat is sore as hell, and it kept my ass up all night and now I'm totally grumpy. I went to my local crappy doctor this morning and though he said my throat didn't look "streppy", he's not sure and will let me know Thursday. Thursday? Asshole.
A sore throat is the worst malady to have (aside from anything that adversely affects your balls), because it affects swallowing, and that affects eating, something I take very seriously. For example, right now, I'm fucking starving (shocking, I know), but every time I swallow it feels like someone is punching me in the left side of my neck. After having oatmeal for breakfast, I've eaten nothing but Luden's Cherry Throat Drops. For the record, anyone who thinks these things that any medicinal value at all is a total asshole. They're candy, that's all there is to it.
[And yes, I am a pussy with all this "I'm sick" and "I'm grumpy" and "My penis is too small for normal condoms, so I have to special order tiny condoms" complaining. The good news is that I'm going to go home and have at least two sundaes for dinner.]
So I'm mailing it in today, with a promise to get back to you tomorrow. I'm going to sit here in my office and stew with my mild fever and swollen glands
Yeah, I know, yesterday I wrote about how good things are, but do you know what "bipolar" means? Asshole.
Monday, October 11, 2004
three things I realized this weekend (and a lil' shout-out to the Mummers)
1) I am a wino. Well, not officially, since according to dictionary.com "wino" is defined as “an indigent wine-drinking alcoholic.”
Despite the fact that the people from MasterCard are right now plotting to kidnap my sister and hold her for ransom until I pay them at least some of the thousands of dollars I owe them (thousands of dollars spent on expensive alcohol, Mexican takeout, and small arms), I don’t think I’m exactly “indigent.”
And, despite the fact that last weekend I woke up with a raging hangover and drank a quart of milk that expired in July because I thought it would "fuck me up good", I don’t think I’m an “alcoholic” either.
But good lord, I am loving the wine right now. After work on Thursday, I went to one of the three hundred or so wines places in my terrible neighborhood in the Upper East Side, planning to buy a bottle of white wine. I know, I know, white wine is for women and homosexuals, but the red I inhaled last week gave me terrible heartburn, so I figured I'd switch it up. Also, as a card-carrying member of several racist organizations, including but not limited to: Fat Irish Catholics Against Japanese Jews, The Brotherhood of People With Green Eyes Who Really, Really Hate Panamanians With Tattoos, and The People's Front of Judea, I know that once you go white, you never go back. Or something like that.
When I walked in to the wine place, there was a guy near the door doing a tasting. He asked if I would like to try some wine, and I said, "No". I don't really like to do wine tastings, because I know less than nothing about wine. But while you're tasting it, and the guy's droning on and on about the grapes and texture, you feel compelled to act like you know what's he talking about, and I'm always afraid that I'm going to be exposed as a fraud.
Wine Guy: "The red your tasting is a lovely Chilean wine - can you taste the oak undertones?"
Me: [slurping wine, lying] "Totally."
Wine Guy: "Well, that's funny, because what you're drinking is not wine at all. It's old grape juice mixed with tequila and dish soap. So you are lying."
Me: [resigned] "Damn. Can I buy this anyway?"
Wine Guy: "Get the hell out of the store before I call the police."
Me: [resigned] "Damn."
But, after initially saying "no" to the testing, the voice in my head that tells me things like, "You know what would be awesome? If you stole that car and drove it into a river" and "It's totally ok to take pills based solely on their color - as long as you believe in them, they won't hurt you" piped up and said, "Hey, pussy - do you realize that that guy just offered you free booze and you turned it down? Also, can we have chicken parm for dinner tonight?" So I changed my reply and had some wine with the gentleman.
It was still awkward, and he was talking about something called "Rosemount" and how this wine was just in "Spectator" and gabbing on and on until I said, "I'll take two. Thank you." I think this is the only way to shut these people up.
I perused the rest of the wine in the store, and in the next five minutes probably 15 store employees came up to me and said, "Can I help you with something?" or "Looking for something in particular?" It got so annoying, I had to restrain myself from screaming, "DAMN IT! I don't know shit about wine and just want to get fucked up, so leave me alone! And show me your titties, bitch!"
Safely back in the comforting yet strangely formaldehydey-smelling confines of my apartment, I started having the wine. And soon, I was drunk. This is probably because I had the first bottle of white wine in about three sips, but I'm not entirely sure. But good lord - white wine is dangerously easy to drink. It's like drinking old Gatorade, but instead of refreshing you it makes you drunk and randy.
So for the rest of the weekend, I altered my pre-gaming routine. Instead of following my two vodka red bulls with either beer or some cranberry and vodka, I'd polish off a bottle of white wine.
And god did I get fucked up. Awesome times.
2) Cake is awesome. Not, I'm not talking about the pastry, I'm talking about the band (although I admit that the pastry is even more awesome than the band). My buddy Joe and my roommate Brian and I went to see them at the Hammerstein Ballroom on Friday night. We actually almost didn't make it; we were plowing through drinks in my apartment and though the show started at 8, we didn't leave until 9 (thankfully, they had an opening act so we only missed one song).
I don't understand why this band isn't bigger. I know they have a large fan base, but really, they should be huge. They have such a unique cool sound: the disco-esque basslines, the harmonies, the lead singer John McCrea's signature guitar sound, the trumpet - what gives with you people? Can't you appreciate good music when you hear it?
At any rate, their new album "Pressure Chief" is quite good, in particular "Baskets", "Wheels", "The Palm Of Your Hand", and "Guitar Man." Check it out, if you have the time.
3) Things are good right now. I think the pendulum of manic-depressive is swinging back to manic, because I'm feeling pretty good about shit. I had an awesome weekend, and even though I spent enough money to make a generous down-payment on a small home in Wichita, I got really fucked up and had a great time. And there's a lot to look forward to: the weather's getting cooler, the baseball playoffs, the Philadelphia Eagles, my roommate Brian's birthday (which gives me an excuse to pee the bed), two of my buddies are getting married which means open bars, etc.
And then, it'll be Thanksgiving, so I'll get to overeat (not that I didn't do that just now by getting a meatball sub at Subway with extra meatballs). Then Christmas, so I can watch all the Christmas movies and wonder if I'll be spending the holidays alone for the rest of my life, or just until I make enough money for a woman to start using me for it.
And then, the greatest day of my year: New Year's Day. Philadelphia has this parade on New Year's Day, called the Mummers Parade. It's basically like our version of Mardi Gras. I'm going to post about this eventually, but you're going to have to do some reading up. Check out the following sites:
The site of a documentary released about the Mummers parade and its place in Philadelphia and national history.
A general site that answers many questions about the Mummers.
The particular group that yours truly is a member of.
Again, I'll explain in greater detail later, but something to do if you're bored. And, if you're trying to get in my pants, you should learn everything about the Mummers, since they are a giant part of my life, even moreso than pills or betrayal, which is saying a lot.
Thursday, October 07, 2004
thank god it's over ("Does anyone have any pills and/or Stolichnaya and/or lo mein? Anyone?")
Well, the presentation was actually nothing to worry about. I didn't even give most of it - as I was preparing to do a dry run this morning, my main boss stepped in and said, "So which part do you want me to talk about?" I had to restrain myself from saying, "Um, the whole fucking thing", but I could not restrain myself from getting an erection, which my boss promptly noticed, and now it's all weird between us.
Had the environment been different, I would be saying that I kicked ass. I thought the room was going to be tense as the attorneys in the room and those from the other offices (via videoconference) looked on, scowling at me and shaking their heads as sweat dripped from my forehead onto my gigantic plate of ribs, and my hands slowly began to touch my genitals, as I am inclined to do when nervous, but it wasn't like that. Instead, it was bunch of attorneys basically gabbing and having lunch.
I had forgotten one of the basic rules of the law firm hierarchy: the more power you have, the cooler you are. For example, when I was a legal assistant, about the worst thing that could happen was that you were stuck working closely with a first-year associate. Everyone would boss them around and come down on them, so they'd often take out their frustrations on the only people they could: the legal assistants.
But partners - what the hell do they care? They're successful multi-millionaires. They've seen just about everything in their careers, and don't get riled up for anything. Prior to walking in the room, with my armpits assured of dryness because of the paper towels I had stuffed in them, I thought, "My god - these are some of the most powerful people, um, around." But then I realized what they were probably thinking as I walked into the room: "Great, here's another presentation when I just want to eat lunch - whatever. Wait a minute - where did he get that piece of corn on the cob? Is that whipped cream he's putting on it?"
So then I became relaxed. I started, my boss talked, I talked, he talked - it went rather smoothly. At the end, there were a few questions, and really, that was it. I know this is kind of anti-climactic; you were expecting some sort of spectacle in which I dropped to the floor, had a seizure, shat myself, and then immediately returned to consciousness and had to pretend that nothing happened and the room didn't smell like poo. But you know what? Didn't happen.
And you know what? I don't give a fuck if nothing exciting happened. It's over, and I'm feeling a mix of exhaustion, relief, relaxation, and apathy. I feel like I just had sex, except I'm not apologizing profusely or going through my wallet and saying, "I only have $68 on me, but if you want I can run down to the ATM."
The only moment of "excitement" came at the end of the presentation, when the attorney moderator thanked me and my boss actually physically patted me on the back. I nearly blurted out, "That's how you do it!" a la Frank the Tank, or pulled an Under Armour guy and screamed, "We gone protect this house!" But, much like all the rage and loneliness I feel on a day to day basis or when watching couples hold hands or slow dance, I was able to bury the excitement and satisfaction deep within my ricotta-filled heart.
And now looking forward to the next few days, I'm fucking psyched. I took off tomorrow, so my plan is to go home, make a giant fucking dinner, drink a few bottles of wine and watch baseball and "Fahrenheit 9/11", which I've never seen (hopefully I won't end up spitting up the blood, but that's a chance I have to take). My day tomorrow will consist of sleeping in, eating pancakes, buying $200 worth of drugs, getting high, and watching "The Cosby Show." And oh yeah, I'll probably beat off at least five times.
My buddy Joe, my former common-law husband (since we went to high school, college, and lived together for a year post-college), is coming to town and after about four drinks we're going to be shitting in our hands and throwing it at passersby. We're seeing Cake tomorrow (an excellent band) and then going to drink our weight in booze. I will also try to eat my weight in rice pudding. I got a head start on this today, and we're already up to four pounds. Not too shabby.
So I will not be posting tomorrow, but maybe I can pull something together later (I really don't know - like you fucking care). But, if you don't hear again from me, have a delightful weekend. It's fall, and fall is lovely. Soon, it will be winter, which is not lovely. Make the most of these last few remaining weekends of nice weather by going out and trying to have sex with someone under the influence. And if it works, all I ask is that at the moment of climax you think of me, riding a really overweight horse in nothing but my tighty-whities, drinking straight from a bottle of Jack and yelling racial slurs at nearby parked cars.
(Now I turned myself on with that image)