Throwing Poo

On my way home from LA, the in-flight movie was "Gridiron Gang."  Normally I don't watch the movie.  Being confined in a tube for several hours with no hope of escape creates a perfect environment for an A.D.D. freakshow like me to focus and be productive.  It's when I do some of my best work.

However, after spending five fourteen-hour-plus days at a work conference glad-handing imbeciles and pretending to care, I was spent.  So, at our big finale dinner on Saturday night, I got wrecked. Totally, publicly shitfaced.  Fuck those assholes.

Needless to say, I was pretty hazy on Sunday morning.  My head was an overfilled balloon of massacred brain cells, and my ass was the Hoover Dam.  And in my stomach, the needles of a Richter scale were beginning to jump. There would be no working on this flight.  Maintaining my bodily functions would require every ounce of strength and focus. 

As I boarded the plane and settled into my seat, I thought I couldn't possibly feel any worse.  But then I watched "Gridiron Gang." 

Let me pause for a moment to say that I love crappy movies.  If I have a real vice, it's that I waste too much time watching awful, terrible movies.  I love imagining what the actors were thinking as they robotically recite trite, hacky lines with the passion of a grapefruit.  It's entertaining to me.  

I couldn't get there with "Gridiron Gang."  This movie was like someone wiped a turd across a piece of celluloid and then loaded in onto a projector.  It was so bad that I honestly tore my headphones off on four different times in abject disgust.  Unfortunately, I was too shitty to do anything else (even sleep), so I kept going back. 

The only thing I could imagine was how some tool successfully pitched this piece of garbage:

PITCHMAN: It's "Boyz In the Hood" meets "The Longest Yard."

STUDIO DOUCHEBAG: Which version?

PITCHMAN:  Why, Adam Sandler's, of course.

STUDIO DOUCHEBAG:  Good answer. Go on.

PTICHMAN: Well, we take the worst parts of those two movies, mix in every sports cliché imaginable, and then have a team of monkeys write the dialogue.

STUDIO DOUCHEBAG:  Hmmm.  Interesting.  Tell me more.

PITCHMAN:  We say it's based on a true story and then run it out for over two hours so people think it has integrity.

STUDIO DOUCHEBAG: Tell you what, throw in a WWF wrestler and a rapper, and you've got yourself a deal.

PITCHMAN:  Done!

STUDIO DOUCHEBAG:  Fantastic.  Now, give me my coke and get out.  I've got some underage hookers on their way up.

PITCHMAN: (hands over a small bag of white powder) See you next week. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:25 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

After working all weekend and then putting in a 12 hours day yesterday, I've got nothing left.  I'll be back tomorrow.

As I wallow in self-pity (and increasingly soiled undergarments), please enjoy the following clip by Demitri Martin, who's Comedy Central special last night was absolutely brilliant - and made me realize how truly hack and unfunny I am.  Bastard.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=Q3_ely1Wimw

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

After re-reading it, I'd like to apologize for yesterday's poorly written post.  At the time, I was very angry and tired; proper sentence structure and continuity were not high on my list of priorities.  I had considered going back and making changes, but this seemed a hell of a lot easier.

As for all my other poorly written posts, I blame my lack of writing skills...and you can go fuck yourself. 

Thank you.

The Management

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 12:15 AM | Permalink

The older I get, the less I actually know.  Make no mistake, I've got opinions about everything.  If you want to bake a roadkill soufflé, perform a partial-birth abortion on a cockroach, or fashion a prison shank out of human hair and Tostitos, then I've got an opinion for you.  But I don't know shit.

I'd like to think that this is a sign that I'm getting smarter; that true intelligence comes from knowing how little you know.  Then again, maybe it's just that my glue-sniffing years have finally caught up with me. 

Anyway, because of my increased wisdom and/or brain cell death, I've begun second-guessing myself on a fairly regular basis.  Things I thought to be absolute truths - farting is always funny; smearing peanut butter on a chocolate bar doesn't actually make it taste like a Reese's Cup; don't dry a freshly-bathed housecat in a microwave - I now find myself questioning (and, in one very unfortunate incident, testing).  I'm just not sure of anything anymore. 

If you have ever read this blog, you know that I consider my boss and many of the people I work with to be total fucking retards.   However, as I boarded a flight on Wednesday to spend six days at a work conference, I began to wonder if I had miscalculated.  Maybe these people aren't really imbeciles.  Maybe it's me.  Maybe I'm just a steaming pile of hostile, intolerant shit.   It would certainly explain the smell that's been following me lately.

At 7:13 AM this morning, I got my answer.  Somebody is definitely wearing a helmet and riding the short bus to work.  I offer the following as proof (this is the absolute truth):

Last evening my boss asked me to help organize a conference room into a working office/war room for our use.  Even though I had already put in 14 hours, I agreed.  I'm a good soldier.

After running to my room to quickly change clothes, I entered the conference room ready to work.  Five people from my department (including my boss) had already arrived and were busy eating cookies and clucking like hens.  I asked what I could help with, but got no answer.  I waited.  I asked again. I waited.  This went on for an hour.  It was then 7:30PM LA time (10:30 PM Cleveland time) and I was getting hungry...not to mention pissed off.  I approached my colleague who is "in charge" of the conference, shook her hand, looked her in the eye and said, "I'm going to get something to eat.  You have my cell phone number.  Call me when you need help."  She smiled and said OK.  I left and my phone never rang.

This morning, I arrived for breakfast and my boss was already angry.  This immediately amused me, but I was also curious.  I asked why.  Turns out she's upset with me for "leaving them high and dry last night."

Obviously there is a misunderstanding and she has jumped to a false conclusion.  Knowing this, I settle in.  My completely logical and watertight explanation for leaving will certainly set her straight and, more importantly, warrant an apology.  Not a bad way to start the day.

My retelling of the actual events is concise, vivid, accurate, and comes complete with gestures and an illustrative handshake.  I wait for my apology.

"You know better," she said, "You needed to stay there.  (colleague) won't call you because she doesn't want to be a bother."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I reasoned.

"No I'm not."

"I made an arrangement - which she agreed to - and waited for her to call.  She didn't.  How can I possibly to be blame for that?"

"Everyone knows how impatient you are."
 
"What the hell does that have to do with anything? Holy shit.  I'm not going to make it through the week with you people!"

I'd like to continue retelling the dialogue, but I can't remember it.  At this moment, massive amounts of exasperation and rage collided in my brain, the impact of which erased the moment from my memory entirely.  I vaguely remember saying "fuck" a lot and threatening to quit at least once.  I still have my job (for now), so I'm pretty sure I didn't say "cunt" or threaten to skull fuck anyone.

In the end, I promised to stand in one spot until I was told by her (or received written instructions by my colleague that were signed by her) to stand in another spot.  That's how I spent my day.

I don't work in the department of an organization.  I'm a sibling in a dysfunctional fucking family.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 12:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Nancy Pants Pelosi

Al Jolsen Gore, Jr.

Harry Reams Reed

Colin Cancer Powell

John "The Rape Machine" McCain

Rudolph-The-Red-Nosed-Mobster Giuliani

John Wayne Gacy Edwards

Sam Brownbeck Mountain

Jeb Bush

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

We interrupt this message to bring you the following minor meltdown.

Things have been going badly at work lately.  I won't bore you with the details, but basically, I work with total fucking morons who are horrible stewards of my time.  Imagine that.

Since I had to travel for work on Friday and Saturday, and had a family thing on Sunday, there wasn't much quality time to work on my post for "Now What".  The later it got Sunday evening, the more I started feeling panicked.  Apparently I had underestimated both the cathartic and therapeutic value of these posts.  As a result, late Sunday night I slipped into freakout mode and spent several frantic hours searching job sites and emailing resumes.   

Now I've got a phone interview today for a new job that, deep down, I know I don't want.  (Dammit!  Why do I always have to be such an attractive, well-qualified job candidate?  I suppose it serves me right for being success-oriented with outstanding people skills).  It seems like a little better gig than the one I've got now, but is it really worth the trouble to trade a turd for a turd with sprinkles? 

From another perspective, having an offer on the table would be like soaking my balls in Miracle-Gro (and not just because it turns them a lovely shade of purple).   It would give me the courage to demand certain changes in my current position that otherwise I'm not prepared to make. 

Still, I kind of feel like a job-aholic who just fell off the wagon and is looking for a way to justify his latest bender.  I know this new job isn't what I truly want to do and I just need to focus on the important...Hey, look!  A shiny paperclip.  Cool.

To make matters worse, I've got to fly to California tomorrow to spend six days at a work conference.  So instead of spending time working on these issues, I'll be wasting six days drinking Kool-Aid, chanting mantras and hugging people I detest (There's this thing in the non-profit world where people always feel the need to hug each other.  Imagine for a moment, if you will, a job where your boss is always trying to hug you.  Kind of makes you want to open a vein, doesn't it?).  There's an inevitable downward spiral here that I see coming but cannot avoid. 

Oh, well.  At least it'll be a change of weather.  Forecast for the week: Partly crazy with a likelihood of uninvited hugs.  High pressure will begin to move the hugs out, making way for a storm front of depression and rage this weekend. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

An official Inspector Gadget Junior badge that I use to steal drugs from suburban teenagers

The business card of a douchebag realtor that he forced upon me during a flight last month

Pubes of unknown origin

An old Home Depot gift card with a remaining balance of $1.26

The only remaining photo from my ill-conceived Glamour Shots "Boudoir" session

One Trojan "Ribbed For Her Pleasure" condom from 1986  ('cause that's how I roll)

Superfriends "League of Justice" membership card - Member since 1979

Ten years worth of ass sweat

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

Five minutes isn't a long time, except when you're trying to catch a plane, getting electrocuted or having sex (I need you to back me up on this last one, people.).  However, it is more than enough time to decide what type of fucking bagel you want, especially when there is a glass display case right in front of your stupid face.  

How is it that a person can stand in line for five minutes and then seem bewildered when the bitchy counter girls finally asks them for their order?  How does this come as a surprise?  Did he think it was a line for the urinal?  Was he too distracted by the need to vigorously scratch his fat ass?   

Die, you inconsiderate blob of shit.  Choke on your carefully chosen bagel.  I want to thoughtlessly step over your bluing carcass as I make my way to the gate.

*********

I'm flying to Tampa this weekend for work.  As some consolation, I was hoping to get upgraded to First Class.  Not only did I get shoved into coach with the savages, but they stuck me in the very last row of the plane.  These are the seats that don't recline.  Plus, you get to spend your flight enjoying the various odors that emanate from the shitters as the unwashed masses file in and out.

At first, I tried to make it into a game by giving people nicknames.  There was Sulfuric Ass, Neglected Monkey Cage, Dirty Diaper Landfill, Aspara Gus and Dumpster Full Of Cancerous Tumors.  Then Rotting Corpse Dunked In Tabasco Sauce ended the fun by charring the flesh inside my nostrils.  I suppose I should've thanked him.

Because I prefer the aisle, my assigned seat also affords me an eye-level view of every crotch that is on line for the crapper.  I don't want to look.  I try not to look.  However, it is simply impossible to ignore that there is a cock/twat/ass six inches away from my face.  And at least one of these swollen assholes squeaked out a little fart in anticipation.   

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 12:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

The tray tables are up and the emotional baggage has been stored in the overhead bins (see posts I thru VII).  It is time to take-off; "wheels up," as we like to say in the travel business.  It's about damn time.

Here is last week's list of things I would do with one year to live:

1. Quit my job and rid my life of all unnecessary burdens (you know who you are)
2. Spend lots of time with family & friends (well, maybe not "lots")
3. Reconnect with old friends to express what they meant to me
4. Write my blog
5. Take guitar and drum lessons
6. Find a group of untalented wannabes like me to play "music" with
7. Write and record a song
8. Perform in front of an audience (unlike my ex-girlfriends, size would not matter)
9. Visit the pyramids (OK, now size matters)
10. Travel around Ireland
11. Study & debate philosophy and religion
12. Get into a fistfight (#10 or #11 should take care of this)
13. Learn to fence (sword fighting, not liquidating stolen goods)
14. Always eat good food and drink good wine
15. Be kind, generous and reliable

With only a year, there would obviously be some things I could not do and/or reconcile.  Those are:
1. Complete and publish some form of writing
2. Write and film a short movie
3. Learn about digital audio production
4. Having spent too much time looking ahead and not enough time enjoying the moment

In order to try to glean some meaningful information from this hobo soup of a list, I'm going to flesh out each one and then attempt to identify commonalities (and you thought this was going to get dull.  Ha!).   Since I am making this shit up as I go along and don't really know what the fuck I'm doing, it would probably be best to start with the easy ones first. 

Quit my job. 
Yeah, well, that's the whole point, isn't it?  I'll come back to that one...eventually.

Rid my life of unnecessary burdens. 
For most of my life, I've felt compelled to personally take on every mundane task that I could reasonable expect to complete.   This included everything from laundry, ironing and cleaning to automobile maintenance and home renovation.  The logic being: Why pay someone to do something you can do yourself?  

This is a wonderful philosophy if I want my grave stone to say, "Here lies CBC: His house was freshly painted and his car always nice and clean.  What a bore." 

Stupid Protestant work ethic.

Fortunately, as of late, I've come to realize the pure, liberating joy in outsourcing jobs (screw you, Teamsters).  Having spent years ironing dress shirts every morning before work, the simple act of picking up a load of crisp, laundered dress shirts from the cleaners makes me giddy.  Knowing that someone will arrive to clean my house every other week grants me the freedom to ignore the tumbleweeds of cat hair blowing across the floor (and prevents me from straight-up murdering my wife).  

I used to think that these services were luxuries I couldn't or shouldn't afford.  No more.  Cable television, cell phone service, Netflix and Syrup-Of-The-Month Club memberships are things that I can do without.  Spending my Saturday afternoon typing drivel or touching myself in inappropriate ways instead of changing spark plugs is an absolute necessity.  Besides, the money I spend is easily covered by my reduced consumption of Zoloft and Johnny Walker. 

Simply put: Spend less time on mundane shit and more time on important shit.  Mind-blowing, isn't it?  Still, to me it always seems like the simplest ideas are the hardest ones to actually put into practice.

Spend lots of time with family & friends
Reconnect with old friends
Right.  This is the important shit.  I get it.  Blah, blah, blah.   

From a work perspective, this simply means finding a career that allows for more free time with minimal travel.  Also, something that doesn't leave me in such a foul fucking mood all the time making everyone think I'm just an asshole.  

Learn to fence
My health insurance is paid up, so there's no reason to delay on this one.  Besides, the earlier I start learning, the sooner people will think twice about making fun of my pirate costume.

Always eat good food and drink good wine
I love food and wine. (And romantic sunsets, and walking on the beach, and adorable little puppies.  Aren't I interesting?) Looking back on my life, I can't ever imagine feeling good about having saved $10 by drinking a lousy bottle of wine.  Yet, whenever I'm in the moment of decision, my penny-pinchiness takes over and mucks things up. 

Like some sort of depression baby, I have never been able to order something off a menu without first looking at the price.  Regardless of the restaurant quality, I always feel compelled to make a compromise between what I want and what things cost.

This is just stupid and I need to stop. 

Visit the pyramids
Travel around Ireland
This one is easy.  Because I book a lot of travel for my job, I've become pretty adept at finding great deals.  In fact, I've gotten so good at it that it's become one of my conversational cornerstones.  Nary a party or social gathering goes by where I don't flaunt a travel triumph or two.  It really livens things up.  By the way, I'm still waiting for invitations from some of you. 

Anyway, we'll plan a trip to Ireland in the next two years.  Egypt, I'm afraid, will at least have to until after the 2008 elections or until they re-open the Stargate. 

Let me pause here for a moment. You may have noticed that everything I've talked about so far requires disposable income.  There are two ways to increase disposable income: make more money or spend less (if you guessed that I minored in economics at college, you guessed right!).  Since I'm probably unlikely to increase my revenue in the short term, this means I need to minimize expenses.  This is where not caring about "stuff" comes in handy.

For example, I own an old Saturn that runs fine.  A new car would be nice, but it's not a necessity.  Let's assume the cost of a new car payment is $350 per month, $4200 a year.  If I keep my Saturn - even assuming a whopping $1000 a year in repairs - I'm still netting over $3200 a year.  Plus I'm saving money on insurance.  Sweet.   

OK, back to the list.

Get into a fistfight
As Brad Pitt said in Fight Club, "How much can you know about yourself if you've never been in a fight?"  Even though I've spent a lot of years sparring, I've never been in a real fight.  Whenever I've tried to start something, my potential opponents have either rolled away in their chairs or ran and hid behind their "mommies."  Pussies. 

It's probably for the best, though.  I'm sure fighting is like going to Epcot Center with a friend; it sounds like fun, but within the first minute of arriving, you realize it is going to totally suck and you can't leave until the other guy is ready.

Be kind, generous and reliable
Huh?  If I wrote this, I was probably just trying to impress the ladies. 

To be continued...

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:29 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Last week I tried to list the things I would do if I only had one year left to live.  Even though I left out 365 days of dressing like a pirate (and, of course, the obligatory raping and pillaging that would follow), the exercise was very helpful. 

At this point, an idealist would probably say that I should "Just Do It." Then that idealist would get sued for copyright infringement; be stripped of all his assets; lose his wife and family; attempt to ease the pain by injecting heroin; develop an addiction and be forced to turn tricks at a highway rest stop to support his habit; suffer from TMJ; meet a wizened, old "street" priest who teaches him about Jesus; catch AIDs, hepatitis B, chlamydia and, oddly, osteoporosis from the priest; be happily reunited with his dog Shithead and his long lost black family who invested his money-sent-home wisely; fall into a coma and get cryogenically frozen by a rogue doctor;  be revived in the year 2156 by the ruling robot race which, having obliterated humans a century ago, promise to treat him as a king; have his diseases cured and his atrophied muscles quickly restored by some really cool, advanced medical procedure like in The Matrix;  ironically, get custom-fitted for a new pair of Nike shoes and a sweatsuit; take his first step outside of the hospital/robot repair shop;  close his eyes, look up into the sun and smile; get flattened by a speeding commuter bus. 

Stupid idealist.

In order to avoid such a fate, I need to fully consider the financial, familial and Freudian costs of pursuing this list.  (By Freudian, I mean my ego.  Sorry, I just wanted to crowbar some alliteration into this post). 

Financially speaking, the market for change is bullish.  Other than a modest mortgage and gagillion dollars in student loans, Nerdy Squirrel Esq. and I are nearly debt-free.  We do have expenses, but there's no need to get into a full-blown accounting of the cost of hookers, defense attorneys, poker debts and political hush money.  That seems gratuitous...and my lawyer has advised me against it.

Regarding the need for new acquisitions (i.e., stuff), I don't have any significant material wants.  Fortunately, I married a woman who does not require a constant influx of fresh buttons and bows (though she does appreciate a fresh butt on her beau).  We generally don't give a rat's ass about cars, jewelry, clothes, or collectible ceramic rats' asses.  As long as we have a few bucks to eat, buy booze, watch movies, and travel twice a year, we are happy (read: fat, drunk, entertained, and exhausted from an embarrassing amount of hotel sex). 

Oh, yeah, we also need enough money left over to replace Nerdy Squirrel Esq.'s gloves every other week.  I swear to God, the next pair I buy this woman are going to clip right onto her suit sleeves.

Ego, not surprisingly, is more of a problem. 

We often hear about the tremendous social pressure young women feel to meet unattainable standards of beauty.  It can lead to low self-esteem, anorexia, bulimia, and, in cases where the parents are total fucking retards, unnecessary plastic surgery. 

What we don't hear as often is the social pressure on young men (not that it's a contest).  From a young age, American boys are socialized to become wealthy and successful - and easily convinced that they are one and the same.  Competitive behavior is highly encouraged and celebrated.  We're taught to be number one.  To win at any cost.  For example, the mantra in my high school track locker room was, "Second place just means you're the first one to lose." 

This one plagues me. Even though I'm absolutely certain that I don't need wealth - not to mention that I don't even consider it a suitable measure of success - I still get these prosperity pangs.  A surge of blind ambition will course through me, creating an urgent need to go out and strike it rich.  It isn't a conscious thought; it's just one of those places where my brain goes when I'm not paying attention.   The best I can seem to do is rationalize it away when it hits. 

OK, let's bottom line this fucker. 

My ego requires regular maintenance.  Knowing this, having a ready-made supply of juicy rationalizations to subdue it when it runs off should suffice.  And while I do need to generate a humble amount of income, my family's needs are modest. 

This, my weary friends, marks the end of all the collateral pyscho-babble.  Time for the raping and pillaging to begin...baby needs a new pair of gloves.

TOMORROW: Now What? Part VIII

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:02 AM | Permalink

As part of my need to give back to the community (and to satisfy a court order), I will begin posting public service announcements.  While initially opposed to the idea, I soon realized that educating you cretins will make the world a more tolerable place for me.  This, in turn, will make it less likely that I employ the kind of behavior that lands me in front of judges.  It's kind of like that whole circle-of-life thing, only with the added threat of prison ass-rape.

Fortunately, I was given the freedom to choose my own area of activism.  Since I don't know much about "good causes," I didn't want some group to sucker me into promoting the gay baby seal agenda or becoming a mouthpiece for the Crackwhores for Christ lobby. 

Instead, I decided to seek out my own topics.  Fortunately, I'm a shut-in with OCD.  So it didn't take long before I dug up my first gold nugget.  Ready?

One serving of five (5) Ritz crackers has 80 calories and 4 grams of fat.

Can you believe that shit?  Crackers aren't food.  Crackers are food holders.  They are supposed to be calorically neutral.  I mean, of course there are a few calories when you top them with jalapeno cheese, whipped cream and raisins (doesn't that remind you of Christmas?).  But 80 calories in five plain old crackers?  That's crazy talk.

This knowledge suddenly made me very concerned about any other devious shit out there that is secretly making me fat.  As I began my investigation, I was shocked by what I learned.

For example, everyone knows that ice cubes don't have any calories.  So why would ice cubes made with Vodka Collins mix be any different?  I can't even fathom a reason, yet the website www.caloriecounter.com says that they have 30 calories each.  That just doesn't make sense to me. 

Then there are donut holes.  Sure, donuts have lots of fat.  But the donut holes?  Even if you ate a dozen of them every morning - and who doesn't? - they can't possibly make you gain weight.  They're holes!  It's right there in the name, for Christ's sake.  But again, weightwatchers.com disagrees.

And what about licking stamps?  I wasn't able to find any information on the nutrition sites, but I wouldn't be surprised if they were like 10 calories each, 20 if you want delivery confirmation. 

It gets so confusing, I don't know what to believe.  But I do know this, I'm ten pounds overweight and someone is to blame.  Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go to the store and buy some diet toothpaste. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:23 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

George is sick.   I have been traveling.  My boss is a driving me crazy.  I spent 8 hours in a car driving yesterday. It is still true.

For any or all of these reasons (you pick), I offer this repeat in lieu of anything new or stolen:

I wish the members of my YMCA had furniture in their homes.  That way, they wouldn't need to drive all the way to the gym to sit around on the weight lifting machines.   I also wish they weren't illiterate, so they could read any one of the dozen or so posted signs that say "Please Do Not Sit On The Machines Between Sets, You Inconsiderate Shithead" (I'm paraphrasing). 
 
Apparently it is too much to ask these people to do their exercise, wipe their body sludge off the machine and then move their fat ass so someone else can have a turn.  But why?
 
Is it too mentally challenging to have to remember your seat adjustment and weight stack?  Do you get the numbers confused?  If so, having a bad body image is probably the least of your problems and you shouldn't be near, let alone operating, machinery of any sort.
 
Is it that you don't want to have to waste 10-15 seconds re-adjusting your settings?  Time sensitivity seems an unlikely explanation given the fact that you spend at least five minutes between each set staring blankly at the bank of muted television screens. 
 
Or is it simply because you sustain your vile life force by accumulating the evil stares and universal wrath of every other semi-decent, commonly courteous person with whom you come in contact?  Possibly, but that explanation is just a little too "Ghostbuster's II" for my taste.
 
For all the time I have spent waiting for you and pondering these thoughts - and it's a long fucking time - it seems the only reason you do not want to take turns using the equipment is because you think another asshole like you might jump in next.  In other words, you have the social skills of a three-year-old and need to be beaten to death with a hardcover edition of "Everything I Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten."
 
Maybe I'm being too harsh.  Maybe instead of standing there and attempting to use telepathy to burst an artery in your brain, I should find a good use for that time.  Maybe it is divine intervention - a way for God to tell me to slow down and smell the...Oh, fuck it.  I hate you so much I can't event pretend there might be a good reason for your rampant shitheadedness. 
 
Just remember this, you are always only one Jedi mind trick away from a murderous aneurysm and I am in a constant search for Yoda.  In the mean time, I hope the toxic cleaning fluid that everyone uses to wipe down the equipment seeps up into your loitering ass and kills you Brazilian tree frog-style. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Um, yeah.  So, I guess I've kinda been a drag lately.  Maybe a bit sloppy, too.  Seems that all this agonizing over finding happiness is making me miserable (the incoherent writing is all me, though).  Some people might say that's ironic.  I prefer to say that it's me being a silly, self-absorbed and just a bit schizophrenic.  What kind of affected twat takes nothing seriously except his own damn self?

What I'm trying to say is, well, I'm sorry.  I really like you and I hope you still like me.  So, how about we put the past behind us and give it another shot?  Start all over.  Just the two of us.  Can you find it in your heart to give me one more chance?  If nothing else, will you at least do it for the children?  Really?  Great.  I'm so happy and relieved.  Now, go get me a beer, bitch!

Just kidding (but two for flinching). 

Given our fresh start (you're not regretting it already, are you?), let's go back to the question raised in the first post:  What would I do if I have only one year to live?

In no specific order, here is my Dead Man Walking to-do list:

1. Quit my job and rid my life of all unnecessary burdens (you know who you are)
2. Spend lots of time with family & friends (well, maybe not "lots")
3. Reconnect with old friends
4. Write my blog
5. Take guitar and drum lessons
6. Find a group of untalented wannabes like me to play "music" with
7. Write and record a song
8. Perform in front of an audience (unlike my ex-girlfriends, size would not matter)
9. Visit the pyramids (OK, now size matters)
10. Travel around Ireland
11. Study & debate philosophy and religion
12. Get into a fistfight (#10 or #11 should take care of this)
13. Learn to fence (sword fighting, not liquidating stolen goods)
14. Always eat good food and drink good wine
15. Be kind, generous and reliable

With only a year, there would obviously be some things I could not do and/or reconcile.  Those are:
1. Complete and publish some form of writing
2. Write and film a short movie
3. Learn about digital audio production
4. Having spent too much time looking ahead and not enough time enjoying the moment

Not an unreasonable list, I think.  So, if you're like my wife, you're saying, "OK, you've got your answer.  Now get to shitting or get off your narcissistic pot.  And stop peeing in the shower, dammit!" 

Not so fast, sugar tits.  There are a couple of inherent problems with the initial question posed.  First, it assumes I can quit my job and still afford to travel, drink Brunello and keep a roof over my head while randomly punching people in the face.  For me, this is true because I have a smoking piece-of-ass wife who brings home the bacon (actually, she brings home the Facon, a soy-based, pseudo-pork product that will bind your intestines like a Geisha's feet).  Still, my ego will not allow me to parasitically feed off her labor like a drunken pilot fish who "needs to be creative" (*retch*).  I need to earn my keep.

Also, defining the term as a year allows me to summarily dismiss other practical concerns, such as long-term health and retirement.  If I want to live well, I need to stay fit and plan for the day I'm no longer able to work.  These things need to be taken into account when making a decision. 

Finally, I need to consider the quality of life and goals of my wife.  She has certain things she would like to accomplish besides making her man happy (I blame the militant feminists).  Where our goals diverge, we will need to find some compromise that we both can live with. 

It seems like a good next step would be to look at all the practical implications of these goals to determine: 1) how much time and money is required; 2) how must my behavior change, and 3) how can I integrate these goals into some type of career.

In the mean time, what's on your Dead Man Walking list?

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 01:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

Today is your lucky day!  As a daily reader of Throwing Poo (i.e., my wife, sister or Mansfield prison inmate #26095417), you have the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to preview my exciting new children's book titled, "Booty Scootin' Kitty".  Inspired by real events, this thrilling thome is going to take the world of children's literature by storm.  Eat shit, Waldo!

And now, without further ado, I give you, "Booty Scootin' Kitty"!

This is George.

This is George's butt.

This is an anal gland.

Sometimes a cat's anal gland will leak.
This is what it smells like.

...and this...

...and this...

...if you mixed them all together, baked the mixture into a cake and then had a homeless woman pee on it.

George's anal glands leak.

This is George's vet.

George's vet says his anal glands are "loose" with a smile on his face, which would be funny if my cat was a fucking poker player instead of a putrid stank machine.

This is George's roommate Max.

Max is a sexy, Barry-White-looking motherfucker.

Max used to be an outdoor "street" cat. 
Could Max be responsible for George's "looseness"?

I hate to stop in the middle of a good part, but I don't want to ruin the surprise ending for you.  

Be sure to look for "Booty Scootin' Kitty" in bookstores and on audiobook next summer! 

P.S. Wouldn't it be cool if Hollywood made a movie out of it starring as Bruce Willis as George and Ving Rhames as Max? 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

Featuring the New, Interactive Ending 

Instead of doing anything productive on New Year's Day like writing, watching football or digging a year's worth of lint out of my bellybutton, I spent the afternoon cleaning out my closet.  Not in some figurative, cathartic way, either.  I willfully pissed away a vacation day sorting through and rearranging musty boxes full of shit that I had forgotten even existed. 

I suppose there is something symbolic about cleaning out your closet on the first day of the New Year.  Desperate and sad, but symbolic.  In my defense, it wasn't like I had been planning to do this or anything.   I just watched too much goddamn HGTV on Sunday.  Trading Spaces is like pornography for homeowners and I needed a release.

Now my office is now full of stuff that, like herpes, I cannot seem to get rid of but have effectively suppressed.  The list includes:

A Fisher MT-640 turntable
A box of record albums from the 80s
An old wristwatch that I never wore
Two embarrassingly large cabinet speakers that should come with a mullet wig
A three-year-old HP computer that crashed last spring and isn't worth fixing
A box of plastic karate and 5K run trophies
Two lamps
An old video camera that I had bought for my parents as a gift in 1991 (I was a good boy)
The Smithsonian Collection of Jazz on cassette tape

As I sit here and calculate, the sum value of this all this crap today is probably less than $100.  None of it has any real or sentimental value, yet I have spent the past 24 hours agonizing over what to do with this junk. 

Like some misplaced depression baby, I am apparently incapable of throwing away things that I believe SHOULD have some value - no matter all the evidence to the contrary.  For example, my mind simply will not accept that a $800 computer becomes completely worthless in three years.  So I stuff it away in a closet.

My inability to dispose of audio electronics runs a little deeper.  Despite knowing that our family didn't have much money for Christmas presents, in the fall of 1976 I spent several months lobbying for a cheap Emerson stereo receiver featuring an 8-track player and phonograph.  Hints were dropped, catalogs strategically left open, other gift ideas summarily dismissed.  This was my Red Rider air rifle.

When, against all odds, I received the stereo on Christmas Day, I was absolutely stunned.   I still remember being afraid to open the box for fear that something else was inside (Thank God there wasn't, or I'd probably be writing this on a padded wall in shit).  I hung on to that piece-of-crap stereo for the next 15 years.  Every piece of stereo equipment since has been hard to part with.

The rest of the stuff seems like it should have some value simply because I've kept it for so long already. 

(Get ready, kids!  This is the interactive portion of this post.  You may now choose the ending that you prefer.)

ENDING #1
After a while, I got over myself and decided to take all this junk to Goodwill.  On the way there, my car accidentally drives off a cliff and hits the bottom, bursting into flames.  A mass of people run over to the edge, including my parents and all the girls who ever dumped me in my lifetime.  "Knocking On Heaven's Door" by Bob Dylan starts playing and they all weep uncontrollably. 

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to anyone, I climb up from the far side of the cliff and walk up behind them.  I say, "Boy, I sure am going to miss all that stuff."  The crowd turns to look.  At first they are stunned, but then the cries slowly turn into smiles.  Soon everyone is laughing and cheering and they carry me off while my ex-girlfriends take turns showing me their boobs.

ENDING #2
Suddenly, everyone contracted the Ebola virus and died except for me and Chuck Heston.  One morning, Hess accidentally shoots himself in the face while cleaning his gun, which I then have to pry from his cold, dead hands to fight off the mutant albinos.  In the end, a sexy jungle girl and I ride off on horseback, dragging a handmade sled loaded with plastic trophies and broken electronics.  The girl turns out to be a cannibal, who kills and eats me later that evening. 

ENDING #3
That's when I got the idea for "Antiques Roadshow."  And the rest is history (in the sense that I got filthy rich by giving ungrateful offspring the forum for selling off their family's most prized possessions).

ENDING #4
The robots take over. You know the rest.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 03:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

New Year's Resolutions for the May Fly

Get organized
Lose weight
Read more
Take a cooking class
Make a budget and stick to it
Live for 25 hours

New Year's Resolutions That Won't Make Me Feel Like A Loser When I Ultimately Fail To Accomplish Them

Gain 10 pounds
Open a strip club next to the daycare in my neighborhood
Watch more television
Eat cheese at every breakfast
Invest life savings in U.S. Civil War commemorative plates
Alienate family
Get into the Guinness Book of World Records for the largest ass pimple

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 12:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)