Genius Pending

In Which I Birth a Man

2011-11-23T07:00:00.000-08:00

Today is a special day, as with it I bid farewell to that clumsy stage in life known as the early thirties, finally transitioning to the relative stability of my mid-early thirties. Don't get me wrong; 31 felt pretty good, but 32 is better by default because it's one year closer to 35. In case you weren't aware, 35 is the age when a man reaches the apex of his maturity, arriving at a trisection of awesome milestones:

Able to become President (excluding foreigners and women).
A tenuous and temporary balance is achieved between maximum facial hair growth potential, minimal chance of balding, and still manageable ear hair.
Middle age officially begins.

I could see why some of my younger readers would question the awesomeness of the third item. After all, there is a very prominent stigma attached to middle age, which essentially adds the subtext of "old son of a bitch in training" to it. It's true to an extent; the aches and pains and blind corporate servitude of middle age can certainly be faulted for the regret-turned-bitterness that attaches itself to so many later in life. That, however, happens further down the road.

The awesomeness of middle age is not to be found within those oppressive working years, but is something inherent to the experience of becoming a full-fledged adult. You may think you're totally an adult when you turn 18, and then for real when you graduate college or get a big boy job, and again once you start a family. Wrong, wrong, and fucking spare me -- if Justin Beiber can get someone pregnant, that's officially off the table forever as a yardstick of adulthood.

Over time and with experience you learn that being an adult is nothing but a mindset. It's an attitude cultivated over your last 30 some-odd years of functional living. You've spent all this time growing as a person in a myriad of ways, yet are really only capable of judging yourself by other people's standards. This massively conflicting notion screws most of us up enough to last well through our twenties. It's not surprising considering most of us spend the first 8 years of our life being told how special we are, and then the following decade finding out that in actuality, only certain kinds of special are considered acceptable.

This is where the freeing effect of adulthood comes in. After all these years trying to fit in, wondering if others are judging you for the lamest of reasons, and even wishing you could be someone else, you'll notice these feelings being replaced with a new one -- an overarching sensation of not giving a shit whatsoever. It's more of a realization than it is a form of apathy. It's a new way of looking at things wherein you recognize the inevitable march of time and want to spend as much of it as possible doing the things you enjoy with people you don't secretly want to strangle. You start seeing younger generations for what they really are; overwhelmingly insecure people doing the best they can to figure shit out along the way (that and people whose music will never be as cool as yours). Love, humor, and purpose all develop new, richer meanings. In essence, you've removed the lens you viewed the world with throughout your youth and can finally start to see things for what they really are... which is approximately a 1000:1 ratio of things that don't matter to things that do.

Feel free to label this as simply another blog post from an aging nobody hoping to validate his senescence with dollar beer epiphany-fueled bullshit. It won't faze me I swear. I'm at a place in my life where I'm mature enough to take it, much in the same way your mom takes it from anyone drunk enough to overlook that thing on her face.

Tuxedo Justice

2011-11-15T07:30:00.000-08:00

Saturday night at around midnight, I lazily slumped across two seats on the westbound train home. My legs were heavy and tired in comparison to the twitchy, overcaffeinated impulses shooting through my brain. Six hours of standing at a charity event followed by another hour on my feet waiting for the train (thanks Occupy Portland) might not have been so bad if it weren't for the ill-fitting shoes I had been wearing. The only upside was how damn good I apparently looked in them.

From halfway up the train car someone called out to me "Nice shoes man". He was a younger guy, probably still in high school, with a group of his friends. I could tell he wasn't just fucking with me because, for starters, I am the supreme overlord of sarcasm and able to spot even its most unrefined forms. He was also pretty sharply-dressed, a complement to my own attire for the evening.

Before I had a chance to respond, the kid looked me up and down. "Damn, dude's wearing a tux -- nice tux!" I told him thanks and went back to avoiding eye contact. Not that he said it in a creepy way or anything. I did, after all, look as the kids say nowadays, "balls deep in swag":

James Bond's outfit, James Cagney's crappy camera phone

As the train approached its next stop a few minutes later, a young woman in front of me began to shake her passed out companion. "Reuben, wake up. Time to go." She does this a couple more times with increasing intensity as the train slows to a stop. "Reuben, come on, get up!!" The doors open and Reuben slowly rouses. She stops the door from closing with her hand. "Reuben -- COME ON!!" He makes it to the door of the train before she stops it from closing a second time. She points back to his seat, "Reuben, grab your shirt!" Reuben stares at her blankly, obviously too drunk to process such complicated instructions. She stops the door from closing a third time, rushing back into the train to grab his shirt.

At this point she's standing on the platform, trying to coax him off the train. Reuben is right in front of the door but refuses to exit for some reason that I'm sure makes perfect sense in his pickled mind. He's just leaning against the inside panel with this wry half smile on his face. The woman is screaming now, "REUBEN -- GET OFF THE TRAIN!!" The door tries closing for a fourth time, and it looks like she's going to let it go, so I reach out with my umbrella and stop the door from closing. More screaming, "REUBEN, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!"

This time, however, the door closes almost immediately and right in Reuben's face. The conductor comes over the intercom, "Can I help you folks back there?" Nobody responds, so he asks again. I feel somewhat responsible so I yell back "Can you open the door one more time for this guy? He's having a bit of trouble," to which the conductor obliges. This is pretty much Reuben's last chance.

The woman reaches through the open door to try and yank him out by his sleeve. He pulls away and smiles, his stupid contorted drunk face mocking her. She yells at him again as the door starts closing. She stops it again, but instead of pleading further with Reuben she looks in my direction. "CAN YOU PLEASE HELP ME?!"

Now, I was already way more involved in this than I wanted to be. I haven't had much luck with random interactions on public transportation in the past so I usually do what I can to avoid them. I also felt kind of sorry for Reuben, because hey, we've all been an insufferable drunken ass at one point in our lives. Some of us on a weekly basis.

But this had gone too far. The woman was crying and yelling at me to help. The conductor came back over the intercom shouting "WHAT'S GOING ON BACK THERE?" It was late. My feet hurt. I wanted to go home and it didn't look like that was going to happen until this drunken asshole made a move.

Then it happened. Reuben looked over and pointed that dumb smile right at me. It was probably just booze-induced lazy eye, but I swear that motherfucker winked at me too. That was officially enough. I stood up and said "Reuben, get the FUCK off the train!" and shoved his drunk ass out the door. Reuben crumpled into a pile on the platform as I yelled into the intercom "He's out the door, let's go." The woman looked up at me as she was crouching over him and said "Oh my God! That's not what I meant!!" I looked back at her and said "You're welcome" right as the doors closed.

As the train started moving I turned around to take my seat and noticed that the group of guys from earlier were all staring at me, a shocked look on many of their faces. It took me a second to recognize that they had just witnessed a 6'7" red-bearded dude in a full tuxedo possibly kill someone. I reasoned that they had no experience dealing with drunken idiots and that I had been too harsh on poor Reuben. I thought maybe I should explain to them that there are only two ways to deal with someone that housed; the nice way and aggressive way, and that there had been no time to employ the former tactic. At that moment the same guy who had complimented my shoes spoke up. "Hoooolyyyy shit, man. That was fucking awesome!" One of the other guys might have drawn a parallel between me and some sort of Chuck Norris/James Bond hybrid; I don't recall exactly, as things got a little excited in the ensuing flurry of high fives.

From Bro to Man Ho with One Tandem Bike Ride

2011-11-14T07:30:00.000-08:00

(click image to enlarge)

(Stupid) Dreams Really Do Come True

2011-11-09T07:00:00.000-08:00

Earlier this year I had a ridiculous dream. Not like the one where I thought I had a shot with Gerard Butler, which is really more impossible than it is ridiculous. In this dream I was basically a taller, PG rated version of Jigsaw from the Saw movies, wherein I crafted an array of overly-complicated devices used to inflict mildly bothersome consequences upon the losers of my evil(ish) games.

Most of my dreams dissolve into vapor before I even make it out of the shower, but for some reason a small part of this one stayed with me throughout the day. A stupid, pretty lame part (a notion I later proved to be spot on), regarding a machine that allows its operator to slap the shit out of themselves. Stupid. Pointless. Completely stuck in my head.

So... I did what any really good-looking person with a lot of time on his hands would do and I built the thing out of scraps in my garage. Once out of my head and sitting on my workbench, I guess I wasn't quite as committed to the idea of slapping myself in the face, because the slap machine has been collecting dust ever since. Until now.

You may need to turn your volume up to get the full disappointing experience:

Debearded

2011-11-07T07:00:00.000-08:00

This may come as a shock to some of you, but not everyone is actually the person they portray themselves as on the internet. I know, I know... take a moment to collect your jaw and/or anus from the floor.

While I've always challenged myself to embody the sarcastic, narcissistic, suburbanized giant among men revealed on these pages, I too have been known to skew perceptions across multiple social networks, most notably when it comes to my face. This face to be exact, the one you have all come to know and love and fear and accept friend requests from and well, let's be honest, oft times imagine what it would feel like pressing softly against your cheek:

Here's the thing though -- see that glorious beard, its auburn glory playing a follicular symphony across my expansive jawline? As irrefutably awe-inspiring of a beard as it might be, I only wear it about two months out of the year. Most of the time I actually look like this:

Don't act so surprised. Besides, this was taken after six on a Saturday. What am I, a farmer?

My "winter beard" as I like to call it only makes a seasonal appearance for a multitude of reasons, but I'll spare you the entirety of my facial hair manifesto and just hit you with the top three:

Much like Christmas or falling off the wagon, it's difficult to appreciate really awesome things if they happen every day.
Summer beard becomes sweaty and itchy beard faster than you might imagine.
My wife thinks it makes me look -- as she so delicately puts it -- like a "homeless junkie, whose jizz-encrusted mass of face pubes is so overwhelming that you almost don't notice he also has rabies".

This year, however, I've added a new element to the annual Jay turns Wolfman event. Borne from equals parts laziness and cheapassery, I decided that I also wouldn't cut my hair for the duration of winter beard season. I'm about two months in, and starting to think my wife was on to something with her homeless junkie theory:

Freestyle Friday: 'Til Minor Inconvenience Do Us Part

2011-11-04T07:30:00.000-07:00

Being relevant > Being timely

Pirated by a Caribbean Douchebag

2011-05-23T09:45:00.000-07:00

Given the infrequency with which these pages are shown any attention as of late, it may come as a surprise to learn that my writing career is actually a giant, multi-armed beast, and that this blog is but one of its many arms. That's right; my literary prowess is practically fucking sentient at this point. Aside from being the master of multiple social media platforms, I am also a well-paid, highly respected, published author. It matters not that I've only got one (in print) published credit to my name. That's all it takes.

Although... in all fairness, as far as I can tell nobody takes me seriously. Oh, and I wasn't exactly "well-paid" for my published work so much as I was "fucked in the ass by some Caribbean douchebag".

I should probably clarify a few things about that last part. This might end up being a rather lengthy story, but if you've got the time, you'll be handsomely rewarded with multiple instances of me being hosed by Wesley Snipes' character from Futuresport. Just trust me and keep reading.

In late 2008 I responded to a craigslist ad requesting aphrodisiac recipes for a men's cookbook. I had been submitting a crap-ton of writing proposals at the time, and happen to have a kick ass grilled oyster recipe, so I fired it off and then pretty much forgot about it immediately. Imagine my surprise when, a few weeks later, I got an email notifying me that not only was my recipe accepted, but the publisher wanted several more and a couple of "how-to" articles from me as well. $ Cha-Ching $$

Before we sink any further into this tale, allow me to introduce you to the man behind the curtain. His name is Sheldon, and he runs a one-man publishing house in Trinidad and Tobago, the linchpin success of which was the magazine Caribbean Man Quarterly. Once upon a time he even had a website and everything, so I had little reason to doubt his legitimacy. Although entrusting one of the whitest guys on the planet to come up with a bunch of South American and Afro-Caribbean influenced recipes probably should have raised a red flag. That and his uber-professional headshot:

If your initial reaction to that picture is "Kinda looks like John Legend and the Predator had a lovechild," you're on the right track. Also, probably a little bit of a racist.

The project started in early 2009 and was targeted for completion at around the middle of the year. I submitted my work mid February, which included a total of 7 recipes (with pictures) and 3 how-to articles. Based on the payment scale he gave me at the beginning of the project, I was due approximately $1,100 for all of this. $ Cha-Fucking-Ching $$

Somewhere in the fall of 2009, the tide turned from a sea of hope to wave after wave of bullshit. There were contract problems, then distributor problems, then Sheldon hurt his back climbing a coconut tree or something. All the while, being his friend on Faceboook I could see the lavish book release parties he was throwing on the islands. Only 1 out of every 5 messages I sent him was responded to, each with more stupidity than the last, and always promising payment was coming "very soon".

The only bright spot during any of this was late last year, when I finally received a copy of the book. This was monumental considering I had begun to doubt whether or not it even existed at all. At first glance, the cover was kind of cheesy, but admittedly appropriate for its target audience:

Finally, I'd get to see my name in print! I hastily turned to the copyright page, scanned for my name, and there it was:

Excusemewhat? YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING WITH ME! Jay "Ferries"?! As if I didn't have to put up with enough of that shit in Junior High? Why not just put me in there as Jay "Way Into Anal" Ferris Bueller? Son of a whore!

Thankfully, my recipes were unchanged for the most part, with my name spelled correctly on each of them. Here's the oyster recipe, which is sure to get you laid, although no promises it won't be by some asshat who only wants to fuck you in the wallet.

Let's take a quick look at the back cover. Adorned with Sheldon's trademark shampoo commercial headshot, we find another reason why this book was destined to be a complete and resounding failure:

Sweet dreadlocked Jesus, mon! $50?? Did they ink this bitch with the tears of a thousand island virgins? Were there some steep voodoo bribes so zombie Julia Child could make a contribution that I overlooked? Oh wait... upon further review, it becomes obvious that the exorbitant sticker price was required to offset the tens of thousands of dollars in high-end stock photography:

She either has crotch blindness, or is about to

bludgeon him with that stick she's grabbing.

This photo might have been sexy, but unfortunately, it was taken

a full month after Labor Day. What were they thinking?!

Be nice to this guy... he suffered a stroke while serving in the gay

military, and now has a hard time getting things into his mouth.

Let us all observe a moment of silence for Yipes, the Fruit Stripe

gum zebra, who gave his life to make this dress.

This will probably be one of the most unintentionally

racist things you see in your entire life.

Part of me wishes I could end this post with a "where to buy" link, giving you all the opportunity to support my writing endeavors. Too bad such a link doesn't exist, or that I would even see any of that money. Besides, as far as I know, none of my readers are limp-dicked millionaires capable of affording this literary abortion anyway. So in lieu of any monetary support, all I ask is that if you ever run into this guy, you kick him square in the conch:

Make sure your foot tells his nuts that "Jay Ferries says hi".

Immediate Consequences

2011-05-10T08:30:00.000-07:00

In all fairness, at least two of these become pretty understandable if there's alcohol involved.

Graphing the Self

2011-04-20T04:30:00.000-07:00

Poor-Weather Friendships, a.k.a Free Tech Support

2011-04-14T12:35:00.000-07:00

While I've never claimed to have an excess of robust friendships, something that has emerged as a common theme amongst half my purported "friends" is that they only reach out to me when faced with a computer problem of some sort. When this kind of thing first started happening, I was admittedly flattered. I've always been a step or two ahead of the game when it comes to personal computing, but considered it as nothing more than indulging a general interest in being awesome at things that mattered, like Mario Kart or tomahawk throwing. So at first it felt pretty good; a tangible affirmation for all that time spent learning Visual Basic or building PC's for the hell of it.

Granted, getting one of these calls is not always an unwelcome occurrence. I've reached an accord with many people, such as my car guy and tree guy. We serve an unveiled purpose in one another's lives, filling those gaps in what the other considers to be rudimentary knowledge. A perfectly symbiotic, bullshit-free relationship. What hoses me are those who only pop up to seemingly mock my ability at assessing something for what it truly is. It always starts the same way: "Hi Jay, how've you been? Oh good! I'm fine too. Yeah, it's been a while, hasn't it? Hey, I was calling to see if you could help me out with this little computer problem I've been having..."

Please note that all fake friendships will be recorded for quality of life purposes.

After almost 10 years of this, I have come to the following painfully obvious conclusions:

Anyone who does this is not really my friend
Some people should not be allowed near computers -- ever
It takes a special kind of fool to get infected with spyware monthly
Most people will deny surfing porn with their dying breath
I can see why Geek Squad is such a successful business model
I am partially to blame for answering calls from these people in the first place
The appropriate response is not to help, but instead fuck with those who do this to me

Keeping in line with the last of those conclusions, I've created a simple management plan for effectively dealing with this situation. I listen attentively for a few minutes, occasionally throwing out phrases such as "registry error" and "corrupt drive sector" just to freak them out a little. I then tell them to expect a follow up email from me in the next few minutes, outlining a solution. An email that reads:

Dear True Friend,

I was quite distraught when you recently phoned/emailed/texted me with your computer problem. Please be aware that this is of the utmost priority to me, and in no way an insulting waste of my time. While most people are content with friendships built around such social activities as drinking and playing video games, I much prefer ours, which rests on a solid foundation of me fixing your shit. Unfortunately, this is likely to be our final interaction under that dynamic, as I've found a website capable of acting as your thankless, uncompensated tech support better than I ever could:

www.google.com

They really do provide an amazing service; simply type in your question, click "Search," and you are magically connected to a veritable compendium of mankind's experience in resolving issues created by inept individuals like yourself. In the off chance you have broken new ground in the area of poor computing decisions and Google is of no help, I suggest posting your question for the old guys running the forums over at www.lemonparty.org.

Sincerely,

Leave me alone.

When Graphing Begets Graphing

2011-02-03T04:30:00.000-08:00

Tucked away in the cluttered pages of my random scribblings, somewhere between my formula for cold fusion and that love letter to Ryan Reynolds I just can't seem to get right, are more graph ideas. Most of them are just awful. I mean really, really bad. Like if Battlefield Earth and Pluto Nash had a baby kind of suck. Some of them don't even make sense; I'm looking at one right now that says "tapioca = desktop". What the shit?

As wretched as most of my ideas admittedly are, it's still possible to mine the occasional diamond of hope from them. Stuff that isn't particularly funny, but once I put it on paper, inspires another idea. One I can actually live with.

This:

Became this:
Also, this:

Became this:

(click any to enlarge)

I'm Buying a Kindle

2011-01-28T04:30:00.000-08:00

Scene: Library

Enter Jay, looking confident and dashingly handsome as always. He grabs four books (OK, mostly graphic novels [OK FINE. They're fucking hardcover comic books. Do you feel like a big man now??]) off the "Hold" shelf and makes his way to the circulation desk. Here Jay is greeted by a Librarian that he guesses to be in her early seventies, noting she appears to have not smiled since Matlock was canceled.

Jay: (setting stack of books on desk) Where is your bathroom at?

Librarian: (looking at his books and scowling) What for?

Jay: (realizing the graphic novel on top of the stack is a Wonder Woman one, and that Librarian likely assumes he wants to go beat off in her library) I stopped in to pick these up, but it turns out I need to, um, drop something off as well. (awkward smile)

Librarian: (distrusting gaze) Oh, you can just drop it off by the front desk.

Jay: I think you think I'm talking about something else.

Librarian: Then what is it you're talking about?

(four teenage girls get in line behind Jay)

Jay: Using your bathroom.

Librarian: Mfughshnnugomameblahblah...

Jay: (too busy trying to will a stroke into Librarian's brain to hear what she said) I'm sorry, what?

Librarian: (using her loud voice, which is pretty much the library equivalent of screaming) THE BATHROOM IS JUST OUTSIDE THE ENTRANCE. YOU'LL NEED TO CHECK OUT YOUR COMIC BOOKS FIRST IF YOU WANT TO TAKE THEM IN THERE WITH YOU.

(teenage girl giggling erupts behind Jay)

Jay: Wow. Thanks.

(A half-smile slowly begins to form on the right side of Librarian's face)

(Jay lingers, hoping her half-smile is symptomatic of impending stroke. Walks away moments later, thoroughly disappointed)

I Hope You Fuckers Are Happy

2011-01-24T13:20:00.000-08:00

Here I was, just starting to feel a little bad for my role in the ongoing saga of mass animal die-offs around the world (see my previous post), and then you guys had to one-up me by doing the impossible: killing Jack LaLanne. Word from my Hollywood friends is that Jack was just hanging out yesterday, updating his MySpace profile, when he stumbled onto a link entitled "The Most Awesomest Thing EVER". Naturally he clicked on the link, which sent him to this blog. However, what he ended up finding here turned out to be not so awesome:

For shame people... FOR SHAME. Apparently, Jack took one look at the current poll results and his heart shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. The same heart that swam handcuffed from Alcatraz to Fisherman's Wharf, and completed 1,033 pushups in 23 minutes. 96 years of kicking ass, only to be finished off by 19 extremely hurtful votes. Not cool guys.

All blame and grieving aside, this notable passing of an iconic health and fitness guru has left me taking a really hard look at things. You know, ask myself some pretty powerful questions. Such as, is it possible that the polls I have been posting for fun have some sort of secret power, wherein we are able to vote for and actually have an effect on who lives and who dies? I guess there's only one way to find out! I posted a new poll, one with the direct intent of voting someone off the island of life. A long time ago I promised you all God-like powers (either that or dinner at The Outback, but I think this works too), and now that I've delivered, what will it be --who stays, and who goes??

Sorry Everyone -- That Was My Bad

2011-01-21T10:30:00.000-08:00

While technically still an act of God, I'd like to be clear that the recent mass animal die-offs don't have anything to do with the apocalypse... it's just, I've just been catching up on the show Dollhouse, which if you've ever seen, you'd know that on the rare occasions Eliza Dushku is actually wearing clothes, she's either dressed like a whore, or a whore from The Matrix. So yeah, this one's on me guys.

Return of the Graph

2011-01-20T11:30:00.000-08:00

(Make sure you re-read the title of this post in the harmonic styling of R&B super sensation Mark Morrison)

Very rarely do my middle of the night ideas make it much further than the scratch pad I keep next to the bed. I think the following graphs, whose inspiration came to me at about 4am, do well to illustrate why:

Hopefully these make sense to someone other than me. If not, at least try to take away the following message: Butt jokes, much like peace and happiness, can be found practically anywhere if you only look hard enough.

Cherry Picking Awesomeness

2011-01-13T10:55:00.000-08:00

A blank page has always represented both great potential and great frustration for me. Very rarely will a day go by that I don't write something, however, it's not uncommon for days/weeks/months to pass and for me to I feel as if I haven't written anything of substance. Don't let such scholarly words fool you; in my world it's entirely possible to find substance in panda farts and jokes about Nicolas Cage's forehead. Meaning content definitely isn't the issue here. Maybe it comes down to finding the right combination of tone, style, and story -- simply put, it just has to feel right to me.

Aren't you glad I'm not your editor?

Just because 99% of the words I write never leave the sordid pages of my personal notebook doesn't mean it's all worthless. Every now and again I'll re-read some of those greatest misses and a line or two will jump out at me -- a line begging to be saved, or some random assemblage of words that had likely been destined for greater things all along.

That's exactly what I've got in store for you today; part two in what appears to be an ongoing series of "Out of Context Clips from Works I Won't be Publishing" (part one is here). Keep in mind that some of these are from real life stories, whereas others are from works of complete fiction. Although you're probably safe in assuming any dick jokes were ripped straight from the headlines of my life.

"...at least to me, grammar is paramount. Unless we're talking about Kelsey Grammer, in which case it's a pretentious one-trick pony that should have stopped being famous 20 years ago."

"By the time he was my age, my grandfather had already taken out more Japanese than Godzilla."

"He was the only person I'd ever met that could turn the story of the crucifixion into a 'Yo Mama' joke."

"I'm sorry, but if you are older than 13 and say 'LOL' in a real-life conversation, I have to punch you in the neck. Those are the rules. That I just made up. So I can punch you in your stupid neck."

"The thing about taking naked pictures of yourself is that somehow, someday, everyone on the internet is going to see them."

"You see, while everyone loves to hear fucked up stories about fucked up people, very few actually want to be the person living those stories. That's where I come in."

"This guy was a gold medal-winning decathlete in the Douche Olympics."

"I got 99 problems but Quidditch ain't one."

"From the moment I saw her, I knew she would be mine. Well, either her or her sister."

"We were so poor, the Tooth Fairy left backrub coupons under our pillows."

"Besting religion is easy -- all you have to do is keep asking 'Why?' like a 5-year-old."

"It was a lot like that elevator scene from The Shining, only with jizz."

The Christmas Tree Inferno

2011-01-07T09:45:00.000-08:00

Let me paint you a mental picture. You have this old, dry Christmas tree that you need to get rid of. It just so happens you also have a fire pit in which you are able to get rid of things by burning them. What do you do?

A logical progression of thoughts would lead most people to the idea of turning that tree into firewood and having an old fashioned marshmallow roast, suburban-style. Sure, you could always pay the boy scouts $5 to haul it away, but to make a point I'm sure most of my (13-year-old male) readers will agree with me on -- FIRE!!!

So it was decided. Chop that bitch up and make some motherfucking s'mores. Awwww yeah. Then, somewhere along the way, an even greater idea was birthed. Why not just plant the whole tree in the middle of the fire pit and watch it light up/go down in a blaze of glory? We even spun the idea as a good way to teach the kids about the need for heightened fire safety during the holidays. We also made sure to film it so, you know, the kids could re-live this educational experience over and over again:

So yeah, that turned out to be not such a great idea after all. Seriously, who could have guessed? I knew the flames would be high, but I hadn't expected them to shoot (along with hot cinders) almost 30 feet up into the air, closing over half the distance to the lowermost branch of a nearby spruce tree. Also, I'm not sure this ended up being the best fire safety lesson for the kids either, considering the following:

What we did was in no way safe.
I'm pretty sure my kids already know better than to light a tree on fire; especially one that's in our house and directly above all their presents.
Dousing the fire was definitely the right decision, but the spray of hot ash it sent into the air didn't exactly help the overall cause.
Fun bonus game/addition to point #1 -- re-watch the video and see if you can spot the propane tank!

Words are Friends

2010-08-09T11:45:00.000-07:00

I like to think of the English language as I do our criminal justice system; flexible and largely open to interpretation. My interpretation of it, while drawing the line somewhere around text speak, permits a standing exception and free usage of all fabricated and pop culture-based words. And so, like some bastard offspring of Vanna White and Johnny Appleseed, I spread these magical words to custom dictionaries throughout the land.

Actually this is just a list of my favorite words from the CUSTOM.DIC file for MS Word, the one that holds everything I've added to my spellchecker over the last few years:

lightsaber
bromance (see also: bromantic)
booyah
whoomp
cockshiner
boobage
schwag (likely for use with "schwag hag")
douchebaggery
bacongasm
assload
crapload
shitload
moonroofin' (I have no idea what this is)
Voldemort (no Dumbledore though -- I am ashamed)
ahthankyou
holodeck

I could go on, but most of what's left is unfunny and/or incriminating on some level. Instead, tell me -- What words have YOU typed out often enough that you finally had to give them the old right-click straight into the dictionary?

1-Minute Graph: Interviewing Young People is Hard

2010-06-29T13:00:00.000-07:00

I Will Make Your Anger my Bitch

2010-06-24T10:00:00.000-07:00

I don't know what the hell was up with everyone yesterday, myself included. Maybe there was a unreported tornado in the gulf last week that sucked up a metric ton of BP's shame and unleashed it upon North America in the most angst-filled rainstorm ever. Or perhaps everyone finally realized how fucking frustrating soccer is to watch and began to lament the time they've wasted on it. Whatever was up people's asses yesterday, it was of near epidemic proportions. I heard that even Tom Hanks was punching babies, THAT'S HOW BAD IT WAS.

I definitely wasn't immune to this moodiness of unknown origin. The worst thing was that we were all feeding off each other; I was getting upset by how upset everyone else was, then taking it out on others, in turn making them more upset. It was like some hippie commune where the residents keep passing the clap back and forth to each other until no amount of antibiotics will do the trick. Thankfully, the solution to our mass anger was a lot less painful than a wire brush to the genitals. Everyone just go home, have a drink, get a good night's sleep, and start fresh tomorrow.

Or so I thought.

We're only a couple of hours into today, yet it's obvious that very few people seem to be feeling better. And personally I'm sick of it. Not only am I sick of it, but I am taking a stand -- you PMS'ing bastards will not get to me today. You want to come at me with your petty anger so be it; I'm going to hold you down, draw a unicorn on your forehead, and shove some chocolate in your face. Then I'm going to hug you so hard your that you'll break down in tears and forgive your Dad for not loving you enough. What do you think about that? If you're still somehow feeling pissy, I will tickle and zerbert the shit out of you until you become literally pissy. From laughter. In your pants. Not so angry now, are you motherfucker?

Today is the day that I refuse to let other's bullshit become my own. Do not fucking test me on this, you wonderfully awesome sons of bitches.

Dr. Paranoia is in the House

2010-06-21T05:00:00.000-07:00

I really think the people at WebMD could step it up a notch and program a feature that, after some schmuck searches the symptom checker on weekly basis from the same IP address, a full screen pop-up is activated that flashes the following message in bright red letters:

You are suffering from a very common condition called
"LAZY"
The only known treatment for which is to stop eating like a trucker with a tapeworm,
spend less time lying awake at night feeling your pulse,
and more time actually exercising.

I think they would really be doing a great service to us hypochondriacs of the information age out there. Although I suppose the giant flashy letters can be optional, just in case it turns out they really did have epilepsy or something.

Freestyle Friday: Dress for Success (or Just Conciousness)

2010-04-09T10:30:00.000-07:00

They say the clothes make the man, and that you should always think about what your appearance says about you. As of late, mine's been screaming "Bitch, you're lucky I'm even awake right now. And yeah, that's residual donut glaze on my unshaven chin -- WHAT OF IT?"

Instant, Crotch-Directed Karma!

2010-04-07T14:00:00.000-07:00

Time for another fun flashback from the days of yore, i.e. a repost from my original blog that I deleted several years back. This is a particularly great one, as it deals with a topic everyone can get on board with -- my pubes!

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

A Pain Not Easily Forgotten
originally posted February 1, 2006

I've decided it's time to share the long overdue story of how my favorite conversation piece, which I affectionately refer to as "Wrong Side of the Tracks," came into my possession. Here's a shot of its full glory, adorning a wall in my home office:

Look at it for a second. At first glance the warning it conveys may strike you as absurd. What kind of (sober) idiot would ever find themselves in this situation? Apparently it happens all the time, a statement supported by a roommate I once had who met the exact fate it depicted upon it. Although to be fair, he was a drunken idiot, so it was destined to befall him eventually.

Nonetheless, It was due to the seemingly unnecessary nature of this sign that my best friend McLean and I made a solemn vow that we would acquire one of them not too long after they were erected throughout NW Portland, in conjunction with the opening of the new streetcar. As aging pros in a child's game we realized this could very well be our last foray into sign thievery, but at the same time were excited to face this, possibly our greatest challenge. NW Portland is a ridiculously busy area at all times, so the only chance we had at pulling this off was to do it on a weeknight, and grab one of the few signs located under cover of the freeway overpass.

When the night was finally upon us, we were prepared with the usual tools: wrenches, pry bars, and a hacksaw blade. It was prime time for the grab, given the late hour and the relatively low number of people around. Our confidence soared even further as I easily boosted McLean up to detach the sign, but we immediately hit a snag. These brand new signs were attached to their poles in a brand new way. A steel band that wrapped around the pole and the backing of the sign rendered both the wrenches and the pry bar utterly useless. Even with my unmatched physical prowess, the hacksaw blade proved too flimsy to get a cut started in the steel bands. Our heads held low, an early retreat was called.

Ashamed but still determined, we regrouped later that week and formulated a new plan. For our second attempt, a cordless drill was teamed up with an abrasive stone bit (similarly pictured right) that had tested very well during our highly scientific trial runs in McLean's garage. Right around midnight I was standing on McLean's bent knee, having a go at the steel band. The manner in which the band was secured left it flush against the sign, something we failed to consider during the testing phase. This made it pretty much impossible to get the angle required to make the cut. After 10 solid minutes of zero progress, I prophetically said, "I don't think this could go any worse".

I should have known better than to tempt the universe, because that turned out to be the exact moment when things got much worse. "Car!" warned McLean, lowering me to the ground. In my second stupid move of the night, I attempted to conceal the large drill by jamming it -- stone bit first -- into my pocket. The bit wedged deep into the fleshy intersection of my upper thigh and crotch, and the drill's trigger was then pressed ALL THE WAY DOWN by the outside edge of the pocket.

My body froze in susprise agony as the bit dug in and and began twisting, ensnaring the entire right side of my pubic hair along with it. I yelped like a beaten puppy and doubled over, trying to take some of the pressure off the drill's trigger. It finally came to a stop, but not until it had ripped through my man fur like a tornado in a trailer park. The overall sensation could have only been matched were I actually dangling from a tree by nothing but my love nest.

Like the world's worst bomb technician, I backed the drill out slowly, methodically, and in between bouts of manly sobbing. A survey of the damage revealed at least a hundred brave soldiers had given their life to the cause. As I was too mortified to continue, we chalked up another victory to the stupid sign and I wobbled home to ice my half-Brazilianed goods (and ego) for the rest of the night, unsure that we would ever find a way to complete this mission.

As evidenced by it hanging upon my wall, we obviously managed to get our white whale in the end. However, that part of the story is anticlimactic at best. A few days after that drill bit liberated a mass of pubis from me, McLean bought a pair of special tin snips from Home Depot, and the sign was brought down in 10 seconds flat. In fact, it proved to be so easy with this new hardware that we procured a second sign the same night from right in front of one of the busiest restaurants on 21st Ave. A mighty victory indeed, as well as a poetic finish to our vanadalistic tendencies. Just totally not worth the permanent bald spot/mark of shame on my junk.

Not pictured - the bag of frozen peas shoved in my pants

Freestyle Friday: Lose Pounds, Just Not Ratings or Endorsement Deals

2010-04-02T10:00:00.000-07:00

I thought about making a graph for every TV show I continue to watch in spite of its awfulness, but then I realized that could take a while. Not to mention the fact I'd also have to admit to watching programs that rank in quality somewhere beneath Dancing with the Stars, yet just above the one on Seattle public access where the guy twists his dick into funny shapes for half an hour.

(click image to enlarge)

Moving Too Fast

2010-03-17T10:00:00.000-07:00

I don't have a whole lot of time today, mainly because I'm busy as hell and am writing this post in place of the only bathroom break I had scheduled myself for the next 6 hours, but sometimes these sacrifices just have to be made. Although I am kind of regretting that biscuit and sausage gravy breakfast chalupa I had second helpings of this morning.

My goal for this brief window of blogotivity is to try and determine how frequently (if ever at all) you find yourself on the receiving end of your own stupid mistakes. By way of example, here are two such mistakes -- both of which happened to me YESTERDAY -- that could have been easily avoided by simply paying better attention:

Mistake #1

I spent close to an hour carefully and lovingly crafting a message that was set to be distributed to a group of 15 or so people; people who are an important part of a project I am working on and for who this message was admittedly overdue. But I was determined to make it count, so I took my time, chose my wording carefully, and proofread like a motherfucker. Fully satisfied with my work, I slapped on the closing and fired it off. The first response was received within minutes, and instead of the praise and thanks I had been expecting, it simply said "nice closing dude". Turns out that at the end of my very well thought message, I signed off with the rarely-utilized colloquialism "Retards". I should have known adding that to the spellcheck in Firefox would come back to bite me in the ass someday.

Mistake #2

Before sitting down at home to get started on some work, I set a glass of water and my daily allergy pill on the desk, heading off to the other room to grab my notebook. When I got back I tossed my notebook onto the desk and accidentally knocked the pill onto the floor, presumably into the dark corners of Narnia that reside beneath my desk. However, imagine my surprise to find that the pill had only fallen right in front of my chair! For a lazy cheapass like me, the thrill of not wasting precious pill money and/or the energy required to walk back to the medicine cabinet was exquisite. I picked up the pill and swallowed it with ease, throwing in a mental F you to my body's overzealous histamine response for good measure. Fast forward to the moment when the pen I'm holding slips from my hand and onto the floor. I lean down to pick it up and notice that there, sitting right next to it, is the allergy pill I dropped hours ago... making me wonder what the fuck did I swallow earlier?

Even if you're not the kind of person to frequently screw yourself over in such a manner, you can still meet me halfway on this one by sharing in the comments the last and/or worst time you did yourself in. Not that my soul is fed by your anguish and embarrassment or anything.

Back-End Poetry

2010-03-15T04:30:00.000-07:00

The Brown Glove Treatment

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

With the swing of a door
I found out she's a whore
who likes my best friend's D in her A.

I stood there dumbfounded
watching her get her bum pounded
wanting only to wish it away.

"What the hell?!" I shouted
and he finally outed
Sir Lancelot from her brown bear.

But he did it too quickly
which can be rather sickly
if one isn't given time to prepare.

She made a pained look
and her lower half shook
then everything happened so fast.

Like the devil's chocolate fountain
a veritable mountain
of poo was expelled in a blast.

He cursed and he screamed
as her #3 streamed
all over his face and his chest.

What a grim sight indeed
but it sated my need
of putting their weak lives to rest.

They both lay there crying
and meanwhile I'm dying
from equal parts laughter and pity.

So I choked back the smell
and bid those fuckers farewell
adding "...I thought our love life was shitty!"

Freestyle Friday: Return of the Graph (Not That It Went Very Far)

2010-03-12T04:30:00.000-08:00

A big shout-out to Brooke from LDR for her help on today's first graph:

However, I'd like to make it known that she didn't contribute shit for this one:

Freestyle Friday Bonus!

I am fortunate enough to be part of a project called The Notebook Journey, wherein the blank pages of a fancy notebook get filled as it makes its way through 10 different countries and the lives of over 100 people. For my page, I went with a locally-flavored drawing that features a particularly recognizable landmark getting a "leg up" on the world.

Or maybe it's about to teabag the world, I don't know. Either way I think the message remains pretty much the same.

Some Things Are Worse Than Mouth Pain

2010-03-09T04:30:00.000-08:00

I've spent a great deal of time in the dentist's chair. Maybe it's my penchant for power napping right after snacking on a full sleeve of Oreo's, or the merciless way in which I bite down on Jolly Ranchers because I like how it makes my teeth stick together, but my oral bed has been made for quite some time now (TWSS?). After several pulled wisdom teeth, a couple of root canals, filled cavities, and even a little gum surgery, I'm used to having my mouth and my wallet violated in all sorts of voluntary ways. The bulk of this work has actually taken place in the past two years, and the main reason I don't shart myself every time someone turns on a high-pitched drill-sounding device in my presence is because I've got such a great dentist. She's calm, gentle, soft-spoken, and easy on the eyes. She isn't stingy with the Novocain and will always 'script me some lovely narcotics with which to further avoid reality.

However, I didn't always have it so good. I used to not even care if my dentists were male or female, a mistake I once paid for dearly. The last male dentist I ever had, who shall henceforth be referred to as Dr. M (as in Motherfucker), started off well enough. I was pleased with how quickly he brought me in to handle a cavity that had developed on the back of my front teeth, seriously threatening my grill.

A few minutes after the chubby, numbing sensation had taken over the front of my face, Dr. M returned to get started on me. "This should only take half an hour or so" he said, a smug look of self-assurance hiding somewhere beneath his perfect smile. He then geared up -- mask and gloves -- but when he leaned over me I couldn't shake the feeling that something was out of place. In a flash it became frighteningly obvious; the surgical mask had been placed in such a way that it was only covering his mouth. Dr. M's big fat nostrils were now breathing who-knows-what right into my wide open facehole, not to mention all the incidental nicks and scrapes he was opening up with the drill across my gum line. In my mind I envisioned a constant stream of germs and assorted particulates being ejaculated from his nose and settling into my exposed gum tissue. And then, with the Gods conspiring against me, things got even worse.

At first glance it didn't seem like anything of size or consequence whatsoever. A little flake, but a noticeable one nonetheless, of snot was dangerously close to the edge of his left nostril. It clung for dear life onto one of his nose hairs, wildly flapping back and forth with each breath like a towel that had been hung out to dry in a storm. By this point I would have sworn it to be the size of a towel, too. It was all I could look at. He may have very well drilled directly into my brain stem, but I was too focused on willing that little bastard to hold on. Just a few more minutes I thought. Don't let go big guy -- you can do it!

But it couldn't. Like the Rock Biter from The Neverending Story, it just wasn't strong enough to hold on. Only instead of having its friends swept away by the nothing, it shot straight into my mouth. I gagged something fierce. Dr. M pulled back and I sat up, wondering if anyone would blame me for throwing up all over his expensive dental equipment. "Whoa-ho there! You need some suction?" he asked. "No, yoo da sucthun!" was the best I could retort through dead lips and tongue. I considered other, more harsh phrases such as "duh-ee affhoe" or "peef of sitt cweep," but ultimately decided it better to hold off on the insults until he was finished putting sharp instruments inside me.

To make matters worse, in the final moments of the appointment he stepped away for a few minutes to take a call. When he returned he ran gauze over my teeth to check the bite and ensure there weren't any sharp spots needing to be buffed down. After he gave the all clear, I looked over in enough time to see that the hand he had just pulled from my mouth was un-gloved. As in my tongue now knew the taste of the bare, hairy-knuckled hand that he was probably holding the phone with moments earlier. I looked at him in a confused, squinty way and asked "Did yoo jush puh yo un-gwoved hand in mah mouf?"

His response floored me, "Yeah, but only for a second," he said with a smile. A SMILE. Motherfucker. Not just motherfucker, but real slow and angry, like MUUUUTHAFUCKAHHH. I wanted to punch him in his stupid leaky nose. Instead, I told his receptionist that I couldn't find my Visa and to just bill me. A bill which I sent back without payment, save a pair of rubber gloves and the words "I would have paid this if Dr. Knuckle Hair knew how to use these" scrawled across it. In the end I'm happy to report that he never even sent me to collections for the unpaid amount, but above and beyond that I'm even happier to report that that son of a bitch didn't leave any diseases in my mouth. Unless of course you consider reverse gender bias to be some kind of newfangled, ridiculously awesome disease of obviousness.

Freestyle Friday: Graphing Just Got Slightly Nerdier

2010-03-05T04:30:00.000-08:00

No words today, only graphs. Except for the ones I just typed informing you that there wouldn't be any words. And each sentence I have to type thereafter to create additional exceptions to my first sentence. Shit.

I May Have More OCD Friends Than I Realized

2010-03-03T11:00:00.000-08:00

The more I thought about Monday's post (which has since been updated with EVEN MORE examples of my alleged dickheadery), the more I began thinking of all the little things that get under my skin because of those who refuse to cater to my quirks. Does this make me a hypocrite? Maybe (OK probably), but I prefer to think of myself as an abstruse dichotomy dipped in anomalies and wrapped in bacon. You know, seeing as everything is better wrapped in bacon. Here are some of the things I choose not to participate in, all of which should be considered a net win for those as crazy as myself:

I'm not the guy who puts small food containers on the top shelf of the fridge.
I'm not the guy who says "like," "um," or "ya know what I'm sayin" every 5 seconds in a conversation.
I'm not the guy who forces other people to use coasters.
I'm not the guy who talks obnoxiously loud on his phone in an otherwise quiet, occupied space.
I'm not the guy who leaves the toilet seat up. EVER.
I'm not the guy who leaves the opening of the toothpaste tube looking like a dirty, crusty butthole.
I'm not the guy who takes up two parking spaces.
I'm not the guy who doesn't know how the self-checkout at the grocery store works, but insists on using it anyway.
I'm not the guy who wants to know more about your religion.
I'm not the guy who uses the "reply to all" button without good reason.
I'm not the guy who thinks owning a cat/dog makes you a "mommy" or a "daddy".
I'm not the guy who leaves hair in the soap.
I'm not the guy who puts you on speakerphone without telling you.
I'm not the guy who tYpEs LiKe mY KeyBOarD Is HaVINg a SEizUrE.
I'm not the guy who uses "literally" as my go-to hyperbolic device.
I'm not the guy who put his children on a leash.
I'm not the guy who wears electronic devices clipped to his belt.
I'm not the guy who accidentally gleeks on your face while talking to you.
I'm not the guy who writes in library books.
I'm not the guy who shakes hands like a 4-year-old girl.
I'm not the guy who thinks that it's pronounced "CAR-MEL".
I'm not the guy who constantly nods his head "yes" during meetings.
I'm not the guy who allows others to make me re-think who I am.

I'm the Guy Who Has No OCD Friends for a Reason

2010-03-01T11:00:00.000-08:00

As a follow-up to my last post, regarding everyone's capacity for dickheadery when an elevator is involved, I wanted to try and balance the scales with a confessional of sorts. I'm far from the perfect person, and I know for a fact that my actions are quite often the bane of someone else's existence. A few (if not too many) great examples include:

I'm the guy who takes 15+ items into the express lane at the grocery store.
I'm the guy who is always driving slower than you.
I'm the guy who nicknamed you "Emoticonnie" for putting smileys in the subject line of work emails.
I'm the guy who only comes to sports parties for the beer.
I'm the guy who takes the last slice of pizza without even attempting to first make eye contact with you.
I'm the guy who could give two shits about using your coaster.
I'm the guy who grabs a giant wad of napkins from the dispenser and only uses half of them.
I'm the guy who infected your computer with a virus in 1999 because I didn't how to properly surf for porn.
I'm the guy who doesn't clear the timer on the microwave when I'm done using it.
I'm the guy who can't remember your name, so I fake introduce you to someone in order to hear you say it.
I'm the guy who always steals the armrest from you.
I'm the guy who will sincerely ask for your advice and then do the exact opposite of what you suggested.
I'm the guy who is so fidgety it makes some people nervous.
I'm the guy who you can hear typing in the background while we're on the phone.
I'm the guy who puts ketchup on "good" food.
I'm the guy who swears in front of elderly people, falsely assuming that they've heard it all by now.

UPDATED!! Turns out I'm an ever bigger dick than previously realized!

I'm the guy who consistently puts utensils in the wrong section of the utensil separator.
I'm the guy who thinks french fries belong on top your hamburger and/or hot dog.
I'm the guy who has never sent a thank-you note in his life.
I'm the guy who writes on your dirty car windshield.
I'm the guy who doesn't care which way the roll of toilet paper is facing.

Before you start sharpening your pitchforks, allow me to clarify that I will usually bring some beer to your party, just not as much as I plan on drinking, and well, let's just say I've learned more than enough to ensure I won't be crashing your computer anytime soon.

Freestyle Friday: I Should Probably Just Take the Stairs

2010-02-26T04:30:00.000-08:00

There aren't many awkward social situations you'll find yourself forced into on a daily basis, save one painful exception for those of us who work and/or live in a building with an elevator. At a glance it doesn't seem like such a big deal; you get in, cover some vertical ground, and ka-blammo -- destination achieved. How hard could that possibly be? Sadly, as with so many other retardedly simple things, you can always count on the stupids to make it difficult for the rest of us.

I'm fully aware that I have pronounced elevator issues. Like when someone rushes into the elevator without first giving others a chance to exit. It's called waiting your turn, people, which is some day 1 kindergarten shit right there. You managed to master wiping your poophole and not stabbing yourself in the eye with scissors, yet you have trouble remembering not to charge the elevator door like it was Wal-Mart on Black Friday?

Don't even get me started on the ridiculously forced conversations that happen once the doors close and the awkwardness hits full stride. I loathe this even more when they think it smart to add mirrors to the elevator walls. Sure, it gives the illusion of space, but it also greatly reduces the number of places I can stare off blankly into.

Hands down the worst part of the whole ordeal begins before you even board the elevator in the first place, when all that's required of you is a simple push of a button and an ounce of patience. Contrary to what seems to be the overwhelmingly popular belief, you only have to do this once. Crazy shit I know. Interesting fact: the straightforward user interface with which you call the elevator is in NO WAY similar to the one that is used to play Mario Party. Meaning that the faster and crazier you wail on that button, the only thing you're speeding up is the formation of onlooker's opinions of your doucheness.

There is also a special place reserved in hell 2.0 for what I like to call the "re-pushers". You might know them better as "A-wads who like to insult your intelligence by re-pushing a button that you've already illuminated". Would you get behind someone in line for something and say Hey buddy. Yeah you. I want you to go right before me, you got it? Or maybe you'd prefer to paint the exact same painting over someone else's work of art? It may surprise you to learn that I'm generally an empathetic, devil's advocate kind of guy, but I've got nothing when it comes to defending people who do this. In fact, to thwart re-pushers, whenever I find myself waiting alone for a new elevator (that I'm not tied to professionally), I adorn the button panel with one of these special stickers I created:

What can I say? You've got to be the change you wish to see in the world. I'm more than happy to share the full sheet, printer label-friendly version of this with my fellow elevator freedom fighters out there... all you have to do is drop me a line.

After 20 I'm More Like my Grandma (Dead)

2010-02-22T18:00:00.000-08:00

I'm fairly certain that there's also an erectile dysfunction joke in here somewhere, but I think I'll save that one for another day. I've done enough damage with the title of this post as it is.

Freestyle Friday: Yeeaaaahhhhhh!!

2010-02-19T11:00:00.000-08:00

This meme has been around for quite some time now, but only recently have I found myself inspired enough to play along. I must admit, it's quite liberating to create something where awful and effectiveness are graded on the same curve, much like country music or celebrity portrait tattoos.

For those of you who have never seen CSI: Miami and are clueless as to what this is or why it's (arguably) funny, here are some cute baby animals so you don't feel like this post was a complete waste of your time.

I'm Switching to Bing

2010-02-15T20:30:00.000-08:00

Now that's just plain uncalled for, Google.

Freestyle Friday: Crust Integrity Destabilizing

2010-02-12T04:30:00.000-08:00

This week's Freestyle Friday is brought to you by Kenzie, my 6-year-old daughter. I told her I needed a brilliant idea for something to draw, to which she responded "A robot baking a pie. But he burn-ded it. And now he's sad. But it's OK because robots don't have stomachs so this one can just be practice," after which she hops up and starts doing the robot, beep-boop-boop noises and all. It's only because she's my daughter that I'm OK with a 6-year-old being twice as awesome as I'll ever be.

Thankfully, she approved of my interpretation of a cold, unfeeling machine's struggle with the abstract concept known as flavor that we humans take for granted.... and here's hoping the rest of you will as well. Beep-boop-boop.

In Bad Shape

2010-02-10T04:30:00.000-08:00

As you may or not be aware of, I recently made a (apparently preemptive) public decision to shed some unwanted baby fat in 2010, turning a defiant eye to all the people who've complimented on my ever-growing neck waddle. The sad fact is that there are considerations other than my chubby good looks in play here, such as a very strong desire to live long enough to harrass and abuse the inevitable string of teenage suitors my daughter will face in the next 7-10 years. Come to think of it, I'd really like to see myself around for another 40 so I can extend a similar service to any granddaughters I might have.

In a perfect world of zero accountability and Oreos fortified with Olestra, I could move forward, business as usual while bullshitting my internet friends at how successful this last month is been. Too bad past Jay knew better and instituted that barely noticeable weight tracking section on the bottom right of my sidebar. That and I have several readers who know me in real life and take great pleasure in calling me out on things.

Take a second to look at the numbers down there -- 8 pounds in a month. Perhaps a valiant effort under certain circumstances, but by no means my current one. I know this because I've progressed very little down the avenues of lifestyle change and/or general effort. The only thing remotely different is that I'm eating slightly less than I was a month ago. Sadly, I've reached the end of the line for not trying. Starting next week, I'll not only be cutting my fried food intake further, I'll have to (someone hold me) finally start exercising again.

Please bow your heads in a moment of silence for my short-term well being.

Yes, you read that correctly; to jump back off the laziness wagon (or is it on the wagon? I don't know wagons) is an unavoidable invitation for me to hurt or embarrass myself in some ridiculous fashion. This is mostly because I shun traditional gyms and workouts in favor of running through the forest and tossing around logs and such. Allow me to enlighten you by way of sharing a few of the more humorous workout mishaps I've had in recent years:

Concussion (self-diagnosed, but still) and sprained ankle received after I fell off a poorly-constructed picnic table obstacle course of my own design.
Whipped myself in the cornea with a stick that my jump rope picked up off the ground.
Picture Jay, making good time on an early morning trail run, when he connects face first with a spiderweb. Being the mouth-breather I am, I inhaled a spider the size of a nickel. Sweet Christ it's in my mouth! No wait it's worse -- I fucking swallowed it! I fall to my knees and force myself to vomit, sobbing like a 3-year-old Glenn Beck. If everything up until that point wasn't one of the worst experiences of my young life, watching the little bastard crawl out of and away from my pile of sick certainly sealed the deal.
Pulled both my shoulders while carrying a log across my back and I tried passing in between two trees spaced closer together than the log was long (in my defense, it was semi-dark outside when this happened).
Got schooled by an eighth grader in an early morning pick-up game of basketball. Little bastard was barely 5' tall, if that (remember, I'm 6'7"), and he mockingly referred to me as "Sasquatch" the entire time.
Threw out my back when I sneezed while hunched over, tying my shoe. This one wasn't so much derivative of an atypical workout plan as much as it was just plain lame.
Was a few miles from home, tromping through the forest, when nature called to me in a different (and unexpectedly urgent) way. I went off-trail up through the brush so I could make, and while doing so lost my balance and rolled approximately 50 feet down an embankment. Other than the injuries sustained to my pride and an uncomfortable amount of dirt in my end zone, I actually walked away from this one unscathed.

Given the above track record, I think it's safe to say you can expect a headline in The Seattle Times next week that reads "Man Airlifted to Trauma Center After Near Decapitation in Seagull-Related Accident". Don't ask me how such a thing is even possible, but I can assure you that I'll be the only one who isn't surprised by it.

More Graphs? No Way!

2010-02-07T16:30:00.000-08:00

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.

Freestyle Friday: Taking the Easy Way Out

2010-01-29T09:00:00.000-08:00

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.

It's National List Day!*

2010-01-27T10:55:00.000-08:00

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!

Love is Messy

2010-01-25T04:30:00.000-08:00

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.

Freestyle Friday: When Exceptions Prove the Rule

2010-01-22T04:30:00.000-08:00

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

Workplace Poetry

2010-01-20T04:30:00.000-08:00

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!"

We Cannot Drink Alone

2010-01-18T17:00:00.000-08:00

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.

Freestyle Friday: Words Are Cool

2010-01-15T04:30:00.000-08:00

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!

When the Game Starts Playing You

2010-01-13T13:00:00.000-08:00

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.

So Much For Effortless Beauty

2010-01-11T13:30:00.000-08:00

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:

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.
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.
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.

Freestyle Friday: Hey, You Asked...

2010-01-08T04:30:00.000-08:00

I know I can't be the only person out there whose had one of those days where it seems like every decision you make, every step of some process you control comes under scrutiny. Meaning others are accosting you with the almighty "Why?" as much as possible. Your boss. Your co-workers. Your friends. Your kids. Quite recently I had such a day; in fact, the universe saw fit to continue the torrent of questioning into a second day. At which point I simply couldn't take it any more, so I made a bunch of these cards in hopes of getting across my final, singular answer. It's just too bad that the acceptance of said answer wasn't half as satisfying for everyone else as it was for me to give it.

Obligatory New Year Post

2010-01-05T12:00:00.000-08:00

I think enough time has passed for me to say this without consequence -- 2009 kind of sucked. OK, maybe it didn't suck as hard for me as it did for some of these people (seriously, don't click that last one), but I believe that kind of thing to be relative anyway; I mean, who's to say that having the flesh torn from your face and hands by a 200lb chimpanzee is really any worse than that time last March when I spaced on the gas bill and had to go without hot water for AN ENTIRE WEEKEND. And don't even get me started on the heart-pounding "misplaced mp3 player" fiasco that consumed a great deal of my August 7th.

Maybe the whole year was just a death by 1,000 cuts kind of scenario, wherein the cumulative effect of so many minor inconveniences makes the idea of stabbing things a far more likely plan B. That or because the economy remains in the shitter. Or possibly because we successfully leveraged "the voice of a generation" to get this awesome guy into office, only to find out it was almost all pillow talk. Above all else, 2009 blew because it was a year of stagnation. I suppose consumer electronics and home computing had a pretty decent go at it, but as far as I can tell, hoverboards and (commercially-viable) flying cars remain nowhere near the horizon. At this point I'd even settle for a pair of self-tying shoes. There's something wrong with a society where I can experience a warmth unrestricted by gangly arms, yet still have to have to tie my own shoes.

For these reasons and so much more, I was inspired to artistically bid farewell to 2009... by drawing a picture of it being burned alive:

This is what it looks like when something is hastily drawn while taking a break at my desk, where I only have highlighters and a crappy scanner with which to inspire you all. And yes, I considered representing 2009 as an old man, per tradition, before realizing I've already spent a little too much time on that subject.

Oh, and Happy New Year!

Christmas in the Northwest

2009-12-21T12:00:00.000-08:00

In Seattle they have a saying: "if you don't like the weather, wait five minutes...and then shoot yourself" -- Doug Benson

No time is this statement more truthful than right around Christmas. Sure, we sometimes luck out with a few inches of flakey white stuff (aka SNOWPOCALYPSE - the entire city grinds to a halt), or in the case of this year, Christmas day is forecasted to be mostly sunny and above freezing. Even still, Christmas in the Northwest is typically a wet gray mess where the only time you'll encounter "sunshine" is when it's being used as a passive-aggressive moniker by someone about to throw scalding coffee in your face.

However, this morning I had a much different experience on the bus and just had to share it with all of you. It was seriously like I had been bukkaked with the Christmas spirt -- cue scene!

JAY is sitting in his usual seat on the bus, silently wishing that the copy of Men's Health he was reading had an article on the best method for adding extra holes to your belt.

Enter onto the bus BIKER, late 20's and dressed head-to-toe in drenched bikewear, who takes the seat directly opposite JAY. As BIKER peels off his jacket, JAY is surprised to see a second jacket underneath, this one a slimmed-down version of Santa's costume.

JAY (eyeing BIKER's hipster Santa suit): Playing office Santa?

BIKER: Nah. I've been wearing this out to the bars for the past week, and the ladies are really digging it.

JAY: I thought I smelled beer.

BIKER: What?

JAY: So that costume gives you good luck with women?

BIKER: It's more than that. Girls are attracted to the suit; like they can screw their way onto the nice list or something.

JAY: Do you have any good Santa pickup lines? Something about your North Pole maybe?

BIKER: Not really. I mean, once you've got a girl sitting on your lap and give her a piece of candy, she's pretty much yours.

BIKER throw his hand up for a high five, which JAY almost doesn't reciprocate.

Almost.

Freestyle Friday: Don't Let My Kids See This One

2009-12-18T10:00:00.000-08:00

(click image to enlarge; genuflection optional)

I've decided to institute something I like to call Freestyle Friday, which essentially means that you should now expect a visual outpouring of my brain on a weekly basis. Could be a photo, freehand drawing, graph, or some combination of the three in Photoshop. Maybe I'll just blow my nose with a couple of hundreds and claim it to be a statement on how big business has become desensitized to the plight of lower-middle class America. More likely is a bunch of dick jokes and fantastical situations, such as a robot trying to bake a pie or a pic of me bear hugging a homeless person. Today I went with "10-second diagram because I just came up with the idea of Freestyle Friday and need to post something NOW". Call me crazy but I think I nailed it.

Oh, and in a meager effort for due diligence, I Googled "freestyle friday" to see if I was infringing on another blogger's intellectual property, and it looks like I'm in the clear so long as I stay away from hosting any freestyle rap battles that are in direct competition with BET. Which means I'll need to come up with something other than what I had planned for next Friday.

The Stoner Diaries: Holiday Edition

2009-12-16T12:00:00.000-08:00

Back in those carefree days of living single and childless in the city, the concept of a "functional state of mind" had a lot more range to it. I mean, over a long enough time line, the human body can get used to almost anything, like say... carrying on as a productive member of society while being semi-blitzed all the time. Sure, you eventually have to fly higher and higher to avoid sinking lower and lower, a practice that will ultimately place you well past your own ability to be functionally inebriated, but that's a part of my story best saved for some other time. Today we're talking about living in the moment and the consequences that lie therein.

Flash back to nearly a decade ago; 20-year-old Jay was (assistant) managing a Hollywood Video, his pockets were flush with VHS money, and rollerblading was still arguably cool. The week before Christmas we had some staff changes at the video store, which is code for "you have to be retarded to get fired for stealing a copy of Beaches for your cougar girlfriend," so I got stuck working the opening shift on Christmas day. Because of this I couldn't attend my roommate's Christmas party up in the mountains, and since I had already put myself through the guilt-ridden task of opting out of Christmas with my parents, I decided to have a very merry time being ripped out of my gourd the entire day. Granted, a little bit of the fun stuff was already a well-established part of my routine, but in this case I wanted to see how far I could push it before the world turned on me. You know, just like Jesus.

My store didn't open until 11, so somewhere around 10:30 I woke up and had my first supplement of the day. The next few hours were a blur of coffee, bagels, and customers begging me to hunt them down a copy of Rudolph from some other store. On Christmas day. Remarkably, I'm the only high one in this story.

I lived close to the store and walked home for lunch, determined to make sloppy mouth love to some leftover kabobs I knew to be in my fridge. As they mocked me from the carousel inside the microwave, my eyes were drawn to a small, skinny object on the kitchen table that was wrapped in aluminum foil and dressed with a red bow. A present for little old me! It was from my roommate, with a note that read: I was saving these for up at the cabin so I could leave you naked out in the snow... hopefully you can make just as good of use of them without me. Merry Christmas! Inside the foil was a considerable amount of mushrooms -- Merry Christmas indeed.

I'm not sure it's necessary for me to try and explain the thought process behind what I did next, for the same reason you would find it difficult to align yourself with the motivation of someone who climbs a bell tower, rifle in hand. But yeah, I ate all of them right there on the spot. I only had three hours of work left and really believed that I would make it through them without problem. My only semblance of a contingency plan was to rhetorically ask "what's the worst that could happen?" Turns out I can actually answer that one; during those last 3 hours at work, all of the following occurred:

I had to duck below the checkout counter to puke... TWICE.
I began referring to customers by character names from the board game Clue.
I felt that the color black had a distinct taste, a theory I tested by licking the back of every Playstation game that was returned.
I wrote rude yet earnest notations onto people's accounts, things like "obvious thyroid/fast food problem" and "probably a serial rapist".
I gave out more free rentals (not just free - I didn't even check them out on their account) than I care to admit.
I made the other employee that was working sing Christmas carols to a customer I thought he should date.
I played Jack Frost on the storewide TVs. No, not that one, THIS one.
I convinced an elderly woman that Gremlins was an excellent Christmas film for her 8-year-old grandson.
I'm fairly certain I spoke with an Irish accent.

This is really just a highlight reel of those three hours. Let's not overlook the fact that every one and thing I laid eyes upon appeared to be an ever-changing blob of hilarious colors and shapes. That, and maintaining focus was a near-impossible task given the state of mind I was in. The number of people who thought that Hollywood Video was getting some huge tax credit by employing a person of such low intellect must have been staggering. Although I do have to say that the constant stream of people mussing up my hair and saying "Good job, buddy!" was kind of nice.

After I got off of work I went to an "upscale" strip club near my house, where I paid a $25 cover to watch girls get naked to the soundtrack of all my favorite Christmas classics. There was one in particular who insisted on spreading her ass cheeks each time the chorus of Bon Jovi's "Back Door Santa" came around. Appropriate enough I guess, but that's a surprisingly frightening visual on shrooms. It was almost as if that little brown bastard could see directly into my soul. I thought a lap dance would help level me out, however, all I did was waste ten minutes petting the frilly edges of her slutty elf costume.

If you hadn't assumed by now, let me confirm that this was the worst Christmas I've ever had, in no small part because it was the only one I ever spent alone. Not that there wasn't also this giant looming beast of a part where I made a completely reckless decision that could have cost me my job and/or had me beaten to death behind someplace featuring an all leather-clad Santa. Nonetheless, I learned a very important lesson that day, in that not every stupid thing you do in life is going to magically become some important lesson with which you can justify said stupidity; sometimes, people just do really fucking stupid stuff. So in the end I guess it was worth it after all.

It's the End of the World... as I Know It

2009-12-14T12:00:00.000-08:00

The other day I was watching a copy of 2012 that some 13-year-old Swedish kid recorded with their iPhone and uploaded to the internet, and it really started to sink in how much bullshit must be behind any apocalyptic warning whose only discernible omen is convincing John Cusack that he's an action film star. Even if such atrocities weren't a factor, how can we trust the Mayans to have predicted the end of days a couple thousand years in advance when they didn't even see their own virgin-fueled society collapsing a few hundred years later? It seems just as plausible then that I, a man whose only soothsaying experience is having seen Minority Report seven times, offer up my top three armageddon scenarios for the next ten years.

Scenario #1 - Informational Overload

Likely because: Knowledge truly is power. In the not too distant future, people's brains will be hard-wired with a device that allows learning by proxy, in that you will be able to instantly upload whatever information you wish into your head. Yes, just like The Matrix.

Why it will bring about the end of the world: Several planet-killing possibilities come to mind here, but the most likely is that some hillbilly will accidentally upload himself with all there is to know about fission in a misguided attempt at becoming the next great bassmaster, and he instead builds enough nuclear warheads in his sleep to wipe out civilization as we know it

Where I will be during all of this: Reveling in my newly-uploaded (and admittedly somewhat ironic) ability to sing all of the words to REM's "It's the End of the World as We Know It".

Scenario #2 - Zombie Attack

Likely because: Given the high degree with which we cross-consume pharmaceuticals, ultra-violent media, and untested third world food additives, it's only a matter of time before someone unknowingly ingests a blend of the three that leaves them with both the ability to cheat death and a taste for human flesh.

Why it will bring about the end of the world: People are compassionate, sometimes to a fault. Others will continue offering medical assistance to the zombies until there are too many of them to deal with in a civil manner. By the time the world gets wise, grows a pair, and finally attempts undead genocide, it will in all likelihood be too late.

Where I will be during all of this: On an island with my family and whatever survivors were found along the way; self-sufficient, a cache of weaponry stockpiled, grooming my son to re-seed the world, still trying to get a decent internet connection.

Scenario #3 - Tiger Woods Cast in the Next Twilight Movie

Likely because: The only way these Twilight people could make more money is if they somehow found a way to get even MORE free publicity. That and Tiger is already kind of like a vampire, just in reverse; instead of stealing bodily fluids from others to survive, he apparently must leave them inside of skanky white girls.

Why it will bring about the end of the world: The dynamic duo of sparkly vampires and what Tiger's penis has been doing will create a news frenzy unlike that which the world has ever seen. Once this blob of media oversaturation merges with the consumer goliath that is the Twilight fan base, everyone turns so overwhelmingly emo that even they can't stand how fake they've become, resulting in the first ever TwiCon/mass suicide fan event in Forks, WA, which will be attended by 99% of the world's population.

Where I will be during all of this: Beer in hand, still not giving a shit about either of those things. My wife will be turning my empties into Molotov cocktails to hurl at Chris Weitz.

Wherein I Turn 30 and Become an 18th Century Hot Air Balloonist

2009-12-08T08:00:00.000-08:00

It seems necessary that I take a brief respite from my hiatus* in order to answer the question that's been burning a hole in your lobes since I last posted over two weeks ago; what the hell happened with the birthday beard? Well my friends, take a moment to absorb the greatness that you are collectively responsible for -- the Franz Josef:

Here's a different angle, with my bearded life mate McLean and his arm candy Nikki down at the Seattle waterfront, preparing to throw back some bivalves... the perfect foundation for a night of drinking.

One final angle of my manicured face:

Three important things to note in that last picture; 1) I think my beard and that shirt were made for each other, 2) That is a homemade bacon-beer cupcake I'm inhaling [sidebar: my wife is awesome], and 3) Moments after this photo was taken, my friend Jesse punched me in the ear and stole the rest of said cupcake.

All in all it was a great birthday. Did I drink myself to the point of embarrassment, opening a floodgate of compromising pictures with which the internet can torture me indefinitely? Thankfully not. At least not the second half anyway. And any embarrassment I may have suffered was overshadowed by the fact that I pretty much drank everyone under the table that night. Compelling proof of what I'm capable of doing when I put my mind to it (and happen to outweigh the average person by 100 pounds).

*I did remember to drop the H bomb on you guys, right? No matter, as we return to our regularly scheduled irregularity starting Monday!

My Beard is in Good Hands

2009-11-18T04:30:00.000-08:00

In case you haven't been paying attention, I turn 30 on Monday, a fact I can't seem to escape no matter how many emo tweets I make about it. To summarize, blah blah blah post quarterlife crisis blah blah pre midlife crisis blah blah blah here lies Jay's youth. Blah.

Now that that's out of the way, there's only one final matter of importance pertaining to this momentous occasion. Something, as it turns out, I require the magical deciding powers of my readers for. If you're interested in offering said assistance, you must first know two things; 1) I currently have a kick-ass beard:

and 2) since my birthday falls on a work day, I'll be celebrating this weekend. The plan is simple; take out all remaining angst about turning 30 on my liver, as science has proven it time and time again to be the whipping boy of organs. To complement the awesomeness of this plan, I've decided to transform the beard into something equally awesome for this night of celebration. It could also be something so intentionally awful that it's still awesome.

Which is where those magical deciding powers of yours come in.

At the bottom of this post is a "facial hair types" chart I stole from some other site. Take a look at it and then drop me a comment with your vote for which one I should carve into my face prior to game time on Saturday. Honestly, I'm kind of hoping that "friendly mutton chops" takes the prize, as I think I would really put Chester A. Arthur to shame.

(click to enlarge)

It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Blasphemy

2009-11-16T08:00:00.000-08:00

The fact that the FFRF can get away with running their latest bus ad up here is just another of the many reasons I love living in Seattle:

Let me start off by saying that I can see why you would be offended by this, lover of God and/or Christmas, even though I don't think an attack on everyone's favorite seasonal consumer blitz had much to do with the intent behind the ad.

If you're wondering what my personal thoughts are about the ad's message, the short answer is that I don't really know. Or maybe simply "mixed". On one hand, I applaud the atheists of the world for providing me with a little balance in the amount of religious propaganda I'm exposed to on a daily basis. Whether it's church signs, billboards, or some 17-year-old at my door hoping to "light my way," the relentless manner in which various religions have tried to sell me a supposedly better version of myself is one of the many things that led to the formation of my own atheistic opinions in the first place.

However, does employing the same tactics as the groups you oppose make you any better than the oppressive, dysfunctional, and guilt-doling asshats who exemplify the parts you most dislike about organized religion? So many of those I care about in this world have firm spiritual beliefs, and I would hold that against them no more than I would hold my own non-belief over their heads. In the end I guess it's about respect, something such blanket statements as "There is no God" are lacking. Maybe next year's bus campaign can read "Yes Virginia, it's totally cool with me if you don't believe in the existence of a higher power, because even if there is such a thing as a soul, it's yours to do with what you please". I'm sure their marketing team could tighten up the copy on that a little.

I guess no matter what my opinion is on them, the bus ads are here to stay. Meaning I'm on their side, but mostly because I've enacted a coping mechanism wherein each time I see them, I think back to the preacher/high school football coach in Texas who called me a "Godless fag" in front of everyone during the post-practice prayer because I got my ear pierced. I then imagine him seeing the bus ad for the first time and stomping his little feet until his face turns red and he wets himself. Which is ironic if you really think about it, because to witness such an act might in fact lead me to reevaluate my stance on the existence of God.

All of These Things Need to Go Away

2009-11-13T04:30:00.000-08:00

Any and everything related to next week's release of New Moon. Yes, this even includes the X-rated version, New Poon.

In-store Christmas displays. They've been up since the Monday after Halloween, and the only way I'm buying any of that junk sooner than the day after Christmas is if it's a zombie nativity scene.

Swine flu. Get a vaccine if you can find one, don't yawn around sneezy people, and wash your damn hands.

Photo montages and/or sappy videos set to Green Day's "Time of Your Life". The only situation in which it's appropriate to use that song is in remembrance of someone you didn't know well enough to say something original about.

The sudden and unwelcome increase in instances of people telling me "It is what it is". Things are going great right now, so I'm unsure as to why others think I need to hear that hollow sentiment. Unless of course "what it is" is them dying in a fire.

Jean-Claude Van Damme. I mean seriously; you can only let so many heartfelt fan letters go unanswered before giving up on someone.

November 23rd. It's no small coincidence that this is my 30th birthday. If anyone questions my constant, belligerent drunkenness next weekend, I'll probably just start ranting about how awesome 1995 was until they leave me alone.

A Tale of Two Assumptions

2009-11-11T04:30:00.000-08:00

Who doesn't love autumn? It's a time of transition for all and reflection for many. A magical time of the year when the leaves and temperatures are falling, incidences of warm soup belly begin to rise exponentially, and false assumptions are made about my effeminate nature and/or work masturbatory habits.

Perhaps I should elaborate on that last one a little. You see, I've been at my current place of employment for just under two years now, and in the first couple of weeks on the job I wrestled with a particularly bothersome wardrobe issue. Since the dress code for my department is standard business attire, I was forced to populate my closet with slacks, dress shirts, and ties that don't say "Fuck This Tie" on them. There was one pair of black slacks in particular that had intimacy issues from sitting on the triple clearance rack at Ross for so long. Sure they were cheap and comfy, but what I didn't know was that they came with an unforeseen cost to my sanity. You could have thrown them in with an entire box of dryer sheets, yet the instant I slipped them on they would cling to me like that girl I made a mix tape for in sixth grade. Chalk it up to the dry winter air and the overall furriness of my bulging calves.

The first couple of times I wore Tesla's pants I hosed them down with Downy wrinkle release, but the effects were sadly short lived. By mid-morning they were already charged up again, requiring several more applications throughout the day. Then -- and as always -- praise be to Google, I found a longer-lasting solution; rubbing a healthy amount of lotion on my legs kept the slacks from sticking all day. Not to mention the crucial groundwork this helped lay for one of the most fabulous beach seasons ever. The only real flaw with this method was how, without fail, I would forget to lotion up before leaving the house in the morning. Thankfully the men's bathroom at work is progressive enough to have a jumbo bottle of lotion sitting out for community use. Which created a completely different sort of problem really.

Allow me to paint you a picture -- I've got my pant legs pulled up above the knee, a foot up on the bathroom counter, and I'm vigorously working a handful of lotion into my exposed leg, when in walks some random suit. Which is sadly not the first time I've been caught in a similar act. But this was my workplace. That I had just started with a month ago. So for all I know, this guy could be a highly respected member of the organization I was possibly about to get fired from. All I could manage to say was "Winter, you know?" in reference to the increased static activity. To which he responded "Yeah... lots of people get scaly skin this time of year". NOT WHAT I MEANT.

I have to say that this incident taught me something about not doing obviously stupid things. Well at least not to lube up the man-stems in public view. With this groundbreaking knowledge in hand I did the only sensible thing, which was to perform the rubdown in the morning at home. Yeah OK, so the genius plan I actually came up with was to take the bottle of lotion with me into the stall at work. What could go wrong, right? Star wipe to several weeks later, I'm stepping out of the work bathroom stall, economy-sized lotion bottle in hand, the kind of smile on my face that can only come from satisfactorily ridding one's self of oppressive static cling. At this -- my finest moment -- in walks my old buddy Mr. random suit. Of course this is the first time I've seen him since our previous encounter. Our eyes met, his briefly flashed down to the lotion, then back to mine, and I pulled deep from within the only word capable of expressing our relationship:

"Shit".

Let Me Clear My Throat

2009-11-09T04:30:00.000-08:00

As with all of the previous challenges, I'm not going to spend a lot of time wriggling around in the afterbirth of my triumph. The only real contention I ever seem face at the end of these things anyway is all in my head; for a few days after I'll suddenly sit up in bed at 2 a.m., freaking out over not posting something that was never required of me in the first place. I suppose that's still an improvement on the dog-sized spiders that typically haunt my dreams. I've also got the whole "haven't done a real post in over a month" thing working for me right now, and I couldn't in good conscience continue to call this blog a blog if I didn't catch you up on a few of the banalities of my life.

For starters, I'd like to welcome back the winter beard. Those of you only able to pick me out of a lineup based on my profile picture may be surprised to learn that the stunning facial fur I'm sporting in said pic is not a year-round occurrence. October and November are generally the only time the beard emerges, and by no coincidence the two months unofficially called "the octo-fortnight of awesomeness" around my house. All I really need is to convince someone other than myself to call it that in order to make it official though. Anyway, here's a picture of my progress so far; and yes I realize I need both a haircut and a new camera.

Moving along, I recently checked my blood pressure at one of those free stations that are pharmacy-adjacent at most supermarkets, with some pretty startling results. And I don't mean the kind of startling results we would come up with when I was a kid, like how I could endure 15 seconds of sustained titty-twisting from my older brother before moving enough to activate the station's "Please hold still -- Testing in progress" light. The result in question is the one that showed my blood pressure at 141/69, or as those in the medical community refer to it, stage 1 hypertension. Now despite that being the average of three separate readings the machine gave, I'll concede to the possibility of it being faulty and/or somehow compromised by the four Red Bulls I had earlier that day. All the same, I might have to look a little deeper into making some actual lifestyle changes, as merely talking about them no longer seems to be doing the trick.

There are a few other things I'd like to catch you all up on, several of which are arguably more interesting than my prematurely failing health, but I'm going to take a stab in the dark that your attention spans for reading about these things rivals my own in regards to writing about them, so consider yourselves cut off until Wednesday. However, before I go I wanted to briefly touch on the fact that at some point in the last 10 days I lost a follower. Not that I necessarily care about that sort of thing, but if I did, I would want them to know that they can go eat a dick.

Daily Chart - Happy Get in My Windowless Van Day

2009-10-31T23:00:00.000-07:00

[Click to enlarge, you spooky motherfucker]

Daily Chart - Internet Crazy Might be the Worst

2009-10-30T22:30:00.000-07:00

[Before going to comment on one of my three other blogs, click to enlarge]

Daily Chart - Not For Everyone

2009-10-29T22:30:00.000-07:00

[If you can't find your geeky glasses, click to enlarge]

Daily Chart - Plotted Burn

2009-10-28T04:30:00.000-07:00

[Click to enlarge -- like yo Mama]

If this is the first time you've been burned by a graph, I feel honored to be the one doing it.

Daily Chart - Someone Bring Me Soup

2009-10-27T22:00:00.000-07:00

[Click to enlarge so I can go back to bed]

I'm pretty sure this is where both my sickness and chart-drawing bottom out. At least that means (comparatively) brighter days ahead.

Daily Cartoon/Chart -

2009-10-26T20:45:00.000-07:00

[Click to enlarge. Oh, and your parents never loved you.]

After weeks of exposure from hacking coworkers and sneezing children, my immune system caved. I hoped to find a silver lining within this sickness; namely something that would serve as cartoon fodder, but it took all I had just to make fancy the above diagram that I drew yesterday.

Daily Cartoon/Chart - Sextina, the Rogue Blood Elf

2009-10-25T23:30:00.000-07:00

[Apply click action to activate temporary boost in image-viewing talent]

Daily Cartoon/Chart - I'm Not Insensitive, Just Right

2009-10-24T19:30:00.000-07:00

[Click image to both enlarge and donate $1,000 to the charity of my choice]

Daily Cartoon/Chart - I'd Rather Be Poor Than Ugly

2009-10-23T22:30:00.000-07:00

[If your eyes are too blurry with tears, click image to enlarge]

Daily Cartoon/Chart - I Hope This One Makes Sense

2009-10-22T04:30:00.000-07:00

[Listen to Bill Cosby kids, who says click to enlarge]

Bonus Chart!!
(Don't get your hopes up; it's another pseudo-serious one)

Daily Cartoon/Chart - Hey Mom, What's a Vulva?

2009-10-21T04:30:00.000-07:00

[Click to enlarge, you perverted SOB]

Daily Cartoon/Chart - Rediversifying Multiple Heartbeats as Necessary

2009-10-20T22:15:00.000-07:00

[Large-scale, action-oriented viewing privileges enabled upon clicking image]

Daily Cartoon/Chart - Also Available as an Exploded Pie Graph

2009-10-19T04:30:00.000-07:00

[I find your lack of image-clicking disturbing]

I think a website of nothing but Star Wars related graphs and charts would do well, even if some of them are as bad as this one.

Daily Cartoon/Chart - Wormholes in My Couch

2009-10-18T21:00:00.000-07:00

[click image to embigger it]

I know what you're thinking -- "Why doesn't that poor bastard just go buy himself a disgustingly large flat panel television so the remote never ends on top of it?" Too which I offer a reply of "Hmmmmm. Well played".

Daily Cartoon/Chart - Bombs of Truth and Seriousness

2009-10-17T04:30:00.000-07:00