Since I was sick and/or in recovery mode most of last week, I feel the need to make up for missing Freestyle Friday. I'm sure my virus-addled mind could have come up with something way more creative than the following gems that were plucked from my notebook, but the only thing I felt compelled to pen in the past 7 days was my last will and testament. Which is actually a pretty funny read, just not what I would consider FF material.

Read More...

I don't feel so great today, despite all the flu shots, alcohol, and preservatives I've dumped into my body as of late, so this Freestyle Friday's theme is "copping out". Meaning you get a re-post from my long-since deleted blog, back when blogging was cool and nobody cared what I said. I guess it's good to know that some things never change.

"The Happiest Place on Earth"
Originally published September 21, 2006

Wow. Apparently even a short anecdote which eludes to me pooing is unwelcome for the bulk of my readers. (ed. note - the post I did previous to this one was about how I'm always on the toilet when my workplace decides to do a random fire drill) A somewhat surprising reaction, especially from those of you with children and/or lewd husbands. Going forward I suppose we should all just assume that I don't actually make brownie bites, instead excreting rainbows and baby pandas in a glorious arc that spreads love and happiness throughout the land.

Unfortunately, this new policy will eliminate (no pun intended) at least 50 good stories I was someday hoping to tell. Lucky for you I'm a complete jackass wherever I go, so the extent of my shame is not confined to sordid bathroom tales.

There's one in particular that came to mind for no real reason the other night, which can only mean it's destined for sharing. Let me take you back to December of 2000. America was relinquishing a year-long high from making the Y2K bug it's bitch, and you could still in good conscience take an arsenal of weapons (i.e. hair gel, nail clippers) onto any commercial flight. I was down in Florida, enjoying their relatively mild winter with some friends and hopping from theme park to theme park.

While at Disney MGM Studios I had the good fortune of being pulled from the audience to take part in the Indiana Jones live stunt show, along with 5 or 6 other people. After donning the required "Egyptian henchman" garb, they threw everyone into the middle of the show, introducing and then embarrassing us one by one in an assortment of ways.

As soon as the announcer's mic went off, she came over and split everyone into pairs, instructing us to stay within a marked circular area and to "look scared." I got paired with a younger guy named Sam, whose shorter stature was accentuated by the way he swam in his burlap robes.

The show started in a frenzy. Fireballs erupted, fake gunshots went off, dudes were throwing swords and jumping from motorcycles. Despite the distractions, Sam and I hammed it up the best we could, running around like idiots shrieking obscenities and Ha-la-ha-la's. Our finest and decidedly last moment as an acting duo was during the climax of the show.

A large explosion rocked the back of the set, launching styrofoam rocks in the direction of our circle of safety. In a bold move, I clutched Sam from the side in an act of mock terror. On top of the whole "hugging a strange man" thing, I could feel that something was out of place. He quickly turned to face me, his eyes sending a message that couldn't have been clearer -- "Is that YOUR hand squeezing MY breast?" Apparently Sam wasn't short for Samuel, and I was no longer acting the look of terror on my face.

The force at which I sprang back from her was mimicked on my left by a final series of fireballs that leapt towards the sky. With that the show was over, and I was extremely thankful for the timely extrication. I hurried towards the side of the stage to turn in my costume, but somehow wasn't quick enough. She was right there when I turned around, and the best I could come up with was, "Uh... good job out there." "You too," she said with a smile, then reached up and gave me a double purple nurple. I no longer felt so bad, though I might have had I known that would be the most action I got the entire trip.

Read More...

Things that make me smile in a sad sort of way:

• Patrick Swayze movies
• Really old people holding hands
• Getting the last slice of pizza
• Three-legged dogs
• Very chubby kids

Things that are impossible to do in a sexy manner:

• Beekeeping
• Juggling
• Eating an ENTIRE spoonful of peanut butter
• Cracking walnuts
• Holding back a sneeze

Things that bother me when not done well:

• Vanity license plates
• Fake boobs
• Quoting movies in conversation
• Sandwich construction
• Handshakes

Things that make you look like white trash, regardless of your actual social standing:

• Drinking Arizona iced tea
• Reusing grocery bags from Wal-Mart
• Wearing anything with a Looney Tunes character on it (yes, even children)
• Taking your kid in public with only a diaper on
• Singing along with Ford F-150 commercials

*Before I forget, it's also National Give Jay $50 Day!

Read More...

When most people learn that I have children, their initial reaction is typically one of shock; in part (I can only assume) from the natural disbelief that comes with discovering someone so dashingly handsome and young in appearance has kids, as well as some other part about being unfit to blah blah blah... I tend to gloss over the finer points of these objections after a few drinks. In my defense, it wouldn't kill them to make those PTA meetings a tad more engaging.

However, it's not like being a parent is a nonstop adventure through some magical land where the clouds are made of panda bear farts and Kristen Stewart doesn't exist. Think about it - your kids basically spend their first year screaming at you no matter what you do. Sure, you tell everyone that "they're such a sweet baby" and "it hardly feels like work," but only because parents secretly feed off the weakness of lesser parents. What's that -- last week you locked yourself in the bathroom with a bowl of ice cream so you could cry in peace for five minutes? Yesssss... your shame sustains us.

Yet no matter how stoic a face we try to put on, all us parents are united by shame in one form or another.... even if, as in my case, I'm not given much of a choice in the matter:

• One Sunday back when my son was two'ish, I was enjoying a lazy afternoon on the couch while he toddled around the house, checking in every so often to feed me a Cheerio from his afternoon snack bag. Only after he fed me one that came with a side order of giant gross hair did I realize that I had yet to give him an afternoon snack. I asked him where the (10 or so) Cheerios I had eaten came from, to which he responded "unda fidge". For those of you not fluent in twosenese, that loosely translates to "under the fridge, where you've been sweeping shit into instead of using the dustpan for the last year".

• Once after changing my daughter's diaper, I used a fresh baby wipe to playfully clean her messy face. It was such a gosh darn silly good time that my son wanted a piece of the action, so I indulged him when he accosted me with a baby wipe as well. I made funny noises, he squealed with delight while mushing that wipe around the entirety of my face. When the novelty of this game wore off, I was left to clean up the spoils of war. Unfortunately in doing so I discovered that the baby wipe my son attacked me with had been pulled from the pee-filled diaper I relieved my daughter of moments earlier.

• Somewhere around the 6-month mark, I was goofing around with my son (yeah, that one again) on the floor. Since the way to any baby's heart is a solid round of upsy-daisy, I burped him in preparation of a good time that wouldn't also include stomach-soured breast milk being expelled onto my shirt. A fate I managed to escape this time, but at the less-than-fair trade of it being expelled DIRECTLY INTO MY EYE. Right on my eyeball. If you've ever had salty kimchi poured into your ocular cavity, you know what I'm talking about.

Read More...

Exception: When you have more than 12 oz hard liquor (or 120 oz beer) in your stomach.

Exception: When your puppy is in your SUV as it rolls over.


Exception: Sid Vicious

Exception: Masturbation

Read More...

It's 2010 For Fuck's Sake

It's been called to my attention
the desired retention
of a horribly dreadful machine.

There's nothing to reap
in considering to keep
something so out of use it's obscene.

A purpose it lacks
yes I mean you, Mr. Fax
so misshapen and pointedly queer.

Like a scanner for phones
it's the fossilized bones
of a society from yesteryear.

I'm not trying to be brash,
but it belongs in the trash
right next to that box of Zip drives.

Although it might be more fun
firing it off to the sun
on a rocket and out of our lives.

It should go without saying
that there be no delaying
in sending that paperweight straight to hell.

Yet on the shelf it sits
in spite of my childish fits
Not since Bush has something done nothing so well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~oOo~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Worst Staff Meeting Ever

Just like that
I suddenly shat
More a thing of nightmares than dreams.

I was equal parts shocked
and figuratively mocked
by my lazy sphincter it seems.

In the blink of an eye
it ran down my thigh
viscous and warm and greasy.

Oh how the stench burns
and my stomach now churns
This is not just a feeling of queasy.

Amid the snickers and jeers
lashing forth from my peers
I vomit all over the floor.

With a sickly splash
it's out in a flash
as I blubber and sob "No more!"

My body grows weary,
the chance of consciousness dreary,
wobbly in the lake of fluids around me.

Before I pass out,
I raise a fist and shout
"Now I know why that sushi was free!"

Read More...

It's Martin Luther King Day, and like most of you I was fortunate enough to have the day off of work. Something you might also be semi-aware of is that MLK Day has been designated as a national day of service. Meaning get your ass off the couch and do something for other people. Now I'm not really the kind of guy who would parade in front of others the exceptional ways in which I gave back to humanity today, so let's just say that lives were changed for the better. I merely need you to know it happened to ensure I don't look nearly as selfish for cashing in on the ultimate reward Dr. King intended for those who follow in his awesome shadow. Allow me to elaborate:

FACT: Dr. King wished us all to take an active role IN our communities and the human rights movement.

Dr. King + Involvement = Dr. (IN) King = DRINKING

With the highest amount of respect to him and his legacy, I raise a glass of fine Kentucky Bourbon Whiskey in Dr. King's honor. And consider it your act of service to not point out the irony of that statement and/or the flawed logic this entire post if rife with.

Read More...

In case you were too lazy to click on that "Tumblelog" tab up top, it links to a side blog I maintain on Tumblr, which I've creatively dubbed Genius Tumbling. I know, right? The painful truth of the matter is that I don't update it nearly as often as I used to, however, I still manage to log on frequently enough to check out what others are posting.

Now in case you didn't know, most people on Tumblr (like myself) simply post pictures or the occasional video. One thing in particular that I see a lot of on there is something I refer to as "word whoring," wherein someone attempts to make a phrase or quote look far more funny/cute/poetic than it really is, simply by superimposing it on a colored background. Examples can be found here, here, here, fucking here, sweet Jesus here, here, and yes, una mas here. And it only took 5 minutes of waiting on the Tumblr wire to get all of those. But you get the point. Odds are at one time or another you had something similar set as your desktop wallpaper. I know I have.

For today's Freestyle Friday I thought I'd try my hand at word whoring. Each of the following are gems mined from the part of my brain that has nothing better to do on the bus ride home from work every day. You can even click through for the extra large versions to use as wallpaper. What can I say, I'm a giver.






Freestyle Friday bonus -- lighting yourself on fire is cool!

Read More...

I want to get serious for a moment here, guys.

WORLD HUNGER.

GLOBAL WARMING.

EAST AFRICAN ZEBRA PROSTITUTION.

OK, now that I've gotten that out of my system, I'd like to flip a bitch and chat about something on the opposite end of the serious spectrum -- video games. Now if you're anything like me, a good deal of your formative years were spent basking in the dull glow of jumping plumbers and bionic mercenaries. Well, recently I sacrificed the bulk of a weekend for the greater good of transforming my old Xbox into a retro gaming machine. There were a few hiccups along the way, but what I was left with is nothing short of the old school gamer's promised land. I now own and am able to play essentially every (US) title ever for the NES, Sega Genesis, TurboGrafx-16, Super Nintendo, Game Boy, Game Boy Advance, and have a ton of working titles for the Nintendo 64 and original PlayStation as well. Excuse me while I high five my 11-year-old self for the 1,000th time. While I'm at it, I'd also like to debunk the following:


Screw you, kid. I got more game(s) than your Zack Morris-looking ass could ever dream of. You're still a better dresser though.

As it turns out, however, there is a pretty serious side effect that comes with the not so serious pursuit of reliving your 8-bit glory days. With (literally) thousands of games at one's disposal, it becomes all too easy to spend the bulk of your free time attempting to indulge in them all. Accomplishments that spanned years are being crammed into sweaty Red Bull-fueled all-nighters. When you do sleep, your dreams are pixelated and set to the soundtrack of Zelda II. You pretty much become the living dead, and not the sweet ass kind like from Altered Beast, I'm talking about the single-minded, I'll shower just as soon as I defeat the Mother Brain kind.

Thankfully, like most junkies I was side-swiped by a moment of clarity at the intersection of shameful behavior and self-awareness. About a week ago my daughter wandered blurry-eyed into the living room at 1am, only to find me dry humping a pillow in celebration of completing my childhood nemesis, The Astyanax. "What are you doing?" she asked, in obvious reference to my current actions, but the question took on a much wider meaning for me. Since then I've sobered up and found a happy medium between enjoying myself, and turning into a 30-year-old version of this kid. All that's left now is to shake this 6 pack/day Yoo-Hoo habit.

Read More...

I'm pretty sure that some iteration of "lose weight" or "get healthier" tops most new year's resolution lists, widely beating out such other favorites as "quit smoking" and "stop killing hookers". Now, I may not be so outwardly full of it that I make real resolutions, but the sad fact of the matter is that even I can't fully escape the temptation of using the new calendar as a checkpoint for change. I'm pretty sure you see where I'm going with this, so let me back up for a second to fill you in on the perfect storm of signs from the universe that mutated into the impetus behind this creeping desire to better myself physically:

1. It's a new year; you can't beat up a homeless guy without change being thrown in your face -- in more ways than one.
2. Last week Christie and I subjected ourselves to a marathon of The Biggest Loser. I'll admit that it's an inspiring testament to human will and perseverance to see others make such dramatic changes in their life, yet at the same time you can't help but wonder in what ridiculous set of circumstances somebody could let themselves go for so long. Then you look down at the half tub of ice cream you just plowed through -- the mere act of which made you sort of wheezy -- and it all starts to become a little clearer.
3. Since almost a year ago (back when I was doing all the things I wish I was still doing), I've gained 40 pounds. Four-zero. Now thankfully, at 6'7" I'm able to spread it out a little better than most, but still -- 40 POUNDS. I could cut my leg off at the knee and still not lose that much weight. I checked here, and I'd have to jump rope for over 7 days straight to drop that kind of flab. Either that or forgo 824 pints of beer in the near future, neither of which has a fighting chance of happening.

It's safe to say that something has to change, regardless of how cliche the timing may be. At the very least I think my rep will maintain its neutral buoyancy so long as heart disease and/or adult-onset diabetes remain a lifestyle faux pas. I might also consider getting on board with some kind of fad diet, but thus far they all seem a bit too contrived (read: super retarded) to really work for me. I guess that means it's back to the basics -- eating right and exercise.

I know, I just cringed a little too. Maybe doubly so for those of you thinking I'm going to run this blog into the ground with regurgitated health advice and a never-ending picture stream of my dwindling moobs. Rest assured that will not be happening. You know, unless I ever manage a six pack, in which case there might be a quick shot of me doing something erotic with my shirt off, like mopping the kitchen floor or removing spyware from someone else's computer. That being said, I remain a firm believer in accountability, so I've instituted a barely noticeable feature on the sidebar that tracks my weight loss to date. You can expect me to update weekly, just as I expect you to ridicule me should that number be moving in the wrong direction. By harnessing this, the power of negative reinforcement, I hope to have finally found a way to put my latent Daddy issues to good use, even if it requires swapping them out for body image issues.One day at a time people, one day at a time.

Read More...