Throwing Poo

Ugh.  It’s been four months since my last post.  Four freaking months.  120 days.  A gluttonous pie slice of the year without a single word, misspelled, poorly-chosen or otherwise. 

The last time I was guilty of this level of reckless neglect, the authorities were alerted and a local news van with all the trimmings was parked on my front lawn for two days.  It took me nearly three months to re-grow all the grass they killed with their spinning tires, dumping of old coffee, and, I strongly suspect, public defecation.  And they called me a monster. 

Anyhoo, the point is that I’m no stranger to procrastination, and I’ve got the tower of untouched books, the dusty guitar, and the expanding role of mid-section man-fat to prove it.  Now this blog is beginning to seem like just one more piece of prematurely abandoned clutter in my life, and I fear I am in jeopardy of becoming encased in a cocoon of unfinished business from which I am too old and too tired to punch through.

Of course, this is my earthly alter-ego talking.  Crunchy Blue Commando, the masked avenger, admits no such weakness.  Though frequently misunderstood (such as his costume changes being characterized by the media as excessively public and intentionally prolonged), he is neither whiny, nor late with his mortgage payments, nor occasionally impotent.  Therefore, I believe I will turn this website over to CBC as an exclusive vehicle to document his many wild, adventurous, and arguably exhibitionistic exploits.

Just as soon as I get around to it.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

For years, I have been a struggling minority, fighting to maintain my cultural distinction against the insidious man and his ruthless assimilation machine.  Unlike more disturbing practices such as recreational cannibalism or the wearing of white after Labor Day, my inherited custom hurts no one.   More than that, it is core to our people, and without the practice I cannot properly function in this world.   Yet America continues to mock my convention with a steady stream of passive resistance that pools over me to into a crushing weight of indifference, intolerance, and, yes, ridicule.

As an Irishman in America, I drink tea.  Actually, I’m a third generation Irishman with a little French, English, and as my dad won’t stop reminding me, “a heapin’ helpin’ of hillbilly” thrown in.  And like most Americans, I cannot function without caffeine (or Ritalin, celebrity gossip, or free amateur midget MILF porn, but those are other stories). 

Unfortunately, coffee, the generally-accepted caffeine delivery system in this country, makes me fart something fierce.  And these are not flatulence full of sound and fury signifying nothing.  I’m talking hours of curdled stank blankets that linger so long you’d guess they’d been painted onto the walls.  Putrid, carcinogenic methane mists that think nothing of hanging around my office until my 2:00 meeting with the new board president, who immediately wretches upon arrival and begins bleeding from the eyes.

These farts smell, is what I’m saying. 

So in order to function within polite society, as well as do my part in the fight against global warming, I drink tea.

Like the plights of so many other minority groups, I am reminded nearly every day of what makes me different, especially at meal times.  Take a seat in a diner, and I must vigilantly ward off an army of well-worn waitresses giving my empty cup the bum’s rush with the coffee pots that seem to have replaced their left hands.  Even if I’m successful and order my tea before they foul my cup, I’m usually left with a look like I just asked to suck a man’s cock.  When they return, it is almost always with a bag of Lipton and a tin of lukewarm water that stinks of cemented coffee sludge anyway. 

By the way, for the uninformed, Lipton is the hand job of teas: it’s cheap, unsatisfying, and leaves you with the feeling that the person who gave it to you really doesn’t like you all that much.

Being a tea drinker in a diner is like being Jewish at Christmas time: everyone keeps reminding you that you don’t fit in.

Then, a few weeks ago Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I went to Ireland on vacation.  Now, I was prepared for a river of Guiness and an ocean of fish and chips.  But what I wasn’t prepared for was a daily cultural affirmation.  Each morning I was greeted a porcelain pot of the finest piping hot tea, brewed with love and delivered with a smile, albeit a crooked one. 

Nerdy, an avid coffee drinker, only received a single cup of mud-like sludge and was well-served to make it last.

“Ha!” I taunted her disappointed face with giddy delight on our first day.  “Now!  Now you know how it feels to walk a mile in my shoes!”

“Are you still drunk?” she replied.
 
“Drunk?  Why…yes, yes I am.  Like a black man visiting the Zulu nation, or a Jew going to Israel, I finally know what it is like to be among my people!  To be in the majority.  I am drunk.  Drunk with the tea of Irish victory!”  I yelled.  “Tea at last, tea at last! Thank God Almighty, tea at last!”

“Congratulations,” she whispered and pointed to my plate.  “So why aren’t you eating your black pudding there, Mr. Irishman?”

“Oh, hell no,” I sneered and pushed away my plate.  “What kind of people eat fried blood? That’s just not normal.”

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

It’s official.  Due to my petulance, indolence, and specious syntax (guess who downloaded a new thesaurus?), I have successfully driven away any lingering readers.  Finally, after three long, uncomfortably scatological years, Throwing Poo has realized its destiny: becoming the tree falling in the forest that no one hears.  Or, more aptly, the log falling in the bowl that no one flushes.  Either way, the point is that there is no one left but you and me, and you’re already checking your email, aren’t you? 

The good news is that having rid ourselves of all that dead weight, we can finally start having some real fun.  Just you and me.  Of course, we’ll need some industrial-grade epoxy, an albino midget (a hairless cat will do in a pinch), and a safe word.  Whadda ya say? 

Too busy?!  Fine.  Be that way.  That just means more sticky midget fun for me.  

Anyhoo, so Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I are planning a vacation.  She wanted to pick a destination where we could hike through a lush, exotic countryside, and I wanted one where I could incite raging envy among the orthodontically-challenged yokels by shamelessly flashing my newly-fangled smile (the braces came off last week, and now I’m as pretty a girl as you’ll ever meet).   After much debate we settled on Ireland, but mostly because we’re drinkers and big fans of religious intolerance.

Having made our decision, you’d expect that a savvy traveler like me would be focused on building up his alcohol and itchy sweater tolerances, and learning all the really useful dirty Gaelic words.  Not so.  Ever since Nerdy showed me our Ireland itinerary three weeks ago, I’ve been unable to focus on anything but Irish poop puns. 

As anyone who knows me knows, I’m fanatical over foul language.  Cursing is my Star Wars, Star Trek and Pokemon all wrapped into one.  If there was a dirty word convention, I’d be dressed up as an Assclown and waiting on line with the Dick-smokers, Asshats and Douchebags for days before the doors were scheduled to open, having feeble sword fights with giant colorful dildos and vehemently arguing the true derivation of the word fucktard.

Being the fanboy that I am, there are certain curse words that I never tire of and that always make me happy regardless of the context.  One of those words is “dingleberry.”  This is a near perfect vulgarity.  Despite its disgusting connotation, it’s a fun word to say, rolling off the tongue (as a real dingleberry might) and at first blush sounds more festive than foul.  For example, if someone offered you a piece of dingleberry pie, your initial reaction would be, “Well, it’s not Christmas time, but it sounds good as long as you have some eggnog to go with it.” 

Dingleberry is my Boba Fett.

Herein lies the problem: our tentative Ireland itinerary includes three days in Dublin, two days in Kilkenny and two days in…Dingle.  D-I-N-G-L-E.  A town.  In Ireland.  Named Dingle. 

Brain…getting…stuck.  Can’t…process.  Too…many…jokes.  System failure.  Powering off.

Three weeks later, in a desperate attempt to override the heavily damaged portions of my cerebral cortex and hopefully begin to re-enter society, I have decided to write a dingleberry story in hopes of purging my system.  Since this is a therapeutic exercise, it will be filled with noticeably manufactured and overreaching scatological references, poop puns, and berry word rhymes. And, of course, it is a children’s story.

Dingle Barry the Dingle Bear
Barry the Bear lived in a small tree in the forest outside a small town in Ireland called Dingle.  Mostly, Barry was a happy bear, spending his days frolicking with his little forest friends and eating the delicious little berries that only grew in the Dingle forest. 

Barry had many friends in the forest - Dingle Terry the turtle, Dingle Mary the mouse, and Dingle Harry the hamster.  There was also a wasp from Germany named Gerry, but Gerry was not always nice to Barry, so he did not call him a friend.  Even with his friends, Barry the Bear was only mostly happy because he was the only bear who lived in the forest. 

Sometimes Barry missed being around other bears like him, and he would think about leaving the Dingle forest to go live with other bears in other forests.  They would often invite him, saying, “Leave the dingle berries behind, Dingle Barry, and come have a fresh start with us.”

This was tempting to Dingle Barry the Dingle Bear.  Barry especially wanted to meet a pretty girl bear and often thought of how nice it would be to have a special “bearie” in his life.

But leaving the forest would mean to leave the Dingle berries behind.  Dingle Barry loved Dingle berries.  More importantly, whenever another animal had Dingle berries, they would break out in a bad rash.  So Dingle Barry always had all the Dingle berries he wanted.   

And in the end, Dingle Barry would always decide that he loved Dingle berries too much, and would rather be alone eating Dingle berries in the Dingle forest than to leave in search of a single bearie.

One day, Dingle Gerry, the wasp, flew up to Dingle Barry’s ear with a piece of paper in his hand.

“I have an idea for you,” Dingle Gerry buzzed.  “If I give you the instructions for how to grow Dingle berries, then you could move to another forest, meet other bears, and still have Dingle berries.”

Dingle Barry the Dingle Bear paused for a moment. 

“That’s a very good idea, but are you sure you have the right recipe for making my own Dingle berries?  What if they are too big, or too small, or too hard, or too dry, or too brown?  I, Dingle Barry, am a good bear, but what if I am not a good Dingle berry farmer?”

Dingle Gerry held up the piece of paper.

“It’s very easy, so easy that even a Dingle Barry like you can do it,” laughed Dingle Gerry. “It’s right here. But,” he smiled, “I have one condition.”

“What’s that?” Dingle Barry asked.

“Well,” smiled Dingle Gerry, “when you leave, I want to move into your tree.”
 
Dingle Barry thought about Dingle Gerry’s idea. 

“If I could learn how to grow my own Dingle berries,” Dingle Barry said, “then I could be happy anywhere.” 

“That’s right,” Dingle Jerry said, shaking the piece of paper in the air. “So, do we have a deal?”

Dingle Barry suddenly became very excited about making Dingle berries. 

“OK,” he yelled happily, “It’s a deal.”

Dingle Barry shook Dingle Gerry’s tiny wasp hand and Dingle Gerry gave him the recipe for Dingle berries. 

“Now go pack your bags,” Dingle Gerry said, “you leave for the new forest tomorrow.  And don’t forget to take all your old Dingle berries with you.” 

Dingle Barry the Dingle Bear went back to the small tree where he lived to begin packing.  But when he looked around, he saw that his walls were all covered with photos and paintings of Dingle berries.  His shelves were filled with jars of Dingle berry jam and Dingle berry jelly.  And on every table there was a heaping bowl of Dingle berries. 

It was then that Dingle Barry realized that Dingle berries were not just a part of his life, they were what made his life special.  And if he could grow them anywhere, then anyone could grow them anywhere, and then there would be nothing special about Dingle berries.   For some reason, this made Dingle Barry very sad.  Instead of packing his bags, Dingle Barry sat down in his chair and lit a Dingle berry-scented candle and quietly thought to himself.

The next morning, there was a loud knock at the door. 

The sound jarred Dingle Barry awake.  He was still sitting in his chair and there were lots of Dingle berries stuck to his fur.  He must have fallen asleep there the night before.

“Who is it?” Dingle Barry asked as he picked dried Dingle berries from his fur and flicked them across the room.

“It’s me, Dingle Gerry the wasp.  It’s time for you to go so I can move into the tree.”

Dingle Barry opened the door and saw Dingle Gerry standing there with his bags on the stoop.

“Hi Gerry.  Um, after thinking about it, I changed my mind. I want to stay in the Dingle forest.”

“What?  No way, Dingle Barry!” 

“I’m sorry.  I want Dingle berries to be special, and I want Dingle Barry to be special.  I want to stay.”

“We had a deal!  If you don’t leave, I’ll sue you, Dingle Barry, and take your tree!”

“But then I won’t have a place to live.”

“That’s not my problem.  That’s a Dingle Barry problem.”  

That’s when Dingle Barry remembered that he was the Dingle bear, and Dingle Jerry was a tiny little wasp the size of a Dingle berry.

“Pog Mo Thoin,” Dingle Barry said as he crushed Dingle Gerry against the door. 

Dingle Barry closed the door and smiled as he walked over to pull a jar of Dingle berry jam from the shelf, absently wiping Dingle Gerry’s smashed guts on his backside fur right next to a cluster of tiny, dried balls of shit. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 01:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (62) | TrackBacks (0)

Generally speaking, I’m not a fan of people.  And while I realize that this has become the go to cliché for edgy hipsters, one should note that I have a wife, a mortgage and a basement full of shattered dreams.  I am not hip, have no need to be hip, and will never again seek to be hip.  The only hip in my future is an artificial one that I’ll need to help me hobble through my adult diaper years.   In other words, I couldn’t give a greasy, peanut-festooned shit what anyone thinks of me, except, of course, for the people who sign my paycheck or occasionally rub up against me in a familiar, tingly way. 

I do have a small group of friends, people who make the long pauses between our visits tolerable.  These are the kind of friends that can make a torrential downpour during your only day on a tropical island one of the most fun-filled days of your life.   But I can barely find time for them.  So if you’re not in that group of people, then I simply don’t give a fuck about you.  It’s nothing personal.  In fact, it’s the exact opposite of personal. 

In social situations, this prevailing attitude might make me seem aloof or even surly.  (If I were a fish, what kind of fish would I be?  A Standoffish. Ba-dum-bum!)  But again, me no give a fucky sucky.  The problem is that my new job – a good but demanding one, and the reason I have not been here or anywhere else for so many weeks – requires that I be out in front and make nice with a vast array of asshats, shaved monkeys and true believers.  Make no mistake, I can fake it.  I can fake it like a Julliard-trained whore who works for tips, which I kind of am except for the Julliard part.  But doing so leaves me with a sense of self-loathing that must be maintained in a continuously refreshed alcohol solution to keep it from growing out of control and overpowering my will to live.  

And then there are employees to manage.  Today I went to lunch with one of my new staff members and, I shit you not, she spent 45 uninterrupted minutes telling me about what a great listener she is.  Lunch lasted an hour, and I’m pretty sure I blacked-out for the last fifteen minutes.  Not once, in an entire hour, did this “great listener” ask me one measly question or allow me the courtesy to utter more than a single sentence at a time.  She also likes to refer to herself in the third person, which I thought was kind of funny until I realized she wasn’t being ironic. 

I want to harangue this person with the kind of angry detestation and disgust that is typically reserved for genocidal dictators, aging pop stars and octo-moms.  Unfortunately I can’t.  Somewhere over the years I’ve grown weary of despising the sad and pathetic who roam so freely among us. It’s just too time-consuming and, well, exhausting.  

More to the point, the endeavor is as fruitless as Mother Teresa’s rotting corpse’s womb (Shout out to my Catholic homies!).   If it were possible to change people, then I might continue.  But it isn’t.  Despite looming mountains of evidence to the contrary, generally no one thinks that they themselves are stupid, wrong-headed, annoying, or the mental equivalent of ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag.  No amount of logic, analysis, or rational debate will change their minds, because to do so would be to shatter their belief system and cause an unprecedented and painful identity crisis that would take years of self-analysis to resolve.  Who’s got time for that when there is ten hours of Dancing With The Stars on the DVR?  It’s not like it’s going to watch itself.
 
My opinion is that it’s simply easier for people to create an alternative reality for themselves, one in which believing is the same as knowing, wanting is the same as earning, and intending is the same as resulting.  (To see what I mean, tune into “Deal or No Deal?” and watch as contestants employ absurd rationalizations, contrived logic and life lessons to decipher what amounts to nothing more than a random drawing.)

So in mid-life I find myself in a position where I must pretend to like tedious people and care deeply about a tepid cause so that I can make money to buy shit I don’t need.  Either I’m a gutless whore, or an assiduous saint who is willing to sacrifice his own personal belief system for the greater good.  

Which do you think is easier to believe?

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 11:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Lately, my life has been a real mess.  My new job is totally fucked, and I’ve been scrambling around like a crack-baby on an Easter-egg hunt for the past two months to try to find anything that might improve my situation.  As such, I have entirely neglected my poo-throwing doodies.

Anyway, it finally looks like I might have a new job.  However, I don’t want to mention anything because I don’t want to jinx it, and because they do a thorough FBI background check.  Last thing I need is for a potential employer to find out about this festering dung heap, if only to keep my horrific grammar skills concealed a little while longer (“I am an excellent communicating-type of communicator person-guy with speaking and word-writing stuff and all that kind of shit. Next interview question, please!”)

So to celebrate, last Friday Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I went out to Sullivan’s, our favorite Irish Pub, to celebrate.  The party was just getting started when, half-way through my second pint of Smithwicks, some middle-aged man with and ill-fitting t-shirt, a microphone, and a cubic ton of fucking nerve suddenly interrupted my drinking.

Apparently a local progressive church had finagled its way into my Irish Pub to host a “clean, Christian comedian” to “enlighten through entertainment” all us unsuspecting heathens who were searching for answers in the bottom of a bottle. (One of my favorite life moments was when my friend Mark was drinking heavily – as he is wont to do – and I half-jokingly suggested that maybe the answer wasn’t in the bottom of the can.  Without missing a beat, he killed his beer, looked in the can, tossed it away, said, “You’re right,” cracked-open another can and continued, “I guess it must be in the bottom of this one.”)

First of all, if ever I heard three words that don’t fit together, it’s “clean, Christian comedian.”  That’s like “fun, painless colonoscopy” or “happy, lasting marriage.”

Second, who thinks it is a good idea to have an impromptu comedian perform in an Irish pub, clean, Christian or otherwise?  I can understand assuming that the patrons might be interested in a little Celtic music, potato juggling, assisted-suicide, or, I don’t know, drinking in fucking peace.  But an impromptu comedian?  Pull your head out of your arse.

Finally, does this then give me the right to stop by and cock-block their Sunday church service with my own little show starring an evolutionary scientist, an airport lounge stripper and Barney Frank?  

Even if I did, these proselytizing pricks would still have gotten the better of me, because they could just get up and leave.  Regardless of how unfunny, unpleasant, or intelligence-insulting a “clean, Christian comedian” might be, there is no way I’m leaving a half a beer on the table.  That would be sacrilegious.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

I started my new job this week.  Having spent the last five years working out of the home, here is something I had forgotten: going to work sucks ass.  Waking up before 9:00AM, showering, face-scraping (the kids call it “shaving”), wearing pants, and ceremoniously hanging a piece of silk from my neck.  Oh, how I hate this wretched daily ritual of applying workplace war paint. 

No longer can I fart, burp and curse with reckless abandon.  There must always be a hapless scapegoat within proximity. 

No more screaming, taunting victory dances that last until I collapse in a sweaty, breathless heap when I beat out margiewalsh1 from Iowa on eBay for more Gary Bussy memorabilia to add to my growing collection.

No more jerking awake to find a pool of drool on the desk that I then stream across my workspace with a series of make-shift channels using pencils and paper clips until it drips off the edge onto my unsuspecting cat, George, who is sleeping directly below, sending myself into convulsive guffaws until I pee myself a little (hopefully I’m wearing pants that day).

No more porn.

The other thing I really miss is being able to exercise whenever I want.  Going to the gym after work is out of the question.  The crowd is simply intolerable.   Anyone lucky enough to get on a machine will inevitably squat there and guard it like a fucking golden egg for the next twenty minutes, as if waiting for someone to offer them a trade. Who has the patience to wait for that?  Not me. And the last thing I need is to trigger a public screaming fit directed at some fat, bald guy warning him that, unless he is going to be giving birth in the next few minutes, it’s time he lifted his saggy ass up off the goddamn hip abduction machine.  Of course, I would be right, but no one ever seems to understand that small point.

Today I decided to take a long lunch and sneak in a workout at a new gym near my office.  In anticipation, I had packed a gym bag with clothes, a towel and a pad lock.  The workout went on without a hitch, and it wasn’t until I was back in the locker room that something dawned on me: I had not been naked in public for five years.  At home, during the summer months, I could go days without donning nary a pair of socks, unless you count as “clothing” the patches of cat fur that inevitably found their way to my clammier parts.  But now, being naked in a room full of old men, I felt strangely uneasy.  That’s when I realized that other than Nerdy Squirrel and our cats, Max and George, no one has seen me naked for the past five years (with Max & George, those moments mostly consisted of times when I needed to show them who’s the boss).  Of course, being an Irishman on a particularly frigid day didn’t help matters.

At that moment, I slumped down on the hard, wooden bench and tried to make sense of it all.

Changing jobs is a big deal.  Changing jobs and going from a home office to a traditional office is a bigger deal.  Changing jobs, changing surroundings, changing gyms and getting naked in front of strangers for the first time in five years is probably too much change for one week.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (18) | TrackBacks (0)