Throwing Poo

Since it has become painfully obvious that none of you self-involved cheese-eaters have the decency to organize an intervention, I am going to have to take matters into my own wobbly hands.  For too many years and too many miles I lived with this addiction.  The time has come for me to grab the frequent-flyer monkey by his honey-roasted peanuts and throw him off my aching back. 

As any junkie will tell you, usually for a cigarette butt, knowing you have a problem is not enough.  You have to truly want to make a change. You have to understand and appreciate the value in not booking a flight from Cleveland to Indianapolis that connects through San Diego just to earn a few extra miles. 

Crammed into the middle seat of my sixth flight this week, captive to my tray table and the remnants of my complimentary cup of dry cereal and half a banana breakfast, I am beginning to find desire for clarity.  For change.    

What does it get me, these miles I so desperately crave? These points, credits, digits, numbers on a page that waste so much time and drive me to neglect myself (though the abuse certainly continues) and my family.  A couple of free flights per year?  What is that worth, maybe a few hundred bucks, the approximate price of four Thai hookers for two hours each on a weekday (weekend rates are higher)?  Broken down to an hourly wage, I’d make more money, not to mention interesting acquaintances, collecting aluminum cans.

One problem is that, like uniform Poptart toasting and bodily fluid spin art, it’s something I’m good at.  And like most people, I feel compelled to pursue those endeavors in which I comfortably excel.  It’s like destiny, or, at the very least, it’s easy.  I need to learn that doing something because I’m good at it is very different from doing something because it makes me feel good.  

The bigger problem is the perks of being a Gold Frequent Flyer.  Bypassing long security lines, boarding the plane before the common unwashed masses, getting bumped to first class, and getting blow jobs from stewardesses make me feel important.  Or at least more important that the filthy cretins in coach.  And I like it. 

It is elitism, and awfully petty elitism at that.  And I hate being petty.  It’s just so...common.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

The reason I stopped watching sports a few years ago was because I was tired of having my mood and emotions influenced by any particular assembly of semi-retarded millionaires who happen to be wearing the color of uniform that I prefer at a given time.  

Yet, here I am on a Monday morning, all blurry-eyed and depressed after staying up late watching the Indians crash and burn in Game 7 of the ALCS.   Even worse, I was lucky enough to score a couple of World Series tickets for Game 1 in Cleveland had they won.   Of course, these tickets are now as valuable as an Enron stock certificate that a homeless man has used to wipe his festering ass.

Anyway, I’ve spent the last hour trying to find something to help get me out of this funk.  This vid of an incredible eleven year-old did a pretty good job of snapping me out of it.  

http://youtube.com/watch?v=JsnJftMy9po

Stupid baseball.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

What middle name did Coco Crisp’s insensitive and tactless parents give him?  Coo-Coo?  Velveeta?  Fuckthiskid?  Whatwereallywantedwasanabortion?

Casey Blake’s ratty beard makes him look like a zombie.  Every time he comes up to the plate, Nerdy Squirrel and I both stick our arms out and hungrily growl, “Brains!”

Kevin Youkilis sweats more than a creepy, bald baseball player with hyperhidrosis (believe me, the lack of poetry in this simile is made up for by its sheer aptness)

While I’ve never been there (I’m neither a pizza delivery man nor an underage runaway with fake tits and poor judgment), I’ll bet Manny Ramirez’s house smells like old meat fried up in a dirty jock strap, dipped in hot sauce and sprinkled with broken dreams. 

Who are these ridiculous asshats who still think it is cool to do “The Wave”?  Zip up your Member’s Only jacket, snort a line of coke, hop in your IROC Z-28 and make a prank “Baba Booey” call on your brick-sized car phone, you walking time-capsule.

A few things that I seriously doubt the C.C. in C.C Sabathia stands for:
  Conserving Cookies
  Counting Calories
  Crunching Celery
  Condoning Consumer-recommended portions

While I kind of like eating popcorn, I always hate myself for having eaten popcorn.  Still, I can’t seem to stop myself.  And by “eating popcorn” I mean masturbating. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

As you have probably deduced from the quality of this blog, I come from a family that celebrates mediocrity.  In fact, as kids, my brothers and I would recite the Prayer Of The Ordinary every night: 

Our middle-management father, who art in the suburbs
Hallowed be thy favorite sports team
Thy three-bedroom, two-bath house come,
Thine will be done (as you say, not as you do)
As long as we live under your roof

Give us this day our daily allowance
Forgive us our sins,
as we forgive those who sin against us
(except our hillbilly neighbors whose dog is constantly shitting on our well-kept lawn)
Lead us not into temptation,
but don’t stop to ask directions if you happen to get lost.
For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory,
For now until we turn eighteen. 
Amen.

Unfortunately, it now seems that my lifelong devotion to mediocrity has manifested itself in bizarre way.   Despite not having dreadlocks or a third nipple, I have apparently turned into a medium.  Not a medium waistband or a medium wage-earner, but a spiritual medium that channels other souls. 

Over the past two weeks, every time I get finished exercising (physically, not spiritually, but still kind of profound don’t you think?) a face has appeared in my sweaty shirt.  Of course, being a mediocre medium, my channeling abilities are distinctly nondescript.   So, I was hoping maybe you could help me figure it out:

At first I thought it was this infamous family man... 

...or this cigar-chomping dictator (that sounds awfully gay, doesn't it?)...

...or even worse, this apple-pie-hating evil doer...

...however, my biggest fear is that it is only this local has-been/never-was:
 

How mediocre of me.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 01:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

Before your roust one of the Chuck Norris clones from the cryogenic deprivation chamber on back lot of TBS studios (this is where they are kept along with the Suzanne Somers clones in order to be readily available for the latest infomercial or straight-to-DVD project), let me assure you that I am not Missing In Action.  Nor am I Missing In Action II: The Beginning or Braddock: Missing In Action III.  If I were a horribly-written and poorly-acted action movie, then I would be Fair Game, but that’s only because I’d get to bang Cindy Crawford.

Anyway, I’m back now, but can offer no guarantee as too how long it will last.  You see, once again I have become obsessed with trying to figure out what the hell to do with my life.  Like changing my underwear, this is something I do faithfully every three or four months in between bouts of relative contentedness (and rash outbreaks). 

Ben Franklin said that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.  Then again, he was a fat adulterer who fled his debts and once wrote a letter to the Royal Academy of Brussels about farts?  So, in spite of flatulent Ben’s profundity, I’m going to return to writing my weekly column titled, “Now What?” in hopes that it will motivate me to figure my life out. 

The quick back story is that my job is just a paycheck, my 100 year-old house eats all my free time, I’ve self-diagnosed myself with O.C.D., A.D.D. and W.T.F.,  and my cat Max has unrealized superpowers.  Oh, and I don’t have cancer…yet. 

The goal of all this is to find a career, project, or religious cult that provides a higher level of satisfaction than merely capital or the naive notion that I’m making a difference.  I want to be the kind of successful man who, in the words of Bob Dylan, “wakes up in the morning, goes to bed at night, and in between, does what he wants to do.”  It was either that or he was asking someone to get him a cheeseburger.  Bob can be a little difficult to understand sometimes. 

So, starting next week, I will begin posting regular updates on one man’s incredible journey through dark times, where he bravely battles inner demons and the cable company, and miraculously survives to find fame, fortune, and a veritable bevy of hot broads. 

That, or possibly another constipation rant.  Either way, everyone wins.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 01:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)