Random Thoughts on Germs, Spying and Demon Vomit

Ever since I was a kid, whenever I finished a meal, a full stomach would send me into an uncontrollable and very annoying sneezing fit. My assumption has always been that it was the chewing motion that would cause my sinuses to drain hence causing the me to sneeze. However, in a recent Google search, I found that the nerve telling your brain that you’re full sits right next to the one that tells your nose that to sneeze. Interesting, yes? Maybe. I kinda figured that just like everything else in my brain, these two nerves are just a touch “off.”

What I’m not sure of, and the whole point of bringing this up, with regard to my dysfunction, is what’s more irritating to me, the sneezing spasm itself or the litany of “bless yous” and the variations thereof that follow. There are the “god bless you people. These people take advantage of your sneeze to hammer you with a desperate need  for divine intervention. There are the family of foreign language versions of “bless you” that I don’t know how to spell and don’t feel like looking up. Regardless, most people finish their meals with a sweet dessert or glass of port. Me? I finish mine being peppered with superstitious hexes rooted in the fear of contracting the black plague.


Why do we feel compelled to say bless you anyway? Rather the person sneezing should be begging forgiveness. Why do I have to bless when you’re blasting with your disgusting germ seeds and could be infecting me with dengue fever. Bless you? I think not. It’s bullshit. You sneeze, you apologize.

I bought one of those Alexa things from Amazon. Not sure why. I don’t really know why I buy 80% of the things I purchase. Even in spite of hearing all the warnings about how it listening to me, I still don’t really care. I seriously do not care if the black ops people can hear me. I’m too lazy to plan evil things. I have no idea of how to nor do I have the energy or even the desire to overthrow or subvert the current or any governmental administration. I don’t care enough. I also hear tell that Amazon may listen in on my conversations and use it to market properly and more efficiently to me. To this, I say, if Amazon wants to use my private conversations to better understand what it is that I want and need, then so be it, more power to them. I’m spending money buying things like hamburger presses and magic vegetable peelers. If Amazon can offer me some direction to not being an absolute idiot with my precious money, then I’m all in.


More than likely though, I can see my Alexa being used against me as follows, “Jon, I have contacted your insurance company and advised them to cancel your health policy. I saw what you ate this weekend and even I’m sickened by the sight of you.”

Now that election season is upon us, and thankfully passed, it occurred to me how much I hate the word, “gubernatorial.” What the hell is that supposed to mean anyway? The person we elect as the head of any particular state isn’t called a “gubernor”, they are called governors. Isn’t politics fucked up enough as it is that we, can maybe, put a hold on not making even worse? Surely this grammatical heresy hearkens back to some old English spelling or pronunciation where they really did pronounce the “B” but we don’t here. Leave it to us to change the way a word is pronounced but leave the spelling alone. Isn’t the English language confusing enough as it stands?

I’ve read recently that Halloween now rivals Christmas in the overall spending. I have a super hard time believing this because, let’s face it, what does Halloween really have? Candy, costumes and lawn ornaments? There’s no way that can add up to video games, televisions and cars. Who gets a fucking car for Christmas anyway? You see all these commercials with the giant bows fastened to the top of some 75 thousand dollar Lexus. My dad bought my mom a car for Xmas one year but he also handed her the payment book with the keys. I don’t necessarily consider this a gift. It’s more like hanging a millstone around someones neck and shoving them into the cold river.


In my mind Halloween while it may somehow catch up in the spending department, it will never surpass Xmas in the excitement factor until something is done about the music. There are literally thousands of Xmas songs by just about every artist trying to make a buck. Halloween has what, Thriller, The Monster Mash and the Ghostbusters theme? And, FYI,  albums full of creaking sounds, screaming and wailing ghosts do not count as music.

How come in every horror movie involving demon possession, the demons can only speak Latin? In fact, the only time I can remember a demon speaking in modern English was when Linda Blair’s tormentor, in The Exorcist, told that priest guy that his “mother sucks cocks in hell.” That’s it? Really? Your a demon, you’ve waited potentially thousands of years to use English in a horror film and with your first opportunity, you drop a stupid “your mama” joke.


Of course, there are languages much older than Latin, Sumerian for instance, so why pick haunting people in an old Roman tongue? I happen to believe is that it’s because of the Catholic Church. They’ve subverted every horror movie since the first days of the genre probably to make themselves seem more necessary. Like, you might think you can handle this demon infestation yourself but your dumbass cant even understand first century dialects so…


As long as the Church seems to think they have a lock on religious horror, let’s do it the right way. You know what would be really scary? A movie about letting your local priest babysit your kids. Now that’s terrifying.

Nothing in Particular, Just Some Random Thoughts for September 2018…

There’s nothing in particular on my mind but there are a few random things that I’ve been pondering…

Issue 1 –

I hate it when people talk during a song. Not random people around me but the actual singer. A perfectly good song can be ruined by some blowhole thinking, “You know what would go good here? Me talking about some stupid shit.” I’m no linguist but I’m pretty sure the words “song” and “sing” have something to do with each other in some Latin root kind of a way. One of these words doesn’t belong here,  SONG – SING – TALK. For those of you from Akron, the answer is TALK. TALK does not belong. It’s called a song for a reason. If there was meant to be talking they would call it a TALK.

Invariably, the talking in a song is always about what the singer wants to do to some women, generally focusing on how he’s going to get her into the sack. Like, “Girl”, they always start with GIRL because women love to be called that.  “I’m gonna rub you down and take away that frown…” In the age of Harvey Weinstein and #MeToo it might be better to break into their to-do list for instance. “Going to the grocery store, you keep drinking all the milk and I gotta get more. Damn baby, you one thirsty ho!”

Song talking is always done is a very creepy, sexual predator kind of a way. You can’t just wax all bubbly and happy about banging some chick. Instead they use words like “make love.” Incidentally, is there is faster way to creep someone out than to tell them that you want to “make love” to them?

Barry White comes to mind when I think of song talkers. If there was ever a guy who had the voice to interrupt a song with talking, it was Barry White. Yet and still, please don’t. David Lee Roth did it in the Van Halen song, Panama, I think. He breaks into this horrifyingly sexual nonsense about reaching down between his legs to ease the seat back. What does any of that have to do with the nation of Panama? Do you remember what Manuel Noriega looked like? This is not the place for verbal sexual innuendo. That guy was a monster.

I cant think of any time a women singer broke into some idiotic rambling during a song and I think that may be why it bothers me so much. I don’t want to hear about David Lee Roth reaching down between anybody’s legs and I am mortified hearing about Barry White’s plans for bedding some poor woman. Maybe women dig this sort of romancing but I highly doubt it. If some songstress did feel the need to veer off into spewing spoken romantics at me mid-song, I figure her best bet in getting me interested would go something like this:

Boy, I’m gonna let you sit around in your pajamas all day

Not gonna say a damn thing

and so on

Maybe I’m old but musical spoken word porn to me would revolve around food and being left alone for an effing minute.

Issue 2 –

While we’re on the subject of music, whatever happened to all that hoo-ha about satanic messages being hidden on old vinyl albums when you played them backwards? How are you supposed to do that anyway? You know what happens when you play the Beatles White Album, one of the most satanic inspired, supposed, albums of all time, in reverse? Do you hear malevolent whispers from Mephistopheles insisting that you murder your family? No, what you do is fuck up your needle.

Speaking of Satan, I read recently that Dennis DeYoung front man of the band Styx, is suspected of being a devout follower of the dark side. I was quite surprised to hear this as I grew up hating their music and never heard a peep about him being a minister of the reptilian underworld. Let me just say, based on what I’ve heard from Mr. DeYoung, he may worship at an altar but his sacrifices go directly to the god of shitty music not Beelzebub.

A guy from high school was a rabid Styx fan. I remember him only because he liked that Mr. Roboto song. Was he a nice guy? I have no effing clue but he liked that song and to this day is, in my mind, a huge douche.  I remember this dbag cruising around to the musical stylings of Styx blasting through a sound system worth more than the car it was attached to. I was a huge dork in high school and even I recall thinking upon seeing him, “Jesus, what a tremendous loser.”

What the hell does that stupid song mean anyway?

Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto,
Mata ah-oo hima de
Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto,
Himitsu wo shiri tai

What in the hell am I supposed to do with this? Dont intermingle foreign words into a song. I can barely understand what you’re saying in English for Christ sake.

It might be a good idea for Dennis to switch his allegiance to Satan and worship at the feet of Jefferson Starship for a while because without their contributions of We Built This City and Nothing’s Gonna to Stop Us Now, he would hold the title of the worst song ever written. Quite a distinction. Kudos Dennis.

Issue 3 –

When I was a child a hundred years ago, we were taught the song Frere Jacques and we learned it in French. Recently it occurred to me to inquire as to what that song actually means. Since the four years of French I took has left me clueless to translate, I called on Google. Apparently, this song, a song that every kid in the history of the Earth has been forced to learn, is about some lazy fucker named John who was so irresponsible that he sleeps through his god damned alarm! What kind of crap is this?

It seems a bit of a slap in the face of people like the inventor of the polio vaccine or the guy who invented blood transfusions to immortalize some two bit French booze hound who cant find the motivation to get up in the morning.

“Hey great song you’re writing there. you know who deserves to be remembered in song? The guy who invented the furnace so we don’t die every fucking winter.”

“Oh hell no. He’s a great guy, I’m sure but I intend to write this as a homage to my brother John who’s so deeply mired in depression that he cant stand the light of day.”

Issue 4 –

Have you ever noticed that when you describe a person to someone that the description is always based on their flaws rather than their finer points? “Hey Jon, you know Bill from Accounting? You mean the guy with the thick shoe and the hard limp?” Or, “Has anyone heard from Betty that skanky whore? You know the one who dresses like a total prostitute?”

No one ever says this, “Hey Jon, it looks like Roger got a new car!” “Who the hell is Roger,” said Jon. “You know, that really smart guy? The one who is such a talented artist?”

Remember that asshole we went to school with who thought Mr. Roboto was a good song?

Family Guy, Homer Simpson, Pop-ups and Search Terms Used to Find My Blog

Let me just say for the record that I am completely aware that cartoons and sitcoms are not a true depiction of real life. In spite of what you may have heard or gathered, I’m not a total idiot. I just can’t help, when it comes to the vast inconsistencies between the lives of television characters and what I go through on a daily basis, to struggle to with the clear and glaring dichotomy.

Take Family Guy for instance. Great show. This show has blessed me with countless hours of hilarious entertainment but I’ve never been able to get passed the idea that Peter Griffin actually owns a home? He lives in Rhode Island for Christ sake. Do you have any idea of the cost of just an average domicile in Rhode Island? Initially, Griffin works at a fucking toy factory and then gets a job at a brewery. Like, oh yeah sure, I’m totally buying that a guy bottling beer for a living can easily afford a coastal home among some of the most overpriced real estate in the entire United States. Plus he lives in-between a police officer and an airline pilot. The financial demographic of those two professions are markedly higher than a beer swiller.

Homer Simpson is a fat, stupid moron who carries every characteristic of being a retarded dipshit and yet I’m expected to believe that he’s a somehow found employment as a nuclear engineer? I think not and I have a very difficult time watching this show knowing full well what a giant fuck up this guy is.

This line of thinking is not reserved just for cartoons either. Do you remember Al Bundy on Married With Children? I hated this show. It was unwatchable drivel. On the show, Al made his living peddling shoes. Am I supposed to buy into the very idea that this pathetic sack of shit, imbecile working as a shoe salesman can somehow afford a split level 4 bedroom house on the north-side of Chicago? Nothing against the shoe salesmen of the world, a noble career, no doubt.  I call horseshit. His wife didn’t do a god damned thing to help out either.

You probably aren’t aware of this but I may be one of the more prolific male Pinterest users on earth. Somehow this electronic goldmine of information has been labeled as a stop on the WWW for women. Because I love a good recipe, I live by a mantra of “I cook, therefor I Pinterest.” I mean, I don’t really have a mantra, I think they’re stupid but if I did have a mantra it would be something like that. Here’s my problem though, why does every god damned recipe have to come with a mother-fucking story? Jesus! can I just have the ingredients list without all the horseshit? Apparently, in this day and age of every idiot thinking they should have their voice heard, (insert picture of me here) I have to scroll thru some epic saga of how great grandma brought her recipe for chili nachos over from the old country and how she once rubbed it on her husbands feet to relieve bunion pain.

Stranger still, as I continue to scroll thru the other posted recipes for bunion relieving chili, I see the same god damned recipe that was supposedly some big family secret printed on the back of a Kraft macaroni and cheese box. Tell you what, skip the ridiculous story and just give me the freaking recipe.

Moving on, I’ve noticed a developing aggressiveness in the pop-ups on various websites requesting that I sign up for their newsletter or whatever bullshit they happen to be purveying. They kindly request my email address but if I’m not interested then, in an excessively nasty manner, I am to click a button labeled, “no thanks.” At least it used to say “no thanks.” I’ve noticed, lately, an uptick in the less than gracious manner in which I can opt out of their offer. Now I’m seeing things like this from an offer to receive the latest diet pill:

Yes! I want to lose 20 pounds in my first month of using Fat Burner and I agree to accept a new bottle every 30 days for the low price of $39.95 until you can find a way to cancel. Good luck with that!


Click No! if you wish to retain your disgusting and disfigured fat body. Bear in mind that you will continue to have no friends and probably die a lot sooner than our valued customers who clicked the Yes button. Go to hell you overweight pig!

This next one, I kind of felt, went a bit too far:

Click “No Thanks” if you think you don’t need Cialis. By clicking “No” you’re saying that you’ve given up and are admitting to a being a limp dicked loser and that your flaccid penis suits you just fine.  You, further, have no problem with the pool boy taking over the job of servicing your wife. Time has passed you by you useless piece of shit. Why don’t you just crawl under a rock and die.

Lastly, I, from time to time, like to review the top few search terms used to find my blog site. I have been getting a less than comfortable amount of traffic from people searching the phrase, “but flap underwear fucking.” Please note that I type them as I see them. Clearly the crowd frequenting and amused by my brand of humor does not know that the ass part of the human body is spelled, “butt” and not “but.” I’m not really surprised by this but still thought it should be pointed out.

My favorite, by far, has to be, “does Barbra Streisand have Fetal Alcohol Syndrome?” I’m not sure I’ve ever mentioned Fetal Alcohol Syndrome or Barbra Streisand in any of my posts. I mean, I might have mentioned Fetal Alcohol Syndrome in my piece about how I found Cameron Diaz to be less than attractive but I certainly never accused Barbra of being a victim of FAS.

Random Thoughts on Wendy’s Fries, the Whopper, Pink Slime and Chuck Taylor’s

I haven’t been obsessing about anything in particular lately. However there seem to be a lot of smaller issues running through my head but nothing of any major prominence…

With that,

I’ve tinkered with the idea, lately, of putting together a compendium on fast food ordering etiquette but the word compendium demands a subject of more prominent volume and cries out for a topic of something other than Burger King. When you use the word compendium it should be about history, religion or the writings of Nabokov. Something big and important. Let’s just say that I have a few observations and “rules to live by” that I would like to impart to you.

As long as we’ve already touched on Burger King, I would like to go off subject and end all debate, the Whopper with cheese is the best fast food burger of all time. No ifs, ands or buts about it. Everything else is just an “also ran.”. However, there is one draw back, the Whopper is an “eat in” only sandwich. It’s too loosely wrapped to last through the ride home. Back in my day, these fast food joints used to pack your sandwich in a Styrofoam container that ensured freshness and heat retention. Now because of all of the environmental worry that has resulted in making us care more about nature and shit and less about the temperature of my food, I am now forced to make dine in or dine out decisions based on whether or not I can make it home before my bun turns hard and the ketchup starts to run. Does anyone like cold french fries? When fries are cold then leave an oily sheen in your mouth. It’s disgusting.

As for the environment and how it pertains to my meal, we’ve all seen these gruesome pictures of what our litter does to animals, plastic islands and such. When I see these pictures, I cant help but wonder, why is a turtle swimming thru a 6 pack holder anyway? Was it for fun? So much fun that he just decided to leave it hanging on his neck until he eventually ate his way into it becoming a tourniquet? And now because this stupid animal can’t make better decisions I have to eat my delicious Whopper while sitting in a booth chair full of some fat guys ass filth.

I always get a “road burger” when I go through the drive-thru line. My usual choice is a double cheeseburger. It’s compact and usually wrapped in paper. Eating a road burger keeps me from continually opening and closing the bag for a handful of fries while driving home. You can’t eat a Whopper while you drive. Too messy. That’s sage advice. You’re welcome.

I hate Wendy’s fries. I like the idea of Wendy’s fries with the skin on and all. It’s a very hearty, raw and rugged look but, in reality, what I always end up with box full of overly fried potato skin fragments. There are never enough fries in the box. A lot of the volume is taken up by pieces of fried-fried crunchy stuff.

Lastly, when McDonald’s got busted red-handed for poisoning people with their pink slime and such, they made drastic and desperate changes to their recipes that have left their food virtually tasteless or at the very least, different tasting (when I say different, I mean worse). Like, I don’t eat at McDonald’s enough for it to kill me, so can I please just have the deliciousness chemicals back? The nuggets were so tasty and I want them left alone, pink goo and all. The problem isn’t what they put in their nuggets or how they’re made. The real problem is that douche from the Food Channel who decided to put the video of their production on YouTube. I was totally fine until then. Thanks a lot, you invasive and assumptive asshole. I was perfectly content with the nuggets until you came along.

Has shoe shopping changed at all that much since, like, almost a hundred years ago? I mean, I’m in my early 50’s and I walk thru a department store and see that same metal shoe sizing thing and the same poor bastard running back and forth getting two sizes of the same shoe for people to try on. Who doesn’t know their shoe size anyway? I order my shoes online and have never had to send a pair back. Why? I wear a size 10 and that’s what I order.

Remember how the shoe salesman would always come back with another pair of shoes you might like just so he could get you to buy two pair? Clever right? He might wear a short-sleeved shirt and the wide-tie but he is no a dip shit. Shoe guy is a cut-throat shark.

You know when you are searching online for, say, primate condoms because your pet monkey keeps impregnating the family dog and then for the next six months you get advertisements for animal prophylactics running all over your screen? Yeah, Amazon and Google stole that shit from the lowly shoe salesman. It’s called an up-sell. Shoe guy invented that shit. Amazon should be kissing his polyester covered ass for that idea.

Shoe guy – “I thought this purple pump would look fabulous on you madam and we just happen to have it in a 7.”

Lady – “Well, you are pretty sophisticated and you do hold this position of prominence at  Kinney Shoes so you must know best. I’ll take them!”

What took so long to invent the shoe anyway? Like how many thousands of years did people step in shit before somebody decided to put something on the bottom of their foot for protection? I mean, i’m not a fucking history major so I don’t have a clue how long ago it was but let’s just say it probably took a while. The average person can’t name three US Presidents and half the population believes the Earth is flat so I don’t put a lot of faith in humanity figuring out the leather upper and the insole in a timely fashion.

Today’s athletic shoes may look bad ass and they are supposed to offer more support based on all of our modern technology but all I can think about is Bill Russell. Back in the 1950’s Bill Russell and the rest of the Boston Celtics, won 11 NBA championships in 13 years and you know what they wore on their feet? Those stupid, clunky, black Chuck Taylor’s that offered absolutely no arch support. They were flat tops for Christ sake too. The ankle was all exposed and shit. He didn’t get to pump up his sneakers with air before a game and he probably wore the same pair till they rotted out from underneath him. While we’re at it, guess how many times did Bill Russell blew out his ankle or knee from playing in what amounts to a Dutch wooden shoe? Zero. The answer is zero. I think. I mean, I wasn’t alive then so I don’t really know. He may have been a virtual cripple for all I know.

By the way, that metal shoe sizing thing is called a Brannock Shoe Sizer and it was invented in 1927. Jesus! Nothing since?


Smoke Alarms and Sudafed

Early the other morning, sometime around the 4AM mark, I was awakened by the desperate bleat of a dying smoke alarm battery; the smoke alarm securely bolted to the ceiling right outside of our bedroom door. What kind of an asshole would think that a good place for a smoke alarm? Close to the bedroom, yes, I get that. But I’d rather the smoke alarm was a bit further down the hall so that, maybe, I still have a fighting chance of getting out without being burned to a crisp but also not have to be tormented in the dead of night by a incessant beeping sound that makes me wish that I was already dead.

I understand that these beeping sounds are designed to irritate the living shit out of us but damn! Anyway, can somebody tell me why this battery dying bullshit never happens during the day? Like at a time when when I can do something about it?

And who has random 9 volt batteries just sitting around the house anyway? My wife, “Can’t you just change the battery?” Me, “Sure, let me just access my secret lair where I store our 9 volt battery hoard.” You can’t buy these things ahead of time and keep them in a drawer waiting either; they’ll expire because they don’t work with anything else. 9 volt batteries are good for two things: smoke alarms and remote control cars. There are also the people who enjoy putting the connectors of the 9 volt on their tongue and mildly electrocuting themselves. Without these three demographics — smoke alarms, toy cars and dumbasses — there would be absolutely no use for 9 volt batteries.

Why do people find a thrill in sticking a battery on their tongue. Kids think it’s pretty cool to do this for some reason and the fact that they find this bad-ass explains a lot about why kids are such pussies these days. Let me tell you what we did when I was a kid. My buddy Jimmy and I went to the drug store and bought up every thermometer they had. We took them home and shattered them open in order to play with the mercury inside. You know what mercury does? It causes cancer. Like the really bad kind of cancer. The kind that feasts on your bowels and renders you a skeleton with an uncontrollable shitting problem. We didn’t care. Really we didn’t know it did that but we would never have been caught dead garnering such amusement from mildly electrocuting our tongues.

Why can’t a smoke alarm simply plug into the wall and sit on a shelf or a desk top? My god damned doorbell plugs into the wall and you mean to tell me a smoke alarm can’t? No one has come up with the technology for a smoke alarm to run on anything but a 9 volt battery? Good luck with finding a cure for the whole cancer thing. We’re fucked. Even my iPhone has a god damned compass built into it and can even tell the government where I am at any given time but you mean to tell me it can’t tell me when my house is burning down? I can transfer money across the world with a click or two. Change the temperature of my house while I’m driving home. Bring up a naked picture of any female celebrity in the history of celebrity but we can’t find a better way to power a smoke detector?

Some smart ass with their shit together decided that we’re supposed to change smoke alarm batteries every time daylight savings kicks on and off but what am I supposed to do when a battery dies in, say, September? Am I then supposed to change it again in November when we “fall back?” I feel like that’s a giant waste of an already expensive battery. They’re like 4 bucks apiece for Christ sake! There is virtually zero chance of these two battery changing universes to ever come together for me and I will, thusly, more than likely, die in a raging inferno because I have disconnected all of the beeping smoke detectors in my house because of daylight savings time.

What genius decided that smoke alarms had to be attached to the ceiling anyway? In my case, it’s 4AM, the battery is dying and beeping. My only hope of getting a decent night’s sleep is to change the battery and get back in bed as quickly as possible without coming completely out of my sleep trance. You cant just disconnect the battery anymore because this same genius decided that there should be a back up battery that can literally go on beeping for weeks. Anywho, I’m already groggy and now I’m seething inside. That kind of anger that makes you do stupid things. Without a doubt, angry and in a sleep induced daze is the perfect time to get up on a step ladder in the pitch blackness of the night. Not to mention that I was all hopped up on alcohol laden Nyquil.

Cold medicine does not work for me. I hate taking medicine. Everybody is always like, “Dude, why suffer. Get some Advil Cold & Sinus. It works like a charm.” So I tried this stuff and let me tell you a about what it does to me, not for me. First of all, by my way of understanding, this stuff is supposed to act as a decongestant and, at the very least, make it so it doesn’t feel like someone is driving a railroad spike into your forehead. In my case, however, Advil makes a beeline straight for my genitals and renders me unable to take a piss. After a day or so of taking this chemical obstructor, my bladder has the feel of a ripe melon left out in the sun. Advil may, in fact, bring you people some relief from a cold but to me it’s a pharmaceutical tourniquet tightly wrapped tightly around my urethra. So now I can’t pee and my nose is still stuffed up so, fuck me.

As long as we’re on the subject of my private area, I recently had my yearly physical and as I have also recently turned 52, was reminded that it was getting rather important for me to have my colon investigated for ass cancer. Now, in spite of my telling this doctor woman that there is zero instance of colon cancer in my family, just to shut her up, I acquiesced and agreed to allow a complete stranger unfettered access to my anal cavity. Now, I have yet to follow through on this and chances are pretty solid that I will report in for my 53 year old physical with an still unmolested balloon knot but since I deceitfully placated her by agreeing to this violation, I have been getting calls from just about every clinic in the city all hellbent on sticking a camera up my rear end. It’s like my doctor sent my rectum out for quote on Craig’s List and now I have every pervert in the city calling me begging to ravage my butthole.

Remember when you could just go buy cold medicine and people didn’t look at you like you were running a meth lab. I just want to unclog my nose, it fucking hurts and you want my drivers license so you can keep record of my pseudoephedrine volume? This stuff costs like 9 dollars per pack. How good do you think I’m willing to feel for that price?

Did you know that people can get addicted to nose spray? Apparently there’s an ingredient in your standard OTC nasal spray called Oxymetazoline and this shit is addictive. This chemical that I cannot pronounce can lead to mouth sores, nose bleeds, fever, vomiting and wounds that refuse to heal. I just wanted my nose to not be all clogged up but now I can’t stop using this shit and I’m puking everywhere. What kind of medicine is this? Isn’t there a code of medical ethics that says do no harm? Festering and gaping wounds that refuse to heal seems like harm to me. Maybe the people who bottle this sweet elixir aren’t beholden to such standards of actually fixing my fucking stuffed up nose and are more interested in me selling my sexual dignity for a quick fix of Afrin. Jesus!

Epilogue –

In the end, given that I don’t care to die a fiery death, I bought 2 9 volt batteries to the tune of 8 dollars. 8 dollars for a couple of batteries?!?! It almost seems cheaper to let the house burn down and just pay the deductible.

Anywho, having spent a ridiculous amount of money on these batteries, I climb up the ladder and in the process of changing out the batteries, proceed to drop the smoke alarm on the floor shattering it into a million pieces. Wonderful! Now I have 8 fewer dollars and two 9 volt batteries with nothing to put them in.



The Ocean is a Giant Sewer and Other Reasons Why Fish Sucks 

From time to time I like to check to see how people find my blog. Most of the initial hits come from Facebook and Twitter but once the tremendous fervour of social media begins to ebb, the search engines take over.

In the past terms like “retard” or “stupid retard” brought me a terrific amount of traffic and that was all well and good but, in the end, it woke me up to the idea that maybe I’d outta broaden myself a bit, get a new subject possibly.

Anywho, after working tirelessly to become a much more diverse and versitile writer, I have seen a compete turn around from the search engine folks. No longer am I  pigeonholed by Google and their ilk as that guy who uses the word “retard” maybe a little too much. I was shocked when I saw this month’s blog stats that reported that the most searched words used to find me are, drum roll pkease….

“Being f#cked by a dick with a flap”


“Famous people who like Jell-o pudding”

What’s a dick with a flap? Just to prove that these search engine things can make mistakes, I checked and I have never used such a term. Dick? Yeah I’ve said that thousands of times but never “dick flap”.

As for the pudding reference, I, one time, said that Bill Cosby was a pervert subletting Doctor Feelgood’s medicine cabinet, secretly feeding barbiturates to unsuspecting women who he was then giving it to with his Fat Albert. Does this one inocuous comment really justify force feeding innocent people in search of celebrities who share their love of Jell-o products the banality of my blog? The answer is no, it does not. However, I will take traffic in any form.

What does this have to do with fish you might be asking? Absolutely nothing. Just was kinda proud of myself.

When somebody tells me about a great piece of fish they had, inevitably the first thing they say about it is that it didn’t even taste like fish. What I’m thinking is, why the fuck would you eat something and be happy that it didn’t taste like it was supposed to? I have never heard anyone say, “I had the the best steak last night and you know what’s best of all? It didn’t even taste like beef”! Even what we would consider your lower grades of meat aren’t spoken of so harshly. “I can’t eat this Souse Meat it tastes too much like Souse Meat”.

Everything involved in the cooking, prepping and consuming of fish is concentrated around covering up its objectionable taste and atrocious odor. Basically people like fish that doesn’t taste like fish. Folks who claim to love to eat fish will have no reservations treating themselves to a fifty dollars lobster and then immediately drowning it in a stick of melted butter. Your tartar and cocktail sauces exist for one reason and one reason only, to mask the atrocious taste of fish.

What most people consider to be the best kinds of fish are fish that don’t taste like fish. Take salmon for instance, if you aren’t catching that shit yourself and taking a bite out of it right there at the river, chances are, by the time you get that thing filleted and back home, it’s going to taste and smell likes whore house at low tide. Trout is the same. People like tilapia because it’s “mild”. Because it’s mild, the first thing people do is to fry it in battered grease. Know why? Because you could fry the bottom of my shoe and find it palatable.

Today, our population is fatter than ever.  Much of the blame for obesity is placed on the accessibility to fast food. We love fast food. McDonald’s was caught virtually poisoning people and they’re rolling right along like nothing happened. Yet and still, fast foods joints like Long John Silver’s are barely hanging on. What happened to Shrimp Boat and Arthur Treacher’s? Even if you own a fast food restaurant and fry every God damned thing you sell, it’s still not enough to mask the fact that you’re a purveyor of seafood. Even your most successful fish monger, Red Lobster, is just as much in the business of selling butter and cheddar biscuits as it is in the selling of disgusting fish. Punishing your customers by making them take fish with their butter and biscuits is like a a risky business plan. Its like giving a kid the dog they’ve always wanted but only if they go blind first.

Ever been to Myrtle Beach? The main drag there is inundated with these seafood restaurants all using the word Calabash in their name, Poopdeck Pappy’s Calabash Seafood Buffet for instance. Driving down this road, Route 17, if I’m not mistaken, is like a tour through an aquatic slaughterhouse complete with the stench of wet death. Little known fact, Calabash is actually is an old Caribbean word that describes the stench from a festering genital wound. Yum!!

Lastly, it occurs to me that fish is so awful that the Catholics actually had to come up with a day, every fucking Friday, where they arm twist the congregation into eating it or else risk pissing off God. How good can something really be if you have to threaten people with fire and brimstone if they don’t partake weekly? Like God made this shit so you’d better fucking eat it!

Rudolph’s Santa is a Toothless Bigot


This is my granddaughter’s third Christmas which, to me, means that she is now old enough to watch and appreciate all of my favorite holiday classic television shows. She will do this even if I have to glue her to the couch. Those of you old enough, do you remember before the days of video machines, when you had to scan the TV guide to find out when Rudolph and The Grinch were going to be on? You had to schedule the times with your parents to be sure that you would be home to watch Frosty the Snowman? Inevitably, you’d get stuck at your grandparents house and show up fifteen minutes late. It was like, “Great! I get one fucking time a year to hear the Heat Miser song and now the whole thing is fucked up!” We couldn’t just pop in a tape or a DVD if we were screwed over by insensitive adults. This is another reason why young people suck. People my age were hardened by the things we considered vital, not mattering to anyone else. “You have food? You have a roof over your head? Healthy? Then shut the hell up about how you missed your stupid cartoons!”rudolphintro

So here’s the problem. I’m older now. I’ve watched these things a thousand times and, while this might come as a surprise to you, I’m more cynical and sarcastic then I was say forty years ago. I watch these holiday specials and have a special affinity for finding flaws, inconsistencies and holes in the story line. “So you’re saying that there are vagaries and holes in a story meant for a 4 year old? Remarkable.” Regardless, I made a few notes the last few dozen times Leila and I watched the clay-mation version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and this is what I’ve come up with. As always, I encourage and welcome your feedback but don’t give me any crap about it being a kid’s show. That’s no excuse for shitty work.

Early on in this Christmas classic, Santa drags his stupid ass to Donner the reindeer’s cave. As long as we’re on the subject, why is a reindeer living in a cave anyway? Reindeer either live in a barn or they’re walking around migrating from one cold, shitty location to another. There is no cave. Ever. Anyway, Santa comes in all high and mighty gracing the Donner family with his presence and, upon seeing Rudolph’s glowing nose, proceeds to drop some of the most bigoted shit on this poor creature. I cannot imagine that the EEOC would be pleased to hear that Santa is going to restrict someone’s right to work based on the color of their nose. Santa is like, “Well, I don’t know what you’re thinking Donner but I’ll be damned if that freak baby of yours will ever have anything to do with pulling my sleigh.” Donner proceeds to cover Rudolph’s nose with mud from the cave floor. Yeah, good call. That’ll fix everything. Santa will never see through that. He’s a racist, Donner, not a nitwit you stupid loser.


Shunned from being able to find work in the ever-competitive sleigh pulling game, Rudolph ventures out on his own and eventually meets with this stupid little fucking guy, Herbie. Herbie is an elf who hates making toys and wants to be a dentist. However, it is clear to anyone over the age of say ten that this Herbie guy is frustratingly gay and “dentist” is nothing more than poorly covered euphemism for ass play and clay penises. Once again, poor Herbie, because of him being “different” from the other elves, i.e., gay, is asked to disappear and is summarily found, by Rudolph, barely clinging to life in a snow drift. So in the first ten minutes of this right to work nightmare, Santa has thrown two people to the literal wolves one for being gay and the other for having a different colored nose. God forbid you were born with a club foot or something because this fucking Santa guy would have you hung.


On a less controversial level, in Santa’s workshop, there are like ten elves responsible for building toys for every mother fucker on this earth. This is simply impossible but is clearly indicative of Santa running an illegal sweatshop staffed by little people that he holds in captivity in an icy and inescapable hell. In addition, the only toy they ever seem to make is a shitty gray box on wheels. No one wants that stupid crap so why bother?

Speaking of toys, there is an kingdom in the story that Rudolph and Herbie stumble upon called the Island of Misfit Toys. This lifeless, cold dump is populated by toys that somehow ended up here after they were not wanted or played with by the children they were given to. The moniker of “misfit toys” seems a bit harsh given that all Santa is churning out of his workshop are grey wheeled boxes. Hmmm, let’s see. Would I rather have a grey box or a gun that squirts jelly? A box on wheels or a jack-in-the-box whose only fucking defect is that his name is Charlie. Every single unwanted misfit toy was one hundred times better than the best stupid box Santa was making and cramming down everybody’s throat.

Later on, the king of the misfit toys begs Rudolph to tell Santa about their plight and to try again giving them to a thankful kid rather than the ungrateful bastard he gave them to in the first place. How does Santa not know about this island of hell? All my life I was told and manipulated my kids with stories of Santa’s surveillance system that gave him intimate knowledge of every fucking thing they and I ever did. So here he is, up everybody’s ass all year long but he has no freaking clue that there are toys, toys that aren’t a sorry box on wheels and come to him free of charge all sitting on some dumb island? Is this guy mentally ill? How can I take any of this seriously if I even have half a brain?

In the story, there is this mean snow creature they call The Bumble. This thing is apparently committing heinous and violent crimes against the residents of the North Pole. killing and eating elves and reindeer alike. We are kind of led to believe that there are more than one of these murdering snow gargoyles running around. What kind of shit is this? We’re to believe that this Santa Claus character is completely capable of delivering toys to every fucking house on earth in one night but is completely helpless against this Bumble thing? Does Santa not give a fuck or is he some kind of giant pacifist vadge? Is this why he’s down to only ten or so elves? This guy is a real piece of work, if you ask me.


There is concern the entire film that Santa is not eating enough and granted, he does look like a cancer patient. Mrs. Claus is obsessing that her husband wont fit into his Christmas attire mostly because she’s lost the will to live and doesn’t want to have to re-tailor this fat idiot’s wardrobe. Magically though, as soon as Santa eats crown and elicits Rudolph’s help with the sleigh, he gains like 150 pounds like he’s some kind of a diabetic Incredible Hulk.

In the end, Santa needs Rudolph’s help because of some storm. Here, Rudolph really missed a chance to tell Santa’s racist ass to eat shit but since he has no self-esteem left to speak of, he acquiesces to the old slave owner and “guides his sleigh” anyway. How can Rudolph even look at himself in the mirror knowing how much this old bigot hates him for his nose skin color and then help him deliver his lame-assed packages all over the world. If he had even a shred of dignity he would have told him, “You know what Santa? Why don’t you go fuck yourself! You hated me for the color of my skin! I’m not helping you and I hope you all go out into that storm and die. Die a horrible long and painful death.”

You know what else? What’s with this storm at the North Pole anyway? Really? Canceling Christmas because of a storm? It’s the fucking North Pole! The fucking place is a perpetual storm. More likely than not, Santa is just trying to find an excuse not to go on the excruciating toy delivering journey from hell and for that, i cannot blame him.

As in all customary Christmas fable fare, Santa is to fly on his sleigh, climb down everybody’s chimney and deliver toys to every boy and girl on earth as long as they been well behaved. When my kids were little I would tell them the story of Monkey Claus and how, if they were bad, Monkey Claus would come instead of Santa. In my manipulative story, Monkey Claus drops the hammer on all of the bad kids by releasing a diseased and delirious spider monkey into their house. This monkey afflicted with a severe case of hemorrhagic fever proceeds to defile their house with infected feces even using the curtains to wipe himself with. He breaks their toys and eats their food. To this day, they all vividly remember the emotional damage done by the story of Monkey Claus.

In the last scene of Rudolph, Santa is shown flying around like an asshole in his sleigh and instead of going down the various chimneys like he is supposed to, is seen carelessly carpet bombing people with all of his shitty ill gotten misfit toys that he has ruthlessly tethered to umbrellas. I remember thinking even when I was a kid how absolutely fucking lazy this was. Like get out of the sleigh you fat bastard and do this Christmas thing the right way!

Let me close this by saying that half the reason I love Christmas is for the television shows and movies. In spite of all of this vitriol, I will watch and appreciate Rudolph until the day I die. I’m just funnin a little.



Grinding My Ax Against the Innocent Pretzel

Recently, in the middle of a conversation with a friend, shockingly, I veered off subject and went into a rant into why pretzels are so stupid and gross. I was a little shocked as the vitriol started to spew so fluidly because I genuinely like pretzels. They’re good and damn versatile. They come in a ton of flavors and sizes. Hard or soft. Are great for dipping but also stand alone. Pretzels, not always needing the limelight, have made forays into supporting roles as with your Combos snacks, more on this later, or by adding a nice salty compliment to the sweetness of the always delicious Take 5 candy bar. And let’s not forget the semi-recent and delicious advent of the pretzel bun.

Pretzels do not deserve my scorn but this post and this site has never been focused on highlighting things that make me happy. This is my outlet to complain about people and things that have disappointed me and let me down and, unfortunately, the defenseless pretzel will not be immune.

The story with pretzels goes that some monk came up with the recipe, a few hundred years ago, as a reward to children for learning verses from the Bible, being good or some shit like that. There’s also some stupid crap about the shape of the pretzel being fashioned after two hands folded in prayer. Whatever. I’m not sure if that part is true but what we can be sure of is that this whole pretzel thing came about before the advent of readily available sugary sweets because no kid I know is going to rack their brain learning some twenty verse passage from Proverbs just so some creeper monk will give them a dry ass pretzel. Besides, given what’s been going down in the church world for the past decade or so, I’m not entirely comfortable with a priest handing out treats to my kids. Keep your pretzels to yourself Chester, we’ll do the memorizing at home if we so desire.

What sort of a lame ass reward is a pretzel anyway? As with any religion, Catholic or any, there is, of course, the requisite heavy focus on and motivation by guilt. Pretzels as a reward for some dumb monk’s impression of good behavior comes off as some kind of epicurean cilice wrapped around and painfully secured to the skin of my esophagus. “Good job learning that thousand word verse about how God wants to fuck up gay people or send you to hell for eating lobster. Now take this piece of salted drywall as a a sign that God may let you see another day, you pathetic mongrel sinner.”

Anywho, pretzels come in a myriad of sizes, shapes, textures and flavors and all are pretty tasty with the exception of the following:

Those hard assed things that come in a box

Ever had the occasion to eat or better yet, choke down, a Snyder’s of Hanover Sourdough Hard Pretzel? Like when you haven’t been to the grocery for a few weeks and there’s nothing else to eat but a couple of ketchup packets and an still unopened box of these cement chunks. I actually broke my tooth on one of these gems a few years ago and carry the dental crown as proof. Cereal comes in a cardboard box. Hell, lots of things come in cardboard boxes. Most food products that come in a box are also sealed in a plastic bag to stave off spoilage but because this particular brand of pretzels is made of flavorless wallpaper sizing hardened by shredded bits of old German newspapers, there is no risk. There is no way on Earth that these things could possibly get any more stale. You know what else comes in a cardboard box without a plastic liner? Shoes. Shoes don’t have a plastic liner. Laundry detergent doesn’t need a liner. And these pretzels. They need no further protection. I’m surprised there isn’t a desiccant in the box with them.

Moms everywhere will tell you not to bite your fingernails because they are made of material that is actually harder than what your teeth are made of and you risk doing damage. But go ahead and eat these pretzels that are made from busted up pieces of old driveways. That’s totally fine. Thanks Snyder’s and thank you mom for my new 900 dollar crown!

These horrible things hearken back to a day when food just sucked ass. To a day when survival took precedence over things like, say, flavor. Like the people you see in those post Civil War pictures, the ones who never smile. Little did you know that they didn’t smile back then because their teeth were all fucked up and broken from eating rocks. Why was everybody so ugly back then anyway? I can honestly say that I have never seen a picture of a women from, say, the 1920’s who I found even remotely attractive. Pick any age you like, Victorian Era? Hideous. Pre-World War I? Ugh. Movie stars of the Silent Age? They make me wish sound was invented before pictures. Just gross. It really wasn’t until after World War II that you started to see attractiveness starting to break through and while I’m not saying that these plaster clusters of dried shit are responsible for human ugliness, I do think that they are indicative of the collective physical hideous nature of humanity as a whole.

Snyder’s of Hanover Pretzel Pieces

First of all, why is every pretzel made by this Snyder consortium? They really seem to have a monopoly on the whole contorted, knot shaped snack game. Kudos to them. Here in Ohio we have a potato chip company called Snyder’s of Berlin. Are they any relation to the pretzel Snyder’s? Was there a wayward brother who frowned on the whole breaking of the public’s teeth and rebelled deciding to instead hitch his wagon to the more eatable and softer potato chip. Horrified by the way his family was systematically destroying the dental health of Americans, he decided there had to be another way to snack.

The way I heard it though, old man Snyder was a hardcore Nazi who was so distraught with the German loss in WW2 that he packed up his pretzel / drywall operation and moved it to the United States under the contingency that only members of the Aryan race would ever indulge in one of his salty twisted treats. Once entering the United States and realizing the racial melting pot he had so readily delved into, he had a heart attack and died. His gravestone is, in fact, engraved with his last miserable words, “Give me back my pretzel you Italian bastard!!” This of course is not true but it sounded good.

I am a huge fan of the Honey Mustard variety of this Snyder’s pretzel gem. These have been a mainstay on my Top 5 Salty Snack list for well over a decade. If you haven’t tried them, I highly recommend. Here’s the rub though, this bag of deliciousness is just a sack of their garbage sprayed down with a slathering of honey flavored chemicals. It’s like, at the end of the day, these Snyder’s people were wondering what to do with all of the broken pieces of pretzel and some smart guy came up with the idea of adding flavor and bagging it. I hope this guy was promoted for actually finding a way to get people to pay 3 dollars and 50 cents for the scrapings of old man Snyder’s filth.

I like those cheddar pretzel Combo things. The cheese and pretzel relationship is one forged by the gods and to have them already conjoined and readily available in a easy to open bag is an answered prayer. These, however, are the only good tasting Combos made. Why do we need pizza flavored Combos? If i want something to taste like pizza, I’ll order a pizza. I don’t need poorly copied and chemically poisoned reproductions of my favorite food in junk food form. Pizza is already junk food. Plus I don’t like the bland, white Combo sleeve they use for every other flavor besides the pretzel ones.

I feel like these white flavorless sleeves are the same things that come in a bag of Chex Mix. No one eats them but if they do, it has to come with a mouthful of the other stuff to diminish the experience of the disgusting Combo spindle tube. In Chex Mix, they are meant to be nothing more than a crunch enhancer and never as a stand alone treat so why, Combos people, would you make them a headliner in your snack playbill? I think, in order to keep costs down everything actually starts as a pretzel but Combos, Inc hire retarded people who don’t like to go out in the light to suck off the outer layer of pretzel crust to use with their other more disgusting flavors. Remember that visual the next time you eat one of those things. Bat Boy sucking on your Combo. His acidic saliva braking down all of the deliciousness.

Speaking of other flavors, are you aware that, in Japan, there are like 37 kinds of Kit-Kat candy bars? What the hell? We invented them and have only one variety. I wonder if this playing god with candy is why the Japanese people have seen the highest increase in adult onset diabetes since WW2? Like, “You know what we need? A sweeter, more palatable vehicle to deliver as much squid ink into our diets as we can tolerate. Fortunately, I happen to have just such a vehicle in mind, the Kit-Kat bar!!” The Japanese. The givers of Godzilla and the Edamame Soybean Kit Kat. Thank God.

Kit-Kats are for another day though…

The Dick Hole Flap Flap

I don’t know when thongs came into being for women but I’m pretty sure it was after I was off of the market. I don’t remember encountering a thong back in my heyday. Having never worn a thong, it’s tough for me to say but those things look pretty uncomfortable all crammed up your butt crack and all. Not that I’m at all in favor of bringing back the giant panties. They’re just horrible. There really  could not be a more sexually deflating piece of clothing ever created than the giant panty. I’m really glad those days are behind us.

For the most part, I’m a boxer brief guy. I never had a problem with what they nowadays call “tighty whities.” Mostly because that’s all we had back then. Sure you had your boxers but those were for old men who wore those leather straps to hold their socks up. No one under the age of 70 wore boxers. When I was a teenager they started making bikini briefs for men and I was never comfortable with those either. They were too close to what women wore and the name “bikini” certainly doesn’t illicit any feelings of secure manliness. Life was hard enough at the age of 14 without scrambling my sexual identity with androgynous co-ed under garments.

Bikini briefs can also make the laundry process more arduous. Who wants to have to hold every last pair of underwear up to the light to tell who it belongs to? I want my underwear to scream that they belong to a man and I don’t want to inadvertently have my wife slip into a set of mine only to find out that they have a dick hole.

Inevitably, I had to make the move to boxer briefs mainly because society simply frowns on the man who wears tighty whities. Who in the world ever decided to make men’s underwear white anyway? Seriously? Like, “We’re here today in this meeting to come to an agreement on what color is best for our new line of what we’re going to call, men’s underwear. It’s my opinion that wives should be able to see exactly how much urine and crap is in every pair of their husband’s draws and I say we go with iridescent white. All in agreement say AYE.

Boxers never really did anything for me either. You cant wear them with shorts because when you sit down anybody sitting across from you is going to get an unwanted eyeful of your boys. Without a tighter pair of pants like jeans, boxers leave you just hanging there and it’s an uncomfortable feeling. Plus when you’re just hanging there and you’re on the move, you run the risk of getting sore balls like if Life just used them as it’s punching bag for the day.

In these cases, tighty whities, boxers and boxer briefs, men’s underwear comes with a flap in the front that is supposed to be used as a doorway to make the process of  urinating easier. Bikini briefs do not, in my limited experience, come equipped with this flap technology but as they are, for all intents and purposes, women’s panties, I will no longer refer to them. If you wear them and are offended, I am not sorry and you really should thank me for cluing you in.

I have silently but sometimes publicly struggled over the proper use of this dick hole flap that comes as standard equipment on most of your varieties of men’s underwear. In all cases, this flap is so poorly designed that most men just pull down the front of their draws to perform the act of relieving themselves. No one goes to pee casually. While there may not always be a need to break into a full on sprint to the bathroom most people are generally in a damn hurry to get there and men, in this case, do not have the time to fuck around with a dick flap when under the gun.

Getting back to boxers, boxers don’t have a dick hole flap. They just have a hole. Sometimes the hole has a button on it but the button offers very little protection. With or without the button, wearing boxers does not offer me the kind of support and control I need and they expose a man to spilling back out of his draws and emasculating himself between two sides of a  rusty, dull vice grip we call a zipper. Every zip up your bag? It fucking hurts.

As previously mentioned, white briefs and boxer briefs both come equipped with, what is called in the industry, a dick hole flap. This flap is intended to grant proper access and facilitate the process of relieving oneself. This is not a casual flap or opening like a pair of boxers has but rather two rather large pieces of material laid one over the other that, in every case I’ve ever experienced, requires the user to be some kind of a fucking hand contortionist to make it work. I envision those people who practice pick-pocketing or can move a coin over their knuckles to be the only ones capable of making use of the dick flap.

Extracating your “guy” and freeing it from this genital snare is like reliving the first time you tried to tie your shoes all by yourself. Fumbling around all over the place like a monkey trying to do algebra. The difference being, in this case, instead of your kindly mom or dad propping you up on the nearest chair to re-tie your shoes for you, with this penis flap thing, you end up pissing all over your hand. Maybe it’s my age but I don’t have the time to be fucking around with this thing. I mean, I don’t suffer from any prostate issues or anything but I drink a lot of fucking water and when I have to go I cannot take the time to properly use the underwear as it was intended.


I Hate Outside

I hate being outside. To me, being outside for even a few minutes, is like enduring a slow, unending and painful torture with no end in sight. Being outside gives me an overwhelming feeling of helplessness and hopelessness. Outside, I haven’t the ability to alter my surroundings. I must adapt to it and I don’t like that loss of control. As if a human being has the ability to come to physical terms with 95 degree humid heat or survive very long in anything below zero. Being outside at the mercy of the elements sucks ass.

Some may contend that I suffer from agoraphobia or some other psychosis but they would be wrong. I simple hate hot, cold, dirt, bugs and any other natural infirmity that plagues this world.

Outside it’s never “that perfect temperature,” ever. It’s either too hot or too cold and if by some freak of nature it is meteorologically (I think I just made that word up) comfortable, the humidity is 90% and fucks it all up. I’m either sweating like a fat, greasy sow or covered in painful goose bumps. The are too few days with any middle ground. Probably fewer than a dozen times a year I am actually happy with the weather..

As I said, I also hate dirt and filth. Has anyone ever gone outside and actually come back in the house cleaner than they were when they left? No. The answer is no. Outside is dirty and disgusting.

I hate the sun. There’s no getting away from it. Being in it is like undergoing an unrelenting, energy sapping, savage beat down. My God! It actually burns our flesh! Like fire! Have you ever considered that if you go outside on the planet you were born on and stand in the sun that birthed said planet that you will turn to a pile ash? Does this make any sense? Clearly, we belong indoors.

Bugs and animals also make their homes outside. I don’t care for bugs. Mainly the ones that fly. Flying gives them unfettered access to my ear holes which they all seem quite attracted to. Ever get a gnat in your eye? All shoved down and crammed inside your eyelid? It fucking hurts and God only knows how many piles of dog excrement that thing has been wallowing in before it suicide itself in my optical fluid. One thing I can assure you of, shit covered vermin have never gotten lodged in my eye when safe in the comfort of my home.

Where do fruit flies come from anyway? It seems like they spontaneously generate whenever you spend more than twenty bucks on fruit at the grocery store. How are you supposed to get rid of them unless you throw away every piece of fruit in the house? Once you dispose of your fruit, why do the wayward fruit flies always gather on the bathroom mirror?

I love to play golf. The one thing I despise about golf is that it has to take place outside. I think I read once that there is an enclosed golf course somewhere in Japan. If that’s true and I lived anywhere near it, I would play every day. Indoor golf, that is happening.

The out-of-doors are now blessed with Zika virus carrying mosquitos. This festering disease causes babies to be born with tiny malformed heads. Where did this come from all of the sudden? I’ve never heard of Zika until this year. The day these things hit Northeast Ohio will be the last day you’ll see me outside wearing anything but a yellow biohazard suit.

Mosquitos don’t bother me. I mean I hate them (big surprise there, I know) but they leave me alone. Dana and I will sit outside (me reluctantly) and they are on her like a fat kid on a tube of cookie dough. By the time we throw up the white flag and head back indoors (where we should have stayed in the first place) Dana looks like she has come down with a scorching case of rheumatic fever. Maybe my blood is as sour and acrid as my personality but then they don’t even try to bite so how do they know what I taste like?

There’s nothing worse to me than a fly in the house. The only thing I’ve ever seen a house fly do outside is roll around in a pile of dog shit. Everything they touch, I throw away. I don’t try to kill them either. Just like I don’t belong outside in their domain, they don’t belong in mine.

Who’s idea was it to put grass around everybody’s house anyway? What a fucking genius that guy was. Once a week, I am forced to go outside to cut the grass. Any day of the week I would rather my house was surrounded by molten, bubbling lava filled with fire breathing dragons trying to kill me than grass. I wouldn’t have to mow lava and weeds certainly wouldn’t grow in it. Wouldn’t it be a much better use of space if we just covered everything over in concrete?

Don’t even get me started on swimming in the ocean…

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Piss mud


Stranded in the middle of nowhere covered in muddy piss is not how I want to remember a beautiful summer night sitting under the stars listening to The Beach Boys play live. To top things off, one of the Beach Boys, at least in my mind, was responsible for setting my car on fire forcing me to eat stuffed peppers made by a grease monkey.