Everything is wrong with me
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
search words, dogs, stool, Chipotle, friends, frequency, music
A source of endless enjoyment for me is a particular function of my site counter which lists search terms entered into google, yahoo and other search engines that brought people to this site. Here are some of my favorites from the past 24 hours:

- dangers of masturbating a girl with a champagne bottle
- ultimate douchebag
- dry skin penis
- ben and jerry heart attack
- hot jobs for 14 year old girls
- boobs and hot dogs
- boy urethra insertion with sharp metal nails [ouch!]
- Pedro Martinez sex fantasies
- masturbation heart
- dental general anesthetics fetish
- Peter Cetera Chicago baseball incident
- sexy biracial guys
- i'm in love with a guy whos ten like me
- asian guys losers boring nerdy dorky
- how to tell if a guy likes me and is not using me for sex
- shirtless pics of Marlon Wayans
- feminine musk and pubic regions [wow!]
- get an STD from a handjob
- samples of flirty emails
- the hottest 14 year olds
- penis skin cracks
- women fucking themselves with everything [snap!]
- Mexican feet pics
- powerful peeing
- cocaine tiny penis

If I had to pick a favorite, it’d have to be “masturbation heart”. Doesn’t that sound like a messed up Indian name?

White Man: “I come in peace to you and your people. Here - take these blankets.”
Indian: “Thank you, my white friend. My people and I will use these blankets for warmth and assume they will not destroy us. My name is Hardened Spirit, this is my brother, Brave Eagle, and over there in the corner performing fellatio on that husk of maize is my brother-in-law, Masturbation Heart. We call corn ‘maize.’”
White Man: “Thank you for your welcome. You are a wise man, Hardened Spirit. Would you like some of my whiskey and poker chips?”
Indian: “Yes, very much so.”


I was on the phone with my Dad recently and we had this conversation:

My dad: “Yeah, Megan (my sister) wants a dog.”
Me: “What? Megan can’t get a dog!”
Dad: “Well, that’s what she wants. A family down the street is giving away a dog. A puppy.”
Me: “Really? Do you think she’ll take it?”
Dad: “Nah. It’s a shepard mix and it’s got these huge paws. That’s how you can tell how big a dog will be, by the paws. It’ll be too big for her.”
Me: “Yeah, I guess she wants a little foo-foo dog.”
Dad: “Tell you what, I might take that dog.”

This is horrible, horrible news. My parents are divorced, and when I go home to Philly, I stay at my dad’s. This is because my mom tends to yell at me a lot for walking around without pants on and because my dad constantly has pizza in the fridge. So it’s a no-brainer really.

And I like dogs as much as the next guy, but I hate big dogs. Absolutely hate them. I know what you’re thinking, “He’s just afraid of dogs! What a wuss!” Well, that’s true. I readily admit that I am afraid of any animal over 100 pounds that is a carnivore and has over forty teeth/fangs. But while we’re admitting things, I have to tell you that I had sex with your mother last night - without a condom. And it was awesome. So suck on that for a while.

I never understood the allure of big scary dogs. Sure, there’s the protection element, but that’s kinda bogus. Getting a big scary dog to ward off intruders is like [I thought about a comparison for like three hours and couldn’t think of something, but trust me – it’s bogus.]

Deciding to get a big dog is like thinking to yourself, “Hmmm...let’s see. What’s the most efficient way to make every guest in my home uncomfortable for the next twelve or thirteen years? I got it – I’ll get a Doberman!” I remember growing up and going to play Nintendo at friends’ houses who had big dogs and it was some of the most miserable experiences of my life. Sitting ram-rod straight as the boxer or rottweiler would come over and sniff me, all the while I just gaped at its huge dangling balls, frozen with fear and passion. Weird, weird times.

And so if my dad gets a big dog, I will not be around to establish a bond with it, as I only go home to Philly once every two months or so. The result is that by Christmas, the dog will have grown into part-dog/part-werewolf and will not take kindly to an intruder walking around its territory eating Tostitos, spilling crumbs everywhere, and generally being disagreeable/hungover. Thus a very tense time for yours truly.

The moral: don't get a big dog. I'm not saying everyone should get poodles, but think about how uncomfortable guests in your home will feel with a 150 pound beast sniffing around his or her genitals. Stick with medium dogs. Please. Or else we can't be friends.


I made a purchase recently that I never in my life thought I'd have to make. I bought stool softener.

Veterans of this site know that pooping has never been a problem with me. My poo problems started developing in college, when my roommate and former star of "Average Joe: Hawaii" Bill Hansen and I joked that by drinking too much and eating everything we could touch, we killed whatever part of our body makes the poo hard. Many times after a good poo I'd look in the toilet bowl at what appeared to be iced tea with chunks of lettuce (no doubt from Taco Bell soft tacos) floating around in the bowl. And yes, if you're keeping score at home, I am single.

But lately something's happened. I'm not sure exactly what, but it seems like my large intestine has been turned into a cement mixer. Pooping has been a battle that was left me sweating, bruised, and bloody. Hence the stool softener.

And let me tell you – these puppies work. I mean, wow. A few capsules too many and I might have to tie a bucket to my ass. Yowza.

Anyway, I guess I should talk about something else, but buying stool softener was a first for me and I wanted to share it with you. Don't judge. Assholes.


I have fallen in love with Chipotle. For those not familiar, Chipotle is a chain of burrito places. Think Taco Bell with class and on steroids. Giant fucking burritos served in a building that has actually passed a city health inspection without an exchange of oral sex. A novelty here in New York City.

This new found romance could not have come at a worse time: though I have written at length about my imaginary battles with my heart, I am convinced that I will have a heart attack any day now (perhaps even before you finish reading this) and the average Chipotle burrito has about 1100 calories and 50 grams of fat. Cruel, cruel fate.

Of course, I could lessen the fat content by laying off the cheese, sour cream, etc, but then it wouldn’t be the same. In order to try to make the relationship work without compromising its dignity, I decided to order burritos differently. Before I would say, “I’ll have a carnitas burrito with pinto, cheese, sour cream, and a little bit of lettuce” and be extremely satisfied. However, after I’d feel very guilty and have shooting pains in my left arm. Not good.

So I decided to try ordering the burrito by saying, “Hi, I’ll have a carnitas burrito with pinto beans. But can I get just a little bit of rice, cheese, and sour cream? Just a little please.” I figure by doing this I could cut at least 80% of the calories and fat of the burrito. I'm not sure if this is exactly right, as I'm not a dietician, but I'm pretty sure it's close.

But there’s a problem: the burritos are made very quickly in assembly line fashion. That is, one person puts on the rice and beans, another adds the meat, another the cheese, etc. So though I’ll ask the person taking my order for my "lite" burrito, I find myself racing down the line asking people to lay off on swathing the whole thing in cheese and sour cream and of course this never works. I have yet to get a completely lite burrito (sometimes I'll wind up with a little bit of rice, but a ton of cheese and sour cream, other times a lot of rice, but hardly any cheese, etc).

The point? It's totally cool, because at least I tried. The biggest part of dieting is effort. When I go to Chipotle I give it my all and try to order my smaller burrito. If that doesn't work out because the burrito is made too fast or the people making the burrito don't speak English or because I didn't actually tell them to go easy on any part of the burrito in the first place, I can eat all 1100 calories and savor every last one, knowing that I tried my hardest and that's all that matters.

I love dieting.


The long-awaited, much-anticipated (not really) "Friends of Jason Mulgrew" page is in the works and will be up shortly. This page will be links to other blogs. Just an FYI, there was a screening process involved here. I didn't offer links to just any blogs, just those I thought were good or funny (or otherwise paid and/or fellated me).

At any rate, it will give you guys some extra reading material now that I'm turning into a deadbeat. Look for it soon.


Speaking of being a deadbeat, surprisingly the reaction to me not writing every day was been pretty muted. Because I have a huge ego, I thought I’d get a ton of angry emails replete with cuss words and pictures of flat-chested women. Not so. Maybe because I have pretty much stopped returning all emails that don't involve a) interview requests or other opportunities for me to whore myself or b) naked pictures, but whatever.

And for those who have complained, you’ll get used to it. Not writing every day has given me time for all sorts of different things, and of course I’ve wasted this time by looking at other internet sites and fantasy baseball. Oh well.


Six Songs:

"Tyler" The Toadies
Best song about murder – ever. Probably. Seriously, I used to listen to this in high school and get chills. Looking back, it was probably just the hormones, but it's still a good song.

"November Rain" Guns 'n' Roses
As a GnR fan back in the day, I don't know what rocked me more: when the band released "Patience" or came out with this song. Probably "Patience", because I remember thinking, "Oh my god - Guns 'n' Roses did something slow? And it's cool? What the f?" But this song - I mean, wow. I remember being in high school, fighting with my high school girlfriend, locking myself in my room and blasting this song on my headphones. What an epic. And then I'd go masturbate for the fifth time that day. Damn those were some good times.

"Sexy Sadie" The Beatles
This is my favorite song of all-time. I'm serious. In case you were wondering, now you know. It's just perfect. I don't really know what else to say about it besides that.

"Show Me Love" Robyn
Freshman year of college, I was in love with Robyn. What's not to love? She's Swedish, blond, can sing, and has giant boobs! If I had heard that she could steam a mean kielbasa (not a sexual reference), I would have flown to Sweden and married her on the spot, with or without her consent. That’s just semantics, really.

"The Widow" The Mars Volta
Russell in NYC recommended this one (I think). That's what I like to see: intensity from Puerto Ricans. Like that’s not scary at all. Not at all. I think this band stinks otherwise, but I dig this song.

"Sunday Mornings" Maroon 5
I hate myself for liking this song. If I were coming down from a five-day bender, took a half-dozen bingers (bong hits), was shot with a tranquilizer dart and had one arm tied behind my back, I still could beat up every guy in this band at the same time. But god damn do I want to skip through the streets of Manhattan when I hear this song. And I would do just that if I wasn't so top-heavy. Damn.

<< Home

Powered by Blogger