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.


Mountain Sicknesses

First a shout out to my people in Brazil. Now I have people from all over the world who read this blog, Qatar and Cambodia included, but for some unknown reason I have more readership in Brazil than all of the other countries of the world combined.

Buy my book. It’s like 99 cents for God’s sake…

Bang Your Head Here

Bang Your Head Here…Some More

A couple of thoughts, you people in Brazil, at least as has been reported in our mostly fake news, are virtually out of drinkable water yet hundreds, yes hundreds are a lot to me, of you take time to read my nonsense. My thought is that, as bad as it is to be on the threshold of death, you read my vitriol to remind yourselves that it could be worse. You could live in America with people like me. You would rather dehydrate yourselves to death than live here. I get that.

The other possibility is that there are Americans who have moved to Brazil for whatever reason and frequent my blog to remind themselves that they have made the right decision to leave. Regardless, thanks for taking the time.

The Top 5 Hillbilly Illnesses

For twenty years I helped run our family manufacturing business. My grandfather started it in 1952 when he moved to Cleveland from West Virginia. I am frequently thankful that he had the gumption and the fortitude to uproot his family and move up north to make something of himself. No offense to those of you from West Virginny but I wouldn’t have made a very good mountain man. I don’t like dirt and I like my food to come in a box with a label on it and not from the woods or a river. I don’t think I could shoot a “varmint” and I hate the taste of fish. I am a decent shot though, I think it’s just in my blood. I don’t want to “take vittles.” Hell, I don’t even know where the word vittles comes from, I just know that I don’t want any.

I love the movie “Deliverance” but I am afraid that, in real life, I am the fat, sissy character, Bobby and not the rugged woodsman, Louis. Bobby was the character played by Ned Beatty and also the one anally raped by the mountain cracker. I, however, draw the line at the hillbilly anal rape thing in my comparison of myself to Bobby.

I like paying too much for a cup of coffee, I don’t hunt or fish and if something needs fixing around the house, my best skill is writing a check. Not to imply that everybody, just because they are from the hills is an expert in home repair, I was just trying to make the point that I am not handy and am quite soft when it comes to what the mountains would describe as a real man.

In spite of the racist stereotype people from hills have, my grandfather was an equal opportunity employer. As long as you came from the hills, he didn’t care what color you were, gay or straight, man or woman. You could be an African-American, cross-dressing lesbian and as long as you’re from “downhome” he’d give you a shot. “You say you’re a machinist from Brooklyn? Sorry, never been there I don’t trust people who come from the city.”

People from the hills are passionately and fiercely loyal. You had to be a serious fuck-up to get fired and neither do you quit. I’ve fired my share of people in my time as the kingpin of our hillbilly manufacturing conglomerate and rarely ran into objections and excuses as most people knew when they had taken the whole “downhome” loyalty thing too far. The excuses upon firing almost made the whole firing process worth the heartache of it all as some of them were comedic genius. “Thursday night’s my night to get drunk,” was always one of my favorites and also the most frequently used. As if that makes the whole thing about not showing up for work for eight straight days just a part of business.

My absolute favorites though were the hillbilly street names for the myriad of common maladies people came down with that caused them to miss work. This, therefor, is the Top 5 Names of Hillbilly Illnesses. It wasn’t until the advent of the Internet that I could actually do a little research into the hidden meaning of these terms.

Cold in your eye

Now every cold that I’ve ever had was a respiratory kind of thing. Runny nose, sneezing, fever, cough, the whole shmear but unbeknownst to me, you can also, apparently, get this in your eye.

Upon further investigation, an eye cold, is also called conjunctivitis and / or pink eye but taken up a few degrees. It seems that eye colds are caused by the same virus’ that cause mumps, measles and herpes. Herpes? In your eye? Holy shit! Had I known that the person sitting in front of me, pleading for their job, had a rampant case of highly infectious and contagious case of eye herpes I would have gladly dismissed them and told them to take as much time as they needed. Gross!

Apparently, eye colds are untreatable with anti-viral medication and you are told to put compresses on the infected area for treatment. Any time they tell you to put a wet towel on some kind of injury or malady, it pretty much means that means they have nothing else. “Yeah, that shit looks like it hurts. Best if you just put a cold compress on it till it clears up.”

“So I have the herpes in my eye and you think the best plan of action is to slap a wet towel on it? Oh really? Thanks! People get this on their genitals and it lasts a fucking lifetime but you’re saying that a wet towel will solve my problem. Wonderful.”

The Gleet

As long as we’re on the subject of herpes I figured this would be a good place to introduce you to The Gleet. This was not a common excuse for missing work but I heard it at least a dozen times in my twenty years of service. The Gleet is a hillbilly name for gonorrhea and involves a nasty smelling discharge weeping from ones urethra. Kind of gross, right?

I have always believed that there is no better excuse for missing work than to just say that you have diarrhea. No one wants to hear you talk about it and they certainly don’t want anyone around who has it. Diarrhea is something that we all get once in a while and can certainly be understood as something that would keep one home from work. I cannot commiserate with The Gleet and even if I had it and had to miss work because of it, I would not admit it.

Falling sickness

Also commonly known as epilepsy. We had a guy, Moses, who had epilepsy. Everybody from West Virginia has a given name and a name they go by. Moses’ real name was Carroll but his dad was friends with the mailman, Moses, so yada, yada, yada, Carroll became Moses. It seems that when he was a teenager his drunk pappy put him on the back of his motorcycle, drove through an intersection and both were subsequently hit by a city bus. Of course, the drunk, was unscathed but Moses was dragged under the bus till it could come to a stop, and in the process tore off half of his flesh and did enough damage to his brain to give him epilepsy. The fact that this guy lived through let alone continued to work fifty hours a week, is a testament to the, “Dare to keep me down? Fuck you” mentality of the people of West Virginia.

Once in a while Moses would disappear for a week and we knew that he had a case of the falling sickness but that he would be back as soon as he was able. Worst part was that Moses lived alone and when a spell of the falling sickness would hit, he would lay there all by himself till he could get his legs.

The Grip (Grippe)

This was the most common of all of the absenteeism excuses I received. I mean people were falling victim to The Grip like the Black Plague in medieval Europe. There are two different Grip disorders meaning two very different things but because I couldn’t understand a lot of what they were saying and because I didn’t know what either of them were, I would just ask if they felt good enough to work and move them on their way.

First, The Grip, is a hills infirmity that keeps on from grabbing things. The Grip would cover your arthritis, strokes, any kind of paralysis or nerve damage. Hard to believe that somebody would miss a Friday of work because they were paralyzed but stranger things have happened.

More than likely they were afflicted with the more common Grippe, still pronounced just like the previously mentioned Grip. This version of the Grippe is simply the common flu. I know, not as cool but all of the names in this Top 5 list, the one I can see myself incorporating into my occasional flu life.

Jerry, a man twice my age, was continually afflicted with the grippe and would get angry if I ever asked what exactly this grippe thing was. “Look, I had the grippe, alright?!?! People with the grippe are very sensitive.

Puking fever

This would be, you would think, the easiest of the group to figure out. Puking fever should be exactly what it says it is. “I was throwing up and had a fever.” Bingo! Easy. “You feel good enough to go back to work?” “Would I be here if I wasn’t?”

You would be wrong if you assumed that any infirmity of the mountain people would be that simple. Puking fever also goes by the pseudonym Milk Sickness or The Sloes. Milk sickness is also called tremetol vomiting or the trembles and is a kind of poisoning that brings with it trembling, vomiting and severe intestinal pain. All pretty standard features of the average stomach flu except that The Trembles comes from ingesting milk or meat from a cow that fed on the white snakeroot plant. Cows, during a drought, will go into the woods in search of water where they find the snakeroot plant. Snakeroot? Some I am to believe that you went home for the weekend to the hills and drank some milk from a poisonous cow?

Do you know the astronomical odds of ever encountering even one person afflicted with Milk Sickness? You need a cow, a drought, snakeroot, white snakeroot at that, and you need to drink the cow’s milk like right off the udder. Like you basically had to be suckling the cow to come down with this. Yet I have seen dozens of people live through this terrible disease.

The Sloes are basically milk sickness mixed with a dose of small pox. I didn’t get a lot of claims of the sloes. “So you were off on Friday because you had milk sickness induced small pox but you’re okay today?”

Bonus – Straining your milk

A common caution verbalized by women to other women working in our plant was not to lift too much or you’d likely run the risk of “straining your milk.” I can’t imagine this warning applying to anybody but women who are nursing a child but after all of the sloes, grips and gleets who the hell knows.

What exactly happens when one “strains their milk?” Does it come out with blood like if you got kicked really hard in the nuts or does it just dry up? Can anything be done to de-strain your milk?

A Real Solution to Illegal Immigration and Disgusting Imported Food

A Real Solution to Illegal Immigration and Disgusting Imported Food

I can’t even turn on the effing news anymore without being lambasted with stories of illegal immigration. Muslims invading Europe. Mexicans overtaking the United States. God forbid some poor soul from a war-torn or impoverished country would want to come here to give his family a decent shot at not dying from drinking untreated, fecal-infested water or having a bomb dropping on their roof. What an asshole.

I know I’m probably in the minority here but I can’t help thinking that are we going to need bodies to help pay the pretty hefty Social Security tab for our aging population? Just a thought. I think I have a solution to the problem but first, my complaints.

What’s irritating me mostly now are these strange fruits and vegetables that weasel their way into the produce department of my local grocery store. I remember when I was a teenager and my mother came home with these strange, brown and fuzzy pieces of difficult to eat fruit later to become known to me as kiwi. To this day, I am still not sure how to eat a kiwi. No doubt they are delicious but how are you supposed to get the most of this tiny piece of fruit? I cut the ends off then peel, taking as little of the actual fruit off as possible. Is there a better way? Either way, it’s a lot of work and the laborious nature of consuming foreign fruit seems to be a fairly common complaint. Maybe they have more time to fuck around with their meals in other parts of the world. Here in the United States, I work all day and help raise my granddaughter. I don’t have time to soak beans or de-seed a pomegranate, I’m busy and even if I didn’t have a damn thing to do at all, I would not waste my time.

Plants that are indigenous to the United States or that I grew up eating are, for the most part, pretty easy to get access to. If I want an apple, I wash it and eat it. Same with most of your berry products. Oranges and grapefruit are a little more work but you aren’t risking throwing half of it away during the peeling process like you would with a Kiwi. Banana? Peel and eat.

There are exceptions to the rule, for instance, okra is from here, as far as I know, but I don’t eat it because it’s gross. I find it’s slimy consistency intolerable. Plus I only ever see it offered as fried. I could fry the bottom of my shoe, give it a splash of hot sauce and people would eat it. That is not a rousing endorsement for okra. Just saying.

Cilantro would be a veggie that has made inroads much the same as the kiwi into the American diet. However, I believe that any traction gained by this leaf has been on the coattails of salsa. Where would cilantro be without salsa? Cilantro is a bitter tasting leaf that has a nasty habit of finding ways of sticking to your front teeth and humiliating you when you smile. I wont smile after I eat salsa until I have a chance to inspect my mouth. I don’t care for smiling much anyway so this is not much of a problem.

Why do they sell coconuts at the grocery store? Seriously, what am I supposed to do with this thing? I don’t want any food that I have to beat mercilessly with a hammer to eat. Coconuts should come with an electric drill so you can get the milk out before you have to destroy it causing it to spill all over the place. Isn’t it enough that you can buy the coconut milk and the actual coconut fruit in other aisles in the same grocery store? Have we become so obsessed with hipster level freshness that we are resorting to buying non-prepared foods that require power tools just to indulge them?

What the hell is jicama anyway? I once had Jicama Slaw and found it to be quite tasty. Based on that, I bought one at the store and soon sorely regretted it. The thing is so full of watery juice that by the time I was done grating it, it had turned into a disgusting, cold pile of slop, as if it had melted or something. Around here, we use cabbage in our slaw and it has served us well for some time now. There really is no need for a replacement at this time. Please check back if ever you hear of a devastating cabbage blight. Plus, I’m not sure if this jicama stuff provides any extra nutritional value but if it’s laying in a puddle of it’s own filth on my kitchen counter, I fail to see how it really matters as I wont be eating it anyway. Besides, there are a whole bunch of vegetables in line in front of you, jicama, that I need to sample before I move onto other countries bounties. Take the turnip for instance. I’ve never had one, probably never will, but I will be damn sure to try a turnip long before I have another bite of jicama. Turnips are from here and I feel like I owe them some loyalty. Parsnips and rutabagas, whatever they are, would also fall into this category.

So there are three root veggies blocking the progress of this jicama tsunami and as I hate vegetables to begin with, the chances of jicama getting off the bench into a starting role are slim to none. I don’t even know if this jicama is a root, it just has the look of it. In any case, count me out.

I am a big Pinterest fan. I love it for the recipes mostly and I have been told that I may be the only straight guy with an account. Sorry but I guess that I am comfortable enough with my own masculinity to embrace Pinterest. Lately, I have been seeing a disturbing number of ideas for how to cook with jackfruit. What the hell is jackfruit? There are videos of people shredding this jackfruit stuff and using it as a replacement for meat. Like jackfruit with BBQ sauce. Yuck! They say stuff like, “you’ll never know that you’re not eating pork.” Okay, right. But my pulled pork sandwich doesn’t have seeds and a pit. I’m not fooled. Peddle your jackfruit elsewhere.

People tried to tell me to make a pizza crust out of cauliflower. Let me state, for the record, I hate cauliflower. It has a certain acerbic taste that does little more than invoke a strong gag reflex in me. I did just as the recipe said. I beat the crap out of it in the food processor and added all the spices just like the directions said. I formed it into a remedial crust and I put on all of my pizza toppings including sauce, cheese and veggies that I do like. Took one bite and spit it out on the plate. Why? All I could taste was acrid cauliflower. Yuck!

Wikipedia says that jackfruit is “widely cultivated and popular food item throughout the tropical regions of the world.” Let me translate for you, “widely cultivated and popular food item throughout regions where there is nothing better to eat.”

I tried star fruit once. Are you supposed to peel this thing? I couldn’t get any skin off of it and got sick of fucking around with it and just took a bite, after thoroughly washing it with soap first, of course. It tasted like diluted orange juice. It was useless. Why, if we have full-tasting oranges, do we need to airlift star fruit from Cambodia or where ever the hell it comes from? I can just add a whole bunch of water to my orange juice if ever I should want to experience the whole star fruit extravaganza again.

Really, outside of the kiwi, the world can take the rest of their weird and bad tasting fruit and stick it up their collective asses. I suppose a reasonable compromise would be that if we are going to willy-nilly import another countries native foods then we should allow their people to emigrate here as well. That way we will have people who know how to cook things like dragon fruit and plantains and they will have a job cooking said foods thus funding my Social Security. Problem solved.

Let us not forget that all of this insightful brilliance and more can be yours with one simple click. Both are available for free on Kindle Unlimited and are $0.99 and $2.99 respectively on Amazon.


Shameless Plug…

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“The Vasectomy Story”

“The Piss Mud Story aka How The Beach Boys Set My Car On Fire”

“Exercise is Stupid”

tons more too

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JP Shaver Says… Bang Your Head Here

JP Shaver Says…Bang Your Head Here…Some More

Random Thoughts on wasting your time exercising

Exercise is a Gigantic Waste of Time

The same fat guy walks by my house every morning and again every evening. He wears the same orange, foil spacesuit workout kind of garb every day; the thing must smell like bloody hell. Can you put clothes made of foil in the washer? In the last few months his wife has started to join in on the festivities though I only see her in the morning. They drag a mangy dog along with them on their walks. He doesn’t have a spacesuit but looks like he’s seen better days.

I noticed the other day that this guy, for all of his efforts, has been wearing the same orange NASA suit since he came to my attention more than a year ago. My point being that this guy has not lost a freaking ounce since he started all of this exercise frivolity. He’s still gasping for air. Still has the knees that bend in like fat people get. Still dragging around the same mangy dog. The wife is still there and I think she may be even bigger. What is the point of all of this?

I see a lot of fat people running around my neighborhood and they don’t ever get any smaller and then after a while I don’t see them anymore. A new round of rotund people replaces them. I suppose there is the possibility that the dropouts died but I don’t think so. My personal feeling is that they just woke the eff up and quit spending what little time they have to themselves and went back to the couch, television and junk food that made them so happy for all those years. Back to where they should have stayed in the first place.

I used to run. I used to run fifty plus miles a week. Of course this was twenty years ago but still, I used to be a runner. I could run like nobody’s business. Like Forrest Gump. On Saturdays I would do ten miles plus with ease. But I hated every second of it and quitting it took more gumption than getting off smokes. Trust me, I’ve quit smoking at least a thousand times. I know what it takes. It’s an addiction and what’s worse, I gained a ton of weight over my time as a jogger.

So if none of these people are losing any weight and I actually gained weight, why bother? I can’t get hurt sitting on the couch watching television but people who work out are tearing themselves apart for what?

I looked up freakish sports related injuries and a few of them stand out to me as some of the worst things that could ever happen to someone on a self-induced basis. For instance, Men’s Fitness says that a torn pectoral muscle is one of the Top 5 worst things you could ever do to yourself. It is literally your chest muscle ripping itself off of the connecting muscle in your arm as a result of lifting too much weight. The fine people at Men’s Fitness do offer advice on how to prevent such a catastrophe, and I quote, “only work with a load you can control.” Oh, thanks. Sounds like advice better saved for woman in a sex advice column in Cosmopolitan.

Plantar Fasciitis, also known as jogger’s heel, is another gem where the tendons in your foot actually start to rip to shreds. Charming. I had plantar fasciitis a few years ago but mine was brought on by being twenty-five pounds overweight not from running around the neighborhood like a hipster douche, beard blowing in the wind and hell bent on proving he’s better than everybody else because he runs. I basically did nothing but sit and eat to get this disorder. Meanwhile some dumbass tortured himself for his share of the fasciitis. Who’s smarter? In case you’re stumped, the answer is me by a longshot.

Over the course of a normal day of eating, exercise is virtually meaningless. Take a look at some of these comparisons.

I base these hopeless activities on thirty minute increments as anyone who has an hour to devote to straight exercise is a giant douche and probably needs to start a family or drive for Uber. I’m also going with a standard 180 pound human being for my example as well. The first case is walking three miles per hour for thirty minutes. This gigantic waste of time burns a grand total of 135 calories. Wow! Let me tell you what else equals 135 calories. One decent beer, one. Half of a glazed donut. A half a donut has 130 calories. I guess you could go nuts and eat the whole thing but then you’d have to walk around like a jackass for another thirty minutes. You could eat two of those tiny Snickers things and that would add up to 130 or so calories. Is eating two of those stupid things worth punishing yourself for a half an hour? The answer is a resounding, no.

On the flipside, you could eat two heads of iceberg lettuce and stay under 135 calories. Yum. Vegetables are the worst things ever created. I have a theory that there weren’t vegetables until Adam and Eve sinned, they are a part of God’s curse on man.

Of course there are other calorie burning activities which carry much more bang for the buck. Tai Chi burns upwards of 170 calories per half hour but there is the added cost of looking like a total asshole while you do it. My friend’s neighbor used to do his tai chi routine on his front lawn every morning and could not have looked like a bigger dick. This guy was pretty well built but he lived with his tobacco spitting mom and they would yell at each other the whole time he was getting his chi on. To me tai chi is a mental art as well as physical one but the whole thing is kind of ruined when your toothless mom is shaming you for looking like a total nad in front of the neighbors.

I looked on the list for an activity that I might be able to embrace. Bird watching actually burns a hundred calories per 30 minutes invested. Pretty sure that means that I burn one hundred calories just by sitting down so I’m into that one. Gutter cleaning cuts two hundred calories per 30 minutes. I’m required to perform this task, no choice, so I guess I’m in for gutter cleaning. Only problem is I only do it once a year so I’ll probably need to fill in around the edges a bit. Taking out the trash burns 120 calories but I don’t think I could stretch this activity out for an actual thirty minutes unless I was an actual garbage man. No, I think I’ll just sit in my chair.

Pushing a kid around in a stroller burns 120 calories but pushing a plane, like a real airplane, burns 250. Who sat down and figured out the calorie burn of moving an airplane anyway? Who is pushing an airplane anyway? This is an activity usually reserved for a guy like Superman. Doesn’t it seem like pushing an airplane should burn just a few more calories than shoving around crib midget in a stroller? Just sayin’.

Take a look at this poor sap. I despise motivational memes. I especially dislike the wines memes but the ones used for motivation are pathetic.


“We need encouragers?” No, what we need is somebody to tell this poor bastard that he or she is seriously wasting their time. Since cycling at a modest rate of 10 MPH, and let’s face it, this lump is going to be lucky to break the speed necessary to just stay up, at 10 MPH a person will burn about 200 calories. What are the odds that taking 200 calories off the top of what this person ingests in an average day is going to put even a scratch into that frame? Zilch.

I didn’t realize until the other day that my iPhone has an app built into called, “Health.” What’s more, I didn’t realize that it was “on.” Astoundingly, when I opened the app I found that I am actually walking over a mile and a half on average every day! Now, I don’t walk. I don’t run. I sit at work all day and sit when I get home in the evening. All of this is a prelude to getting into bed and sleeping for 8 hours. Where is this mile and a half coming from? Like almost 3000 steps a day? Most of it on the weekdays. And then it dawned on me. I smoke, and all of this activity is coming from walking back and forth to the smoking pit in back of the building at work and firing up a heater every hour and a half. At home on the weekends I don’t have to do anything but go out on the deck to throw down some heat. Quitting smoking would single-handedly strip me of the only activity this body has. And here I was thinking of quitting for the 1001st time.

Random Thoughts on Dieting Once Again

Dieting Again

I have previously mentioned my struggles with diets how I have tried every one of them known to man, The Atkins Diet, The Cabbage Soup Diet, The Paleo Diet and even flirted with Veganism for six months or so. I know diets. You need info, you come to me. I never stick with them long enough to know if they actually work but I can tell you the intimate details of every last one of them. I even had the thought of creating my own dieting system called The Self-Loathing Diet. The whole thing is based on a severe sense of self-hatred resulting in weight loss gained from denying yourself life’s pleasures.

I made the mistake of sharing the idea of The Self-Loathing Diet to my friend Wenus. Not sure if that’s how you spell Wenus, we never checked, but it’s the nickname we gave him, not his real name. Wenus has large elbow skin. It’s gross to tell you the truth and he is aware of it’s indecency as well. Playing golf with him is an atrocity as, first, you kind of have to wear a short sleeved shirt to play golf properly and, second, his elbow flesh flaps in a good wind. In a typical round I spend four hours gagging. It’s really inhuman. His hatred for his rather generous allotment of elbow dermis may explain why he was so drawn to my idea of dieting based on hating yourself. My mistake came when I underestimated the amount of pleasure Wenus would derive from dieting on denial. He texted me one early afternoon to tell me that he actually developed an erection while loading up at the salad bar at work instead of going for the usual burger and fries. With each scoop of broccoli, Wenus was becoming more and more aroused. He had become a contorted mix of a vegan and some guy who likes women to walk in high heels on his balls. He’s thinner now but is in dire need of aggressive therapy. True story.

I am susceptible to influence from documentaries too. I know this and actually avoid watching them as I know, going in, that it will be a life changing event for me. I was bored a few weeks back and decided that I should watch the documentary, Fed Up. If you haven’t seen it, it’s about how the sugar industry is slowly killing all of us with their poison. Apparently, corn syrup is the new anthrax. Terrorists will be sending packages of this stuff to their local congressman as their next acts of war. “You will release my brothers from Guantanamo or I swear to Allah that I will make you cupcakes from high fructose corn syrup and in five to ten years when you develop diabetes you will remember these words.” Probably not the most politically correct fictional quote but I simply couldn’t resist. Anywho, within the first five minutes of watching, I knew my next dieting adventure was about to begin.

I’m not really motivated to lose weight anymore just so I can look good, I’m past that sort of vanity. I don’t want sculpted abs. I have abs, I think, somewhere in the abdominal region. I’m just not inclined to put in the work it would require to procure them or bring them to the surface. Besides, 95% of the women that I would be interested in, if I wasn’t married, that is, would find me repulsive because I am old, I will be fifty in a few weeks, and because I don’t like to go out for anything but movies and dinner. Younger women like to do things, things I hate. What in the world would we talk about? I would ask questions like, “Who is this Selena Gomez character anyway?” or “Why do I need Instagram when I already have Facebook?” She would ask me things like, “So there was really a time before cable?” or “Can we, just once, go out to dinner after 7:30?”

When I was young, if we wanted to attract females, we unbuttoned our shirts, flashed some chest hair and slathered ourselves in a half a bottle of Drakkar. No one cared if you cooked and cleaned, in fact, it was perceived as a character flaw if you did. We were men and if we were looking for female companionship, we went out and actually talked our way into it. We didn’t need toys like Tinder, we were Tinder.

I was never a big club guy but I cannot imagine the horror of dating a younger women and having to go clubbing today. I hate loud noises and clubs permeate with loud, awful music. There isn’t anything to do there but drink and dance. I don’t drink and dancing is dumb. One of my favorite lines from Seinfeld is:

Jerry – I can’t believe that we’re going dancing!

Jerry’s girlfriend (I don’t remember her name and do not care to look it up) – Why because it’s so much fun?

Jerry – No, because it’s so stupid.

No, I am not vain but I am as cheap as the day is long and I aspire to be even more frugal someday. I plopped down, and when I say plopped I mean collapsed, on a picnic blanket at a recent outdoor Steely Dan concert and the side of my pants ripped, I assume because I am apparently becoming larger, sort of like if you dropped an overly laden water balloon on the driveway. My first thought was not that I was fat but rather, “dammit, now I have to buy new pants!”

I have always been a floater weight-wise, bouncing in between 205 and 220 for the last ten years and that basically coincides with the fitment of my pants. Once I get to the limits of dungaree comfortability, most of the time on the high side, in fact, I can’t think of having to ever gain weight to fit my clothes, I know that it’s time to start watching what I eat. It really is the only reason I opt to be slimmer. I don’t have to look at myself, other people do and that’s their problem. If I happen to catch a quick glimpse of myself in the mirror, I immediately turn away and start thinking about baseball statistics until the shame passes. The same kind of technique one would use to prolong their sexual stamina. By the way, just in case you care, that never works.

I get the feeling that it’s time to lose weight again when my belt starts to cut into my spinal cord. My tighter belts are shaped like question marks because they are contorted by the vast amount of pressure my burgeoning abdomen puts on them. They fit right against the flat of my back but the leather has to make some dramatic and dangerous turns in order to navigate my lumpy front. It’s not a pretty job being my belt. Only the best need apply.

Speaking of being fifty, I’m really not having any emotional or mental issues when it comes to hitting the “Big 5-0”. I don’t long for a sports car, a hair weave and a twenty year old hanging on my arm. I think I’m safe from the mid-life crisis. Plus, I look at the pictures of myself when I was in high school and, to be frank, I was a giant dork. I was always a snappy dresser. I am now and would have been then, a member of the Sock of the Month Club and if that doesn’t scream snazzy, I don’t know what does, but my hair and glasses were socially debilitating, and I barely spoke to anyone. Ugh. I must say that, I think, I look better now than ever. I’ve kept most of my hair and it has a nice touch of gray to it brought on by big gains in wisdom. I wouldn’t trade wisdom for youth for anything in the world.

So this Fed Up thing has me living without sugar now. According to FU, I will appropriately call it FU from now on, sugar is not just in your donuts, cakes, pies and everything else considered delicious, no, apparently, a slice of white bread has more sugar, once broken down in your body, than a Snickers candy bar. Oh, and sugar, raises your insulin levels exponentially resulting in diabetes, obesity and all other kinds of debilitating maladies. When I heard the word, obesity, I thought, could this possibly be my next foray into dieting? I told you, when I watch a documentary, I watch that effing thing, man.

I made lists. I love making lists. I jotted down every food that is permissible on a low glycemic diet. Your meats, cheeses, veggies and fruits basically. Given that I can tolerate about three vegetables, that list is a short one. I made the grocery list and went in full bore.

One week update –

So I’ve been riding the no sugar wave now for a total of one week and I have been watching the progress on the scale every morning, does anyone else weigh themselves while on a diet hoping to have not lost weight so you can say that the whole thing is total bullshit and go back to eating the food you love? I do. Every morning.

I was half disappointed to find that I had lost eleven pounds. I mean, I’ll take the eleven pound loss but would have been just as happy to see that FU had lied to me and I could stop at Dunkin donuts on my way to work.

Now I’m stuck on this thing until the weight loss comes to a grinding halt, until I watch another documentary or if someone were to offer me a thick slab of apple crumb pie.