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 (29) | 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 (13379) | 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 (511) | 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 (477) | 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 (95) | 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 (81) | TrackBacks (0)

I'm submitting my resignation letter today.  Here is my first version. What do you think? 

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?

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 06:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

After nearly ten years, the most enduring relationship of my life is suddenly coming to an end.  Despite having poured my heart and soul into it and sacrificing my best years, it has become increasing evident that there is no fixing what has gone wrong, no undoing what has been done.  Some cuts simply run too deep.

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.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 11:06 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I’ll admit that I can be a little particular.  Clutter makes me irritable and I like things to be in their specific place when I go to retrieve them.  But despite what Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. likes to tell people, I’m no Felix Unger.  I have never followed her around the house with a Dustbuster and a can of Lysol, nor do I wear an apron and frequent gay bathhouses. 

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.   

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

What’s in a name?  In your case, probably nothing more than a dog-eared page from a baby names book, an overtly pompous literary reference from a novel that neither of your parents ever honestly read, or their desperate attempt to get your rich great aunt to leave them in her will.  In my case, it is much, much more.  For example, many of you probably do not know that in addition to referring to my underwear preference, Commando is an official international title dubbed upon me by Fidel Castro for successfully drug mule-ing a pre-release copy of Grand Theft Auto IV into Cuba for his grandson’s birthday. 

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. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

It’s almost Thanksgiving!  To some that means opening your home to cretinous family members who spew out violent, spittle-laced racial epithets, decimate your liquor cabinet, and grope your unsuspecting teenage foreign-exchange student (“Hey, that’s mine! Get your own!).  To others, it means a trip to the hospital for a festive stomach pumping after overdosing on a mixture of un-oaked Chardonnay, tryptophan and “Christmas Story” reruns.

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. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:37 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

Forget the economy, al-Qaeda, and if you’re a talk radio fan, the eminent race war (which is ridiculous because the robots will ultimately kill us all anyway). The real question on everyone’s mind these days is: “Where’s Crunchy?  Where is our beloved hero?  Please return from your crystal fortress in Cleveland and save us from our meaningless, squandered lives with your nuggets of wisdom and the occasional undigested corn kernel of humor!”

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!

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 11:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

Among my plethora of enviable attributes such as possessing a vast vocabulary, unabashed humility and perfectly symmetrical piggies, I am also a political mastermind.  I offer up this post as proof.

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?!

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 12:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBacks (0)

I’ve never considered myself much of a Metrosexual.  My suits are generic.  My cologne is still in the box behind the counter.  And while I do boast fairly good personal hygiene (I have three out of my last five job performance evaluations to prove it), the closest I’ve ever come to getting a manicure is when I slice off a well-chewed, bloody hangnail with my trusty balisong. 

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.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Once again I must apologize to anyone who is wondering why the number of postings has tapered off.  Well, tapered off in the way that lemmings taper off a cliff. 

Anyway, lest ye bethinks me a slothful sod (that’s oldy-time talk), or peg me as a shiftless scurvy cur (that’s pirate talk), or a good-for-nothing punk who will never amount to anything (that’s binge-drinking daddy talk), I have a good reason for my lack of production.

I’ve been really freaked out about the shrinking face thing. Five weeks ago I went to a neurologist who had initially diagnosed me with Facioscapulohumoral Dystrophy (FSHD), a progressive but not particularly nasty form of muscular dystrophy.  (The neurologist’s name is Dr. Dick, a title which I could never actually bring myself to call him out loud for fear of igniting a convulsive case of the schoolgirl giggles, or worse, exposing myself as a juvenile hack.  I mean, at fifty-plus years old, what penis joke hasn’t poor Mr. Dick had to endure?*)  To confirm, he scheduled an appointment for me with a neuromuscular specialist at the Cleveland Clinic.  Problem is, the Clinic couldn’t get me an appointment for five weeks.  So I’ve had the pleasure of spending the last month plus of my life shopping for handicapped-accessible home modifications, cutting-edge ass-wiping devices, and eagerly anticipating all fantastic parking opportunities I would enjoy with my new disabled person parking pass.

Yesterday I had my appointment at the Clinic and, as it turns out, I don’t have FSHD.  And as far as my new favorite neuromuscular neurologist could tell, I don’t have anything nearly so alarming. More expensive and invasive testing is needed, but the prognosis at this point is pretty damn good. 

Dr Dick’s reponse?  “Oopsie!  Sorry about fucking up your worldview for the last five weeks.  That’ll be $250, please.” 

Aptly-named cocksucker.

By the way, I didn’t tell Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. or anyone else about the initial diagnosis as I did not want to cause anyone any distress before it was absolutely certain.  Not because of any noble intention, but out of fear that the love pipeline would suddenly be clogged by visions of bed-sore dressings and adult diapers.  I tend to think the least of people.  That’s just how I roll.

Anyway, yesterday I was prematurely deteriorating sad case, today I’m just a borderline hypochondriac with an oddly-shaped head and a whole shitload of writing to catch up on.  Let me tell you, being overwhelmed never felt so good. 

* My general doctor, the one who referred me to Dr. Dick, mentioned to me later she had once called his office to make a referral and that his receptionist told her that he was on vacation and that Dr. Seaman was filling in for him.  She said that, without thinking, she instinctively asked the receptionist if she was fucking with her.  Absolutely true story.

My doctor rules.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 11:46 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Having just turned 44, I can’t help but reflect on how my priorities have changed over the past four decades. 

Like most adolescents, my high school years were basically filled with pitiful attempts to get laid and a give-me-liberty-or-give-me-death attitude towards the fascist regime that called themselves my parents.  College brought even more pitiful and increasingly desperate attempts, and a give-me-liberty-or-give-me-death attitude towards the fascist regime that called itself Student Housing. 

By my late twenties, my biological needs finally started getting met (in much the same way that a famished Ethiopian needs are met when he gets unwittingly bonked on his thinly-skinned skull by an errant box of Uncle Ben’s that was swept out of  the cargo hold of a passing UNICEF plane).  While this only fueled my appetite, just knowing that intercourse with a woman was a real possibility helped to free up some of my waking moments to focus on an equally shallow endeavor: making money.  And in this new pursuit I was equally successful.   

Contrast that with my forties, where my main objective is simply avoiding cancer.  It’s kind of ironic that, having wasted the first have of my life chasing one c-word, I’m now spending the second half avoiding the other c-word.

Among other things, this fear has lead to a near-religious pursuit of all things fiber.  These days I eat so much roughage that I crap mulch.  My colon is basically a wood chipper. On the plus side, if I ever get nailed for that jaywalking rampage I went on last year, the mass unmarked grave of mattress tags in my backyard, or my international plutonium mail-order business (I doctor-up and re-use cancelled postage stamps), a bear-trap bunghole might serve me well in prison.  Or make me the belle of the ball.  I’m not really sure how that would work out.

Really, though, food has long been a problem for me. And like most of the problems in my adult life, it is the result of a vulnerable moment in childhood when I was wearing nothing but underpants.  There I was, a wide-eyed boy, innocent in the ways of the world, practicing my Gene Simmons impression in the full-length mirror on the changing room wall in the local Sears-Roebucks.  Suddenly a hand reaches into my stall, the hand of a trusted adult, and forever changed the course of my eight year-old life.

That was the day that my mother, well-meaning but practical to a fault, passed me a pair of “Husky” size Sears’ and ordered them put on.  Of course, I tried to fight back, but a child is no match for a desperate mother in the waning hours of a back-to-school sale.  

Later that evening, wrapped tightly in my cherished NFL bedspread on the lower bunk, a harsh new reality crowded out my carefree past.  I had started the day as just a kid, but I would end it as a fat kid, wholly aware and self-conscious of my undeniable huskiness.

By age ten I was jogging.  By eleven I was making my own lunches. By twelve, I was having nightmares about gorging myself on Snicker’s bars, waking up relieved and thankful that I hadn’t actually consumed those horrible, empty calories, and then falling out of bed into some push-ups for good measure. 

Ever since I have been plagued with the need to watch what I eat, to cautiously avoid the simple pleasure of the moment in case it leads to tomorrow’s ruin.  Ice cream?  I’ll have frozen yogurt instead.  Pizza?  OK, but just a slice and first let me dab off the grease.  Fudge? Get the fuck away from me with that shit, you maniac!

Now, staring down the barrel of 45, cracks are beginning to form in the foundation of my food-control philosophy.  In the past twelve months I have been side-swiped by the threat of testicular cancer, melanoma, and the whole shrinking face thing (still a mystery) despite a general lack of regrettable, unhealthy behaviors.  Were I able to blame Hostess, Mr. Hero or Frito-Lay for these brushes with death, there would at least be a feeling of control over my destiny.  It’s the difference between knowingly allowing the steering wheel to slide between your fingers and veer off the road, and being clamped down hard on the steering wheel and realizing it isn’t actually attached to anything.  As it stands, I’ve got nothing to blame and feel all the more helpless because of it.

Don’t get me wrong, I believe it is possible to minimize certain risks – don’t mount, in any sense of the word, a moving armored vehicle; don’t clean the sneeze-guard at the Denny’s all-you-can-eat seafood buffet with your tongue; don’t tease Darfurian warlords by tickling their earlobes with a tree branch - it is absolutely naïve (or arrogant) to think you can control risk as a whole.  Fat or thin, healthy or poxed, benevolent or belligerent, everyone but Molly Brown sinks when the Titanic goes down.  And who do you think felt better about themselves when the icy waters rushed in: the impulsive slobs who nabbed seconds off the dessert cart, or the smug discontents who mocked them for it?

Which, in lieu of a point, brings me to my conclusion: here is a list of forbidden foods that I vow to once again to enjoy, if only on occasion:

Chocolate Vanilla Crème Pop Tarts
Single-serving Bluebird Cherry Pies
Chocolate-Covered Oreos
Malted Milk Balls poured directly into my mouth from the carton
Macaroni & cheese, burnt around edges
Twinkies, Ding-Dongs and Ho-Hos. 
A wheel of cheddar cheese and a sleeve of Saltines
Pizza with double pepperoni
Captain Crunch
Deep-fried pickles
Crispy buffalo wings, extra hot
Mr. Hero’s Romanburger (quite possibly the unhealthiest combination of food items ever assembled)
Lime and Chile Tostidos by the fist-full
Any cupcake, anywhere, anytime
Chicken-fried steak with gravy
Elephant ears, or any fried dough within shouting distance of powdered sugar

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (18) | TrackBacks (0)

My mother-in-law, or as I like to call her by her given Indian name, “Shakes-A-Can-Of-Pennies-To-Discipline-Her-Dog,” was recently accosted in broad daylight while walking her pup.   She lives in a neighborhood that is gentrifying.  Not gentrified.  Gentrifying.  In other words, right next door to the yuppie gay couple who has spent tens of thousands of dollars to completely restore their 200-year-old Victorian home is a drug addict in an outhouse who would kill them both for ten dollars. 

It’s a place where the Neighborhood Watch Program is both a necessary safety precaution and an amazing form of entertainment.

It’s a place where whether or not the Historical Society will allow you to patch your siding with non-original materials is the immediate concern following the discovery of a bullet hole in the side of your house.

It’s a place where a drive-by gang murder attracts an equal number of drive-by revenge seekers and drive-by real-estate speculators.

It’s a bizarre, nonsensical stew of airport strippers and paint strippers, heroin junkies and antique junkies, lead glass windows and lead flying through your glass windows.

You get the idea.

For some reason, Shakes-A-Can loves this neighborhood.  Maybe it is because she is a very religious person and believes in helping people in need.  I mean if you love candy, work in a candy store, right?

Of course, that was until last Saturday morning.  As Shakes-A-Can was nearing her home with her new puppy, she passed by a fragrant, unkempt man and, as is her way, politely said hello.  The man promptly turned around and began to follow her.  Over the next few hundred feet, Shakes heard and felt his presence approaching behind her and, as the fear and adrenaline in her body rose to an unbearable level, she turned to confront her pursuer and instinctively screamed.

The man had his junk out and was waving it at her. 

Shakes screamed again and her eyes tore around the street for any sign of help.  Catching a man sitting on his porch across the street, she yelled for him to do something.  The response came, “No hablo anglais.”
 
Apparently to this latin douchebag, a crazy street urchin with his cock out chasing a middle-aged woman down the street is an impenetrable linguistics problem.  For all he knows, she could be yelling for him to come take pictures for her internet porn site, “Dog Walking Grandmas With Public Rape Fantasies.”

I’d like to punch this fucking asshole in the balls until he pukes up the lint from between his filthy toenails.

Anyway, Shakes-A-Can quickly grabbed up her puppy and ran home, arriving badly shaken but unscathed.

This is the extent of the story as Nerdy told it to me after speaking to her mother immediately after the incident. I, of course, had a lot of questions.  Unfortunately, to my amazement and disappointment, Nerdy had not thought to ask her mother these seemingly obvious questions.

First, what was the size of the creep’s unit, and was it flaccid or erect?  Other than sheer curiosity, this is a critical question is assessing the immediacy of the danger.  Small and flaccid, you’ve got time to consider the options and let out a chuckle or two before jogging off.  Big and hard, though, and you better run for your fucking life!

Second, was the way he was wagging it friendly or scolding?  If it was friendly, maybe the guy is just a street performer, an aspiring puppeteer who simply lacked the funding for a proper marionette.  If it was scolding, then the threat is more severe, especially if the scolding seems to be coming from the penis itself.
 
Third, what was he saying as he flailed his flounder?  “You’ve been asking for it,” in a deep, guttural murmur is a far different animal altogether than one who mumbles, “Elvis started the Iraq war to gain control of the world’s Skittle supply.”

The list of questions just goes on from there, but Nerdy didn’t even think to gather the basic facts.  I mean, there’s a great story here, and all she seemed to be concerned with was her mother’s welfare.  That’s kind of selfish, if you ask me.

Finally, Shakes-A-Can is a person who believes in signs and thinks that everything happens for a reason.  Everything.  Unlike nearly every conversation we have had, this is one that I’m really going to enjoy.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 11:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (17) | TrackBacks (0)

At the risk of turning this blog into the chronicles of my descent into total medical failure (or, as it may turn out, hypochondria), I want to talk about a recent visit to the dermatologist.

Like any red-haired, fair-skinned Irishman –ginger sods, as I like to call us - the sun is my mortal enemy.  Its white hot rays are veritable laser beams against my thin, pasty skin.  While some people see Jacob’s Ladder as a sign of a benevolent God who is welcoming us to Heaven, I see it as the sweeping search lights of the melanoma prison from which I am trying to escape, and I cower in my nakedness from their presence. 

Basically, I’m a vampire without the erotic bloodlust, immortality and kick-ass wardrobe.

Suffice to say, I don’t tan.  My skin pigment has a total of three tones; pink, baboon’s ass and baboon’s ass covered in bubble-wrap. However, it was not until I was in my mid-twenties that I finally accepted my crimson fate.  Throughout my adolescence and young adult years I basked in the sun in a moronic and feeble attempt to “train” my skin to tan.  This was the late 70’s, a time when protecting against sunburn meant wearing Coppertone SPF 4 (not surprising, I guess, from the same decade that believed protecting against venereal disease by wearing leisure suits).  In any case, I got sunburned.  A lot.

In an attempt to compensate to the merciless gods of cancer for my blistered childhood, I have spent most of my adult life avoiding the sun as the searing mass-murderer it truly is.   I also get an annual screening by a dermatologist in hopes of identifying and removing the inevitable freckle of death before it gets a chance to unpack its bags and settle in.

Yesterday I went to such a screening and the doctor found and removed a patch of skin above my left eyebrow for biopsy.   Now, I am in no way concerned that this patch is cancerous.  What I am concerned about is large, unavoidable and embarrassing Band-Aid they placed over the subsequent wound.  

As an adult, you simply cannot wear a Band-Aid without looking stupid.  Bandages are fine. Gauze with medical tape is even better.  Both signify something serious that required the attention of a medical profession and were “applied.”  But Band-Aids are something you put on yourself.  They are something you “wear” to draw attention to your hypochondria and germophobia.

That said, a Band-Aid on your head is simply ludicrous.  Place a bandage on your head, and you can grab a fife, a drum, two close friends and start a fucking parade.   But, as an adult, you cannot, CAN NOT walk around with a Band-Aid on your head.  It requires explanation. Otherwise people are just going to think you are trying to cover up a pulsating zit, a minor episode of spousal abuse, or you’re the type of idiot that wanders around in front of dart boards.  

(To paraphrase an analogy by the late, great George Carlin, if you “don’t feel good,” everyone will roll their eyes and think you’re just a pain in the ass.  But if you’re sick – “Excuse me, I’m sick!” - people will get out of your way in a big goddamn hurry.)

So here I am with a stupid Band-Aid on my head, a social event at Nerdy Squirrels’ office tonight and a business trip tomorrow.   What kind of first impression can I possibly make? 

“Hi, my name’s Crunchy.  Nice to meet you.  You’re probably wondering what this Band-Aid is on my head.  Well, I can assure you it is not a zit.  Ha ha.  Seriously, I might have cancer.  So, do you like baseball?” 

I always knew my skin would take its revenge on me, I just never thought it would be such a dick about it.  And when I do finally die, you better believe I will stop to load up on sunscreen before walking into the light.
 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

The other day I was scouring a security-free office building for items that might make fine additions to my eBay seller’s inventory.  I call it “prospecting,” though some facist authorities who are sticklers for the truth might argue my choice of words.  As I was weighing the resale value of a slightly-used standing ashtray versus the likelihood that I could fit a beige loveseat with a few sinister –looking stains into my Saturn, I felt nature calling.  The night before I had tried a Diet Coke and Mentos experiment with my digestive system using Taco Bell and Pabst Blue Ribbon and achieved surprisingly similar results, but with a bit more linger. 

Anyway, as I occupied a stall and stuffed the extra toilet paper rolls into my gym bag – doing business as I was doing my business, one might say – the bathroom door swung open.  I froze, certain that a hidden camera had filmed my prospecting, and began to consider the implications of my imminent Youtube infamy.  Just then a man’s voice rang out with words that stiffened my back and I immediately kicked a foot out to brace the stall door and protect my vulnerable condition. 

"I’m want to take it to the next level and am not afraid to get my hands dirty"

"Do you have an open-door policy?"

"I like to think outside the box"

"I’m a peep-hole person"  

Clearly upon re-examination this two-bit hack was reciting some last minute clichés for an upcoming and probably unsuccessful interview.  While I have certainly heard these phrases before during the numerous interviews in which I have conducted, sitting in the context of a men’s public restroom had a shockingly new and dare I say dramatic affect on my immediate interpretation.

At first I thought that I had become far more homophobic than I had ever realized.  But that’s not it.  Thanks to the likes of George Michael, Larry Craig, Tim McGreevy and the Wiggles (you know it’s only a matter of time), public men’s restrooms now share the same reputation as a Turkish prison and a cast afterparty of the traveling production of Rent. 

The good thing is that it is typically not an issue when there are three or more guys in the can, but when there are just two, it’s a Code Rainbow Alert.  Defense walls fly up, gaydars kick into full spin, and smart soldiers wear their war faces.  This is no time for chit-chat or friendly gestures.  Chances are if the other guy isn’t trolling for treats, he’s an undercover reporter looking for a quick story, and you better believe his editor can and will splice your,

“How’s it going, pal? See the game last night?  Yep, they lost again. I’m getting tired of watching them play eight innings of solid baseball just to see their closer come in and blow it in the bottom of the ninth,” 

into

“I’m going to blow your solid eight again and come in your bottom,”

without the slightest blip.

At least that is what I’ll be spending the next month trying to convince Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. to believe.

(POSTED FROM THE SUNNY, SANDY BEACHES OF COROLLA, BITCHES!)

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

My face is shrinking.  Seriously.  I’m not joking around. My face.  My charming, boyish façade.  My suspicious-mother neutralizer and lifelong host to my pie & pancake hole.  My.  Fucking.  Face.  Is.  Shrinking.

For some unknown reason – unknown not only to me but my orthodontist (the new braces being my first suspicion), family doctor, ENT (ears, nose and throat) specialist, and CT scan technician so far – my temples, cheeks and eyes are sucking into my skull.  It is as if Linda Lovelace got left behind in my cranium by the Fantastic Voyage crew and fell into old habit. 

The weird thing is that I’m not losing weight anywhere else on my body.  From the neck up I’m beginning to look like an albino Ethiopian with a fancy grill, but from the shoulders down it is blubbery business as usual. 

And it is driving me insane.

Over the past three weeks I have wasted a colossal amount of time and energy trying to figure out what the hell is going on.  Google and Lexis-Nexis (go, Nerdy!) searches have turned up nothing.  I poured over every option, from a brain tumor to a jilted ex-girlfriend with a newfound interest in voodoo, and have come up empty.  Did I accidentally peek when the Ark of the Covenant was opened?  Did I choose poorly and drink from the wrong chalice?  Did the horribly-disappointing new Indiana Jones movie destroy my brain’s will to live?  (Seriously, Mr. Spielberg, giant CGI ants and a CGI-enhanced swordfight with a gratuitous procession of nut shots?  You own me $8.)  I simply can’t figure it out.

I’ve got an appointment with a neurologist in a few weeks.  In the mean time I’ll try to post some photos so you can have fun diagnosing my likely life-threatening affliction. 

Oh, and I’m also going to Corolla next week to pickle my liver, provoke looming melanoma and pack my belly.  If my body thinks it can kill me before I do, then it has one final lesson to learn.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

An elementary school teacher and her class are on a field trip to a local research lab to marvel at the wonders of modern science:

“Look, children.  See the cute little monkey with its new robotic arms?  Look at how he peels his banana.  Monkeys like bananas, don’t they?  Yes, William, even monkeys with robotic arms.  No, Bobby, his arm will never rust.  It’s made of titanium.  In fact, his robotic arms will last his whole life and longer, and they’re super strong.  Oh look, kids! The monkey wants to give the scientist a great big hug to say thanks for his new robotic arms.   How cute!  Wait, what’s that trickling out of the scientist’s eyes…dear God, no!  Run!  Run, children! Run for your lives!!!”

And so begins the end of the world as we know it with the headline in last week’s New York Times, “Monkeys Control a Robot Arm With Their Thoughts.”

Have we learned nothing?  Apparently these arrogant scientists were too busy with their fancy book-learnin’ and self-experimentation (you know what I’m talking about) to learn the epic Hollywood lessons of the 70’s and 80’s. 

So let me spell it out for those pencil-necked sons-of bitches.

You don’t teach monkeys to act like humans, you don’t build artificially-intelligent supercomputers that have access to the Pentagon’s weapons systems, and you don’t buy your daughter a bunny rabbit and then screw some crazy broad when your wife is out of town!  Period!  End of discussion!

(Also, don’t have a toga party when you’re on double-secret probation, don’t forget to attach the electrodes to the Barbie doll when trying to re-create another perfect woman to impress your so-called bra-headed friends, and don’t drink an experimental weight-loss formula unless you want to spend the rest of your film career “acting” in a fat suit.)

Talk about the perfect storm of catastrophic scenarios.  Seriously, why didn’t these idiot scientists just attach chainsaws to the monkeys’ robotic arms, dip them in Ebola and call it a day?

And what about me?  Between mowing the grass and plucking the wild hairs out of my ears, who has time to stockpile food, weapons and cerebrally-uploadable martial arts software?  I mean, I understand the seriousness of the impending apocalypse and all, but it just doesn’t fit into my busy schedule right now. 

We have only one option that I can see; one hope that we no longer deserve. 

Save us, Tom Cruise.  Forgive us, and save us with your magical Scientology powers.  We’re sorry we made so much fun. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 01:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

If I had any friends and you asked them, they would probably have little trouble coming up with a list of my weaker characteristics.  Words like grumpy, germophobic, inadequately-cocked, discontent, syphilitic, and Irish-Protestant would surely litter the page.  But I doubt that a single one of my glamorous and sophisticated imaginary friends would ever describe me as vain.  Clothes, cars, jewelry, toupees or any other trappings of vanity simply have never held sway over me.  It’s not that I’m above being vain.  I just think being modest is far more attractive.

Central to my ongoing quest to appear humble has been a lifelong refusal to fix my crooked teeth.  To be honest, my choppers are not all that bad.  Strangers don’t frequently mistake me for a citizen of the British Empire, nor am I regularly commandeered by the National Park Service to help dam up rising rivers (that’s a beaver joke, folks!).  Let’s just say that that the nocturnal dental pixie that occasioned upon me as a child was less concerned with the “tooth” part of his job than the “fairy” part.  And for some strange reason, he always seemed to appear in the form of my Uncle Felix. 

Despite having a few nasty nippers (and a terrible childhood secret), I’ve managed to live well into my adult life without feeling the need to “correct my defects.”  Of course, in my early years this was less a conscious decision than a lack of an effective response to my dad’s standing prerequisite that I could “waste good money on (braces/a mini bike/a lock for my bedroom door) just as soon as you get a job.”  Later on, I embraced my jagged fangs as they served as a handy excuse for why I had not yet been discovered by Hollywood. 

Last week, at 43 ½ years old, I finally decided to get braces.  While vanity certainly does have a way of wearing a person down over time, especially when you reach the age where your hips are as likely to shatter as your dreams, I have a good excuse: the gum line between my bad teeth was receding (and here I was worrying about my hairline.  What else do I need to be concerned will recede?!!).  And though I might feel I’m a little too old to get braces, I’m quite certain I feel too young to get dentures.  So the decision was an easy one, other than the fucking price tag.

In any case, I’m now just twelve months and several thousand dollars away from a million dollar smile.  If this self-improvement project goes well, who knows?  There might be a pair of orthopedic shoes, an algebra tutor, and a case of Oxy-5 in my future.  Maybe I’ll even get around to addressing those inappropriate erections that always seem to be interrupting my job interviews and Girl Scout cookie purchases. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

After my father survived his emergency quadruple bypass surgery last week, I did what any responsible American son would do:  I dumped him in a nursing home and decided to jet off to Las Vegas and reward myself with a weekend of debauchery.   If that seems a little callous, rest assured that I fully intend to pick him up a souvenir Las Vegas ashtray at the airport on my way home (if I have any cash left).   Maybe I’ll even find a big one that can double as a bedpan. 

To my credit, I chose one of the most reputable skilled nursing facilities in Lake County for his two-week rehab stint.  Well, the most reputable that Medicare would buy, but now we are splitting hairs, aren’t we?  Anyway, we arrived at the old folk’s home on Friday at 3:00PM, which is apparently the same time that the old ladies hold their slow-motion wheelchair demolition derby.  Wheeling dad to his room, I had to dodge a veritable gaggle of grey geese who were toeing their way around the hallways, inch-by-creeping-inch, in search of their rooms, medications, and long-dead husbands.  Fortunately my driving skills are Steve McQueen-esque, and our arrival (and, more importantly, my imminent departure) was not seriously delayed.  And while there was a highly-concealed yet unmistakable scent of piss in the air – imagine a lush, sparkling lemon grove with a babbling brook of ammonia running through it – I had been assured that this was a great place to be, assuming you have to be in such a place.

So I stuffed some flowers in an oddly-shaped plastic vase, unpacked his bags, and headed home to pack my own.

In my former career, I did quite a lot of business in Las Vegas and made frequent visits to the city of vice.  Nerdy Squirrel, Esq, on the other hand, has never experienced the cheese-smothered majesty and self-inflicted carnage of the town that Bugsy built.  So we’re off to comb the Strip, marvel at Fremont Street, and, if no one blabs, make a visit to the Bunny Ranch.  Nerdy loves the idea of getting to pet a plethora of furry little animals.  Me, too, though I tend to like my hares a little less hairy.

Get it?!

P.S. Notice how brave and smart-assy I get now that everything worked out for my dad. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 05:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

**UPDATE**

Sincere thanks to all for your thoughts and kind words.  After resolving some lingering concerns, my dad is now doing well and rehabing nicely.  Thanks again.

This morning I’m sitting in the Lake West Hospital waiting room as my father is getting prepped for emergency triple by-pass heart surgery.   There was no accident, no incident.  He simply showed up for his annual check-up a few days ago and mentioned some fatigue. One thing lead to another, and two days later here we are.

My father is not an esteemed or accomplished man.  After dropping out of high school in the 1940’s to find work, he spent the better part of his life working swing-shift in a grueling factory job (for eight hours a day, his job was to lift 50lb. bags of chemicals off a conveyor belt and onto a scale).  Due to his ever-changing work schedule, he probably spent 2/3 of my childhood waking hours just trying to get a little sleep. 

Later, after a community-devastating lay-off by the factory, he went back to school and got licensed as a boiler-operator. 

Despite what one might call meager accomplishments, my father is honest, strong, hard-working, supportive, and as fair-minded a person as I have ever met.  Once during high school, when I was working at a dive fried chicken shack, I bragged in passing about giving some extra tater tots to one of my friends at the drive-thru window.  Hell, most of my co-workers were taking home boxes of frozen tater tots if not cash from the register.  Dad got very serious, sat me down and once again explained to me that you don’t take what isn’t yours, and you take care of what is.

Simply put, he is a good man.  Better than most.  Better than me.

Now I sit here in a hospital waiting room for the nurses to call my name.  Every time the recovery room doors open into the waiting area, the bile rises in my throat.  If they call too soon, it is bad.  If they call too late, it’s worse. 

In the mean time, I try to pass the time and keep my thoughts from getting carried away.  Some are bad.  Infection.  Stroke.  Death.  A few are even worse, because of what they say about me.  Will this interfere with my upcoming vacation?  Will I have to spend the next years of my life helping to care for him? If he dies, what is his estate worth? 

Still, everything I try to read blurs into nothing, and every attempt at small talk quickly dissipates into distant stares.  Writing this is all I can do to pass the time.

Another thing I will tell you about my father is that since he went from annual check-up to emergency open-heart surgery with the course of the last forty-eight hours, he has not complained.  No “why me?”  No “what if?”  No anger.  No regret.  He has continued to be in high spirits, joking with us, the nurses, and anyone who passes his way. 

Words simply can’t convey the anguish of watching my father in his hospital bed this morning, smiling and joking with his family, and wondering if this might be the last time I will see him.   I know that sounds dramatic, but it is nevertheless still true.

Just a few minutes before the anesthesiologist wheeled him away early this morning, he dad told us one last joke:

A man died.  After his funeral service, as the pall bearers were carrying his body from the church, they gently lost their balance and bumped into the doorway of the main entrance.  They heard a noise inside the casket, opened it up, and the man jumped out alive and started dancing a jig.

A year later, the man died again.   As the pall bearers were walking the casket out the door of the church, the man’s wife jumped up and yelled out, “Be careful of that doorway!”

Everyone dies.  Death is not a bad thing. Without it, life would be boring and ridiculous, not to mention a little crowded.  The trick is to know you’re going to die and then using that knowledge as motivation to live like you want.  It is a delicate balancing act, one that I have yet to master. 

Anyway, if it suits you, next time you walk through a doorway give it a bump and spend the day as if you just got a second chance at life, if for no other reason than that there are some out here who deserve one but might not get it.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 12:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

This week I joined a local fencing club.  That’s fencing as in, “I’ll run you through with my trusty rapier, you filthy cur!” and not “Psst.  Wanna buy a cheap HDTV, motherfucker?”  For most of my adult life, I have wanted to swing from the rafters with my sword dangling in the wind while shouting, “Ha haaaa!” without having to patronize a raucous nightclub in “the hip, artsy part of town.” I’ve found my excuse.  

The club offered a special eight-week introductory offer for $99, during which it was promised that I would have to purchase no equipment.  As an extra enticement, the introductory session culminates in a mock tournament, a feature that definitely appeals to my highly competitive nature.  And let me assure you, in two months the only thing that this dashing yet ruthless swordsman will be “mocking” are the bloody, wound-ridden corpses of his many felled opponents.

After registering, I was instructed to show up to the training classes wearing comfortable workout clothing.  While that might be perfectly suitable for Jimmy, the awkward, pimply teenager who fancies himself as the future Captain Jack Sparrow and will likely never know the warmth of a woman, I do not have time to fuck around.  In 60 days there is an important tournament, an aristocratic cage match, a round-robin duel to the death, and it is never too early to start intimidating opponents.  

To maximize my stealth and ninja-like mystique, I arrived at the first class wearing a black sweat suit.  Ducking in behind the other attendees, I moved to the nearest wall and dropped into a modified lotus position (modified because I have achy knees), and eyed my future opponents while whispering ominous gibberish and slicing at my throat.  Before long, I thought, the Master Swordsman would arrive and begin culling this sad assortment of soccer moms, geeky teens, and misguided middle-aged men, all of whom were so clearly undeserving of his wise and deadly teachings, eventually leaving only me to carry on his noble tradition.  My very own Pai Mei.

Instead, what appeared to be his portly stable girl emerged from the back room (Oh, how I desire to see the inner working of that chamber, sit at what is certain to be its ancient round table cut from a prehistoric tree, and trace my finger along the names of the brave knights that have been carved into it).  Wielding a cheap clipboard, she began to read off names and pelt the class with wildly unfunny jokes about Douglas Adams and Russian literature.  Eventually I heard my name.

“Crunchy Blue Commando?” the sad jester bellowed.

I snapped to my feet, certain that the Master was observing our every move from a secret spy hole in the wall.

“Yes, Censai!”

The giggles that emerged from the gallery were softened by the certain knowledge that they would all soon die by my own swift hand. 

Once all the names had been called, the Master’s lackey drew a saber to her side and asked us to line up.

“Cobra Kai!” I yelled, unable to control the instinct, and dashed to the front of the line to begin loosening my shoulders.

More giggles.  Their blood will run in rivers so sweet. 

The lackey continued.

“My name is (who cares), blah, blah, blah…”

Out of the corner of my eye I searched for our discreet and elusive Master.  Surely, I reasoned, this was a serious and hardened man who had defeated evil, who ate danger for breakfast (sprinkled with flax seed to assist with evacuation), and was not so careless as to expose himself unnecessarily to a corpulent band of misfits and wannabes.  He would watch and wait, only finally presenting himself to the class when we had been made ready to receive him.

Unless…

Unless he was already among us.   Disguised as an inept student, he could disarm us with his bumbling ruse, learning our every weakness and targeting our vital points.  Oh, clever Master!  You have already won my heart with your wise and judicious ways!

The lackey continued to yap as I redirected my gaze to my classmates with a newfound wonder.  Among these imbeciles is the one who will lift me out of my dreary, humble life and send me on the path of adventure and unbridled passion. How silly I was to indirectly challenge them all upon first entering the training facility.  How quickly I would have reached an unfortunate end had I unwittingly shoved, noogied, or Indian-burned my incognito Master.

Indeed, I have learned my first lesson, wise one.  For letting me live to see another day, I will forever be your dedicated pupil.  I will shed my old self like a bad case of psoriasis. My new name shall be Epee Le Pew.

Just then, the stable girl in the dirty t-shirt said something that caught my attention.  Surely, I had misunderstood.

“Sorry,” I pleaded, “Can you please repeat that?”

“Sure,” she smiled, as only a stupid and petty servant can. “I was just saying that even though I am the owner and head instructor of the school, please just call me Sue.  We like to keep it fun and light here.  Did you have a question?”

Yeah. How do I get my $99 back?

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (23) | TrackBacks (0)

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 12:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Upon finishing the last meeting of two days worth, I was in the mood to celebrate.  Hurrying out the door, I made the mistake of asking the moronic hayseeds I was there to school if they could recommend a good restaurant.

“If you like Mexican, there’s Pedro’s up the road,” came the reply.

Indeed I do like Mexican.  Pork tamales, black beans and chorizo, and a flight of top-shelf tequila sounded like an excellent way to celebrate my imminent departure from Wisconsin.  Pedro’s it was.

In fact, the thought of leaving the great cheese state was so exhilarating that I sort of forgot I was still there.  Mexican food in Milwaukee?  In hindsight, probably not the smartest choice I made this trip.  Of course, like any bad decision or bad relationship, when you look back it is always a bit startling to see the flashing lights and warning sirens that you inexplicably missed the first time around.

Entering Pedro’s, my first impression was that the place was too brightly lit.  Not bright as in a light and airy mood, but bright as in they got a great deal on 120 watt bulbs that “fell off” a Sam’s Club delivery truck.  Even with plate glass windows covering two of the four exterior walls, the sickly luminescence gave you the feel of an underground interrogation room.  Still, I was tired and hungry, and reasoned that the food must be good because they wouldn’t dare serve shitty Mexican under such searing and unforgiving lights.

A disaffected hostess asked, “How many?” and replied, “Follow me” without every making eye contact.  On the way to my table, I noticed a row of games and vending machines in the lobby.  This is never a good sign.  The presence of video games usually means that the restaurant is desperately trying to supplement its dying food business by catering to children and squeezing them for every quarter.  Not only will the food likely be bad, it will also be smeared and caked into every crevice of your booth, the flooring, the window panes and the ceiling tiles, not to mention the curious presence of nomadic Cheerios which aren’t anywhere on the fucking menu.

The restaurant was nearly empty, save for a large table of twenty-something girls that had clearly been exploiting the “Half-Price Margaritas on Thursday” special and a couple of behemoths whose measure of restaurant food quality was entirely a function of the quantity served.  I was beginning to suspect the worst and considering flight, but then I was promptly greeted with a basket of tortilla chips.

(To me, tortilla chips are as enjoyable as a lazy, expressive cliché that is on crack, is on steroids, is from Hell, and that makes you throw up in your mouth a little.  I’ll eat tortilla chips until my back hurts, and then lay down on a hard surface until I fish out every last crumb.   Me likey, is what I’m trying to say.) 

Crunching away on fistfuls of chips, I looked over and noticed a neon sign that said, “El Patio,” which, after asking, I learned is Spanish for “The Patio.”  It filled me with rage, and I immediately hated Pedro and anyone that had ever patronized his excessively incandescent establishment.  Had I seen this sign when I first entered, I would have punched the hostess in her unaffected face (she wouldn’t have seen it coming).  As it was, though, there were tortilla chips to eat.  However, I decided that if the menu was titled “El Menu” or the restrooms labeled “El Restroom,” I would vow to execute Pedro’s every living relation.

Just then the waiter approached.  He was middle-aged and appeared to be of Latin descent.  This gave me some hope.  I mean, Mexicans in Milwaukee must be rare, and if I had found the restaurant where they work, well it must be some kind of endorsement, right?  He asked if he could get me something to drink. 

“What beers do you have on tap?”

“Oh,” he replied without an accent, “mostly the usual stuff.”

All at once the retorts blistered through my mind. 

“That’s helpful.  You, sir, are an excellent waiter!”

“Sounds good, I’ll take it.” 

“Great.  My usual is Young’s Double Chocolate Stout garnished with a hooker’s severed finger.  It’s usually hard to find, but thankfully not here at Pedro’s!”

Fortunately my brain did the math before my mouth opened, and I figured there was another basket of chips with my name on it if I played my cards right.

“Hmm,” I squeaked out, “Do you have any dark beer?”

“Yes, we do.  It’s…um…um…”

“Modelo Negro?” I helped, offering the most obvious choice.

“That’s the one!”

Knowing I probably wouldn’t get another chance, I ordered two with a glass, barely stopping myself short of requesting a clean one, if that was even possible.  As he turned, I quickly stopped him.

“I’m ready to order, too, if that’s OK.”

“You bet,” he replied.  If nothing else, and so far there was nothing else, the guy seemed cheery.

“I’m torn between the fish tacos and the pork tamales.  Which would you recommend?”

“I would say the burrito platter.  It is the most food.” 

“Um, yeah.  I’m not really interested in the most food.  But say, what about the fish tacos?”

He shook his head. “Not so good,”

“Okey dokey. What about…hmm…the pork tamales?”

“It’s not very popular.”

“Right, but is it good.  Do you like them?”

“Yes, they are good, but the burrito platter is more popular.”
 
“Gotcha.  I think I have the tamales then.”

“With mild sauce?” he recommended.

Jesus. Clearly it was time for my good if mildly brain-damaged Mexican friend to learn that I was no novice white boy from Milwaukee who confuses Taco Bell as food and needs a thorough explanation of the mole sauce and instruction on how to pronounce it correctly.  I am a well-traveled man of the world, tolerant and well-versed in all things and damn near kin to his south-of-the-border culture.   A bold statement was needed.

“No, no,” I protested too much. “I like it spicy. Gimme your hottest sauce. ” 

“It’s very hot.  Are you sure?”

“Ha ha!  Of course,” I laughed, and dismissed his concern with a wave of my hand.

Eventually my food arrived. As it turned out, my insecure need to impress ethnic waiters (and damn near everyone else for that matter) paid off this time.  The tamales were total crap.  Fortunately, one effective way to maneuver though an awful meal is to devastate your taste buds with pepper sauce. 

A few hours later, as my white-knuckles were firmed latched onto handicap-assistance bar mounted on the wall next to my hotel room commode, I began to wonder if my waiter wasn’t actually Mexican at all, but rather Aztec.  A direct descendent of Montezuma, I suspect.  

P.S. Most of this post was written as I sat waiting for my bill to arrive.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 12:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

Subconscious, Inc
100 Cerebellum Avenue
Skullsville, ID 00001

Oliver Ben, Esq.
Ben, Dover & Taket, LLC
123 Hereitcomes Avenue
Cleveland, OH  44107

Dear Subconscious,

We are writing to inform you that our firm is issuing a Breach of Contract against your company and will be seeking damages on behalf of our client, Crunchy Blue Commando (CLIENT).  The details of our breach claim follow:

1. In its contracted duty as purveyor of dreams, Subconscious has continuously proved incapable of updating and maintaining accurate records regarding Client.  As a result, Subconscious has consistently failed to recognize that the Client is no longer in college, nor has he been for the past twenty years. 

2. Subconscious’s ineptitude in this specified duty continues to result inaccurate and inappropriate dreams in which Client has a college class which he has not attended all year, and the final exam that day.  

3. As a result of said dreams, Client has suffered a lack of sleep, has been forced to increase laundering of sweat-stained sheets, and has developed a generally cranky demeanor. 

4. While recognizing that Subconscious does have some contractual leeway in offering dreams of a historical nature, it is both inexplicable and gratuitous that these collegiate dreams are always negative.  Even though they are accurate in relation to the Client’s Introduction to Sociology course taken during his freshman year (and really, that stuff is just common sense, so why bother going to class), it is as if Subconscious refuses to recognize any of the good times Client had during college (i.e., the drinking, the drugs, the fabricated stories of getting laid).  We consider this malicious intent.

5. Given the malicious intent, Client hereby dissolves his contract with Subconscious as sole provider of dream material effective immediately.  From this point forward, all dream processing will be the sole responsibility of the testicles.  Any effort on the part of Subconscious to intervene or interfere in future dream processing will result in immediate retaliation against Subconscious, including but not limited to: erasing in memory the location of car keys, latent homosexual thought implants, and brain cell massacre via Sam Adams Winter Ale

6. Client will be seeking damages for physical and emotional distress, as well as exorbitant legal fees (Thanks, by the way).  In addition, Subconscious is expected to fully amend for all missed “cool dream” opportunities due to its negligence, be they wet or otherwise.

7. Finally, against our counsel, Client wishes to add the following direct statement: “Knock it the fuck off already, asshat!”

Sincerely,

Oliver Ben, Esq.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 06:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

9:00AM.
If anyone ever tells you that global warming doesn’t cause grave human suffering, ask them if they’ve ever been stuck in Indianapolis for a weekend due to a freak snowstorm.  Like me.  This. Very. Weekend.

Now I know how all those people in New Orleans felt when the levees broke.  I’m cut off from humanity, and getting more desperate by the minute.  I expect to begin looting by noon and will certainly kill and rape (yes, in that order) anyone unlucky or stupid enough to cross my frantic path.  And God help anyone who gets between me and the first fucking flight out of this Midwestern shithole stuffed with bacon and smothered in cheese.

9:28AM
All flights are cancelled today.  The worst thing about your flight getting cancelled is that the airlines don’t automatically reserve you a seat on the very next flight.  They will put you in the next available seat, but if all the flights are already full for the next two days, you’re totally screwed.  They won’t bump someone else in order to help you.  I guess they figure it is better to fuck a few people really hard than to fuck a lot of people lightly.

Even the adventurous are stuck.  Rental car companies are denying customers the option of one-way rentals and apparently police in Ohio are ticketing anyone foolish enough to attempt to drive on the interstate.  Fortunately the Mariott can board me for another night, but I’m sure I’ll get charged their special, extra-lubricant rates.  Fuck it.  Might as well get some exercise.

9:31AM
Of course, the hotel “fitness center” is a garage sale of mismatched, broken-down cardio equipment and single dumbbells.  Total joke.  Since there is nothing else to do, I’m going down to the front desk to bitch.

9:37 AM
Score!  My old-manish griping was rewarded with a free day-pass to the local Bally’s fitness center.  While I abhor Bally’s and everything they stand for – high-pressure sales, steroid use and spandex – at least they have free weights. 

11:26 AM
Feeling much better now.  On my way out of Bally’s, the nice-but-still-mullet-wearing desk guy pointed me to a good local breakfast joint.  Over short stack of blueberry granola pancakes and extra bacon, I had something of an epiphany.  Despite my travel savvy and uncanny ability to find or manufacture alternatives, I waste a colossal amount of time attempting to expedite my travel.  In fact, on a daily basis I am completely pre-occupied with being efficient and productive, so much so that I rarely take time to enjoy anything.  I just don’t have any fun anymore.

But today is beginning to feel like a reprieve.  I’m stuck.  There is no driveway to shovel, no walls to paint, no budget to recalculate, no demands on my attention.   Why not try a little fun for a change? 

Speaking of change, I don’t have any clean clothes.  Hell, I only expected to be here for a day and a half, not four. Guess I’d better find a laundrymat.

12:56 PM
Fresh, warm boxers feel yummy on my frosty testicles.  I noticed a Kohl’s on my way back from the laundry.  Think I’ll head over there and buy a swimsuit so I can splash around in Mariott’s festive pool this afternoon. 

2:14 PM
When I asked a young clerk where the men’s swimsuits were located, she said, without a hint of humor or sarcasm, that they’d probably be in the men’s department.  Sensing a family history of service-industry work and mild retardation, I followed up with a stoic request for specifics.  She shrugged, and then just stood there staring at me, as if waiting for me to dismiss her ignorance.  I quickly obliged, as it was very uncomfortable and I was in a big hurry to mumble insults at her under my breath. 

Before I go swimming, I think I’ll find a cozy corner in the lobby to work on my awful, half-baked screenplay. 

8:51 PM
Nice baR in lobbby..   GOod Sam Adam’s Winter Ale!  mAKes me happiness!.. 

8:52 PM
(yack!)

8:54 PM
I sink I shit myseff.

8:58 PM
(yack!)

9:05 PM
(zzzzz)

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Ever since we returned from vacation, I have had an ongoing, putrid case of flatulence the reliability of which is only matched by its sheer rank.  While I would never argue that my “regular” farts don’t stink, these post-cruise prison breaks have been particularly pointed (yes, I know, alliteration is for queers).  Worse, they linger much, much longer than a respectable fart should, sticking in the air like rancid, beefy Napalm.   I’m thinking of calling them my Mike Huckabee farts.

While this affliction might sound like fun to many of you – just another weapon in the arsenal of inappropriate behaviors you unleash on your fellow Wal-Mart shoppers every weekend – I am becoming concerned.  It’s been nearly three weeks.  The cats have shunned me, I’ve been banned from Continental First Class, my wife wears a surgical mask to bed, and I can barely afford to keep fresh batteries in our overworked smoke alarms.    

But what could it be?  Did I contract a rare illness from a ship toilet seat (besides the two cases of crabs and ongoing bouts with chlamydia)?  Did a Dominican Farting Weevil burrowed inside my colon during our hiking trip through the rain forest?  Or am I unconsciously assimilating the common characteristics of the cruising crowd, like clipping coupons, complaining about noise and criticizing my children (so I’m queer, so what)? 

Anyway, if it doesn’t go away in the next week or so, I’m going to go see my doctor.  That will mean multiple humiliations like a stool sample, vivid descriptions of my air biscuit blitzkrieg, and a digit or two (if I’m lucky) in my dung button.  Last time I saw her, she had to fumble with one of my balls to rule out cancer.  Not sure how I’ll top this one. 

Is it too late in life to sprout a conjoined hermaphrodite twin with Tourette Syndrome?

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 03:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

Celebrity’s motto is that they will treat you like a celebrity, which is entirely appropriate for me as I write a blog.  Well, at least twice during the course of the week the housekeeping staff made eye contact with me.  Exactly what celebrity are they treating me like?  Gary Burghoff?  Also, when I tried to send the little brown man who was polishing our toilet bowl out to get me some coke, he acted as if that was not part of his job.  Treated like a celebrity?  I think not.

On several occasions, after promptly arriving for dinner (properly pressed and dressed, of course) we waited up to five minutes before our wine steward, a trained foreign monkey without the brains or decency to speak English to us without an accent,  arrived at our table prepared too fetch our choice of vintage.  Savages in sailor suits do not sommeliers make, Celebrity.

On Thursday morning, there were three people in line ahead of me at the omelet station on the starboard side of the breakfast dining room. Three people! A virtual fucking bread line! The only explanation I could come up with was that the theme of the day was celebrating life in the Eastern Block.  Anyway, to get into the spirit of things, I got drunk on vodka and kicked an old woman in the groin with a pair of standard issue boots.  I must admit, it made me feel a little better about the omelet thing.  

During our morning constitutionals, it was often quite windy on the Promenade Deck where the quarter mile walking track was located.  This is simply unacceptable.  If I was the type of person who liked having his hair mussed, I’d spend my vacations chasing tornadoes with deranged hayseeds in Kansas.  But I’m not, as evidenced by my possession of a luxury cruise ticket.  So encase the ship in some fucking Plexiglas already.   

The day we arrived in Dominica, it was Carnivale, a savage bastardization of our traditional Fat Tuesday celebration in America created by the fabulous chain of daiquiri bars of the same name.  Even though a giant ship of fat, freshly-scrubbed white people with designer fanny-packs full of real American money to trade for their local wares had just arrived at their shabby little port, the Dominicans saw fit to ignore us and continue dancing in the streets, even if it meant partially blocking our guided tour’s path to next t-shirt vendor.  It made me so mad that I spent my afternoon tracking down that old woman so I could kick her in the cunt again.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

At 6:10AM tomorrow morning, Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I will be departing the cold, gray, socially-and-economically-barren landscape of Cleveland, commonly known as the Kazakhstan of the American midwest, for the warm, sunny, socially-and-economically barren island of San Juan, commonly known as the Cleveland of the Caribbean. 

After briefly sampling San Juan's finest Corona lagers and filthiest prostitutes (Hey? Is that where nacho cheese comes from?),  we will proudly board the Celebrity Summit for seven days of lust, greed, gluttony and sloth.

Hopefully, you are furious with envy.

So long, suckers. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 11:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

So far, today has been a good travel day.

After a sleepless night, agonizing over spending the next four days (yes, including Saturday) at a work conference, I woke up late to a freezing house.  Shriveled and shivering, I sprinted about to shit, shower, shave and shove-off (never underestimate the importance of completing these tasks in the proper order) in record time.  Backing out of the driveway and pulling into the street, the dark, frigid morning appeared unusually fuzzy.  I had forgotten my glasses.    

Eventually I arrived at the airport parking garage which, despite them giving me a ticket and allowing me to enter, was full-fucking-up.  I raced laps around the lot with the other snooze-button slaves, eventually spotting a single, partially-obstructed space next to a pick-up driven someone who is apparently incapable of coloring within the lines.  Some back-and-forth aligning allowed me to squeeze my old Saturn into the tight spot, at which point I took no small amount of pleasure in viciously smashing my door into the inconsiderate fuck’s stupid truck.

From there I double-timed it to the check-in counter, dodging in and out of and every dilly-dallying asshole in my path while vulgarly cursing them and, preemptively, anyone else who threatened to drift close.  When the escalator opened up into the ticketing area revealing the bag drop and security lines, my sphincter collapsed.  No way was I going to make my flight.

Fortunately the bag drop line moved quickly, and I darted over to a little-used security checkpoint at the ass-end of the airport that is rarely used.  After more running, dodging, and cursing, I finally arrived at my gate with ten minutes to spare.  

Delayed.  Mechanical issues.

First, it was 30 minutes.  Then an hour.  Then two.  Two hours and forty-five minutes after our scheduled departure time, I finally boarded my five-hour, cross-country flight. 

So, you ask, how could this be a good travel day?  First Class, bitches.  Getting upgraded to First Class changes everything.

Cushy seats, free booze, delicious meals, warm cookies, sexy and slavish flight attendants, gregarious companions, stock tips, low-interest loans, relaxing back rubs and happy endings.

Plus, they plan fun activities to occupy your time between naps, like guessing in which coach passenger’s complimentary thimble of soda the coach flight attendant will unknowingly shed the outer layer of her giant, hairy mole (that’s good protein!).

It just goes to show, it’s the little things in life that matter.  Like feeling superior to other people.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 01:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

I’m no pack rat.  Unnecessary clutter makes me anxious and I like nothing better than getting rid of stuff I no longer need or want (unless, of course, that unnecessary thing might turn around and sue me for half the stuff I actually do need or want). 

However, there are certain items that I just can’t bring myself to throw away.  Typically, these are things that I feel I might need some day.  Unidentified keys, expired warranty cards,  random screws and bolts, old girlfriends’ phone numbers, and my future to name a few.

Topping the list, though, is medications.  The drawer in our hall closet is a DEA agent’s wet dream of stockpiled drugs.  There are leftovers from previous illnesses and injuries (Zyrtec, Vicodin, some generic penicillin, and a miraculous ointment about which I refuse to comment), expired over-the-counter remedies (for the four “C”s:  cold and flu, constipation, cortisone, and the craps), and so many random pills littered across the bottom of the drawer that it looks like the floor of an M&M factory.

(When I was a kid, I imagined the M&M factory as a magical workshop where Christmas music is playing over the loudspeakers and giant, framed posters of Pixar movies decorate the walls.  Inside five distinct, brightly-colored conveyer belt lines (red, green, yellow, orange and blue, of course!) made of taffy are each manned by a team of whistling leprechauns in color-coded jumpsuits.  At the beginning of each line a giant, fat rabbit dressed-up as a distinct superhero is happily grazing on a steady diet of candy canes and sugarplums.  Sparkling pixies zip to and fro overhead carrying large, festive syringes filled with antibiotics which are continuously injected into the rabbits to stave off illness and disease because rabbits are herbivores and their digestive systems were not meant to digest processed sugars.  Oh, and intravenous tubes connected to each rabbit’s right eye-socket – the eyeball is removed when the rabbits first arrive - pump a continuous flow of dye (red, green, yellow, orange and blue, of course!) into its bloodstream.  At the end of the line, imported child-labor from North Korea paint little “M”s on each candy by hand using a lead-based paint and a pointed stick they must continually sharpen with their own teeth.)

The Holy Grail of my stash is my EpiPen, an epinephrine auto-injector that, despite having expired in 2003, I am certain will say my life someday, probably from shadowy alien invaders who can pinpoint earth from light years away but still have to rely on prosaic crop circles to find a good landing spot; who can easily survive in our atmosphere yet biologically generate a airborne poison mist that is released from their wrists like Spiderman or some shit; and who can be killed with plain old water but are magically affected by rain or dew or humidity or every other fucking thing in our world that is made up 90% water.  Knowing my EpiPen is safely tucked away gives me comfort, as does the baseball bat mounted on my wall.

Anyway, having had a bad cold the past week, I’ve been ingesting massive amounts of symptom reducers.  On Wednesday morning, to my surprise, I had eaten through all the leftover cold medicine we had amassed, all except for a 24 Hour Sudafed Extended Release tablet containing 240 mg of pseudophedrine sulfate that expired in 2006. You may also know this product by its street name, crystal meth.

Sudafed’s website says you should stop using this product if you feel nervous, dizzy or sleepless.  And for the next 24 hours, I felt exactly that.  It made me as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs being rocked by horny old men who like nothing better than sodomizing long-tailed cats.  It made me as dizzy as a glue-sniffing dervish riding the Roundup on smaller, earth-like orb with a much faster planetary rotation.  It made me as sleepless as Seattle (they drink a lot of coffee there).  And I was as queasy as queasy person who takes expired medications on an empty stomach.

But I didn’t have the slightest bit of nasal congestion or sinus pressure.  So maybe I’ll just hang on to the rest of the Sudafed for a while.  Just in case.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 05:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (30) | TrackBacks (0)

When last we left our daring crusader, his archenemy, the fetid bitchtard Supervisor, had trapped him inside her evil work-piling-on machine and then, as usual, went home early for the day.  CB Commando was rapidly losing strength and had collapsed on the floor beneath a crushing mound of manila folders.

WILL THE EVIL BITCHTARD DRAIN OUR HERO OF HIS WILL TO LIVE???

IS THERE ANY HOPE FOR ESCAPE BY 5:30PM???

COULD THIS THE END OF CRUNCHY BLUE COMMANDO'S PLANS FOR THIS EVENING???

*ahem*

Anyway, after a lengthy bout of procrastination, it’s time to delve back in to the process of figuring out my career path.  For several months, the conspicuous absence of stupidity at work had lulled me into a false sense of contentment.  Well, the last two weeks have more than made up for it.  In any case, if I presume to have more sense than a frog, then I should get busy hopping out of this pan before the water starts boiling…again.

The first thing I need to do is to build a framework for making a decision.  An effective approach might be to layout my long-term goals alongside my short-term needs.  Then, taking a birds-eye view, try to find a healthy compromise.  Hopefully, for your sake, hilarity will ensue.  Before I do that, though, I want to remind myself of the pitfalls or distractions that always seem to side track this process and/or affect my decisions-making.

In the end, the one with the most toys wins!
This is only true if one of those toys is human cell Re-Animator  or a Cherry 2000.  Otherwise, in the end, everyone just dies.  The more shit you have, the more time you have to spend polishing your shit.  And time is the only real asset anyone has.  Besides, wealth and accumulations can always be lost, get stolen, or be spontaneously combusted when placed in the microwave to dry. 

Wax on, wax off, Daniel-son.

Keeping up with the Joneses.
While similar to the previous pitfall, all I need to remember here is that Mrs. Jones keeps trying to bang the paperboy, and Mr. Jones listens to Huey Lewis and the News.  In other words, the Joneses are total shitbags.  And a bag of shit tied off with a big, fancy ribbon is still a bag of shit. 

Social climbing and blind ambition are bright, shiny ideas that attract people with the insight of a moth, and to the same end. 

There is always tomorrow.
Time is the only thing of real value I have.  It’s constantly diminishing, and there is no way to replenish it.  Every hour I spend doing something I hate is an hour I could’ve spent enjoying my life.  More free time is more gooder, so move your ass, old man!

Isn’t my life good enough as it is?
According to Abe Maslow, I’ve got it pretty good.  All my Physiological, Safety and Love/Belonging needs are being met (though, in my opinion, you can never have too many Chinese throwing stars or blow jobs).  Still, it is not like I’ll get second shot at this.  Life is like the Superbowl of, well, life.  Except the commercials suck.

That settles it!  I’m going to make a change. But first, the garage could sure use a fresh coat of paint.
I’ve got to figure out a way to avoid getting sidetracked and bogged down in tasks that provide immediate gratification and little else.   It’s not like spend my days touching doorknobs or counting toothpicks, but I definitely have some strong obsessive tendencies with a little anal retentiveness sprinkled in.  I don’t think I need therapy, but I could certainly benefit from someone coaxing the paintbrush out of my hand and talking me down off the extension ladder.

I’m going to have to figure this one out.

Opportunity is a whore.
Most of my career has been spent chasing good opportunities.  And while those opportunities may have afforded me a pretty nice life, in and of themselves, they haven’t gotten me any closer to what I want to do/be.  Or knowing what I could do/be.  Or having the faintest fucking idea what I want to do/be.  Do/be, do/be, do.  

My point is that, like Jehovah’s Witnesses, opportunities don’t care whose door they knock upon.  And sometimes undercover DEA agents can look a hell of a lot like Jehovah’s Witnesses.  So unless the opportunity is one I clearly recognize and am expecting, I need to just pull the shades, flush my stash and hide quietly in the closet until it goes away.

That’s it for the pitfalls I need to avoid.  Oh, and I should also avoid Blockbuster, internet porn, YouTube, my bellybutton (don't ask), poker sites, and Bob, my stupid neighbor who likes to tell me stories with no end when I’m trying to move the fucking groceries into the house.  If I can navigate all these obstacles, then hopefully I can focus my full attention on…hey, what time is the Democratic debate on tonight?

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

I've been sick for the past week. It all started when Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. had a cold and absentmindedly* used my toothbrush instead of her own.  Two days later I woke up and choked out a slimy, bloody brick of snot the size of a fucking quarter.  Since then, my head has been like ten pounds of mucus in a five pound sinus.  

I did try to write a few things in between massively imprecise doses of Nyquil, but for some reason none of the words I typed included any vowels. Anyway, I’ll try to have something tomorrow.

In the mean time, let me solidify my lameness in your eyes by offering the following video which I think would be hilarious even if I weren’t chemically imbalanced from a dog’s breakfast of OTC medications.

I F H Mondays - Watch more free videos

* Other words you might use here include: inconsiderately; passive-aggressively; or in-a-calculated-attempt-to-make-me-pay-for-being-less-than-empathetic-during-her-own-episode-ly.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:24 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

It wouldn’t be Christmas without Burl Ives.  Not only does he belt out the coolest holiday sing-along ever, “Holly Jolly Christmas,” the man actually looks like Santa Claus. He owns December the way that Mr. T owns the afro-hawk or Rosie O’Donnell owns erotically-devoid lesbianism. 

During the other eleven months of the year, however, Burl Ives needs to be packed away in a musty attic with the other Christmas decorations.  And there he must stay until next Thanksgiving or the day when someone finally unearths the long lost recording of “Holly Jolly Arbor Day.” 
_____

I’m going miss you, Christmas Ale from Great Lakes Brewing Company, with your festive bottle, spicy bouquet, and 7.3% alcohol content.  No more regaining consciousness in my neighbor’s rose bushes covered in a crispy coating of frozen Christmas cookie vomit.  No more head-butting the Salvation Army lady outside of Giant Eagle just to “ring her bell.”  No more waking up at 4:00 AM inside a running clothes dryer. 

_____

A week before Christmas my annual holiday bonus arrived: two AMC movie tickets. I don’t expect much, but seriously, what the Christmas fuck?  Am I the freaking paperboy?  Hell, at least Clark Griswald got a different jar of jelly every month. 

Seriously, go fuck yourself with an oversized candy cane coated with jagged, crystallized sprinkles of AIDs.

_____

I witnessed a holiday miracle on Friday.  The name on the boarding pass of the person in front of me in line for my flight to Indianapolis on Friday was Richard Wacker.  I swear to Santa.

What a struggle it must be for poor Dick.  You know he wakes up every day and says, "This is it.  Today, I'm going to finally change this awful fucking name of mine," and then wimps out for fear that his father, Willy, and grandfather, Pudding (better known as "Pud") will roll over in their graves in disappointment.  At least he has it better than his son, Jerksoffalot.
 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 11:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

As with Noah, Derek Anderson, little baby Jesus and George W. Bush, I too have been chosen by a higher authority to do something seemingly beyond my abilities.  Unlike the fourth (and hopefully not the second), I intend not to disappoint.

Last week my boss, my so-called superior, the chemically-imbalanced ex-hippie who annually rewards me with a 3% cost-of-living raise and is always surprised when I’m not duly “re-energized,” asked me to be a presenter at our annual national conference. This is a conference where hundreds of do-gooders come from across our great nation to pat themselves on the back, bitch about how busy they are, skip training sessions, drink excessively and come out of/go back into the closet. 

Since I’m an official presenter, I was asked to write a BIO about myself to distribute to the attendee(s) at my training session.  Let me tell you, writing my own BIO is truly the most difficult and unfulfilling form of masturbation in which I have ever engaged.  And you are hearing this from a man whose linen closet is basically a sanctuary for protein stains.

Anyway, here it is:

Crunchy Blue Commando has been with The Organization since 1999.  He served as the first Executive Director of the Ohio Chapter, taking it from $0 to $500K in four years. Since 2003, Crunchy has served as a Regional Director, during which his major focus has been to create and refine board development and strategic planning materials for The Organization.  He has also facilitated and participated in numerous strategic planning retreats with Chapters across the country.

(Here’s where it starts to go bad).

Before arriving at The Organization, Crunchy actually held a number of real jobs working with normal people who produced tangible things, and during which he was compensated quite fairly.  Several of his more notable position include: the Vice President of an international trading company, and the Director of Marketing for a computer hardware manufacturer. He holds an MBA in Business Management, a valid Ohio driver’s license, and, if properly dared, up to 15 peeled eggs within the confines of his rosy cheeks.

And yes ladies, the carpet matches the curtains.

Finally, Crunchy is an award-winning yo-yo-ist (famously known for coining the phrase, “Yo-yo, Mama!”), a raisin bran aficionado, and writes an awesome blog under a highly-secretive pseudonym which none of you fuckholes will never ever know. 

He is survived by his wife, Nerdy, an iPod Classic, and two cats, Max and that other one.

Whadda ya think?

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Several months ago I joined the board of a local hunger charity in hopes that the experience would help me to hate people a little less.  Especially poor people.  I really hate the poor, with their loud, grumbling stomachs and their constant begging for free medicine to cure their awful children of the rickets or scabies or gout or whatever. 

Plus, I needed put some credit on my “Get Out Of Being An Asshole Free” card.  It’s been an angry couple of months.

Anyway, a big part of my regular “paying” job is to spend colossal amounts of time attempting to convince the local boards throughout our organization to make fewer idiotic decisions.  While I think I’m pretty good at my job (and would surely be an improvement over you at yours), the vast potential for improvement all but guarantees success. 

So I thought that joining a local board would be a neat little twist for me.  Instead of trying to sway people away from the alluring glimmer of stupidity, I can just say, “Listen, dipshits, I do this for a fucking living.  If we were making a decision about purchasing a colostomy bag or fixing macaroni & cheese from a box, then we’d ask you.”  

Volunteering is good for the soul.

Here’s the thing though: volunteers are inherently lazy.  People who sit on boards will gladly let you make the decisions. Gladly, as long as you do all the actual work which results from the decision.  Then, once it’s done, they will linger around to scrutinize your work like an IRS agent who’s been assigned to audit a titty bar.

Here’s another thing: extremely smart people mysteriously lose IQ points when they volunteer. Having worked with volunteers for over a decade, this one has always perplexed me.  I’ve seen everything from business executives standing around watching old women stack boxes of t-shirts (“Oh, do you want us to help them?”),  to young professionals with college degrees ask me if they should put the coffee cups over by the coffee pot.  It is a truly amazing phenomenon.  It’s as if the mere good intention of volunteering caused some sort of massive, temporary head trauma. 

Here’s the last thing: lazy, stupid volunteers like…no, expect…to be made to feel good about their lazy, stupid efforts.  Everyone in the biz knows this.  It is a sunk cost of doing business as a charity.

And in my new role as a volunteer board member, it is the thing I have struggled with the most. 

After every board meeting, our Executive Director (the senior paid staff member) takes a few minutes to share an anecdote about someone who was helped by the organization.  I’ve learned to tolerate this. 

Last week, however, in the “spirit of the holiday season,” instead of an anecdote she decided to read a children’s book.  Not a passage from a children’s book.  Not a few pages from a children’s book.  This overweight, sixty-something woman rose up from her chair, moved to the middle of the room and performed an entire fucking children’s book, complete with voices, animated gestures and animal noises to a group of adults.  It was like watching the severely-disabled bastard child of Captain Kangaroo and Nurse Ratched perform her very own made-up one-woman show. 

The moment was surreal.  I couldn’t make eye contact with anyone, and it took every bit of my will to not jump up and scream, “What in the name of all that is decent and sane are you thinking?!   Please, please tell me you are drunk.  Please, just say it so I have a plausible reason to wipe this retarded episode from my mind without another thought.  Otherwise, someone will have to been thrown off the room of this building tonight.” 

But I didn’t.  I just sat there and stared at my notebook for the longest 20 minutes of my life.

Now I hate people even more.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 05:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Last week Nerdy Squirrel, Esq.’s co-clerk and her father went to Vietnam to visit her sister for the holidays.  Whether her sister is a missionary, a POW, a lethal CIA agent posing as a communist, or playing the doomed love-interest in Rambo V is unknown to me. 

In any case, N.S. shared with me an email her co-clerk received from her sister prior to leaving.   I’m sharing it with you because 1) it is interesting and funny, 2) it totally captures my experience in Asia in the 90's, and 3) her co-clerk is in Vietnam and can’t stop me from doing so, and will likely not return alive anyway due to bird flu or mistakenly approaching a smiling little Vietnamese girl who has a bomb strapped to her chest.  Oh, and lastly, because then I don’t have to write anything.

Enjoy.

Dear Dad and (co-clerk's name),

Here are some things about Vietnamese culture/lifestyle that you should be aware of before you arrive, just so you don't get confused/horrified/angry.

Here they don't use "please" and rarely use "thank you". They don't tip in restaurants (but I'll tell you about traffic
and eating habits when you arrive).

They serve unsweetened iced (green) tea with EVERYTHING.

They add HEAPING tablespoons of sugar to almost all beverages(except ice tea), regardless of whether or not it's been pre-sweetened. I know what to say to avoid this, don't worry.

They eat their fruit with salt and chillies.

There is often meat in tofu dishes (not at vegetarian places, obviously! Although they have loads of fake meat.)  And they serve shrimp paste with fried tofu.  We'll watch out for this, don't
worry, (co-clerk's name).

Picking one's nose in public is a national pastime.  Ditto for ears and teeth.

Public urination is normal.

Not washing one's hands after going to the bathroom is normal.

They don't really use toilet paper either (they have hoses and drains, thanks to the French, I'm guessing) and squatting is pretty
 standard.

Janitors of the opposite sex occassionally clean the bathroom while you're in there.

Littering is acceptable because trash collectors are always clearing it away (there are 3 trash cans in the whole country, I think).
     
People eat out of the trash (including the janitors at my language center!).

It's normal and acceptable to push or even elbow people if they are in your way.

Standing in line is literally a foreign concept to them.

Smacking kids/each other is completely normal.

People don't hug face to face, but putting their arms around each other is okay.

People hold hands with their same sex friends, but not with their husbands/wives or boyfriends/girlfriends (this is changing).

Women wearing sheer clothing is completely acceptable, even in formalsituations (think white shirt with a black bra or even an open back shirt with a bra).  It's showing your shoulders that is considered sexy and risque in some cases.

Carting around live animals in teeny tiny cages (whether to be sold as pets or meat...or both!) is common.

Selling raw meat on the street is normal...sometimes directly on the street. (But it doesn't smell because they keep it fresh!)

Blatant staring/pointing and laughing at people is also standard.

Aren't you excited?  :)  I'll email you with more if it comes to me.

Love,
(sister)

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

After making the mistake of ordering the homemade meatloaf for lunch at a family-style restaurant,  I was belching like a strip mall Santa at a beer-drinking contest.

Then I swallowed a homemade concoction of nutmeg and cinnamon, now I'm a bursting with the scents of the holiday. 

P.S. I'm so pleased with myself that tomorrow I might try shoving a pinecone up my ass.  Hopefully I won't end up at the emergency room this time. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 03:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

As a charity insider, I’ll let you in on a little secret:  we love to hit you up for money around the holidays. 

Why?  Because we know you’re a different person then.  Four weeks ago you wouldn’t stop to piss on a burning homeless man on your way home from a water drinking contest.  “It’s a waste of good piss.  He’ll only drink it away,” you said.   Instead, you went home, filled up another milk jug with your “essence” and saved it in the back of your closet with the others and your “emergency jumpsuit” made entirely of human hair. 

After Thanksgiving, though, you go through a metamorphosis.  Suddenly, as if mutated by irradiated tryptophan during a mishap at the Butterball laboratory, you turn into Happy, Drunken Holiday Man.  And Happy, Drunken Holiday Man is fast and loose with his cash.  Now, the very same homeless man, charred and, ironically, reeking of piss, only has to tickle a little bell in your general vicinity, and you’ll gladly stumble over to empty the pockets of your loose-fitting khaki Dockers.

Yep.  We love Happy, Drunken Holiday Man.  Especially if we can hit you up when you’re out holiday shopping, fully in the spirit, half in the bag and feeling all smug about the crass diamond pendant you picked out for your ugly wife at some shitty mall jewelry store. 

So beware. 

For me, I enjoy making a sport out of spotting bogus charity pitches.  Like the other day when I went out to get some coffee to combat the excessive drowsiness I was feeling from the Allegra D that I’m taking because of an apparent allergy to our Christmas tree.  Right there at Caribou was my first seasonal sighting of a totally retarded Christmas charity solicitation.  On the counter, attached to a decorated box filled with packages of Caribou Coffee beans, was the following sign:

Help Warm The Troops
Donate A Pound Of Your Favorite Coffee
and We’ll Send It To Iraq

To the untrained eye, this might seem harmless enough.  But step back, bitches, and watch me go all C.S.I. on your ass.

First, Caribou makes a good play by using the phrase “Help Warm The Troops” which is very similar to “Help Support The Troops.”  As an American, you are obligated to support the troops without question at every turn, lest you be labeled unpatriotic, arrested as a terrorist and shipped off to Guantanamo to be photographed playing naked Twister between waterboardings.  Caribou knows this.  

However, it occurs to me that the troops aren’t necessarily in need of being warmed.  Quite the opposite, actually.  They’re in the fucking desert wearing full packs and forty pounds of Kevlar.  No one is heading home after a long day of patrolling the shitty, sand-bleached streets of Baghdad to toast their tootsies by the campfire.
   
Second, doesn’t the army have coffee?  I’ve watched the PBS specials.  They’ve build entire food complexes there with McDonald’s, Pizza Huts and the like.  Sure, Halliburton might charge Uncle Sam $20 for a single cup, but Dick Cheney has a lesbian daughter he needs to keep in flannel and dental dams.  That’s the price of democracy.   

Third, Iraq is the Middle East, the birthplace of coffee cultivation.  Arabic coffee beans are some of the best in the world.  In fact, Caribou uses only Arabic coffee beans.  Maybe I’m stretching here, but I’ll bet coffee is both good and plentiful in Iraq (if you don’t mind sidestepping a few IEDs). 

Fourth, Caribou says they will send the coffee to Iraq.  Shouldn’t they give is to the USO, the Red Cross or some other organization that is already over there supporting the military?  Why go to the trouble of hiring a pilot, chartering a plane, painting a stupid logo on the side, flying the 300 or so miles to Iraq (I’m guessing here), dodging RPGs on the landing and risking friendly fire just so some sweaty guy in a smelly Santa suit can unload a few pounds of coffee.  Methinks this is a waste.

Lastly, if Caribou cares so much about the troops, why the fuck are they asking me to buy the coffee?  They are a large corporation that gets the stuff at wholesale prices, not to mention huge tax breaks for making charitable contributions.  Why don’t they just donate it?

Screw Caribou and their shameless attempt to pimp the holiday and the troops to sell more of their crappy coffee. 

P.S. I did succumb to another Caribou scam.  Every day they ask a trivia question and give you $0.10 off your purchase if you get it right.  Today’s question, “Under law, what is the maximum value of a gift you can give your postal carrier?”  I answered correctly that it was $20, and then proceeded to buy a $20 gift card for my mailman.  Very clever, you bastards.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:37 AM | Permalink | Comments (7)

The Epic November
OR
The Long Winding Road To Nowhere
OR
Another Reason Why I Desperately Need An Editor

Thank God it’s finally December.  After enduring six weeks filled with visions of handguns, asbestos, canker sores and cannibalism, a few sugarplums will certainly be a welcome change of pace.

It all started back in October as I was gearing up for my favorite holiday.  In addition to hiding plastic spiders on Nerdy Squirrel’s person and startling the living shit out of the cats at every available opportunity,  part of my longtime Halloween ritual involves watching a horror movie every night for the seven days leading up to October 31st  (TNT totally ripped me off,  by the way.  And I’ve also been told that I have a very actionable resemblance case against their popular Monk character).   

For no apparent reason (or possibly a horrible omen), this year my movie choices heavily leaned towards the post-apocalypse, such as 28 Days Later, Dawn of the Dead and Invasion of the Body Snatchers.  Normally I’m very big fan of end-of-the-world scenarios, and in and of themselves, these movies always lift my spirits.  This time though, I immediately followed up a week of celluloid cataclysm by watching the first season of Jericho (or as I like to call it, Jericho: The Town That Nuclear Winter Mysteriously Skipped; Where A Single Magical Rainfall Eliminates All The Effects of Radiation; And Where Despite The Lack of Food No One Is Getting Any Thinner Except Skeet Ulrich Who Definitely Has A Meth Habit) and reading the all-consuming and wonderfully grim book “The Road” by Cormac McCarthy.  

By mid-November, I had stuffed myself so full of Armageddon that I could barely drag myself to the couch to watch football and nap.  Fortunately, a few days of watching the Sportscenter is just enough to make me realize the end of the world wouldn’t be all bad.  Slowly I began to regain my will to live.  Regrettably, I did not wait until my emotional immune system was strong enough to combat my obsessive impulses, and in moving too quickly I succumbed to my longtime narcotic nemesis: home improvement. 

Three years ago when we first moved into our house, Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I decided we wanted to have an elegant, deep red dining room in which to eat our Chinese take-out and pile unopened mail.  Unfortunately our first attempt at red rum…uh, sorry… a red room was a sore disappointment.  After two coats of Kiltz primer and four coats of Behr paint, the walls looked like the ass cheeks of a naughty baboon on his way home from a Dominatrix’s dungeon.  It was literally McDonald’s red, and when viewed in the context of our bright yellow foyer, had the unfortunate yet predictable effect of inducing acne and imminent diarrhea.

After recently purchasing some new furniture, we decided it was time to repaint the dining room.  And since we were repainting, we decided to rip out the unsightly chair rail that had been added by the previous homeowners.  And since we were tearing out the chair rail, we decided to upgrade the lighting fixtures.  And since we were upgrading the lighting fixtures, we also decided to replace the “updated” crappy aluminum heat and cold-air-return vents with original cast iron ones that we found in an antique store.  You get the idea.  Oh, and when it comes to the actual work, when I say “we” I mean “me.”  The only thing Nerdy Squirrel ever paints is coffee spills and cruddy fingerprints on every conceivable surface. 

One more thing, we wanted to have it all done before December 8, the day we planned to erect the Christmas tree.

By the last week on November, the chair rail removal, plaster patching, sanding, re-patching and re-sanding, priming and painting had all proceeded as planned.  The vents, rusty little bitches that they are, were another story altogether.  (You might say that I’m venting about the vents, but if you did Ohio law says I have the legal right to smash your balls into a crystalline powder with the cryogenically-frozen skull of  Ted Williams, a law that makes no sense whatsoever because Williams played for Boston which is in like Vermont or something.). 

Anyway, after you’ve done a little home improvement, you begin to understand what I like to call the I-Can’t-Fucking- Believe-I’ve-Wasted-My-Entire-Fucking-Saturday-On-This-Stupid-Little-Fucking-Job Principle.  Basically this law of home improvement says, “The seemingly simplest of jobs will turn out to be the most aggravating and require at least three trips to Home Depot,” or for the literalists out there, “…the most fucking aggravating...”   So it was with our cast iron grates.

First, due to a modification by the previous homeowners, one of the dining room vents was no longer connected to the HVAC system.  It was a dead vent, and should therefore be extremely easy to replace.  However, when I began tearing out the vent housing, I noticed a distinctly textured covering and suddenly felt my health insurance premiums skyrocket. Asbestos.  Holy fuck me. 
 
Immediately all work was halted and I set to fashioning a makeshift HAZMAT suit and removal container made from garbage bags, duct tape, an Amazon.com cardboard box and some aluminum foil (the foil was mostly for affect, as were the nametag, the multiple “DANGER” signs and the two fun-size Butterfingers I used for captain’s bars on my shoulders).  Once the asbestos covered materials were bagged up and left in the highly capable hands of my garbage man via the bin, I blew my nose twice and hocked up three consecutive loogies.  This is a little-known but effective field technique for completely removing air-borne carcinogens from the body, brought to you by the folks over at “Duck and Cover.”

Second, the grates we purchased from the antique store (a shop quite reminiscent of the one owned by Fred Sanford) were completely covered in rust and lead paint.  And while I’m a big fan of some forms of grinding, the intricate designs on these grates were going to take hours and hours of the tedious, highly-abrasive metal-on-metal type, as opposed to the sweaty, mildly-abrasive (depending on your underwear preference) man-on-reluctant-woman type.  Fortunately I am the owner of a computer, an inflated sense of ability and excessive gullibility to highly suspect information.  Putting all my assets to use at once, I found an alternative: the homemade Electrolytic Rust Removal Type Thingamajig.

(I spent fifteen minutes at a Christmas party this weekend sucking the life out of a room full of people with a painful description of my wildly successful ERRTT project.  I’m not going to make the same mistake twice.  Let’s just say that if you are interested, check this out . Oh, and it produces a significant amount of hydrogen gas.  You know, the stuff the Hindenburg was filled with.)

All said, by December 1 I had exposed myself to massive amounts of latex fumes, asbestos, lead paint, hydrogen, acrylic spray paint, alcohol (It’s the holidays!) and farty fuselage air, resulting in what can only be called a Extra-Crunchy Chemical Vapor-Induced Sinus Infection with Canker Sores and Blinding Halitosis.  My mouth and esophagus has turned into a foul, festering cavern of raw, putrid sores that could open a wide berth through a colony of lepers waiting to buy Hanna Montana tickets for their spoiled, shitty, armless children.  It was if I had eaten a pair of Paris Hilton’s underpants, assuming she would ever wear some.

But remember, it’s Christmas, the time of miracles like the Immaculate Reception, the Drive, and The Play. Within a week’s time my illness was miraculously lifted save a single, well-placed canker sore on the business end of my tongue, the home improvement was completed and my grim obsession with the end of the world has ended.  And on Sunday, Nerdy Squirrel wandered through the old Christmas tree farm in Concord, Ohio and cut down our very first real Christmas tree, a fine, fat Norwegian Pine. Now our newly-decorated home is filled with the wonderful smell of pine and fond memories of childhood Christmases. 

As of this morning, my eyes are puffy and my head is stuffed. I’m pretty sure I’m allergic.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

I love Sunday mornings.  They always feel so wholesome.  Lounging about, sipping jasmine tea, cool jazz drifting out of the hi-fi, screaming at the lying shitbags on Meet The Press. 

When relaxing in my favorite Sunday chair, I usually keep my wireless laptop handy in case the mood strikes me.  The mood to surf for misinformation, the mood to compulsively shop for survival gear, the mood to watch people using glassware as a bedpan.  Any mood, really.

Yesterday morning as I was tip-tapping away I opened up my mailbox to find the following emails:

Increase your di*k for Christmas

Give her the gift of a larger c*ck for Christmas

First, let me say that the senders of these emails are lucky I’m not Jewish or Muslim, or I might have been offended by their presumptiveness.  Christmas is not celebrated by everyone.

Second, as a husband, I appreciate a novel gift idea for my wife as much the other guy.   Unlike every brainstorming session I’ve ever participated in at work, this is a situation where there truly are no bad ideas.  Simply put, left to my own devices, painfully disappointing things are bound to be purchased.

For example, the other night we were watching Flight of the Conchords on DVD when I was suddenly reminded of a Christmas gift that I had purchased for a girlfriend years ago.  She was majoring in Geology at the time, and I wanted to get her something that was original, creative and reflected her personal interest.  Not only did I think that I hit a home run with this gift, I was actually giddy about the prospect of giving it to her.  I was certain that she would be overcome with love and emotion and immediately reward me with the gift that keeps on giving…for roughly two and a half minutes.

My offering: a custom-designed sweatshirt that said, “Geology…Rocks!” on the front and, just in case you didn’t get the joke, explained on the back, “Igneous, Metamorphic & Sedimentary.”

*shudder*

Needless to say, I will gladly accept assistance from all comers.  Still, like the portable basketball hoop, the Harry K. McEvoy Beginner’s Knife Throwing Kit, or the ass-less leather chaps, I don’t want to make the mistake of getting my wife another gift that is really intended to benefit me.  Let’s be honest, I’m probably going to get more enjoyment from having a giant clam hammer than she would. While she would certainly receive moments of pleasure every two weeks or so on "date night", I’m the one who would get to drag it around the house like Quasimodo with a separated shoulder.  I’m the one who would get to shake it at the cats to show them who’s the boss.  I’m the one who would get to hide in the bushes and use it to trip unsuspecting joggers.

The other problem is, well, how do you offer up such a gift?  I mean, Dick in a Box is sooooooo 2006. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 02:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

While I hesitate to overestimate the importance of this blog in your life, you may have observed that the postings on Throwing Poo have grown increasingly infrequent over the past two months.  Or maybe you just noticed that the little voice pestering you to strap C4 to your chest and take revenge on the local Taco Bell has inexplicably piped-down, or you’ve suddenly become regular after an epic battle with constipation.  In any case, let’s just say that all good things must come to an end.  So dust off your chemistry set and stock up on Fleet enemas, ‘cause I’m back, bitches!  At least I’m back until the new season of Rescue Me comes out of DVD.  And the new season of Heroes.  Oh, and Battlestar Gallactica, too.  And Weeds.  Entourage.  Maybe we’ll even check out The Office.  But probably not Monk.  Definitely not Jericho.  Skeet Ulrich looks like he’s on crystal meth, and the dialogue totally eats shit.  
 
“So,” I imagine you asking, “why haven’t you been posting?”

While I do enjoy writing posts for this blog, I’m not sure I like the effect blogging is having on me.  When I started this piece-of-shit a year and a half ago, I told myself that building readership didn’t matter.  The purpose was to have fun, try to develop my writing skills and decide whether or not I had the stuff to be a writer.  Not a Pulitzer Prize winning novelist or a famous playright,  but maybe good enough to earn a few bucks penning catchy culinary slogans for the new T.G.I. Friday’s menu (“If you top an hamburger with a fried egg, is it still technically a hamburger?  Eggs-actly!).  All I needed was a place to unload my cluttered mind and just enough readers to keep a steady pressure on me to write.  And it pretty much worked.

Unfortunately, over time I became more and more obsessed with having readers.  Even so, I couldn’t actually bring myself to do anything to build readership.  The reason is the same as why I have never gotten orthodontia: it just seems like an indulgence of vanity.  Straighter teeth aren’t going to suddenly make me beloved just as a few hundred begged-up readers wouldn’t make me a writer.  These are just external symptoms of greater underlying conditions, and calming them won’t cure anything.

Anyway, it took me a few months to remember that I do this for fun and, in and of itself, it will lead to nothing.  As long as I get what I need from it, it doesn't matter if anyone else reads it or not.

So, like the infamous Jerry Springer, Ohio native and shoddy procurer of prostitutes, I leave you (and by "you" I mean "me") with a final thought:

The mind of a blogger: that creepy, isolated house at the end of the street where the walls are painted with peeling ambition and the floor covered in a brown, sticky coating of insecurity.  And above the fireplace…Christ, is that a human femur bone in the ashes?  Never mind.  Above the fireplace is the large, looming self-portrait of a scaly old man with gills, covered in lesions and bloated from years of feasting on embellishments and betrayed confidences.  And in the yard is a small pond in which the blogger swims.  A tiny, incestuous pond.  A fucking mud puddle of a pond that, if it were honest, would immediately evaporate at the first light of day.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 11:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (18) | TrackBacks (0)

Oh, um, wow.  Hi.  I never expected to…*ahem*…how have you been?

Yeah, it has been a while, right? 

Thanks.  I’ve been trying to watch what I eat, using my Bowflex machine.  You, uh, you look good, too.

No, I mean it.  So, you been keeping busy?

I totally understand.  Work has kept me hopping, too.  That and obsessively checking my 401(k) as it drops like a bad habit.

Yeah, well, you know, I meant to call you after that night…I just…

No, no.  I really did mean to.  It’s just that, well, a week went by, then two, then it just seemed too late.

I suppose you’re right, it is never too late. 

No, no one.  To be honest, my girlfriend and I just broke up.  Funny, we actually started dating right after you and I…um…

Right, maybe not so funny.  Anyway, I’m glad we bumped into each other.

Sure, that would be great.  I’d like that.  Should I call you?

Ha, ha.  Right.  You call me. 

It was good to see you, Sarah.

Samantha. Shit. Sorry.  I meant Samantha.  Will you still call me?

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

For the past few years, my buddy Jeremy has hosted an intimate (as in small, not as is apparel) Halloween party at his home where everyone is required to perform a skit based on their costume.  To my knowledge, no one who attends was a theater major, so it kind of forces everyone to do something that is way out of their comfort zone.  As a result, most of us get liquored-up in the run up to skit time, which does little to improve the quality of the performances. (Sadly, I do not have equally rational explanations for the excessive consumption that occurs every other time we get together.)

This year, Jeremy thought to tape the skits and posted them on YouTube.  While the cinematography is not on par with that other famous Cleveland filmmaker, Jim Jarmusch, it does have a kind of Blair Witch feel to it.  Unfortunately, like most first-time independent film directors, Jeremy was on a shoestring budget and couldn’t afford back-up batteries for his cameraphone.  As a result, the last skit, “Hockeytron” was not filmed.  Hopefully he can re-create it for the DVD extras.

While much of the humor in this video is in watching people you know make fools of themselves, and therefore probably not universally appealing, I’m still posting it because, well, I’m in it.  And it makes me laugh.  And I’m lazy.  So go fuck yourself.

P.S. Jeremy is also the co-inventor of Scenario Playlist, a very cool iPod game which we play all the time.  If you know what’s good for you, you will buy it. 

P.P.S.  Nerdy Squirrel and I are the lead-filled toys from China.  In case you want to sing along with us, here are the lyrics:

Toy lead, toy lead
Turning your children’s pee red
When they hug and kiss us
They’ll need kidney dialysis

Toys with toy lead
Killing their eggs and sperm dead
If they lick or chew us
They will never be fertile again

Chinese toy lead
Killing your children’s brains dead
When their flesh absorbs it
They will never think clearly again

Toy lead, toy lead
Filling your home with sheer dread
When Walmart recalls us
Will we still seem like a great bargain?

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 11:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

Happy Birthday to my truly gifted wife.   

Our running joke is that, after the apocalypse, I will die saving her life, and then she will die five minutes later (it will take that long because the electricity will likely be out and she'd have no reason to be digging in the toaster with a fork).  Anyway, In honor of her birthday, here is a list of the things we say to each other that, regardless of context, we know exactly what the other person is talking about (and which probably mean absolutely nothing to anyone else):

Dead babies

HellOOOOoooo!

Mostly

I like monkeys

See you next Tuesday

Earrrrrrl Leeeee

I need to make a movie

Food is my favorite

Happy Birthday, honey.  I'll always be there to give the door a good tug. 

P.S. Suck it, Hallmark.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

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 (152) | 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 (8) | 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 (5) | 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)

For some perplexing reason, the day I turned forty I began gaining weight.  Even though I had made no culinary lifestyle changes, my crispy abs began to grow increasingly flabby as did my bottom soggy.  Something had gone rotten in Denmark, and, being the inquisitive and pigeon-toed person that I am, I vowed to sniff it out.

After several months of fruitless investigation, the only reasonable conclusion I could, well, conclude was that tiny gnomes were infiltrating my bedroom at night and force-feeding me gum drops in my sleep.  Now there are probably some skeptics out there who don’t believe in gnomes, but I’m not going to argue with them.  I just thank L. Ron Hubbard that these non-believers weren’t around during the Salem witch trials, or today we’d all be up to our armpits in wart-lousy hags.  Besides, everyone knows that gnomes live to pull off shenanigans like making people fat, stealing underpants, or leaving Magnum condom wrappers under the bed for you to find after arriving home from a long business trip.  Both my wife and I agree that there can be no other explanation. 

So I proceeded to invest heavily in an elaborate video surveillance system with motion sensors, titanium trip-wire-activated ceiling cages, and a network of strategically-placed miniature guillotines baited with ginger snaps.  I was determined to kill one of these bastards and drive his stupid little head onto a pike to send a message to the others: Stop making me fat or else!  In case you think this too harsh, let me assure you that gnomes are evil little terrorists, and not at all like the cuddly and helpful elves that the Keebler Corporation has enslaved in their chocolaty sweatshops.  What about the friendly little guy in the Travelocity commercials, you ask?  In reality, he is not a gnome at all, but is actually actor Morgan Freeman playing a gnome.  The fact that you probably never noticed is simply a testament to Morgan Freeman’s incredible acting prowess.

Here’s another thing about gnomes that you won’t find in any facts or folklore; they can shape-shift.  Not only can they do it, the tiny shitheads are able to hold their shape-shifted appearances for extended periods of time.  As you can imagine, this allows them to pull off some very elaborates ruses.  How do I know this?  Well, as it turns out, our housecat George had been a gnome all along. 

When I first found him this morning in the guillotine near his litter box, a half-eaten ginger snap crumbled in his gaping mouth, I thought a horrible accident had occurred.  Then I got to thinking: George slept a lot during the day.  When he wasn’t scratching up the furniture or puking hairballs into my shoes, he was sleeping.  Every day it was like he hadn’t slept the night before.  But what on earth would he be doing all night long? (And cue the light bulb).

While I still haven’t figured out why George didn’t shape-shift back to his original gnome form when he was killed, I’m not going to let it worry me.  With all the weight I’ll soon be losing, I need to get busy buying my new wardrobe.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (7)

Sitting here in a sleazy airport hotel in the middle of nowhere, I stare at the stains on the carpeting and wonder how it all went wrong.

Ever since I began traveling for business back in 1990, I have been addicted to the Continental Onepass frequent flyer program.  At first it was all fun and games, earning free flights and first-class upgrades.  Slowly, though, it began to take over my life.  Over the years, I have sacrificed family, friends and career in order score a few more miles.  During my darkest days, I’d hang out in airport restroom stalls and trade unspeakable favors for a few miles each.

Still, despite some setbacks and the occasionally sticky chin, I’ve managed to lead a relatively normal life.  I’m what they call a functioning junkie.  At least I was.

Normally, whenever you fly on a Continental flight, you directly receive Onepass frequent flyer miles.  Simple enough, yet extremely effective with highly addictive personalities like mine.   A few weeks ago, the enabling bastards over at Continental came up with the brilliant idea to create a frequent flyer program within their frequent flyer program to promote usage of other services. 

Basically how it works is that Continental will give you a certain number of “credits” each time you use their website to reserve hotel rooms and rental cars, subscribe to various publications and services, or apply for credit cards.  As you accumulate these credits, you can reach various predetermined milestones at which you are awarded a block of frequent flyer miles.  For example, if I earn 125 credits by December 31st  - and God help my family if I don’t -  I will receive a bonus block of 25,000 frequent flyer miles.  It’s like Continental got me hooked on heroin, then figured out a way to get me addicted to the metal in the syringe, too.  

Needless to say, I immediately scrambled to cancel all my existing reservations and re-book them on Continental.com, and created every excuse I could to book new travel.  It didn’t matter if the prices were padded, the hotels were shitty, the cars broken down, or the credit card interest rates higher than Andy Dick at a Friar’s Club Roast (or on the set of a new movie, at a funeral, or anywhere else for that matter).  I wanted credits like Larry Craig wanted cock, and was willing to go to the same lengths. 

Now, as I sit here alone in a fleabag hotel, the wall-unit air conditioner blowing hot air on me as I fight the cockroaches over a brownish salad and a vile lump of meat, do I finally begin to realize the error of my ways.  Credits aren’t love.  They’re not friendship.  Nor are they overstuffed mattresses, free HBO, or candies on my pillow.  Credits are cold, soulless units fabricated in the mind of a shrewd marketing consultant looking to profit from other people’s misery.  A treacherous heathen who, at this moment, is probably enjoying the oversized shower head and complimentary turn-down service that rightfully belong to me. 

********************

Thanks for all the great entries into the caption contest.   Both Matt and ACW made me laugh the loudest with their respective entries:

I thought the Nintendo Wie was supposed to be hand- held...

Michelle Wie for Extendable Lady-Graphite Tampons. Because cotton is for pussies.

However, Jeremy automatically wins for inviting me to his party.  Well done, sir.  You shall go far in this world.  

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 03:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

Normally I don't post Caption Contests, primarily because this site doesn't get enough commenters to justify it.  Still, if there was ever a photo crying out for a caption, it is this one:

Best caption will win four Continental drink coupons.  Let me help get you started:

Wilson's new battery-operated nine iron...for the ladies.

Having lost the strength in her hands during a terrible yo-yo accident, Michelle Wie has developed an innovative new way to grip her club.

Suddenly the carnivorous monster between her legs devoured the blind man, leaving behind his tapping cane as the only remaining trace.

Fed up with the endless hot days in the golf course, Michelle Wie's crabs build an escape shoot.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (10)

First, let me explain.  Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. recently left her high-faluting law firm to take a position job clerking for a federal judge for the next two years.  While she really loves practicing law, representing greedy corporate interests quickly lost its appeal.  I guess she didn’t want to feel like she was selling her soul to the highest bidder.  However, given the pay difference between Big Law and the Federal Government, everything else will be up for grabs.  Check our brand new eBay store for more details.

As a result of her new pay cut, um, I mean position, she was not able to take time off for our usual summer vacation.  Instead of canceling my vacation time as well, I decided to take the time off and just relax around the house.  For some people, this might be a fine idea.  But for an obsessive-compulsive with the attention span of a coked-up fruit fly and delusions of grandeur, it is horribly ill-conceived. 

Most of Monday morning (Day 1) was spent making lists of all the things I was going to get done this week.  A small sampling from these lists includes caulking the storm windows, learning Photoshop Elements, tuning up my mountain bike, writing a fundraising article for a professional journal, building a shower in the basement, developing a screenplay idea, mapping out my electrical circuits, and reading four books.  I’m not kidding.  I have some serious fucking issues.

Anyway, around noon I decided to head out for lunch.  Backing out of the driveway, I noticed a small pool of oil where the car had been parked.  Further inspection revealed that the oil pan was seriously rusted and had sprung a leak – a problem that must be taken care of immediately.  Since the thought of simply trusting a repairman is more painful to me than peeling back my skin and jumping into a vat of lemon juice,  I spent the rest of the afternoon was spent investigating auto repair shops, checking parts prices, getting the car to a shop, haggling on price and, finally, arranging for taxi service home.  Still, that evening I got my caulking done.

Tuesday (Day 2) morning I woke up ready to take on the day, even though I would have to do it on foot since the car wouldn’t be ready until Wednesday.  As always, I started the day off right with a heaping helping of Raisin Bran.  Shoveling in the first spoonful, my mouth froze and milk leaked its way down my chin. Something was wrong.  Warm.  The cereal, the milk, was warm, as was everything else in the refrigerator.  It wasn’t working.  

Needless to say, other that a lovely lunch with Nerdy at her new office (which, without a car, turned into a series of stinky adventures on public buses), I spent the day reading about refrigerators and trying to trouble-shoot the problem.  Oh, and I prepped the basement for the shower stall. 

Now it’s eleven at night and I just sat down to look over my list of things do tomorrow.

Wish you were here.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

Remember last year when AOL got publicly embarrassed for recklessly wielding a mighty pimp hand against one of their bitches who dared to want to quit? (Welcome to the internet.  I am what is called a “link.” I connect to an idea/subject referenced in the previous sentence to give unfamiliar readers some context. Click on me with your mouse, and enjoy the ensuing clarity.  You’re welcome!)  

Given the outrage that resulted, I assumed that the world would become a better place for us hos.  No more getting smacked around by the mack daddies we rely on for our internet, television, cell phones, credit cards and other subscription-based services. 

Well, apparently I was wrong; the corporate pimp hands remain strong.  (Did my black eye give it away?) 

Last Friday I tried to cancel a Citibank credit card and our Cox Cable HBO service. Unfortunately I couldn’t just tell these companies to fuck off.  With AOL or Sprint, if things got really bad, I could just have my bank stop payment.  Citibank, on the other hand, has all my credit information and can simply leave the account open, and with Cox Cable I wanted to keep some level of service.  So, one after the other, I was forced to go through invasive inquisitions that left my eyes swollen and my orifices sore.  

When Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. got home from work, she found me sitting fully-clothed in the tub, crying and shaking under a running shower.  When she asked what had happened, this is how I remembered it:

Cox: Where you gonna go, bitch?

Me:  I, um, I got plans, daddy.

Cox:  What the fuck you say?

Me:  I want a better life.  I’m gonna study to be a cosmetologist.

Cox:  Telling fortunes and shit?

Me:  No (laughs nervously). No. Cutting hair.

Cox: Bitch, you don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout cutting no hair.

Me:  I can learn.  I wanna be somebody, not no sorry-ass pimp like…

*SMACK*

Me:  (Whimpering)  Sorry, daddy!  I didn’t mean it, I swear!

Cox:  Now, you gonna start acting right and pay me my money? 

Me:  Yes, daddy.  I’ll pay, I’ll pay.  

Anyway, HBO really does have some great shows, and I guess it’s always good to have an extra credit card on hand

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

If you’ve been paying attention – and judging by the lack of comments, you haven’t – the frequency of my posting has dropped way off the past couple of weeks.  I’d like to say it’s because I’m busy writing a book (show me a douche bag with a blog who isn’t, and I’ll show you a douche bag who procrastinates), engineering a zero-gravity espresso machine for the space shuttle, on a secret government mission to assassinate Flavor Flav, or engaged in some other lofty, pretentious project.  I’m not. 

And it’s not that I’ve decided to spend my waning days enjoying life by setting fire to old people, watching reruns of Maude and eating fistfuls of who-hash right out of the fucking can.  I’m not.

I’ve simply lost focus and...Hey there, Maxie cat.  How are you big guy?  Who’s a handsome boy?  Who’s a big sexy Barry White-looking motherfucker?  You are!  Yes, you are, Maxie!

What was I saying?  Oh yeah, focus.  I’ve lost it.  Not only my focus on this stupid blog, but on my entire fucking life.  My brain has been rapidly vacillating between devising totally retarded get-rich quick schemes (I could make cat scratching posts made of PVC to reduce the shipping weight), planning insane home improvement projects (Wouldn’t it be nice if I put a shower in the basement?) and seriously considering a vast array of radical career changes (Maybe I should be an architect.  Or a carpenter.  Or a political consultant.).  All true.

In between vascillations, I have these bouts where absolutely nothing interests me except eating mint chocolate chip ice cream and reading aloud to the cats every piece of junk mail we receive, including the catalogs.  It’s mostly just the ice cream, though.  

Anyway, I’m going to try to post more often, but I can’t guarantee it.  And if I go totally insane and decapitate my wife for leaving her dirty snot rags on the furniture (allergy tissues, she calls them), well, you can say you saw it coming.  Either way, everyone wins.  Except my wife, of course. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Heading home from Omaha last Saturday (business or pleasure do you think?), I was pants-crappingly late to the airport due to a mix-up with the taxi service.  While I thought it best to schedule a pick-up at a specific time and location, the dispatcher apparently decided it would be better to have the driver call me and ask for play-by-play directions in Crapistani or some similarly marble-mouthed dialect. 

Fortunately, only a dozen other people were flying out of Omaha that day – half the city’s population I’m guessing, and why wouldn’t they - so when I finally arrived at the airport there were only six people ahead of me in the security line.  Unfortunately those six people were a young woman, her mother, and four tiny minions of Satan. 

The first ten minutes were amusing as I watched this gaggle of silly geese unbuckle, fold, zip, snap, pack and load a preposterous collection of plastic, collapsible kid-shit onto the conveyer belt, leaving a minefield of pretzel crumbs and stale Cheerios in their wake for me to moosh between my little piggys.  Then it came time to go through the metal detector.

As soon as Mom stepped through with the infant in her arms, little Joey, the oldest, left behind for a moment a mere four feet away, began to howl.  Either fearing for his young life or simply wanting to escape the clutches of “Nana”, he suddenly jerked away, slipped around the metal detector and latched onto his mother’s leg.  Mom shrieked, alarms sounded, and security guards wandered into action.  The sudden loud commotion caused the twins to panic, abandon Nana, and stumble through the metal detector as well.  More alarms, more vaguely interested security guards.  Mom dragged Joey back through the detector, and again the twins, now crying as well, followed suit. 

This continued on for five full minutes as Mom pleaded, children screamed, alarms sounded, security guards feigned to gain control of the situation, and Nana grew more and more confused.  It was like I was watching the Benny Hill Show only without the music bed and perky ta-tas.  Even a security guard commented that he'd never seen anything like this. 

Normally I would’ve just stood there laughing my ass off, but nothing is funny enough to be worth getting stuck in Omaha.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Special Guest Star: Tom Cruise 

Once upon a time, in a distant land on the west side of Cleveland, a handsome youngish Prince roamed the empty halls of his castle.  Even though his subjects lived in peace and adored him for his modest temperament, even-handed justice and considerable lance, the Prince was forlorn.  His birthday, the fourth day of the seventh month, was only hours away and he feared the worst. 

For his time, the Prince was considered a man of science.  He had proven himself an adept meteorologist at an early age, accurately predicting the seasonal changes through his innovative measurement of accumulated atmospheric dragon flatulence.  It is also widely believed that the Prince’s loathing of filthy peasants was not based on class superiority, but on his unprecedented theory of the presence of microscopic germs, which he called “stank fairies.” 

Despite his scientific proclivities, the Prince, like most of the ignorant masses of his time, was susceptible to superstition.  Black cats, midgets, albinos and universal health care advocates were the spawn of demons, meant to be persecuted and shunned.

So it was nearly a year ago when the Prince was sauntering though the streets of his kingdom, in search of “a Princess, if only for one night” (the frequency of such journeys resulted in his nickname “Lance-a-lot”).  Rounding a particularly grimy corner, the Prince was beckoned by the call of a blind gypsy wearing tightie-whities and pedaling bootleg copies of “All The Right Moves.”  Curious, the well-hung Prince approached.

“Yes, what say you, blind man?”

“Buy a DVD?”

“Are you kidding me?  Video technology hasn’t even been invented yet, little fool.  Hell, most of these wretched dirt eaters still think mirrors are a tool of the devil.”

“True enough, good sir.”

“Besides, that movie totally sucks.”

“You are wise, youngish Prince. Let me consult your future then.  But first, a piece of silver to appease the Thetans.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” the Prince replied before digging into his satchel and retrieving a quarter.

“Your generosity is only outweighed by your enormous penis, kind Prince.”

“Yes, yes.  My future now,” the Prince said, grabbing his member, “before I take it out and beat you to death with it.”

“Very well, master.”

The gypsy removed his cheap, plastic sunglasses and his white eyes rolled back in his head.  Grabbing the Prince’s hand, the strange Outsider’s body began to shake violently.

“Oh, kind Prince.  The Thetans have whispered your Legend into my ears. Darks times are coming, good Prince.  Days of Thunder, nights of lightning.”

“Knights of lightning?”

“No, nights.”

“Of course.  Wait, how did you know what I meant?”

“The blind can sense such things.”

“Really?  Wow, that’s cool. But then how did I know…”

“Just forget it, kind sir.  The Abbott & Costello routine is hack.”

“Fine,” the Prince Taps the gypsy on the forehead. “Then tell me more about this looming darkness.”

“On your thirtieth birthday, a hideous, foul-smelling evil will bring a reign of terror over this land.”

“But I’m already thirty-three.”

“Bugger.  Look, I’m not very good at math, OK? You were Born On The Fourth Of July, right?’

“Yes.”

“Great. Let’s just say your next birthday then.”

“Fine, but you’re not very good at this.”

“Yeah, well, all the Prince jobs were taken up by snotty, entitled assholes.”

“Careful,” the Prince replied, shaking his cock at the gypsy.

“Oooh, right.  I forgot about that. Anywho, death, destruction, and despair will fill the land.  The ‘three D’s’ we like to call it.  That’s it.” 

“That’s it?”

“Yes, for two bits, that’s all you get.”

The Prince was not at all pleased with the abrupt ending to the gypsy’s tale and stepped close to whisper in his ear.

“What if I vanquished you to my dungeon, where my best men will pluck out your eyes and stuff them into your asshole?”

“Well, I’d probably find that ring my wife has been missing, but I honestly don’t think that is going to happen.”

“And why is that?”

Just then, three large, muscular Africans with giant knobs stepped out from behind the stone wall.

“See, I’ve got A Few Good Men of my own,” the gypsy smiled.

“Whoa, hey,” the Prince said, backing up. “No need to get tough. Why all the muscle?”

“Well,” the gypsy replied, “fortune-telling is a Risky Business.”

“Fine, fine.  How about we just call it even?”

“Even it is,” the gypsy said, and vanished without a trace, right after packing up all his fortune-telling gear and grabbing a cup of gruel from a nearby inn. 

Being a fair-weather existentialist, the Prince had ignored this mystic warning for the past eleven months.  But now, with the foreseen day of reckoning looming so close, he could think of nothing else. 

To be continued…

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Few things will put me in a shitty mood quicker than stepping in a puddle of unforeseen and mysterious fluid while wearing socks.  Unfortunately I live in an old house with hardwood floors, two cats and a wife who spills more coffee than Michael J. Fox working the counter at Starbucks, so I end up going through a lot of pairs.

However, when I entered the bathroom on Tuesday morning, the squish du jour was exceptional.  Unlike with the usual suspects - gelatinous hairballs, puddles of Kenyan Blend or pools of coagulating dead-hooker blood – the sheer volume of juicy revulsion oozing up between my toes defied normality.  Something was wrong.

After screaming, crying and vomiting like a twelve-year-old bulimic at an Aaron Carter concert (or Nicole Richie at dinnertime), I decided to investigate.  Turns out my old, corroded plumbing had failed.  And if this embarrassing personal problem wasn’t bad enough (I’m told it happens to everyone), the pipe under my bathroom sink had also sprung a leak and was the feeding the new wading pond on my floor.   

So I fixed it.

(Note to self: work on increasing the dramatic affect of conflict resolution).

****

The other day I was cleaning out my closet - it’s amazing how quickly those latent homosexual experiences pile up - and found this old video of me catching my parents during foreplay.  Enjoy. 

Repressed Memory 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

This week I found two of the funniest videos I've seen in a long time:

Business Time by Flight of the Conchords - I cannot stop watching this, or singing it to Nerdy Squirrel, Esq.

The Maria Bamford Show - Absolutely brilliant. 

That is all.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 06:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Most of you already know that I spend a lot of time on the road….weary traveler…Willy Loman…single-serving friends…blah, blah, blah.   I’ve grown as tired of writing about it as you have of reading about it.  The bottom line is that we’ve all got our crosses to bear, mine just happens to have two Rolls-Royce AE3007 jet engines nailed on either side.  Still, I just can’t seem to let my travel woes go.

The real problem is that, when you travel for business, the very best thing that can happen is that you arrive on time, make your appointments, get the room you reserved, eat shitty hotel food, pass out on your germ-infested bed, and hope the people next door aren’t newlyweds or gay men dosing Viagra and ecstasy.  In other words, even the good travel days eat it.  Since there is so much suckiness already built-in, the little things that inevitably go wrong get magnified, and ordinarily polite, decent people turn into raging, pus-filled ass tumors.  People like me.

Since I’ve recently come out of the tea-drinking closet, I can admit that I carry some tea in my luggage just in case.  You might say it’s my tea bag.  I’m tea-bagging it.  I like tea-bagging.  *ahem*  Anyway, an emergency supply is readily available if I need a little pick-me-up during the course of the day.

Last Friday morning I was flying home from Chicago after a late night and a very long day.  This is a trip I take on a pretty regular basis, so I know the routine.  Hell, I know the O’Hare gate agent, the guy that sells the soggy, God-awful “Wolfgang Puck” sandwiches, and half the motherfuckers on the plane itself.  By the way, that plane is an Embraer ERJ-140 jet, and seat 12A is the best one on the aircraft.  I’ve probably logged enough hours to actually pilot this tub if the shit hit the fan.  Of course, if I ever found myself in that situation, I would probably be too overcome by the need to quote lines from Airplane to do anybody any good. “What’s our vector, Victor?” “Roger, Roger.” “Stop calling me Shirley.”  You only get an opportunity like that once in a lifetime, you know?  Literally.

Anyway, I was exhausted and in desperate need of some caffeine.  The flight attendant, a badly-aging whore with varicose veins in her face and breathe that smells like the ass of a coffee-drinking buffalo who just died from colon cancer,  pushed over her drink cart/walker and proceeded to tell me that she didn't have any tea. 

Now, as I mentioned before, I’m familiar with this particular route and this particular aircraft.  The attendants don’t normally carry hot water on their cart during these short flights, so they have to retrieve it from the hot water dispenser in the galley.  And I know where this dispenser is.  From seat 4A, I can actually see the fucking thing.  This wretched cunt was just too goddamn lazy to walk the ten steps to go get it for me.

“No?  How about just a cup of hot water then.” 

“Water?”

“Hot water, please.”

“Um.”

“From that dispenser in the galley right there.”

“Well, it’s a short flight and…”

“If you’re too busy, just give me a cup and I’ll be glad to get it myself”

(sighs) “Just a minute.”

A few seconds later she returned and expressed her displeasure by plopping down the hot water on my tray table, neglecting to offer me my complimentary pretzels, and ignoring me for the rest of the flight. 

Meanwhile, I enjoyed the best cup of tea I’ve had all week. I take it black, like my men.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

Even though I’m neither British nor queer, if there is any difference between the two, I am a great lover of tea.  On average I probably down four or five cups of this leafy, caffeinated, anti-oxidizing goodness every day.  As a result, I live an alert, productive and totally rust-free life.  But I wasn’t born a tea drinker.  In fact, given my childhood fear of the Chinese, abhorrence of the strong-arm tactics employed by the East India Trading Company, and deep-seated distrust of monarchies, my eventual fondness of this highly-civilized beverage was quite unexpected.  One might say that I began drinking hot tea in the same way inmates begin having hot man-on-man sex.  Necessity.

It was nearly fifteen years ago, when I was living in Texas, that I began experiencing severe stomach problems.  At the time I made a living importing component parts for U.S. manufacturers, where I spent my days scheming ways to screw people out of one or two more percentage points.  My boss was a scumbag and my customers were morons.    I absolutely fucking HATED my job.  Each workday required a massive dose of caffeine just to get me though, and each evening demanded an equally massive amount of alcohol to combat the self-loathing.

Seeing as I was in Texas, the home of the icehouse, jalapeno cornbread and the five-meat barbeque dinner, all of which I vigorously partook, pinpointing the source of my stomach problems was no easy task.  Then one day, after pounding a pot of coffee (I had my own brewer right in my office), I doubled-over, dragged myself to the bathroom, and proceeded to puke out my upper intestines and crap out my lower ones.  My body, it seemed, had decided that coffee was no longer on the menu.

Still, my genetically groggy demeanor demanded that I have something to get me through the day.  Since I couldn’t afford cocaine and crystal meth was just a glimmer in the eye of some young NASCAR fan with a chemistry set, tea was the only viable option. 

I really hated tea at first.  It tasted like someone put a handful of mulch into a cup and then peed on it.  But I needed a delivery system for my caffeine habit and tea didn’t knot my stomach like a Boyscout aiming for a merit badge.  I mean, if some guy has the guts to feed his addiction by shooting heroin into his cock, then surely I can tolerate an unpleasant beverage.  So began my journey.      

Fifteen years later, I have become a discriminating tea drinker, with the gratuitous inventory and horribly stained teeth to prove it.  My early mornings require a heavily-steeped cup of Twining’s English Breakfast Tea; a robust and full-bodied blend from Assam and Kenya.  A steaming cup of Twining’s Earl Grey, a bright blend of Indian and Asian black teas flavored with bergamot oil (sans the lemon slice, my way of sending a big “fuck you” back to the Queen Mum), gets my afternoon going.  Late in the day, I crave a simple Chinese green (even though they still scare me a little, what with their pointy throwing stars and mandatory abortions).  Any brand will do.

Still, as an American male who drinks tea, I face intolerance and discrimination on a daily basis.  The ignorant masses accuse me of choosing a depraved lifestyle.  The familiar barb, “If God had wanted men to drink tea, he would have given them erect pinkies and tiaras,” inevitably hits me in the back every time I order an Awake tea in a crowded Starbucks.

Believe me, I would like nothing better than to be able to grab onto a warm, inviting cup of coffee, insert my stick and gyrate until the cream spills out.  But I can’t.  Not because I want to be different, or because I hate God, or to get back at my disappointed father, but because it is physically repulsive.    

So the next time you’re in a coffee shop and a man orders a cup of tea, show some compassion and understanding; his story may be similar to mine.  We are not vegans, Scientologists or soccer fans.  We have not made a poor choice.  We have not made any choice at all.  We are simply being who we are. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

My colon is mad as hell and it’s not going to take it anymore.

On Saturday we had the families over for my birthday party.  Since it was a nice day, and since we are cheap, and since our relatives are animals that will eat anything you put in front of them and even some things you don’t, we decided to simply grill up some burgers and brats.

Normally I don’t eat a lot of meat (both literally and figuratively, assholes).  But Nerdy Squirrel insisted that we cook extra for the party to ensure the safety of our cats.  As a result, we ended up with a lot of leftovers, which, like some sort of late-blooming Depression baby, I am compelled to eat.  Couple that with having tickets to two baseball games this week, during which one is obligated to eat at least two hot dogs with onions and stadium mustard on each, and you have the makings of a perfect storm in my ass.

As of Thursday morning, I honestly cannot stop farting.  But I can live with that.  The real problem is that my air biscuit early warning system has crashed.  That’s right, every decent human being’s worst nightmare: unpredictable, uncontrollable farts.  It’s like my asshole has turned into a yammering wife (how’s that for role reversal) who is constantly nagging at me about what not to eat.
  
So, I’d like to send an open letter to my body, the gastro-intestinal system in particular, to clear the air, so to speak. 

Dear Bowels & Pals,

First, I’d like to thank you for 43 years of outstanding service.  You are an integral part of the proud, professional team of organs that work together to keep me from shitting myself.  While you rarely receive the attention or accolades that the brain, penis and other organs enjoy, make no mistake, your work is important and provides the foundation for everything I do.  How, I ask, would I be able to hold down a job or maintain a marriage with regular doses of Dinty Moore stew brewing in my underpants?  I could not.

Second, I realize that the past five days of ingesting highly-processed red meat-like products have produced an overburdened, unsafe and possibly even hostile workplace for you.  As such, I cannot fault you and your team for a few unexpected and very public outbursts.  Let’s just say that a few extra stains in my underpants will not result in a permanent stain on your record. 

Finally, if the recent underperformance has been an attempt to bring attention to the serious matter of my diet, than consider it well-noted.  I can assure that no wiener, frankfurter, or bratwurst will disrupt your harmonious work environment anytime soon.  In fact, for the next few weeks, a steady diet of raw vegetables, bran and fresh fruit should allow you to take some extra time off.  And, as always, I encourage you and your staff to take advantage of our casual Friday policy.

Sincerely,

Crunchy BC

P.S.  I would welcome the opportunity to discuss with you performance incentives for on-demand output.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

On my way out of church last Sunday, I was fortunate enough to find another religious pamphlet titled, “Are You Ready To Talk About Your Church?”  While not nearly as fascinating as Doom Town, AYRTTAC at least attempts to be interactive by proposing a scenario and asking questions of the reader.  Apparently the lettered answer you choose throughout the quiz tells you what kind of person you are.  However, the three types of answers (A, B & C) suggested by the AYRTTAC authors did not, in my opinion, cover a realistic scope of personalities you might find.   So I added a few more.

The scenario: A new family moves onto your street and you’re having a conversation. How would you respond to the following comments by your new neighbor:
 
1. “Thanks so much for all your help.  It’s so exhausting to move.  There’s so much to do.  I have to find a new dry cleaner, a new grocery store.  Why, we’ll even have to find a new church."

A. Yeah, moving stinks.
B. Yes, I know how hard that is. I’d be glad to steer you towards a few places.  And we attend a wonderful church that really helped us get settled when we moved here ourselves.  I’d be glad to tell you about it.
C. I can recommend an outstanding dry cleaner.

D. What the hell are you thanking me for?  I’m not going to move any fucking boxes.  I just came over to tell you to stay the fuck off my lawn.  That goes double for your shitty little mutants. 
E. The chinks run the dry cleaner, the camel jockeys run the grocery, and we don’t take kindly to any perverted cults around here, weirdo. 
F. Wow, is that your daughter over there?  She’s mighty tasty.
G. Unless you’re talking about finding a new Church’s Fried Chicken, this is probably the last conversation we’ll be having.

2. “Really, what’s your church like?”

A. Well, just like any other, I guess.  We have our share of problems.
B. Really welcoming, and full of all kinds of great people.  I leave worship ready and inspired for the week.
C. Well, to be honest, I don’t get there all that often, so it’s hard to say.

D. Seriously, I own guns.  Lots of guns, and I’ve been looking for an excuse to use ‘em.
E.  White only, like the good Lord meant it to be.  Also, we have our own uniforms.
F.  You know, if you ever need a babysitter, I’m available.  I would just need to know how much time I’ve got, I mean, how long you’d be gone.
G.  It’s a small church.  Actually, it’s just my wife and me.  We meet at IHOP on Sundays, discuss current events, and then spend the afternoon reading the paper and drinking coffee.  We love to have you join our church.  You’ll just need to provide a year’s worth of tithing up front.

3. “Well, we have quite an unusual background religious background.  Back where we used to live, we attended a Methodist church, but I was actually raised Catholic.  Before we met, my husband went to a non-denominational church, but we got married in his parents’ Episcopal church.”

A.  Good grief.
B.  You know, we have all kinds of religious backgrounds in our church.  It seems to be a place that couples with different backgrounds can agree on.
C.  Well, you’ll probably be looking for another Methodist church then.

D.  See that window right there?  That’s where I’ll be, watching you assholes every minute.
E.  You people some kind of religious mongrels?  Still, as long as you ain’t got no colored blood in yous.
F.  Do your kids like to swim?  I have a swimming pool in my backyard.  I even have swimming suits if they need them.  They can get undressed, um *hard swallow* get, um, changed in my cabana hut.
G.  And then what happened?

4.  ‘What does your church believe, exactly?

A.  Same as everyone else.
B.  I should refer you to our website, so when you have a chance you can learn more about who we are and what we believe.  I think you’ll like what you see.
C.  Umm, I’m not sure. You should ask our pastor.

D. (Taps on the window from inside his home and, when he has their attention, vigorously cocks a shotgun.)
E.  Like any others; we endorse slavery and perform pseudo-cannibalistic rituals. Oh, and regular cross-burnings.  The little 'ens like to roast marshmallows on the ambers afterwards. 
F.  Excuse me, all this talk about swimming has really got me worked up.  I need to go rub one out.
G.  Maple is the one true God; thou shalt not worship any other flavored syrup.  Thou shalt not covet your spouse’s Harvest Grain & Nut pancakes; get your own damn order.   Decaffeinated coffee is a false idol. That’s pretty much it. Now, let’s talk about that tithe.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:58 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Transcript of a Live Broadcast on WKYC Channel 3 News in Cleveland, Ohio

Anchorman: Let’s go to our roving reporter, Christopher Franz, who is LIVE at protest march happening at this very moment.

Anchorwoman:  Wow, that sounds exciting!

Anchorman: Shut the fuck up, Jessica.  Just stick your tits out and smile like you were hired to do.  Sorry, go ahead, Chris.

Chris Franz:  Thanks, Dan.  I’m standing here in front of the Red Lobster Seafood Restaurant in Rocky River where a small group of protesters from a group called, um, “Busybodies of Christ,” it looks like, have been marching and waving signs all afternoon. 

Anchorman:  What’s their issue, Chris?

Chris Franz:  Well, it appears they have a beef with seafood. *chuckles*  Shellfish, in particular.  Let me move over here and try to get an explanation straight from the seahorse’s mouth *chuckles*.

Anchorman (off camera):  Jesus, if he says another fucking seafood pun, I want someone to kill me immediately. 

Wait, what?  My mic is still on?

*ahem*  OK, Chris.  Be careful out there. 

Goddamn it, Larry! How many fucking times have I told you to turn (click).

Chris Franz: Uh, thanks. Dan. 

Excuse me, sir.  Chris Franz from Channel Three News. Can you tell me why you are here protesting today?

Protester 1 (holding a sign that says, “Hepatitis Is God’s Way of Punishing Sinners”):
Yeah, man.  We’re here to tell all the F.A.G.s that they are going to Hell for performing abominable acts against God. 

Chris Franz:  Fags?

Protester 1:  Yeah.  Feeders of Anti-Christian Gastronomy.  Or Forbidden Aliment Gorgers.  We couldn’t really decide. Anyway, F.A.G.s for short in either case.

Chris Franz: Let me see if I understand; you’re protesting against people eating seafood?

Protester 1:  Shellfish, dude.  Shellfish.  It’s all right there in Leviticus 11:9.

Chris Franz:  No kidding?

Protester 1:  Absolutely.  Many people don’t know it, but eating shellfish is the real reason why Adam & Eve were kicked out of the Garden of Eden.  The apple is a symbol for shellfish.  God caught Adam & Eve doing oyster shooters with Satan under the Tree of Knowledge.

Chris Franz:  Are you sure it wasn’t just an apple?

Protester 1: Of course. Ever hear of the ‘fruit of the sea’?  You see, to understand the bible, you have to understand what is symbolic and what is literal.  

Chris Franz:  And how do you know that?

Protester 1 (points to his head):  God tells you.

Chris Franz:  I see.  So do you actually hate those people in there eating shrimp?

Protester 1:  No. We hate the sin, not the sinner.

Chris Franz:  But I heard you yell at one couple that, wait, here it is, “You’ll be eating shit-covered scampi out of Satan’s asshole in hell!”

Protester 1:  I was talking to the sin.

Chris Franz:  Right.  I see you’re wearing a button that says ‘CRAB.’  What does that mean?

Protester 1: We were originally going to call ourselves the ‘Council for Righteous Aliments, Baby,’ but StarPhish thought it sounded like were we trying to find a cure for scabies.  Unfortunately, I’d already made the buttons.  You should talk to StarPhish, though.

Hey, StarPhish!  Come here and talk to this reporter!

StarPhish (carrying a sign that says “Meat is Murder”):  Don’t tell me what to do, Bobby!  You know I don’t like it when you do that!

Bobby:  Sorry.  Will you please come over here and talk to this guy?

(walks away chanting) Lobsterfest is a Satanic ritual!  Lobsterfest is a Satanic ritual!

Chris Franz:  Why are you here today, young lady?

StarPhish: Like, can’t you read the sign?  Eating animals is a sin, man.  You know, “Thou shalt not kill,” and all that.

Chris Franz: I think the commandment is, “Thou shalt not murder.”

StarPhish:  Meat IS murder, man.  Like I told you, read the sign.

Chris Franz:  So you’re protesting the eating of all fish, not just shellfish?

StarPhish: Shellfish is just the beginning for me.  I won’t rest until all of God’s creatures roam free and live in harmony with the vegan race.

Chris Franz:  So, will all the animals will be vegetarian, too?

StarPhish:  Well, they learned to kill from us, so they can learn to be vegans from us, too.  But we need to start by, like, setting a good example.

Chris Franz:  Right.  OK then.  And you, sir, what do you hope to accomplish here today?

Protester 3 (holding a sign saying, “Deadliest Catch – You Ain’t Kiddin’, Brother!”):  Um, I, um, you know, um…

Chris Franz:  Do you think eating shellfish is a mortal sin?

Protester 3:  Well, um, I’m kind of here with, um, StarPhish?

StarPhish:  No you’re not, Sheldon!

Sheldon:  No.  Right.  OK.  But still, kind of. 

StarPhish:  I’ve told you before, I’m with Bobby now.  Jeez.

Sheldon:  Yeah, well…forget this, I’m starving (drops sign and walks into restaurant).

Chris Franz: So there you have it, Dan.  ‘Busybodies for Christ’ protesting the eating of shellfish as an abomination against God.

Anchorman: Chris, to be fair, how are the representatives from Red Lobster responding to this protest?

Chris Franz:  Their official response is that Lobsterfest begins August 1st and all denominations are welcome.

Anchorman:  Thanks, Chris.  Good work.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

For me, heading into the weekend knowing that I have to attend church on Sunday is like spending two days peeling a giant Band-Aid off my brain.  Still, I wanted to try to have some fun, so Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I decided to go to a local “Party in the Park” festival, complete with greasy bikers, carnival barkers, and enough fresh stitches to start a sweatshop.

The festival was actually pretty fun; the weather was dry and cool, the live music was a interesting mix of jazz standards and alt rock, and there was an ample offering of both elephant ears and funnel cakes.  At one point in the evening, as Nerdy was trying to con a free facial from a local masseuse (insert your own joke here) and I was palming mints from the Shriner’s booth, a young girl tapped me on the back and handed me a tiny, pamphlet called “Doom Town.” 

Unlike most people, I will actually go out of my way to get propaganda of any type, especially religious.  To me, it’s like someone coming up to you and openly sharing how retarded they are.  That’s always good eatin’.

It turns out that “Doom Town” is an animated re-visioning of the story of Sodom and Gomorrah with a conspicuous emphasis on gay sex, footnoting the two obligatory bible verses against homosexuality: Leviticus 18:22 and 20:13. (I later found out that “Doom Town” is available online.  You can read it here, and I strongly recommend that you do.  It’s fantastic.) 

After a quick read of “Doom Town,” I suddenly realized how I would spend my time in church on Sunday morning: reading Leviticus in its entirety.  Despite my religious upbringing, we had never spent much time on the Old Testament.  But seeing as 10% of the population is being singled out based on this one book of the bible, I figured it was time to give it a thorough examination.  So, on Sunday morning, with my newfound booklet of enlightenment secure in the breast pocket of my sport coat and my wife’s bible tucked under my arm, I headed off to church to get my Leviticus on. 

Now, let’s forget for a moment about the mountain of translation problems and the ocean of inconsistencies in the bible.  Taken for its word alone, it turns out that “Doom Town” was right:  Leviticus 18:22 and 20:13 really do condemn homosexuality.  But that ain’t all it condemns.  No sir, not by a long fucking shot. 

What else, according to bible, is an abomination?  Here is a brief list:

Eating shellfish, pork or hasenpfeffer - Lev. 11:9

Getting a haircut - Lev. 19:27

Eating meat with blood in it – Lev. 19:26

Getting a tattoo - Lev. 19:28 

Women wearing pants - Deut. 22:5

Wearing a wool/linen blended fabric (Tasteless, maybe, but an abomination?) – Deut. 22:11

Murder scene sex – Lev. 18:19

By the way, no where in Leviticus does it qualify the seriousness of these abominations.  All require being cast out or killed.  It makes you wonder if God is Chinese.

Anyway, a few other biblical “facts”:

Burnt offerings are more gooder.  Only the best and no blemishes, please.  God is a very picky eater. 
- Lev 1:1 through 7:37.

MILF hunting is a capital offense – Lev. 20:10

Why John Bobbit will never go to heaven -  Deut.23:1 

Forget your rake in the yard?  Leave it.  God says it no longer belongs to you - Deut. 24:19.

In the military and don’t want to get sent to Iraq?  No problem. Just get married. – Deut. 24:5. 

Guys, if you get into a fight, make sure your wife doesn’t jump in and grab the other guy’s ball bag, or you’ll have to cut her hand off.  Apparently this was such a problem is ancient Egypt that God had to make a rule about it   – Deut. 25:11.

While it’s amusing that the same people who want to shield their children from sex education in the school are sending them out to delivery pamphlets about homosexuality, I have a huge fucking problem with intellectually bankrupt bottom feeders that selectively choose biblical passages in order to justify their prejudices. 

So, the next time someone comes up to you and denounces homosexuality, simply nod your head and then ask them to join your upcoming protests at Red Lobster and The Gap.  If that doesn’t work, just quote John 3:16.5 - "For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life, unless, of course, you’re a fag.”

NOTE: Before posting this, I did a google search on Leviticus and other key words like crazy, insane, and ridiculous, and found this very funny article from 2000 or so which basically states this case in a far more succinct and entertaining fashion.   Bastard!
 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

On Sunday mornings, my brother and I would lie quietly in the upstairs bedroom we shared, hoping that on that day maybe, just maybe, the inevitable call would not come.  The wind-up alarm clock on the small table separating our beds was both an angel of hope and a harbinger of doom; each passing minute increasing our hope that the moment of truth might pass unnoticed, and each minute bringing us closer to it.

I remember wishing that the clock was somehow slow, or that we forgot to wind it and the time was actually much later. Or maybe today is daylight savings time.  That one has saved us before.  When is that again?

A noise, some rustling downstairs, would snap us back to attention and we would freeze, fearing the slightest sound or squeak of a bed spring might give us up.  Maybe it was just the dog.   Maybe it was nothing.

Then, almost without fail, the thunderous vibration of our sticky wooden door being yanked open would echo through the upstairs like a quick roll on a kettle drum, filling us with dread.  My mother’s voice followed, like nails on a chalkboard, piercing the air and curling our feet.  

"Mike!  Pat!  It’s time for church!”

Only ten more minutes and we’ll be too late to make the service on time.  Lie still. Pretend we didn’t hear.  Pretend we’re sound asleep and maybe she will leave us alone.

 “Let’s go, boys!  Now!!!”

Suddenly and decisively, our hope for a lazy morning filled with Sugar Pops and Popeye cartoons was lost.  The only thing left to do was turn our futile attempt at passive resistance into petulant resignation. 

So it was for first eighteen years of my life, until the day I left for college.  Every Sunday my mother, a true believer, a born-again Christian, would drag us from the comfort of our warm beds to worship service.

Forget the dogmatic inconsistencies, the selective interpretations and the unapologetic arrogance; that is why I hate going to church.  I have a visceral reaction to it, like chewing aluminum foil or getting kicked in the yam bag.  If you want to get me into a church, there had better be a damn good reason.  A wedding, a funeral, a giant meteor plummeting towards earth; these are reasons I will consider.  And there better be an open bar afterwards.

Needless to say, when the call came late last week alerting us that Nerdy Squirrel’s mom was going to be honored at her church on Sunday and suggesting we attend,  my reaction was less than enthusiastic.

“How about if I just let you punch me in the face?”

Nerdy frowned.

“Or your mom?” I pleaded.  “She could punch me in the face.  You know she’s always wanted to. How about that instead?”

“I go to stuff for your family all the time”

“Not church,” I argued. “Depositions, infectious disease inoculations, psych wards, sure.  But never church.”

“I don’t like it either, but we’re going,” her tone implied that the conversation was over.
 
As if overcome by some childhood demon, I went silent, standing motionless until she brushed past me and left the room.   Once out of sight, I slunk off into the bedroom and quietly reset the time on our alarm clock. 

To Be Continued…

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Today I turn 43.  While that might not seem like much of a landmark, 43 is officially closer to 45 than it is to 40.  So as of today, I’m not just over 40, I’m approaching 45, and will soon be on my way to 50. 

Christ, fifty years old.  I can hardly bear it.

Anyway, in celebration of my slow march towards death, I thought I would share two jokes that have been hanging on my bulletin board for over a decade.  I guess I find some comfort in the fact that old things can still be funny.   

The following is supposedly an actual essay written by a college applicant to NYU who was subsequently admitted.

3A. In order for the admissions staff to get to know you better we ask that you answer the following question:
Are there any significant experiences you have had, or accomplishments you have realized, that have helped to define you as a person?

I am a dynamic figure, often seen scaling walls and crushing ice. I have been known to remodel train stations on my lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees, I write award-winning operas, I manage time efficiently.

Occasionally, I tread water for three days in a row.

I woo women with my sensuous and godlike trombone playing, I can pilot bicycles up severe inclines with unflagging speed, and I cook Thirty-Minute Brownies in twenty minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Peru.

Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon Basin from a horde of ferocious Army Ants. I play bluegrass-cello, I was scouted by the Mets, I am the subject of numerous documentaries. When I'm bored, I build large suspension bridges in my back yard. I enjoy urban hang gliding.

On Wednesdays, after school I repair electrical appliances free of charge.

I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie. Critics worldwide swoon over my original line of corduroy evening wear. I don't perspire. I am a private citizen, yet I receive fan mail. I have been caller number nine and have won the weekend passes. Last summer I toured New Jersey with a traveling centrifugal-force demonstration. I bat 400.

My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botony circles. Children trust me.

I can hurl tennis rackets at small moving objects with deadly accuracy. I once read Paridise Lost, Moby Dick, and David Copperfield in one day and still had time to refurbish an entire dining room that evening. I know the exact location of every food item in the supermarket.

I have performed several covert operations for the CIA. I sleep once a week: when I do sleep, I sleep in a chair. While on vacation in Canada, I successfully negotiated with a group of terrorists who had seized a small bakery.

The laws of physics do not apply to me.

I balance, I weave, I dodge, I frolic, and my bills are paid. On weekends, to let off steam, I participate in full-contact origami. Years ago I discovered the meaning of life but forgot to write it down. I have made extraordinary four course meals using only a mouli and a toaster oven.

I breed award winning clams. I have won bullfights in San Juan, cliff diving competitions in Sri Lanka, and spelling bees at the Kremlin.

I have played Hamlet, performed open heart surgery, and have spoken with Elvis.

But I have not yet gone to college.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (164) | TrackBacks (0)

July 19, 2007, outside Crunchy Blue Commando’s Mansion.

Quiet!  Quiet, please.

Given the overwhelming public outcry and relentless hounding by the media, I have decided to break my silence and discuss my recent departure from The Peevery.  Hopefully this will put an end to all the breast-beating, candlelight vigils and public urination that has been taking place in front of my home since the announcement. 

Seriously, just look at what you savages are doing to my landscaping.  Do you think my hedges just naturally grew into the shapes of the Seinfeld cast?  Huh?  Thanks to stupid Wolf Shitzer over there, it now looks like Elaine dropped a deuce right where she is standing.  Jesus, dude, how much corn do you eat?  In fact, why don’t you do everyone else a favor and stay in the Situation Room until you get that incontinence under control.

And my lawn!  Do you people have any idea how much cross-cutting it took for me to mow that image of Christ into the grass?  Now it’s ruined and I’ll probably never sell my house to some inbred hayseed on eBay for triple the price.  Thanks, assholes. Thanks a lot.

Let’s get to the matter at hand.  Despite all the swirling rumors, I left The Peevery on my own accord.  I was not forced out due to my alleged addiction to blue Skittles, the 20/20 expose on my underage Filipino man-servant, Ricky Ricardo, or the severe depression I recently suffered as a result of numerous failed attempts to clone Gene Gene, The Dancing Machine.  While these personal challenges have not made my life any easier, they also have not affected the quality of my work.

My primary reason for leaving The Peevery has to due with my desire to focus on several new writing projects.  First, I will be regular contributor to Amazon book reviews as well as providing satirical content for Anonymous Coworker and Assclownopolis.  While some naysayers have made the semantic argument that my contributions are merely “comments,” I prefer to think of my words as a necessary cog in the well-oiled machine of modern literature.  I guess I’m just a glass-is-half-full kind of guy in that way.

Second, I have recently learned that Netflix subscribers can now login to the website and watch eighteen hours a month of movies directly on their computers.  Well, being as I am the proud owner of such a computer, it would be foolish for me to not take full advantage of this elite membership perk. 

Finally, let me say that I have no regrets about the year I spent with The Peevery or my decision to leave.  Now, if it suddenly gets national recognition and all the Peevers become famous, someone may need to die so I can get my position back.  Given the choice between being a celebrity under investigation for murder or the blogging equivalent of Pete Best and Henri Padovani, I’ll choose the former every time.

That’s all I have to say on the matter and I will not take any questions.  And for Christ’s sake, Wolf, pull your pants up and get the fuck out of my bushes!

end of transcript

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 11:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

As my grandfather said, "Always quit whatever you start."

Wait, maybe that was "Never quit whatever you start."  Oh well, I guess it's too late because I already quit and he's been dead for years. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 12:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Cop A Feel

For my upcoming birthday, Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. bought me tickets for the Police reunion concert tonight.  Even though Sting is a complete tool – I hope he has finally removed that fucking lute from his ass – I have always been a huge fan of the Police.   Along with The English Beat, the Talking Heads and the Ramones, hearing their music always summons my undergraduate years at Kent State during the early 1980’s. 

Like masturbating or discovering huge sums of cash, nostalgia is one of those things I’d rather not experience with other people around.  Music has always been a powerful emotional trigger for me, and seeing a band that provided the soundtrack during my first experiences with beer bongs, interesting women, LSD, and self-esteem is likely to drum up some raw feelings.  Convening with my past is one thing, doing so in an arena full of balding, forty-something yuppie assholes sipping Chardonnay and muffin-topping over their faded blue jeans is another altogether.

I mean, how can I be expected to enjoy remembering who I was when I’m surrounded by reminders of who I am?

P.S. Favorite Police Song and Favorite Police Video

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When it comes to DVD rentals, Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I are like Switzerland; we’re neutral observers in the war between Netflix and Blockbuster, and wish merely to profit from the resulting carnage.   Lately, though, an increasing number of reckless incursions by the imperialists at Blockbuster may force us to finally choose sides.

We love movies.  Since we don’t really watch television, N.S and I will easily go through three or four movies a week.  When Netflix was introduced a few years ago, we thought is was a brilliant idea and immediately signed up.  Since then, the company has always delivered what it promised and we have no complaints whatsoever.  However, we will still occasionally head over to our local Blockbuster store if there is something we suddenly feel compelled to watch, like Ernest Goes To Brunch or the Full House box set. 

Once it became clear to the fascist Blockbuster empire that little start-up Netflix was viable threat – a realization that, in my opinion, took an embarrassingly long period of time – they began attacking.  (I enjoy imagining a board room full of fat, stupid Blockbuster execs shoveling handfuls of Milk Duds and JuJu Bees into their bloated faces as they laugh off the idea of movies by mail).  Mighty Blockbuster’s initial Shock & Awe campaign developed a similar service, offered free trial periods, underpriced their competitor, and inundated the countryside with propaganda.  Surely it is not too far fetched to speculate that the “Mission Accomplished” banners were ready to be hung in the Blockbuster board room shortly after the campaign began.

Unfortunately for them, despite a massive firepower advantage, Blockbuster failed where so many superpowers failed before them: winning hearts and minds.  Netflix was the underdog, the innovator, the party of the people.  When Blockbuster greedily overtaxed citizens with late fees, Netflix eliminated this practice altogether.  When Blockbuster censored titles, Netflix offered unlimited freedom of choice.  Even though Blockbuster has now begun adopting many of these practices, the citizens of the world know that Netflix was the catalyst for real change. And the executives at Blockbuster have come to accept that their plans for a quick, overwhelming victory were ill-conceived, and a long, hard slog lies ahead. 

The new Blockbuster tactic is to use their existing boots-on-the-ground to gain converts one at a time.  Every time we enter our Blockbuster Store, we are literally accosted by the store employees in attempt to sign us up for their movies by mail service.  On a recent visit, after learning we were Netflix subscribers (a response we had hoped would finally make them leave us alone) the store manager recently began lecturing us about the evil ways of their competitor.
 
“Do you know that the people at Netflix have a party every time a Blockbuster store closes?” he asked us with a wounded look on his face?  

That sounds a bit too much like “The Jews eat babies,” “Illegal immigrants are rapists,”* and other desperate lies designed to incite hatred for political purposes. Ham-fisted attempts like this to gain the high moral ground only serve to push us further away. 

Given the turn they are taking, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear Blockbuster threaten that if we don’t support their company, a strip club, complete with rape rooms, will rush in to take their place once they’re gone.  And, once again, they will have chosen the wrong tactic to persuade me.

* Pat Buchanan on Meet The Press back in May 2007.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 03:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (20) | TrackBacks (0)

Saturday night Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I arrived at Hollywood Video (HV)in the culmination of our citywide search for disc three of Rescue Me, season 1, our latest obsession. 

As we’re checking out, the HV cashier asks I we would like to donate a dollar to the Starlight Children’s Foundation. N.S and I have both worked for non-profit organizations and, despite what you might think, this has only made us more skeptical, if not cynical.  There are (arguably) good causes and there are good charitable organizations, but they are not always one in the same. And then there are the scams, intentional or otherwise.  As such, we do not give money to organizations we do not know.  Not even a measly dollar.

So I asked the cashier what the Starlight Children’s Foundation does.

“It’s to help sick, little children.”

In the world of charity work, 'sick, little children' is truly a hack bit.  It’s the equivalent of a joke about women who like to shop and men who scratch themselves.  If Bill Engvall starts a charity, it would be to help 'sick, little children.'

“Oh,” I exclaimed, nudging N.S., “It’s for sick children, honey. The little ones.”

N.S. politely told the cashier no and watched me out of the corner of her eye as I gave her a disapproving look.

“Hmph!,” I huffed and turned to the cashier.  “Can I have a sick, little children brochure to go, please?”

 As we’re walking to the car, I read the cover of the brochure out loud to N.S.

“Hollywood Video and the Starlight Children’s Foundation are dedicated to improving the lives of seriously ill children through the power of entertainment.”

“No fucking way!” she blurted.  I love this woman.

“Yep.  Improving lives with the power of entertainment.” I raised my hands to the heavens and roared, “The almighty power!”

“Holy crap.  What a bunch of tools.”  Again, more love from me.

‘Improving lives’ is such a grossly naïve idealistic and presumptuous thing to intend, let alone put in a brochure.  Even in an organization like my employer, one that is attempting to cure a horrific, fatal disease, we don’t presume to improve anyone’s life.  Prolong it or make it easier, but not improve it.  An individual life can’t be measured like the energy efficiency of an electrical appliance or the cleaning power of laundry detergent.

Speaking of power, what in name of Blue Collar Television is the 'the power of entertainment?'  Did I not read a Tony Robbins book or something?  Is it the power to sit on your fat ass and stare at colored pixels?  Does it have something to do with scientology (No, I’m not going to capitalize that crazy shit.)?  I like movies. I like music. I like Rescue Me, season one, so far.  I like entertainment.  However, in my experience, the only power entertainment has is to help me avoid doing the shit I really ought to be doing.  

Inside the brochure, what you learn is that Hollywood Video and the Starlight Children’s Foundation are actually doing.

“In hospitals across the country, Hollywood Video is building Starlight Fun Centers: mobile entertainment units equipped with a DVD and Nintendo Game Cube.”

H.V. is 'building' a television on a cart in the same way that you might build a peanut butter and ketchup sandwich.   First, it takes the same amount of effort.  Second, they’re looking at their leftovers – outdated copies of DVDs and video games – and saying, “We’ve got all these movies and they’ve got all those sick, little children.  Let’s clumsily jam them together and shove it down everyone’s throat.”

To be fair, for a chronically ill child, a moment of normalcy or at least some distraction isn’t a bad thing.  I’ve not even against H.V. attempting to find a creative way to write off their used inventory.  But they better not brag that they are improving lives and they damn sure better not ask me to pay for it. 

The only real value in charity work is outcomes, not intentions. H.V.’s Starlight Children’s Foundation is not a solution to a need, it’s a marketing gimmick to get a tax write-off and build goodwill.  What worse is that H.V. is blatantly using of emotional and sensational language to convince people to purchase their shoddy, shallow product. 

Now that I think about it, maybe that truly is the 'power of entertainment.'

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

Here are a few video picks to enjoy this 4th of July when you're in the hospital waiting room while your stupid pyro kid/brother-in-law/spouse is getting his fingers re-attached.

Music

Health Education

Public Speaking

Humor

Family Values

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 01:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

“While we grieve for our friend, George, and his untimely passing, let us remember that the Lord works in mysterious ways, and that he has a plan for all of us.

"And now, let us here from George’s longtime roommate, Crunchy.”

A few muffled sniffles carry across the quiet room.

"Please, please, take your seats, no applause is necessary. Ha ha.   Anyway, um, let me just find my speech.  Now where did I put that damn thing?  Oh, here it is.  (ahem)  Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the holy matrimony...uh oh, wrong speech.  Just kidding, folks.  Remember, the first three letters of funeral are F-U-N.  Am I right?

"Seriously, what can I say about a guy like George? Well, I could say that he was a brilliant inventor, a great author, and a fantastic cook, but then I would be a liar. George was none of those things.  He liked to eat bugs, had absolutely no command of the English language, and the only thing he ever invented was a gelatinous hairball that could choke a fucking horse…oops, sorry Reverend. 

"What I can say is that George liked to sleep.  A lot.  I mean, Jesus, I’ve never known a guy that slept as much as George, and I’ve had roommates that were potheads and mental patients.  The guy could be walking across the room, stop, and just fall asleep right there on the spot.  As far as George was concerned, narcoleptics are a bunch of subconscious tourists.  His ability to sleep was his defining quality.  It’s also probably why he hated loud noises so much.

"Like the rest of us, though, George also had his personal struggles.  His lifelong battle with loose anal glands made it hard for George to maintain friendships, not to mention clean underpants.  Ha ha.  Seriously, it really was awful.  George could lay a stink on you that would make your eyes bleed. You just had to believe in your heart that he didn’t mean it.  

"He also has his demons, which, unfortunately, were the reason he was taken from us so early.  Nobody likes to talk about it, but George was an addict.  Plain and simple.  It started early in life for him when he began scratching doormats.  Some behavioral experts like to say that this is a gateway activity, and that if George had gotten a handle on this, it might not have escalated to scratching rugs, woodwork and, ultimately, our brand new furniture. Unfortunately, his indulgent upbringing did not provide him the kind of self-discipline that is a precondition to changing individual behavior. 

"Only when the final upholstery damage had been done did George finally realize the error of his ways, but by then it was too late.  So desperate he must’ve been to end his evil, destructive habits that he chose to hurl himself against the wall repeatedly until he lost consciousness and died.  While it remains a mystery all to us, including the fine inspectors from the Animal Protective League – several of whom are here today taking notes -  how a cat could grasp the concept of suicide, let alone perform it,  I’d like to suggest that instead of focusing on the terrible ending, we should take heart in the fact that, in the end, George sacrificed himself so that others could relax and watch television in the comfort of nice new furniture.  In the words of the really cool Federation assassin in the film Serenity, which is based on the brilliant but commercially unsuccessful series Firefly, ‘This is a good death.’

"Anyway, for those of you who are religious, George is in a better place now, where the vacuum cleaners are silent, the bugs are juicy, and everything is covered in carpeting.  For the rest of us, well, he’s just dead.  I hate to end on a sour note, but I’m not changing my philosophy just to bandy about some pedestrian, greeting card banality to all you suspicious fucks.

"Back to you, Rev, and sorry about all the F-bombs.  Peace!"

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (19) | TrackBacks (0)

If there is anything in my life that resembles a religion or a belief system, it is common courtesy.  To me, being polite is like folding a pair of jacks; it’s something you always do unless you’ve been given a damn good reason not to.

The fundamental problem is that my religion requires the acknowledgement of others.  For example, if I go to the effort of holding open a door for some old, overly-coifed woman, and she passes by without so much as a smile or a “thank you,” the next two hours of my life will be consumed with devising cruel and unusual ways to punish her inconsiderate fuckheadedness. 

To avoid such a fate, the only other option is to let the door crunch down her brittle, leathery arm, snapping it in two and, if it’s a particularly windy day, taking it clean off.  Even though I’d walk away with a great MPEG on my cameraphone for YouTube, there’s always the risk that I might begin to feel bad about myself.  And I’ve got enough fucking reasons for that already.  

A lesser-known but equally important example is the airplane seat armrest.   The courteous, decent, nose-breathing travelers of the world understand that the single armrest separating seats on an airplane is neutral space.  No man’s land.  A necessary buffer zone designed to maintain civility between reluctant neighbors in a captive environment.  If you are the first passenger to arrive in your row of seats, feel free to enjoy the armrest for all it’s worth.  Use it to rest your elbow, mark your place in the latest John Grisham paperback, or to balance your warm Cinnabon as you pour on all that delicious white gooey stuff.  Whatever.  Go crazy.  However, once the seat next to you is taken, you must immediately retreat back into your assigned seating area.  From that point on, if you need to temporarily enter into the buffer zone to raise your tray table or turn the page of your newspaper, well, that’s just fine.  But be quick and don’t linger. 

The problem arises when a non-believer enters the picture. The other day, this fat, lecherous cretin with permanent Cheeto stains on his fingers flopped into the seat next to me, scattering French fries and dandruff flakes as he landed.  Knowing nothing of acceptable social behavior, this opportunistic parasite saw the open armrest merely as something to consume.  He hoisted up his greasy, fur-covered meat hook and slammed it down smugly, as if reclaiming the land of his baboon ancestry.  To this douchebag, life is a constant game of musical chairs and he is more than willing to nudge the next person off of their rightful seat. 

Suddenly I’m put in a position where my courteousness has been mistaken for weakness.  Now I have to spend the next three hours “accidentally” bumping, kicking, and making abrupt, violent jerking motions whenever pigman begins to settle in.  Of course, if I were really religious, I would strive to be the bigger person and forgive his trespasses.  But fuck this guy.  If Jesus had to spend three hours stuck inside a flying petri dish next to a festering asshat that kept spilling over into his already cramped little three-by-four seating area, he would’ve led with an elbow when turning the other cheek.

Forever and ever. Amen.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (0)

Last weekend I went shopping for a fuzz shaver to remove the pills from my sweaters.  Sounds simple enough, right?  A little gay and compulsive, but simple. 

Well, it probably would’ve been if any one of the retards at any of the three stores I went to have ever heard of such a device.  They hadn’t, which seems odd considering that most of them grew up with washing machines and shit like that in their classrooms.  At least they did when I was in high school.

Anyway, here is a fun game: try explaining what a lint shaver is to someone who is completely unfamiliar with the concept.  The conversation will probably go something like this:

ME: Do you have a lint shaver?

CLERK: A who?

ME: Lint shaver.  It shaves the pills off of sweaters.

CLERK: Pills?

ME:  Yeah, pills. 

CLERK: You want the pharmacy.

ME:  No, no.  Pills are the little balls that your shave off of wool.

CLERK: You mean like shaving wool off sheep?

ME:  What?  No, no.  (Deep breath)  It’s a battery-operated device that uses razor blades to shave off the tiny amalgamated masses of fabric that accumulate on wool outerwear and such.

CLERK: So it’s battery-operated?

ME:  Yes.  I’m not sure that is a definitive feature, but yes.

CLERK: Hmm.  So, is it a new invention?

ME:  No, not to me.

CLERK: Did you check over by the razors?

ME:  It wouldn’t be by the razors.  It’s more of a fabric or clothing-related item.

CLERK: But it has razors?

ME:  Yes, I know it sounds strange, but believe me, it exists.

CLERK: OK, then.  We don’t have any.

ME:  Wait, do you understand what it is then?

CLERK: Yeah.  We don’t have it.  Try Target.

ME:  Are you just trying to get rid of me?

CLERK: No.  Have a nice day. (Walks away)

ME:  I’m not crazy.  They exist.  I’m not crazy!

Not yet, anyway.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 01:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

I'll be in Corolla this week working on my melanoma and liver disease.  Maybe I'll even catch a few crabs and, if I'm lucky, get eaten by a shark.

Good bye, cruel world.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 02:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

...so I was forced to spend some time alone with my brain.  This is what came of it.

Likely Name Of The Perfume That The Large, Malodorous Woman Exercising Next To Me At The Gym Today Was Wearing (I Assume)

Barbequed Turds by Ralph Lauren

Obsession with Pork Rinds by Calvin Klein

Fendi by Fendi – Now with Hickory Flavoring!

Toilet Water by Jackie’s Rib Shack

Once I got far enough away from dirty bacon lady, I noticed that there were a lot of cute, young girls working out.  Reflexively, I checked myself in the mirror and thought: Hey, for a 43-year-old, I’m not completely awful.  Since no one was there to readily rectify my poor judgment, my mind continued to wander.  Eventually, I came to this question: Is there a male equivalent to the MILF or the Cougar? 

Well, thank God for the internet. According to the critically-acclaimed and highly accurate Urban Dictionary, the male version of a Cougar is a Dingo.   Not too sure I like the sound of that – a little too close to an abbreviation for dingle berry.  Plus, "dingo" is one of those words that have become fused to a phrase, rendering people incapable of hearing the word without repeating the phrase, which gets really annoying after a while. 

Anyway, I began wondering if I would qualify for dingo status?  I mean, would more than one young hottie have to want be willing to love me up, or could one lonely, confused girl with a history of bad decision-making make the case?  I wanted to go up and talk to a few of them to learn more, but the recent memory of similar approaches, the intentions of which were not well-received, still stung in my eyes. 

Even if I did qualify, I’d probably have to join some crappy local Dingo Association that has meetings in smoky church basements where Eastern European types flaunt gratuitous amounts of chest hair and Polo cologne and lie about getting laid (which actually sounds like a description of the coffee shop in my neighborhood).  I mean, qualifying would be nice, but really, who needs another meeting?

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

First, let’s get all the jabs out of the way.

“Nothing Funny should be the name of entire website.  Throwing Nothing Funny.”

“Not unless you’re going to post nude photos of yourself”

“Nothing Funny?  Why not call it Nothing Muslim or Nothing Grammatically Correct or any number of the other things that readers would never expect to find here.”

Yes, you’re all very smart.  Now shut the fuck up, ‘cause I’ve got me some bitching to do and am in no mood to be your monkey.

For the past three years, I have been responsible for hosting a regional training for my organization.  Not to brag, but each year I finalized the details of the meeting months in advance, came in under budget, and received over 90% positive responses from my participants in all categories. 

This year my boss decided she wanted to “improve” the regional trainings.  Apparently, in the dictionary for soul-eating bitchtards, “improve” means tripling expenses, involving various ineffective, egomaniacal department heads, and completely alienating the potential participants by ignoring their requests for specific training sessions. 

Now, with less than two weeks until the meeting, we still do not have a set agenda and participants have begun canceling their plans to attend.  Considering that my meeting is just one of four from across the nation that she has “improved,” this may very well be the most colossal clusterfuck of her career.  And I’ve had to cancel part of my vacation in order to clean up the mess. 

She’ll probably get a raise.  Stupid fucking non-profit organizations.

P.S. Reasons Why I’m A Little Girl: #47

This made me weepy. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

Holy fucking shit.  The past seven days have honestly been the second or third worst week of my life, not counting when Comedy Central ran that Blue Collar TV marathon.  Or when I got high on mescaline in Arizona and went on an armadillo-massacring rampage.  Or my wedding.

As of today it seems like things are turning around (the health situation, not the marriage).  I’d like to tell you more, but it relates to a family member who requests anonymity, and who owes me money.  So, if I ever want to see my greenbacks again, I had to promise not to write about the incident.  That means I’m now getting paid not to write, bringing to reality a prediction my creative writing teacher made several years ago. 

Anyway, the whole epic saga has left me exhausted, angry and wanting to slap some punk-ass healthcare bitches with my corndog of love.  Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the work that doctors, nurses and bedpan technicians do (or do-do).  But sometimes these motherfuckers think they know everything.  For example, the other day a nurse came into my relative’s hospital room and began to hang an IV bag:

ME:  Do you mind if I ask what you are administering?

NURSE:  It’s (medicine) for the (diagnosis).

ME:  That’s strange.  The doctor was in here a little while ago and said that they ruled out (diagnosis).  Why would you still be giving this medicine?

NURSE:  It’s in the chart.

ME:  Huh.  Well, would you mind checking on it first?

NURSE: (Rolls her eyes) Are you refusing treatment?

ME:  No, no. I’d just think maybe someone should check on it first.  Is that possible?

NURSE: (Pissy) Whatever you want.

She drops the IV bag on the table, walks out, and then returns five minutes later.

NURSE:  (Matter-of-factly) You’re done with this now.

She grabbed the IV bag and walked out of the room.  No “Good thing you were here.”  No “Boy, that was close.”  No “Thanks for catching that.”  No “Sorry I’m such an incompetent cunt.”   She just walked out. 

For the rest of the week, this bull-dyke treated me like I was a trouble-maker because I stopped her from pumping unnecessary chemicals into a patient, like I’M the fucking problem. 

The moral of the story:  Don’t ever leave your loved ones unattended in the company of a pedophile, a psychotic, or a healthcare professional. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

And what if it happened to you on a daily basis?  Well, then you know what it's like to be me and I'd know what it's like to have a hard drive full of kiddie porn. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

Walked outside to check the mail today and guess what I found?  The Publisher's Clearinghouse prize van?  The corpse of a Jehovah's Witness with his forefinger stuck in my combination doorbell/live electrical current?  A burning paper sack filled with dog poop? 

No such luck.  Instead, I found this:

Apparently Dick Tooth considers himself something of a cocksman and is scouring my neighborhood in attempt to horn in on some marital duties.  This self-promoting provider of "Handy Service" better look elsewhere if he wants to clean some unsatisfied wife's gutters. 

There is only one hammer in this house, Dick.  Mine.  It does all the nailing around here.  Sure, there are times when the hammer has had too much too drink and just wants to sleep.  Maybe sometimes, in the heat of the moment, the hammer swings a little wild, accidentally missing the nail head and causing an "ouchie" (and subsequently gets accused of doing it on purpose).   No matter.  Call us Puritanical, but this household believes in one woman/one man/one hammer.   Just the way God intended.

However, for argument's sake, let's say I've made a mistake and Dick isn't some sleazy WILF hunter.  If he truly wants to provide an authentic "Rent-A-Husband" service, here are a few husbandly jobs that I'd be happy to outsource:

1.  Attend breakfast every Saturday with mother-in-law (a premium service).
2.  Mount daily search-and-rescue operations to locate all cordless phones and return them to their chargers.
3.  Laundry, dishes, vacuuming, etc.  It's 2007, Mr. Tooth!
4.  Search out good porn sites (It's not that I don't enjoy this, but there is only so much time in a day).
5.  Let's just say that those poop stains aren't going to work themselves out of my underwear.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 01:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

Worry about getting mugged.

Try in vain to convince your wife that watching a Live Sex Show on Bourbon Street is nothing more than simply experiencing a little local flavor, like eating barbequed oysters or listening to jazz.

Watch as other people get mugged.

Eavesdrop on fat, bead-dazzled tourists in jokey t-shirts as they congratulate themselves for helping the local economy by coming here for the weekend and drinking their paychecks.

Get mugged.

Play "Guess What Kind Of Drink The Loud, Staggering Asshole Just Spilled On Me."

Explain to the other muggers on your way back to the hotel that you've just been mugged and have nothing left to steal.

Feel obligated to over-tip everybody because they've all got a tragic fucking Katrina story to tell you.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:06 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Over the weekend Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I went to the movies. 

Nearly thirty minutes in the flick, a feeble old couple meandered into the theater and began talking in full voices as they stumbled into some empty seats.  The episode took nearly five full minutes, a lifetime when you're trying to watch a movie.  Normally, this would drive me insane and I would demand God to prove his existence by killing them dead on the sticky, germ-soaked floor.  If He refused - as He usually does - then I would begin the following escalation of remarks:

"Shush."
"Shhhh!"
"SSSSHHHHHHH!!!"
"Quiet!"
"Stop talking!"
"Shut up!!!"
"SHUT YOUR FUCKING PIE HOLES!!!"
"DIE!!!  DIE, YOU DECREPIT OLD FUCKS!!!"

This time it didn't bother me, though.  Their entrance and chattering was so utterly infirm that it transcended rudeness.  All I could imagine was this old couple shuffling around their musty old home full of lime green appliances and plastic-covered furniture, hours before the movie was scheduled to start, yelling to each other from different rooms as they fumbled to get ready in time.  They'd spend an eternity trying to get out the door; her having to go back inside to turn her dress right side out, him having check three times whether or not he took his medication.  Once in the car, she would stare out the window pointing out things he was too busy driving to notice.  He'd mumble to himself and curse all the maniacs surrounding them on the road.  In the safety of their home and their Buick, they could bicker and argue freely.   But once the car was parked and the doors opened, he'd take her hand and they would huddle together against the winds of change that nowadays always seemed to be gusting so hard against them. 

As these thoughts ran through my head, a kind of joyful sadness crept over me.  I reached over for my wife's hand and gave it a squeeze.  Her head turned towards mine and I nodded to the old couple still chattering and attempting to navigate the aisle behind us.  She squeezed my hand back and, as if she could read my mind, gave a knowing smile.

"Will you please be quiet!" she barked at them.

I love my old lady.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Last week I spent four days at a national work conference in Washington D.C., culminating with a mind-numbing, eight-hour session on managing human resources.  By the time the final meeting rolled around, I had already spent three 14-16 hour days glad-handing, back-slapping, and ass-grabbing constituents from across the country.   I was tired, hung-over, and had nary a nugget of shit left to give.  Saying I was punchy would be like saying Mike Tyson is prickly.

The topic of Human Resources totally eats ass to begin with.  As far as I'm concerned, managing other people is by far the worst part of any job, and I'm sure anyone who has had to manage me would whole-heartedly agree.  Spending eight hours talking about how to manage employees who grope, gripe, sham, scam, pilfer and pummel, is downright depressing. 

As always, the moderator for the session was a total hack.  This overweight, middle-aged woman looked like a snowman build entirely out of make-up, jewelry, polyester and perfume.  She began with a lame joke because "it is important to start presentations with a laugh."  Truly innovative stuff. 

Normally, I would just sit quietly and spend the day attempting to kill her with the Jedi mind trick.  However, because of my elevated sleep deprivation and blood-alcohol levels, there was no way I was going to be able to keep my cake hole shut.  It was going to be a problem. 

For the most part, my smart-assedness was neither toxic nor detrimental:

MODERATOR:  "What do you hope to get out of this session?"
ME:  "Snacks."

MODERATOR:  "We need people of intelligence and integrity."
ME: (Getting up to leave) "Guess I'll go wait in the car." 

MODERATOR:  "Have you ever heard of Brainstorming?"
(Yes, she really asked this question.)
ME:  "Not since Wendy's aired their 'Where's The Beef!' campaign."
MODERATOR:  "So you're familiar?"
ME:  "Sure, but with this group it is more like Partly Cloudy With A Chance Brain Drizzle."

It went like that for most for the day.  Then the moment of truth came.  Asking us to break up into groups, the moderator gave us this scenario:  Assume you are a manufacturer of wire coat hangers and all the dry cleaning companies have decided to switch to another type of hanger - what do you do with your inventory? 

My hand shot into the air and, after hesitating for a quick sigh, the moderator pointed to me and said yes.  Whether it was through an inexplicable moment of decorum, or my 30-year mortgage flashing before my eyes, I lowered my hand and kept quiet.  My best joke of the day, best joke of the week, was left to die in silence so that I might live to work another day.

"Do we assume Roe Vs. Wade is still intact?"

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 11:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

Last week I went to the urologist because there simply aren't enough people who can tell me that I don't have cancer.  Also, since Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I might be thinking about having kids in the near future, I wanted to make sure that the fruit of my loins had not spoiled.  Plus, over the past few weeks, I've kind of developed a fondness for paying medical professionals to fondle my junk.

Being the good patient that I am, I arrived at the urologist's office ten minutes early and was immediately handed a stack of forms representing all manner of dense contractual obligations.  Normally, I do not sign anything without reading it, but it honestly would have taken me several hours to fully digest all this material.  So, like most people, I just signed it, effectively relieving myself of any actionable recourse when the video of my unwrapped package shows up on GrowersNotShow'ers.com.  

After I turned in my papers, I took a seat and began scrutinizing the other people in the waiting room.  Whenever I go to the doctor, I always wonder why the other people are there.  Is he dying?  Is she a hypochondriac?  Does he have a Ken doll stuck in his rectum?  I look for clues and try to deduce their diagnosis, as well as assess any risk they might pose to me.  I also like to drop clues as to why I am there, or at least why I want them to think I'm there.  It's a fun way to pass the time.

However, quite unlike a general practitioner, when you're seeing an urologist, something embarrassing is definitely going on.  You can't play it off by coughing excessively or limping over to the magazine rack.  Impotence, incontinence, erectile dysfunction and STDs are the staples of the urologist's office.  It's not the kind of place where you go to make friends or meet other singles.

Sharing the waiting room with me was an old guy in a wheelchair and, unexpectedly, a cute, young girl.  Smell alone told me that incontinence was just the tip of the iceberg with the old guy - with him it was obviously more a question of what was working than what wasn't - but the young girl had me stumped.  She was wholesome-looking and conservatively dressed, didn't appear nervous and had no visible lesions.  She was sitting there reading her book when I arrived, so it's possible that she was just waiting for someone.  This conclusion immediately heightened my self-awareness and I decided it was time to play defense. 

Other than exposing myself and engaging in some frowned-upon public behaviors, I had no idea how to act fertile, chlamydia-free and maturely ejaculating.  Instead, I decided to be friendly and carefree, believing that this would surely indicate that I was a well-adjusted, fully functioning man.

A few moments later a young man entered the waiting room and, as he looked around, our eyes met.  He smiled.

"Good morning."
I saw this as my opportunity. 

"Good morning!" I blurted back. "How are you?"

"Great, my friend.  Just great.  How are you doing today?" he replied cheerily. 

Perfect. This is going swimmingly, I thought. We're just like two old friends with perfectly fine peckers having a chat.
 
"Couldn't be better."

"Fantastic.  Good to see you."

"You, too."

As he stepped up to the receptionist's window, I reclined back into my seat, satisfied with a job well done.

Then, while my new pal was leaning in speaking with the receptionist, his tote bag slipped off his shoulder and thudded against the counter.  Everyone in the room looked up to consider the source of the sound, and that's when I finally noticed the large logo on his bag.

Cialis.

I just engaged in a public display of affection with the fucking Cialis guy.  The only way this could've been worse is if he walked in, saw me sitting there and said, "Hey, Crunchy! How's the tool working?" and then tossed some free samples at me. 

After rehashing this incident in my mind - and I have, at great length - what bothers me most is that, between the wheelchair guy and me, this professional salesman of erectile dysfunction drugs made a point of speaking to me.  I was identified as the potential customer in the room. 

Crud.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 01:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Over the weekend, I took to cleaning the old shit out our closets in order to make room for new shit.  In doing so, I came across my treasure box.  This is basically a shoebox in which I have stuffed anything that seemed sentimental or otherwise worth keeping over the past thirty years. 

Every so often I like to sift through it and cull the herd of weaker memories.  This time, the middle finger statuette that I won in a card game during college failed to make the cut along with my high school track newspaper clippings (Don't get excited, they are basically box scores that documented the rare occasions when I happened to manage a third place finish. I stunk.) 

One thing I struggle with every time are old photos.  Over the years I have saved photographs of my various girlfriends (the distant shots are of the ones who hadn't yet been convinced that they belonged to me).  Now that I'm married, in some ways this feels vaguely inappropriate.  Still, I have never been able to throw them away, or any other photographs for that matter.  Trashing pictures of people just seems inherently bitter and retaliatory.  

To be honest, I also kind of worry that something bad will happen to these people as a result.  While I'm not superstitious, nor do I believe in anything supernatural, it is still not a good idea to fuck with that voodoo shit.

Anyway, the point is...well, no, this isn't the point at all.  The purpose of writing this, which for some reason has nothing to do with the four paragraphs above, is that I've also decided to get rid of my remaining cassette tapes as well.  Over the years, I have shit-canned several hundred cassettes as the titles got replaced with CD versions.  However, I still have approximately 80 tapes in the rock, alternative, jazz and classical genres.  Having lived through the ethnic cleansing of LPs and the holocaust of 8-tracks, I cannot simply wipe out these survivors en masse.

If you or anyone you know is interested in these relics, please email me at admin@throwingpoo.com.  They are free to any good home (what I don't know won't hurt me) and come complete with two mismatched plastic cases with that KMart wood-grain finish circa 1982.  Who knows?  You might even get lucky and find a few photos mixed in.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

It's Friday night and, exhausted from the workweek, Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I decide to head over to Blockbuster to rent movies. 

The Assistant Manager recognizes us, as he always does, and says hello.  We smile and wave, but do not stop to talk.  While he's a nice enough guy, he tends to ramble on.  Worse, he repeats the same awful jokes over and over, laughing each time.  To me, this is an unforgivable sin.  For example, I'm certain that when he rings up our rental, the price will be a hilarious four hundred and ninety-eight dollars instead of four dollars and ninety-eight cents.  I anticipate interacting with him in the same way I do the jagged bit of dentist's drill. 

Slipping past the counter, the smiles fall from our faces and we're all business as we break off in different directions to gather our soldiers.  You see, for us the Blockbuster store is a battleground, the frontline of our ongoing trench war.  Time after time, we come here to fight for inches - redrawing the boundaries of our marriage, one DVD rental at a time. 

Fortunately, N.S. and I have a relationship that is based on mutual respect, cooperation and a healthy dose of fear.  We each know the importance of making the other happy, or at least of not scorching the landscape in an attempt to please our self.  In other words, we each want our way, but we don't want the other person to feel as if they have compromised too much.  We understand the importance of winning hearts and minds.

Strangely, we don't seem to have too much trouble with the big decisions.  It's the little ones, those in which the stakes are low, that really draw out our aggression and egotism.  Neither of us wants to bully the other into a major, life-affecting choice.  Screw something like that up, and you risk ruining your marriage.  But nobody is going to pack their bags because they were coerced into watching Monster-In-Law. 

Without any real risk or fear, N.S. and I are free to be the pushiest assholes that we want to be.  Sure, we could opt for a win-win scenario.  But among movies between two people of diverse tastes, there is always room to win a little more.

In War There Is No Prize For The Runner Up
Marching through the ranks of DVDs, we each search for the perfect recruits.  Together they will form an elite unit whose mission is to win the day's battle and send home a sole survivor.  My side's territory - the courageous Allies - is marked by the designations Action, Comedy and, fittingly, Martial Arts.  Her side - the bullying Germans - encompasses the trenches between Romance, Drama and Foreign.

I like to start with a big gun for the initial Shock & Awe stage of the campaign.  This is a hardcore pick that is not expected to survive.  Its primary objective is to let my enemy know just how bad things can get if she is not willing to negotiate.  Examples of big guns I like to send into the shit include Jackass (either volume), Fantastic Four, or anything from Adam Sandler.  Unfortunately, N.S. has caught onto this tactic and now brings her own big guns to the party, such as The Notebook, The Lake House, or anything with Ralph Fiennes (in which he surely displays his naked ass).   One unwritten rule is that you can't bring more than one big gun to the final battle. If you bring two, the other side will retreat and bring back three big guns, and so on.  Before you know it, you're in the middle of an arms race.

Once the big guns are eliminated, I like to send in two or three stealth picks.  These must be intelligent and well-camouflaged, exploiting some aspect of my enemy's weaknesses.  Titles like X-Men ("Hugh Jackman sure is a delicious piece of man meat."), King Kong ("You love animals."), or War Of The Worlds ("It's Spielberg, for crying out loud!") make good recruits.  Still, they are not intended to survive, only to divert attention.     

After I have softened her with the Shock & Awe and stealth attacks, it is time for the final showdown.  For this I need a lone Commando; a highly-intelligent recruit who can speak the language, get behind enemy lines, establish trust and win the battle from within.  These are picks like The Prestige ("Hugh Jackman in a period piece, directed by Christopher Nolan."), The Departed ("It won the Oscar for Best Picture."), or Casino Royale ("Daniel Craig in little boy shorts.  Plus, it got 94% rating on Rotten Tomatoes.). 

As the Commando fights to the death, I'm not above trying to gain a moral advantage by reminding my enemy of past atrocities ("Remember Legally Blonde 2?"), offering supplemental concessions ("We should visit your mother tomorrow.") or outflanking her by offering up a chick-flick that she has recently seen (good intel is vital, or this will backfire).

When the dust settles over the scarred battlefield, hopefully my Commando is the last one standing.  If not, there is no need to go nuclear.  I just head back to base camp, regroup, and live to fight another day.  I've only lost an inch and, chances are, there is nothing good on cable tomorrow night either.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 12:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

Sorry for the melodrama earlier this week.  This whole episode screwed with my head a bit.  Staying up late every night drinking beer and watching sinking ship videos on YouTube probably isn't helping matters much, either.

Things are about to brighten up, though, because tonight Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I are going furniture shopping. 

Since we are both completely devoid of design skills, N.S. decided to work with the interior decorator from a local furniture store.  The "guy" is a complete tool.  During the initial one-hour meeting at our house, he actually described himself as an artist and repeatedly applauded us for being smart enough to hire him.  (Even though our meeting was only scheduled for an hour, his cologne hung around for another three, eating through our snacks and making long distance phone calls.)  The whole time I had to keep imagining my fat ass lounging on a fluffy new couch just to avoid choking the patronizing motherfucker out.

Despite all this, we hired "him."  Our logic being that, if he's a gay, condescending asshole, then he must know what he is doing.  Stereotypes really are dangerous.  Honestly, though, I think we just want to have someone - anyone - do it for us.  Preferably someone we could later hate and deride in order to feel better about ourselves.

Anyway, we're scheduled to spend three hours with this snotty ass-pirate, dredging through swatches, getting baited-and-switched, and being reminded of how smart we are.  If we spend enough money, maybe he'll even pat our little heads.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 02:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

I have something of a confession to make.  Last week when I wrote that my newfound friend - Lumpy the Death Merchant, I call it - was nothing to worry about, I was being dishonest.  I didn't have any idea whether it was or wasn't (an untrasound test is the only way to know for sure).  However, since the subject was weighing down my thoughts, not to mention my carry-on baggage, I wanted to write about it.  At the same time, I didn't want to unnecessarily worry my family or encourage them to start divvying up my shit.  So I lied.  

Last night my doctor called to tell me the test results.  Lumpy is, in fact, no death merchant at all.  He (its in my junk, so it's got to be a "he" right?) is just an innocent bystander.  A pedestrian.  

Goddamn Lumpy.  Always scaring the shit out of people for no reason.

Anyway, after dancing around the house for an hour singing, "I ain't got no cancer!  I ain't got no cancer!"  I called N.S. to break the good news and suggest we celebrate with a fancy dinner and a fine bottle of wine.  Also, to tell her to cancel that new Match.com membership.

We had a lovely evening.  This morning I woke up wanting to be a changed man.  I wanted Lumpy to leave a mark - a bruise on my consciousness to remind me that time is short.  

Two hours later, I'm once again sitting in an airport, dutifully waiting for a flight somewhere to do shit I don't want to do.  Waiting to collect another paycheck.  Waiting.

Fuck.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Today I'm scheduled for the ultrasound my doctor ordered just make sure I don't have cancer or that Kuato hasn't found a new home my fruit drawer.  This means that more people I don't know will be poking and proding my junk.  Lest you think this sounds like fun - and, knowing you, you do - here is what I have to look forward to according to WebMD:

How It Is Done
A testicular ultrasound is usually done by an ultrasound technologist. It is done in an ultrasound room in a doctor's office or hospital.

You will need to remove all your clothes from the waist down and put on a gown before the test. You will be asked to lie on your back on a padded examination table. Folded towels will be used to cover the penis and lift the scrotum.

Beach towels in my case.

A gel (such as K-Y Jelly) will be spread on your scrotum for the transducer. The transducer is pressed against your skin and moved across your scrotum many times. 

Many times?!  Oh, no.  This could be bad. Quick! Think Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day!  Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day!

You will need to lie very still during the ultrasound scan. You may be asked to take a breath and hold it for several seconds during the scanning. Testicular ultrasound takes about 20 minutes. 

That's twenty fucking minutes while some glorified checkout girl crushes my nuts with a gooey barcode scanner.

When the test is finished, the gel is removed from your skin. You may be asked to wait until the radiologist has reviewed the information. The radiologist may want to do additional ultrasound views.

Check that. Twenty minutes if I'm lucky.

How It Feels
The gel may feel cold when it is applied to your scrotum unless it is first warmed to body temperature. You will feel light pressure from the transducer as it passes over your scrotum. If the ultrasound test is being done to determine the extent of damage from a recent injury or to investigate testicular pain, the slight pressure of the transducer may be somewhat painful. You will not hear the sound waves.  

...over your screams of agony.

Stupid genitals.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:36 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

The back of my hand is familiar, but there is nothing I know better than my junk.  I examine it, play with it, encourage it, share it with others, and let it make decisions for me.

A few weeks ago while I was performing a self-examination - I like to call it "playing doctor" - I noticed a lump.  Before you rush off to buy sympathy cards, send flowers or hatch an evil plan to woo the Widow Squirrel, Esq, it appears that the twins are fine.  You won't even have to feel weird about discussing Lance Armstrong, chewing Doublemint gum, or listening to "Two for Tuesday" when I'm around.

Still, it was a stressful few weeks.  Not that I was worried about the Big Casino so much, but because I knew that I was going to have to offer up my unit for inspection, starting with my general practitioner.  Starting with her.

I want to be the kind of man who doesn't care about things like having a female doctor analyzing the hanging fruit of his loins.  But leading up to my appointment, I began getting very anxious.  I felt like an old gunslinger who had long ago walked away from the quick-draw life.  Now, trouble had come-a-callin' and he was forced to dig up the pearl-handled six shooters that were buried in the ground.

OK, maybe that's a bit of a stretch.  I guess it's just that, since I've been married, the thought of having to get naked in front of another woman hasn't really occurred to me.  Even though this woman is my doctor - and, I think, a very good one - the idea of presenting my potentially damaged goods to her felt really weird. 

You know how people always want to take a good picture?  Whether snapped by a photographer from the local newspaper or an annoying aunt who will probably just stuff it in a shoebox in her musty basement, people want to show their best side.  That's how I felt.  Not that I expected her to marvel at its beauty and call in all her nurses to chime "coochy coo" and tickle my bag like a baby's chin.  I just wanted to make a good impression.

So, right before my appointment, I took a really long, hot shower, put on clean underwear and wore heavy sweatpants to minimize shrinkage due to the cold weather.  Arriving for my exam, my doctor was her typical friendly and professional self.  She apologized for making me wait a few minutes and explained that it had been a particularly frantic day.  At that moment it hit me: here is someone who sees, touches and smells all manner of horrible human condition every day in order to try to help them.  And I am a totally vain piece of shit.

The time came and went for her to Tune in Tokyo (the male version), and I felt like a complete tool for having been so anxious.  Explaining that everything was fine and suggesting precautionary measures, my doctor removed her rubber gloves and began washing her hands.  She continued talking and washing for what seemed to me like an excessive amount of time.   

For some reason, that kind of hurt my feelings.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

Sorry I haven't posted in a few days, but Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. has been out of town on business all week.  You're probably thinking that I'm writing this from my office-turned-den-of-iniquity as I slovenly snort cocaine off a hooker's ass and feast on the flesh on human babies while that two-headed girl from the Discovery Channel fans my naked, sweaty body.

Not so.

The extent of my debauchery during this self-proclaimed and highly-anticipated Bachelor Week has been to obsess about fiber intake and fixate on home improvement.   While I did willfully and successfully cruise and bring home a streetwalker one night, it was so that she (?) could hold an awkward length of molding as I measured twice and cut once.

Now that Bachelor Week is almost over, I hope the ill effects of my behavior aren't misinterpreted.  My right arm is fatigued, but it's from jerking the starting pull on my obstinate lawnmower.  The fogginess in my head is from too much sleep, not too much ecstasy and alcohol.   The house is spotless because I crave neatness (and N.S. is a total slob), not because a Cleaner was called in to remove all traces of the missing cheerleaders.

That's the thing about responsibility, I suppose. As much as we adults might complain about responsibilities, having them allows us to create and maintain an idea of what we could do/be if we didn't.  Once the obstruction of responsibility is removed, we're forced to recognize how ordinary and timid we really are.

Hurry home, honey.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Thank you for participating in my Anniversary Week Special.  We're all a little tired (I haven't publicly jerked off this much since summer camp), so let's end this week with a final Q& A session.  A special thanks goes out to all those fine folks who submitted questions.

Q: What's your favorite restroom at Hopkins for those emergency dumps? Posted by: DaMonkeyCode. 
A:  "Emergency dumps?" You make it sound so unpleasant.  A savvy traveler builds time into his/her itinerary to leisurely perform this most personal of activities.  That said, the "D" Concourse, north end.  Not in the restroom, but behind the Continental Service Counter.  It's a little hectic and the screaming can be distracting, but overall it is extremely gratifying.

Q:  Which Great Lakes Brewery beer gives you the worst gas? Mine is Burning River, suprisingly. Posted by: DaMonkeyCode. 
A:  Elliot Ness Ale.  It gives me the kind of farts that can kill a small child.  Elliot's revenge, I suppose, for drinking beer named after the man who risked his life fighting bootleggers during prohibition.

Q: Why doesn't Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. correct your grammar anymore? Or mine for that matter.
Posted by: DaMonkeyCode. 
A:   I can no longer afford her rates.  Fortunately for me, though, she can't bill for anything under five minutes, so the sex is still free.

Q:  When are you visiting Texas again so that I can prove to everyone that you aren't my "imaginary friend"? Posted by: buckkel
A:  I've never been to Texas in my life.  And please, I'm begging you, leave me and my family alone.

Q:  And how many more years will pass before you take a year-long sabbatical and write full-time just to see what the hell might come of it? (Yes, you will have to do all the cooking and cleaning because Nerdy Squirrel will be busting her ass so that you can live the dream.)
Posted by: buckkel
A:  I hope to have an answer for this question in the next couple of weeks.  Regarding the second part, I already do all the cooking, cleaning, laundry, yard work and home maintenance.  Stupid me, I blew my wad by taking on all the domestic chores when N.S. went back to school - two weeks after our honeymoon.  After three and a half years, she now thinks this is the natural order of things.  I've got nothing left to trade unless I take one of the cats hostage. 

Q:   I made my own birthday cake once. Have you ever done anything equally pathetic?
Posted by: Robin
A:   I think that is just being practical.  Now, if you lit the candles, sang "Happy Birthday To Me," blew them out while clapping your hands, grabbed a fork and started eating directly from the cake plate, washed it down with Wild Turkey, did some drunken dialing, and passed out on the couch with frosting all over your hands and mouth (and the phone), then it might be considered pathetic. 
 
Back to your question.  At the risk of sending Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. on a weekend-long guilt trip, I had to plan, prepare and host my own 40th birthday party all by my sad little lonesome. 

Also, since you were kind enough to share, allow me to throw in a little doozy that I've never told anyone.

During sixth grade, I was growing very anxious over the fact that I hadn't bloomed yet.  At one point, I decided to begin stuffing wadded paper into my pants in order to expand my horizon.  I guess I thought it was the equivalent of a girl stuffing her bra, which was the big joke at that age. 

Anyway, I only did it for a few weeks, probably because it was physically very uncomfortable (the mental discomfort came later and lasted much longer).  What's worse is that, at the time, it never occurred to me how my sudden inflation might be perceived, not to mention all the fidgety adjusting that followed. 

It has, however, occurred to me every day since. 

Q:  Are Cleveland Steamers really the top export of your region? Posted by: tfg
A:  Indeed.  You might want to catch our segment on "Dirty Jobs" with Mike Rowe. The processing is easy, but the packaging gets a little tricky.  And, during the holidays, quality control can be a bit of an issue.  Fruitcakes and whatnot.

It really should be the name of a minor league baseball team, though, you know?

"Now batting for the Cleveland Steamers, number 2, Pinch Aloafoff." 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:28 AM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

Today I'm going to commemorate my anniversary by taking the day off from posting.  Honestly, I can't think of a better way to celebrate a year of writing this drivel.  I mean, do you make the birthday girl bake her own cake?  Is Jesus expected to color his own Easter eggs?  Does the bachelorette have to bring her own penis hat to the party?  The answers, of course, are no, no and no. 

So why should I be the only one who gets stuck working, like the lone goyim at a deli on Passover?

Instead, it's time for you contribute a little something to the war effort.  Put on your thinking caps and come up with a question for me.  It can be about me, you or anything else (preferably me, though).  I will answer every question on Friday's post.

Now, get to work.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

As part of our weeklong celebration, today we're going to step into the Throwing Poo time machine and go all the way back to the beginning.  Our narrator is James Earl Jones.  Or maybe it is Colin Powell.  I always get those two mixed up.

The year was 2006.  The Iraq War was still raging and, on the home front, iPods were all the rage.  The ignorant masses believed in giant, white polar bears, while our beloved Supreme Leader spent these youthful days showing off her cootch to the paparazzi.

In Cleveland, Ohio (now the bottom of Lake Michiganeriehuron) an aspiring young, uh, young-ish writer with more gumption than gift decided it was time for the world to hear his voice.  His name was Crunchy Blue Commando.  What a tool.

In his very first post, we can see the flicker of genius that would define his future career as a pre-eminent writer of catchy menu-item descriptions for Appleby's (this is a time when Appleby's was merely a chain of restaurants, long before it became history's bloodiest suicide cult).  You'll note that along with the bold text from that first post, we've included the original handwritten comments by his long-time editor and lawyer, Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. in italics (the two were also married for a brief period several years before CBC discovered his true sexuality and ultimately wed a porpoise named Fred.)

Please enjoy this rare glimpse into the past.

OPINING REMARKS
(I get it.  It's like Opening Remarks, only it is about opinions.  Isn't that just pun-tastic!)

opinion n. 1. A belief held often without positive knowledge or proof. 
(A dictionary entry? Holy pretentiousness alert!)

Often. Not sometimes or occasionally, but often.  So according to my American Heritage Dictionary, technically speaking, most opinions are just individually conjured whimsy.  (OK, so you have a well-thumbed thesaurus, but how about a little fucking grammar?)  Maybe I'm completely naive, but reading this was like learning that there isn't actually gold in Fort Knox that was backing up the cash in my wallet - all six bucks of it.   (Wow. That last sentence is total shit)  It is just paper that has value because we collectively decide to believe that it does. 
 
I always liked the phrase, "Opinions are like assholes, everybody has one," but it only struck me as an indictment of the sheer number, not the quality.  If a person has inherent value, I thought, so must their opinions.  I'm beginning to think I was wrong on both counts.  (Is he retarded? What the fuck is he talking about?)
 
I suppose it is also the indirect result of our social structure.  In our relentless and utterly futile pursuit of individuality, we're made to feel as if we should have an opinion on matters of all sorts, regardless of our interest, knowledge or experience with that particular topic. 
(OK, that is somewhat redeeming)
 
"What's your opinion? Certainly, you must have some opinion on this most important of issues? "  (Alright. We get it, already.)
 
From Supreme Court nominees to the best pizza in town (Pepper's, by the way), it seems to have become our duty as Americans to have an opinion.  With everybody expecting us to have them and asking us about them, it's only natural that we would eventually begin considering them vitally important.
(The syntax is clunky, but maybe he is kind of smart after all)
 
Over the course of time, people have added weight to the general idea of opinion by referring to their own with misleading statements such as "I think...," "The way I understand it is.." and "My theory is ..." when in fact there is very little thinking, understanding or theorizing going on. 
 
Maybe I'm making too much of this.  Maybe it is simply a matter of semantics.  Maybe if the same word didn't describe both what I seek from a thoroughly trained, board-licensed physician (or a second one if the first one's is chlamydia) and every piece of intellectually dishonest, out-of-context bullshit that spills out of Rush Limbaugh's fat head every day, then it might not bother me so much. 
(Nope, I was wrong.  He is retarded)
 
So that's it then.  I need a new phrase that both accurately describe the assertion of beliefs without positive knowledge or proof and warns any unsuspecting readers, listeners or innocent bystanders of the composition of what's coming their way.   (Christ, I'm gonna need a machete to cut through that last sentence.)

"Throwing Poo" is the best thing I have come up with.  Besides, who doesn't like a good fart joke?

That said, here's the windup and the pitch...
(*wretch*)

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:58 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

Dear Friends,

It has been exactly one year since we began our celebrated journey together.  Over the past 364 days, we have been united in our pursuit and celebration of a daring literary idea (or, dare I say, ideal):  marrying shithouse wall scratchings with the insight of a flaming germophobe with appalling grammar.  This was like creating the literary equivalent of a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, except here the milk chocolate is actually crap and the peanut butter is a lighter-colored crap.

At first, things got off to a slow start, but soon Throwing Poo took on a life of its own and became something derivative, redundant and altogether incomprehensible.  In other words, mission accomplished. 

And what a ride it has been.  We've laughed, cried, loved and lost, contracted hepatitis, buried a dead a hooker under the neighbor kid's sandbox, and maybe even made a friend or two along the way.  The important thing is that we've done it together.  Some people might say we are accomplices.  Seriously.  You should probably contact your lawyer.

What does the future hold for Throwing Poo?  First, let me say that I do not plan to rest on my laurels...or my Hardy's.  (See?  I just made that last bit up, right off the top of my head.  I didn't need to add it.  I mean, if you've already read this far, you're pot-committed.  I had you.  But instead of simply singing my own praises, I threw in some humor, a nice little joke that you, no doubt, will awkwardly crowbar into some inane water cooler conversation tomorrow.)  Other than that, I don't want to spoil the surprises, but you can bet it will be chock full of sophomoric philosophy, scatological humor, mediocre vocabulary and, of course, the appalling grammar you've come to know and love.  And probably a membership fee. 

As for the impact Throwing Poo has on world cultures, well, I'll leave that for conquering robot army to decide.  It won't be long now.  I know.   I read it on the internet.

Stay Crunchy,

I Like Monkeys a.k.a. Crunchy Blue Commando

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Next Monday, April 9th will mark the one-year anniversary of Throwing Poo.   To celebrate this occasion, I will be re-posting some of my favorite entries over the past 12 months.  If that isn't masterbatory enough for you - and, knowing you, it isn't - I'll also be adding some comments.  In other words, me talking about what I like about me in third person format, complete with all the continuity problems and horrible grammar that you've come to expect.  Arrive early to ensure a good seat. 

After nearly 210 posts, I find myself becoming more and more comfortable with the process of blogging.  For the first few months, I agonized over every single word, forcing Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. to read, edit and re-read every post.  Now, I hardly give it a second thought (and I can no longer afford her hourly rate.  Parasite.)

For me, the problem with getting comfortable is that my filtering process gets coarser.  I begin to think everything I write is interesting.  Take the last paragraph, for example.  I mean, who really gives a fuck about how I'm feeling when I vomit up this half-digested bile in chewy, acidic chunks? 

This has spilled over into my everyday life as well.  I used to be very reserved and stoic in social situations - you know, deep waters run quiet and all that horseshit.  Now, whenever I'm commingling at group therapy or in a high school girl's locker room, I can't shut the fuck up.  I'm a regular Chatty Patty.

The other problem is that I have no new stories to tell.  Because I will whore anything remotely interesting in my life for the sake of this blog, my friends and family know all my bits.  My jokes and amusing anecdotes have been used up, and they weren't that good to begin with.

So, to summarize, my return for a year's worth of effort and agony is that I've become a babbling, self-important dullard who repeats stories like a grandparent with Alzheimer's.  At this rate, by April 2008, I'll be a viable presidential candidate.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

During the late spring and summer of my high school years, my friends and I would spend our weekends hanging out at the Mentor Twin Drive-In.  We'd load up my buddy's custom van, "The Midnight Voyager, " with lawn chairs and 3.2 beer, then spend the evening getting bombed as we bathed in the gore and raunch that filled the screen.  Some of the more memorable flicks that come to mind from those nights are Mad Max, Motel Hell, Porky's and Death Race 2000.

We also made a habit of sneaking someone in every time we went.  One night we went so far as to hide four people in the Voyager, leaving only the driver to buy a ticket.  It took the owner about 30 seconds minutes to figure out our cleverly-devised ruse and toss us out. 

Damn we were dumb.

Anyway, since seeing the preview over the weekend, I am counting the minutes until Grindhouse is released on Friday.  The trailer alone is so fucking cool that I wasted the entire morning watching it and giggling like a schoolgirl.  I can barely contain myself.   My only regret is that there isn't a drive-in theater nearby...and that my friends are all married with children...and my alcohol tolerance is pathetic...and I'll probably have to pay for my ticket. 

I think I'll take a sick day so I can be first in line.