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.

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.”

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. 

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?

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.

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.

Dear Incompetent Boobs,

It is with the comparable satisfaction and relief of dropping a Volkswagon-sized deuce after a long weekend at the Wisconsin Cheese Festival that I tender my long-anticipated resignation.   My only regret is that I am not in the home office with you and cannot personally deliver this letter in a steaming, digested form on the top of your desk.  On second thought, it would probably just get lost among all the other piles of festering dung in your office space that you continually pass off as work product.  And in case I haven’t made enough scatological references in this first paragraph, let me finish by simply saying, “Eat shit.”

While I have certainly enjoyed the entertainment value of watching you mismanage and dismantle this once successful organization into a bungling circus of asshats and clusterfuckers, alas I have grown weary of your inept antics.  Like watching a managerial version of Jackass, I can only witness so many tactical face-plants and administrative crotch-shots before I begin to question and hate myself. I’d much rather just hate you, which is something you should probably get used to.

Though I have chronologically aged five years while working for you, as I depart I feel as if my mind has actually been made much younger by this experience.  Four-years-old to be exact, thanks to a steady dose of whining, conniptions, and boundary-testing by all you power-grabbing douchebags.  I only hope that none of you have infected me with a dormant version of the virus that has caused you all so much irreparable brain damage.

Let me also say that I’m sure this letter will never see the light of day, since nothing remotely critical of your shoddy management and nearly criminal negligence of duty ever does.   And when I am gone and no longer able to defend myself, I’m sure that I will be retrospectively blamed for your continuing missteps, like the ubiquitous scapegoat Bill Clinton in your crumbling Karl Rove administration.

In closing, suck it, bitches. 

Your pal,

Crunchy Blue Commando

P.S. Here's a tip: Personal hygiene: It’s not just for Sundays anymore.

What do you think?  Too subtle, right?

Facing an inevitable separation after a long relationship can be tricky as well as painful.  On one hand, you may walk away over-confident, forgetting that your self-assurance was as much a by-product of being accepted by someone else as it was your own actualization.  Suddenly being confronted by a typical problem unexpectedly topples you over without the reflexive and often imperceptible support that provided so much buoyancy.

On the other hand, there is the risk of being wrought with self-doubt.  Instead of building your new life, you begin to rubbish through the pile of bricks of your old one, over-analyzing every block and joint for signs of weaknesses and defect.  Questions like, “Did I try hard enough?” and “Wasn’t I good enough?” slide into your conscious like stealthy splinters that soon get infected and surreptitiously overwhelm your defenses.

Complicating matters is the looming fact that you must once again put yourself out there and be subjected to an ongoing series of one-on-one “let’s-get-to-know-each-other” tap-dances where you show just enough of yourself to seem real, but not so much as to risk rejection. 

For me, all that’s left now is the official act of giving my boss my letter of resignation.  I just hope that in dulling my pain, I don’t get too drunk one night and call her and ask for a temporary consulting gig - the “booty call” of the professional world.

She has a motive: by making me seem obsessive, she can justify her slovenly ways.  You see, a brilliant and sexy woman, Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. is also a disgusting slob of a roommate. This is a person who did not know that vacuum cleaners have to be emptied (I assume from never having used one), frequently unloads dirty dishes from the dishwasher into our cabinets, and has never met the flat space upon which she did not feel compelled to pile shit.
 
While I am happily married and love my wife, she is at risk of joining the ranks of the worst roommates with whom I’ve ever had the severe misfortune of sharing living space. 

College was the beginning of the roommate hell through which I drifted for the next decade.  In the dorms there was Lon, the smelly pothead who covered our walls with blacklight posters and hippie paraphernalia, Jim the artsy-fartsy punk-rocker who was predisposed to urinating in the closet when he was drunk, (which was always), and Ken the thoughtless hockey hooligan from Toledo who never attended his 7:30AM class yet insisted on setting his alarm every day and pounding away at the snooze button until well after 8:00AM. 

After moving off-campus, I spent a year in a ramshackle house where after months of dirty dished being piled in the sink – everyone survived by just removing what they needed from the filthy mound and washing it for their immediate purpose – the kitchen became infested with flies.  Instead of cleaning, we “invented” protective hats from aluminum foil roaster pans and some string that we would tie to our heads to defend against the kamikaze maggots that regularly fell from the tiles in the rotting drop-ceiling.

Finishing college, some other friends and I got together and rented a place, but calling it a house would be an exaggeration.  Walking too heavily through the kitchen would cause the lightbulbs in the basement to blow out.   It also wasn’t unusual to wake up roasting in the middle of night during winter with the furnace blazing because the front door had blown open and snow was drifting in.  We won’t even talk about the mice.

My point is that I’ve lived in my share of dumps.  Now that I own a home, I just want it to be nice.  Not perfect, not spotless, but also not with several days worth of crumbs on the kitchen counter and dried cat food caked on the backsplash just begging the maggots to come and find me again.

Hence our enduring quarrel: Which one of us is the normal one?  I argue that not wanting her to use my nose-hair clippers to remove matted poop from the cat’s butt fur is not being fussy.  She argues that brushing food crumbs off her shirt onto the floor is fine because they will get vacuumed up in a few days anyway.  The good thing is that at least she has stopped ending her points by ripping a fart and exclaiming, “And that’s all I have to say about that.”
 
All of this brings me to my theme for next few posts (unless I think of something better or, more importantly, easier).  Years ago the one boss I had who I sort of admired told me that relationships are easy if you just remember one thing: women are crazy and men are stupid.  Women are crazy because they won’t listen to logic, and men are stupid because they know this yet still never stop trying to use it to make their point.   

As an official state executive, I have certain constitutional powers, including the authority to organize a militia of kamikaze squirrels to defend against the scourge of speeding traffic on my street; demand a human taster to sample my food for poison in any participating Applebee’s location; disregard the posted signs and freely avail myself to any merchant’s toilet without needing to make a purchase; immutable diplomatic immunity for crimes committed by other people; and the power to grant official state pardons.

It is this last power which I am currently considering bestowing upon the following individuals and organizations: 

1.  Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. for farting in front of my family during my brother’s birthday party and forcing me to do the gentlemanly thing and take the blame, in effect laying my jacket over her stinky puddle and allowing her to walk across unscathed. 

On a larger note, I fear men and women will never be truly equal until women finally begin taking responsibility for their flatulence.

2.  The entitled douche bag of a woman at the YMCA who, as I was mounting the last available elliptical machine, came up behind me and said, “I was gonna use it!”  Usually this would not be a forgivable offense, but my reply, “You are using it, or you were gonna use it? Because there isn’t a machine is this place that someone isn’t gonna use.” made her slink off.

3.  My mother-in-law, Shakes-A-Can-Of-Pennies, for committing the social equivalent of taking a bath with a plugged-in radio balanced on the ledge: during Thanksgiving dinner she asked my sister-in-law’s brother’s girlfriend when she is due, when, in fact, she isn’t. 

4. Taco Bell for introducing their new menu item the “Volcano Taco.”  I’m sure the suits at TB were attempting to make it sound hot, spicy, and EXTREME, but when I hear the word “volcano” in the same sentence as “Taco Bell,” the only image that comes to mind is “eruption.”  

By the way, how much gastrointestinal distress can one company inflict before some stands up (but not too fast) and takes notice?  With the ‘Volcano Taco” these bastards are simply getting a little too gleeful about it.  What’s next, a combo meal with a mudslide milkshake with EXTREME squirts of Hersey and a side of trouser chili?

Still, the “Volcano Taco” is only $1.59, cheaper than a burger and, more importantly, cheaper than Ex-Lax.  So for that they get a pardon.

5.  The Terrorists.  While they can't win, after reading this article, it turns out that they may have been right about us all along. 

To me, it means that it is finally OK to start listening to Christmas music.  While I could certainly do without the seasonal decorations, Frost-bitten testicles (as in Daniel Frost, the mentally-disabled child in my neighborhood who thinks that everything round and red is candy), and grating commercials, I do loves me some Christmas music.  But the rule is not until the day after Thanksgiving.  Similar to drinking hard liquor before noon, it is a craving with which I must daily do battle.

Like a punk junkie in a filthy flophouse who lays out his needles in anticipation of the next fix, I have been eagerly preparing for this moment by purchasing and uploading numerous Christmas CDs onto my iPod.  We’re not talking about Bing Crosby, Elvis Presley, or Ella Fitzgerald or any of that boring shit.  I’m no vestal virgin, no sober Spartan, no temperate teetotaler.  I’ve got a Christmas music monkey on my back the size of King Kong, and I need some crazy hardcore shit to get my ring-jing-jingalings off.

This year’s selections include New Orleans Jazz Christmas, Flamenco Christmas, and African Drum Christmas.  I’m so excited that I can’t stop peeing.  The only problem is that come Friday, I won’t be able to listen to every song all at once.  If only I were in the Matrix and could insert these songs directly into my brain.

I am Neo, and I’m about to learn Christmas Kung Fu. 

The simple fact is that I’ve been busy.  Between advising the President-elect of the local Shriners’ Hall, inventing a high-tech defense shield to protect civilian’s against the proliferation of trucker bombs, and genetically-modifying genetic modifiers to enhance their genetic modifying-ness (and tastiness!), I’ve barely had time to watch the most recent seasons of 30 Rock, Pushing Daisies, The Office, Rescue Me, Weeds, and Heroes on DVD and still get my eight hours of sleep at night.  Oh, and I’ve also used my “alone time” in the crapper to knock out my first screenplay, which, after re-reading it, now seems like the most appropriate place to leave it.  So back the fuck off!

Anywho, the fact is that I’m back and better than ever.  And by better than ever, I mean older, fatter, lazier, and just as likely to go mental or disappear without notice or trace as before.  Just like Brittany, only with more “Oopsie!” snatch shots available online.

So be sure to check back for upcoming topics including:
Me
Obama Primer
Me
Thanksgiving Primer
Me
Me
Me
Why You Are Stupid
Christmas Primer
Me.

And, as always, have a Happy Recession!

Having demonstrated my enigmatic gift for political predictions and, you may have noticed, a nauseating and irrepressible dependence on alliteration, you had better park your ass and perk your ears in preparation for my next pronouncement. (Puking yet?)

A plague has fallen upon our great land.  Like McCarthyism, crystal meth, and Crocs, this is an epidemic that spreads without prejudice to race, gender, or political or sexual leanings.  Half-black or half-white, transsexual or transvestite, centrist or moderate, pitcher or catcher, you are at risk.  Chances are one of your close relatives has already been contaminated, and to ignore the warning signs would be to risk having them enter your cozy home and spew their impurities out onto your festive Thanksgiving table, exposing everyone.

The fact is, someone you love is lousy with stupidity.  I don’t mean they are bad with stupidity, like Tom Cruise’s character in Rain Man.  I mean they are teeming with it.  Full of it. Bringing their idiotic “A” game.  Getting their stupid on. 

It’s not that these folks are inherently moronic.  It’s simply that while attempting to find comfort in conformity, they’ve been unwittingly spoon-fed fear and bullshit to the point where there is no room left in their heads for facts or truth, leaving only the reflexive ability to regurgitate what they have ingested.  I am, of course, talking about political punditry. 

If you are saying, “But Mr. Commando, the election is over and it is time to forget politics and get back to the business of voting for our favorite dancing pseudo-celebrity.  Our heads hurt and we just want to play Christmas carols and eat yummy pie from the pan with our filthy, fat fingers,” then it is too late.  You are already one of the walking brain-dead.  All I ask is that you please email this to your next of kin along with your next forward from the NRA, Move-On.org, or the Nigerian Royal Family.

As for the rest of you, there is still hope.  A team of fearless medical researchers has descended into the asinine jungle and, risking life and lobe, identified the sources of this outbreak.  To be avoided at all costs, the original AIDS monkeys of the idiot plague are Keith Olbermann, Sean Hannity, Air America, Bill O’Reilly, much of MSNBC and most of Fox News.  (Though it might seem remiss to not mention Rush Limbaugh, I consider listening to his show the same as bobbing for apples in a drum full of toxic waste and used syringes: if you didn’t intuitively know to avoid it, then your fork is already stuck knuckle-deep in the stupid toaster.)  They are shameless, lying sacks of rotting dogshit who are cashing-in by willfully provoking the worst traits and tendencies in the weakest of us.

Of course there are no doubt others out there who are saying, “Thank you for saving us, Captain Obvious.  Now Stephen Colbert can retire and you can move on to convincing the free world of the inherent dangers of sodomizing wild rhinos.”  Like you, I, too, had thought this was all universally apparent until a recent pre-election gathering of family and friends.  I was stunned to hear some of the ridiculous if not slightly deranged comments coming from the mouths of people with whom I share genes, needles, and the occasional embarrassing sexual experiment.   
 
“Obama is a Muslim.”
 
“McCain’s a mental patient.”

“Democrats will create a communist state.”

“Republicans are total fuckheads.”

The fundamental problem is that we’ve created a culture where everyone thinks their opinion is suppose to matter regardless of the individual’s particular expertise, knowledge, or cursory familiarity with that particular subject.  Compounding that problem is the fact that in lieu of doing any research or entertaining any information that might challenge one’s opinions, many people are simply tuning in to mediums that only reinforce what they already believe.  And in an era of unprecedented informational outlets, you can always find someone who will agree with your belief that the perpetrators of 9/11 were actually hired by Scientologists to attempt to kill Oswald’s accomplice, a man who worked under an alias in the twin towers and had recently unearthed indisputable evidence of L. Ron Hubbard’s role in the faked Apollo moon landings.

If we are going to avoid becoming a nation of fanatical morons screaming fabricated gibberish at each other, it is time to elevate the level of discourse. 

Don't you agree, or are you just stupid?!

The only real pampering I’ve ever really allowed myself to enjoy is flying first class.  But really, if you weren’t in an airplane, first class is the same as sitting in a booth at Applebees.  The food is acceptable, the legroom not too cramped, and someone is always on the ready to fetch you another drink.  It’s only when you compare it to the alternative – mystery meat, bruised knees, a fat sweaty guy leaning on you, and a stewardess whose attitude is so abysmal that it would get her fired from the DMV – that first class begins to seem the least bit luxurious. 

After buying a new Saturn last month – my first new car in twelve years – I’m still feeling kind of guilty about how fancy schmancy it looks.   This is a Saturn, mind you.  My point being, I guess, that I’m not the kind of prick who merrily dribbles 1992 Brunello on the filthy heads of the little people and chuckles as they suffocate in the fog of my froie gras farts.

A few months ago, though, I took a huge step forward in becoming a soft, entitled douchebag.  I started getting massages.  Not Yankee cranky “massages” with happy endings (happy at first, but then, I suspect, very, very sad and depressing) but real deep-tissue, jam-your-fucking-elbow into-the-small-of-my-back massotherapy.  It’s absolutely wonderful and I’m totally hooked.

The weird thing about massage is how anonymous yet personal the experience is.  Ann, my professional masseuse, and I have probably exchanged a total of twenty words since I started seeing her regularly.  I know absolutely nothing about the woman.  Still, when I call, she is willing and ready to purposefully yet tenderly mend and nurture nearly every aspect of my physical being (except, of course, my favorite aspects).  And while there is nothing sexual about the experience - even if she wanted to give me a happy ending, I would be too terrified that she might sneeze and rip my cock off with her grotesquely muscular hands to maintain “full attention” - it is still an extremely gratifying corporal experience.  

As a result, every time I see Ann I want to give her a hug, in the same way that I want to hug a keg of Guiness, a full bottle of Vicadin, or the leg of an inner city policeman.  Again, not amorous, but genuinely heartfelt.  In fact, the last time I was leaving her shop I absently waved and said, “Bye bye. I love you.” 

This, I think, is a very peculiar idea for a man to come to terms with.  The even weirder thing is that I don’t think it would matter one bit if Ann were a man.

Anyway, this confused state of mindset was the backdrop yesterday afternoon when I accidentally forgot about my 6:00 PM appointment with Ann. 

Irrational and misplaced as it may be, I was distraught. “Oh no!” I cried out to Nerdy, “I missed my appointment with Ann.  I didn’t call or anything.  She just sat there waiting for me.  Christ! I hope she doesn’t…break-up with me!” 

Nerdy, of course, didn’t understand.  She told me to calm down and said Ann was a professional and these things happen.  “Give her a big tip next time and she’ll be fine.”

Yeah, right.  Just give her money like she’s some kind of whore or something.

Complimentary warm cookies laced with ecstasy

Racy passages in the Gideon Bible highlighted for your convenience

Bathroom includes a bidet and an RU-486 dispenser
 
Custom toilet paper sheets imprinted with likeness of Nicole Richie

Courtesy airport limo service for guests not wearing underpants

One-touch paparazzi
 
Pillow mints contain a massive dose of penicillin
 
Personal wake-up call from Mr. Hilton pleading you to sort your life out

Currency exchange at market rates