Thursday, September 28, 2006

TIGF!!! (That's Incredibly Gay Friday): This one was too easy

Why??? Because my back hurts like hell and I need to lay down. I swear I have been treated to some Freaky Friday shit and have been transferred into a 90-year-old body. I had to work in the bucket today, as well. Being forty feet off the ground trying to fix stuff is hard when your back starts spazzing out. I just said the hell with it and went home. I don't need that kind of excitement.

On the plus side, I found out why Clyde kept failing the emissions test. I was conversing with the emissions tech guy about possible reasons and I noticed some arcing coming from a spark plug wire. Well, this guy was dumb enough to go and touch it while my truck was running and got some sweet electric lovin' from the coil. Remember kids, volts don't kill you, amps do. This guy got 50,000 volts, and his convulsions, plus having an eerie likeness of Andy Richter, just made me laugh heartily. Is this wrong? Well, he is okay, and now I can fix the problem and be legal once again. YAY! But having to get under the hood while I'm hurting is not going to be fun at all.

Once again, I don't need this kind of excitement.

One little triumph of the day: I told my boss (the male one--too many bosses have I) to cram something into his pie hole. He looked at me and proceeded to shut the fugk up. It helps to physically intimidate your superiors, I find. I had total justification. We were having coconut cream pie:P


This is how I imagine it: The Beginning. I did take this picture, btw. It is natural gas being ignited inside a massive boiler. It took me a few firing cycles to time it just right. It was hard the first few times, because when this thing comes on it makes a bit of a boom. I kept flinching and screwing it up, but finally got it.

This is also the thing that I see when I rub my eyes too hard, only it's red when I do that. The center has a larger rabbit's hole, too. That is deep if you think about it long enough. Oh yeah, and you get a pair of them as well. Anybody else have that happen? You can still see them, even after you open your eyes. I love doing that to myself.

I can't help but think about the beginning, whenever I see any spark and ignition. Are we aware enough to make that call? How confident are we, really? I'm talking science and religion, here. I don't want to get into that debate. I just want to picture it in my mind: The Big Bang. I want to have my own Big Bang and have a genesis of sorts. You can read into that what you will, but think of how much you can read into and you'll see just how amazing and vast a fantasy that is. What kind of Eden would I have? Who would be my Eve? Who would tempt me ever so seductively?

That fruit....I hear it is to die for.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

A man needs an ambassador to coach

Harold here is making a statement. His mother made him get rid of his old hearse and bought him a brand new (at the time) Jaguar. Harold just wasn't having it, so he fired up his hot wrench and started to coach it Goth style, 'cause that's how he rolls, see? This move did prove to get him some choice feline, if you get my aquatic motation. Now all the fools on the block say, "Damn, boy! Yo whip is all coached out y'all. Who's the fine woman of maturity in dere witchu?" You know you just waved your hands in the air with an attitude of ease and joyous exuberance. Just go with it.

So, this leads me to this:
Yeah, I have Clyde as my personal ambassador to all things that kick ass. I just got done getting out of a bog and some snow drifts (July 2006). Yeah, I know I look like a total hick. Don't be hating! I was on a fishing trip, so it's appropriate attire for the occasion.

This truck turns 29 this November. He was manufactured in November 1977, and is a 1978 K20 Heavy Duty 4x4. I could go into all the details ad nauseum, but I will consider my vast female readership and spare you the gushing. I bought him from my clueless brother in law, who bought it from the original owner: an old man who only put 70k on the odometer. I got it with 78k for 1.2k. It was all sorts of messed up though, body wise, and the mechanics were in need of attention. I welded in new floorboards, rocker panels, cab corners; replaced the front clip and driver's side door. I must admit that I was bitten by that junk yard dog.

I did get Clyde all gussied up and tried out a pretty trick galvanizing process on the bare metal with molten zinc and compressed air, before paint was shot. That was six years ago. Only the untreated areas are starting to blister. Pretty impressive, considering how much salt is used on the roads here in the Winter. The old 350 is getting tired now and I'm looking into getting a stroked 415-427 ci. small block, in order to get some serious power in a lightweight, fuel efficient package. I've got a kid that I helped out, while his dad up and left them, who is now an ASE certified mechanic (the kid), that is willing to give me the hook up. He was giving me ideas on direct port fuel injection retrofits, how to set it up for ethanol, and said he could do the programming for me. I see what I want and it is only just a matter of this: $$$.

Why not buy a new truck? Well, I love all trucks, to tell you the truth. It's just that Clyde and I have been to so many places--not to mention that it is just plain erotic fun to take a well endowed woman for a ride in him, bouncy, bouncy! Seriously, just look at this pic:
This pic was made possible because of Clyde. That trail had an abandoned Explorer and only some ATV riders were braving the muddy clay. We are talking seven miles of mud, snow drifts, hills, and deep ruts. Oh, and don't forget the deep water crossings--those are the best! All of this, so I could make a dirty snowman on top of a crest at 8,000+ feet above sea level. Just how gnarly were the ruts? Well, one of my tires is now a white wall and I hit a log that put a nice dent in my gas tank. To think that this really is just medium level wheeling gives you an idea of how many people really don't need such vehicles, because they never actually put them through the paces. I must stress that this kind of use of a vehicle sometimes results in carnage, to you and your ride, so be careful.

So, anybody wanna hop in Clyde with me? I'm thinking of having a snowball fight. I think most of you can all cram in the bed, but respect others' need for privacy: Sexy touching is only allowed if you sing the Rice a Roni jingle while holding your tongue. Try it; it's fun!

Okay, I'm tired. Nanight!

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Tuesday's Tips for Teens: Featuring Bob's "Big Boy's" dietary advice

Hello there teens. I have been away from some locations for a long time. Seems like I give out a bad image, but there is nothing wrong with being big boned. In fact, it can be adorable. Here are my recommendations for getting that sexy robust look.

  1. Use pig fat as toothpaste. It smells like pig fat, and tastes great too! Who could resist that? Do I make you wet?
  2. Put cheese slices in your underwear for fun. How does this help? Who cares! Yuhyee-yah!!!
  3. Double cream milkshakes between meals, throughout the night, and on your morning cereal. It is fuktastique!
  4. Get your mother to deep fry everything and cover it in mayonnaise and peanut butter. This is a great way to kill off pops and get his car!
  5. Say a little prayer to God, asking him to give you that rolly polly holly butternut goodness. See, God has a soft spot in his vengeful heart for chubby kids. Remember, Jesus once said, "Suffer the little children, and give the fat ones more ice cream!"
  6. Steak sandwich smoothies with whipped custard and potato skins. Can you feel your heart straining? That's a good sign. Keep going!
  7. Take a whole loaf of bread and fill it with hard boiled eggs, giblets, bacon, and ranch dressing. Fry it, and then cover it in maple syrup. You will start to see little owls and cats talking to each other about pigs and shit. Take a hit off the old bong tree when you're done. It will help you start the cycle all over again.
  8. Sausage casings. You know, people don't know just how good the casings can be. I like to make peanut butter and jelly sausages too. I am in league with Lucifer! Bwahahahahahahaha!!!
  9. Throat exercises. You can stuff more sausage into your mouth this way. What?
  10. Lard 'n' Cheddar. You can spread the lard on the brick of cheese, stuff the brick of cheese with the lard, or take the whole wheel and deep fry it. Me, I just like to freebase it. Oh yeah, cheddar flavored bubblegum. That's one from our friend Grunt. That invention almost got him some sweet, sweet ass....In fact, he had to be put in traction for months from trying to fly off of his roof like Superman, he got so excited at the prospect. He was all, "Hey Mr. Big Boy, check this shit out. I'm about two hours away from flying onto a landing strip 'o' goodtimes--aw hell yee-yah. Wheeeeeeee, splat!" Heh-heh, when will he ever learn? Silly boy. Like the Trix Rabbit, he is. Like Jackie Mason, I talk!

(Brought to you in fast food orange!)

Sunday, September 24, 2006

Tonight's Mood

Is the title of this painting...

No, it isn't "Tonight's Mood". Keep guessing. It's one of Salvador Dali's.

Some more randomness.

I have been thinking a lot about a childhood TV friend of mine: Casper the Friendly Ghost. How did he die? I have got it in my head that he had no friends as a kid, and was really sad about it. He went to a wishing well one day and tried to wish that he could have a friend. Instead of having his wish come true he accidentally fell in and died.

He, in fact, was cursed. Think about it. He has had to roam the earth, dead, looking for companionship. At the end of each episode he makes a friend only to find himself friendless in the next episode. He is still depressed, but can't kill himself because he's already dead. How cruel of an afterlife is that? I can't think of a more tragic existence. But he was always willing to keep on trying and getting hurt, just to have one more shot of finding someone to be his friend.

I dug out my very first guitar. It is an old Yamaha classical with a solid spruce top and rosewood back, neck, fret board, and sides. A pretty nice old guitar, getting on to about 26 years. I am the third owner and played the hell out of the thing in the late eighties--a super young kid with visions of becoming the next Jimmy Page or Eddie Van Halen. Yeah, I didn't quite develop those abilities. I am good, real good, though. I just am not that kind of player. I am not a juke box. I will hardly play anything by anyone else. I don't see the point. I didn't get into guitar playing to play other people's music. I got into it to make my own, and I do it well.

Some of you already know this, and I am working hard on my music once more. I see my years and know that any window that is left is open but a crack. I have been on a tear lately--almost mad. These songs have been coming out of thin air, seemingly, and someone here, someone that I just recently started communication with, has encouraged me to see a music publisher. I respect her opinion and am on that journey. To be honest, I have no idea what I am doing. Wish me luck.

I'm, at the moment, supposed to be compiling my demos for someone and as soon as I got that underway the transmissions came: Write this song, NOW!!! Oh God, thanks. I am honored for this gift, but people are depending on me to....Write this song now, OR ELSE!!! Oh, screw it. Okay, I am not getting dressed and am now holding my guitar, what? *Transmission* Holy crap! This is amazing stuff. My voice is literally dripping out onto my strings.

I can see now why certain things are the way they are in my life. I am subject to something that demands my attention. Everything that I think I can have, or want to have, slips away from me and it seems to be some cruel formula for inspiration. Hey, whatever, so long as I get to enjoy the fruits of my labor someday.

Speaking of inspiration, I have tried a time or two to express this magical feeling to those who inspire me. It usually just weirds the heck out of them and I should know better by now just how overwhelming some statements of such candid sincerity can be. Yeah, I should know better by now, but it nearly kills me to stay mute. So, bollocks to being cool. I fly my dork flag high and proud. I'd rather be honest than look good in insincerity and pretense. This will probably ensure my life dancing outside the velvet rope, but at least I can still dance. I'd much rather dance in the alley, or in the streets in bare feet. Isn't the best club whatever isn't happening inside a funhouse of vapid souls? I dig life.

Back to what I was thinking of before, I often wonder if it gets lost on them in time, my impression. Do I fade away just like everyone else? I'd like to think I'm different, but that is a pretty arrogant way of seeing oneself. Although arrogant, it might be what motivates me, so I won't mess with it. If I am forgotten, then I must have been replaced by something good, I hope. It would make me feel better to know that what is left of me has become part of their collage of happiness. Although somewhat lost, I am still there somewhere.

See, I was going through my voice mail the other day. I don't get many calls, but I did have someone call me while I was unable to answer and they left a voice message. Well, my voice mail was making me listen to messages that I had not erased yet. I had a real hard time erasing one because I feel like it might be the last time I will hear that voice that way ever again. It really troubled me to erase this. I forgot it was there and I had to listen to it about three times before I thought: Wouldn't it be much better to just have the messages fade a bit, and not leave you entirely?

Why can't some messages be like my thoughts and feelings? But, I needed to make room, and erased it. I admit that I felt sad afterward. Is this normal? Sheesh, I don't even want to know anymore. But then again, my thoughts and feelings don't fade away much, especially when it comes to those people who inspire me. I am left with a cacophony of longing and muse.

Again: Do I fade away just like everyone else?

Saturday, September 23, 2006

Some stuff that gets stuck in my noggin, cloggin up my stream

I took shit from a mountain grill and turned it into gold. The coffee was bitter, the buns were day old. I watched some ducks destroy a koi fish. They couldn't figure what to do with it, 'cept gum it to death. The waitress' ring left green and high-lighted her tangerine hair.

American flag is what, exactly? That's what they call it, but it ain't American now, is it? North American? South American? Central American? American American? Ah, The Unitied States of America. So, there is a more united collective than that of the rest of the Americas? Is this something that is constantly audited? I mean, what if we ain't so united: Do we still get to keep the name and the gosh darn nifty flag? If we don't, who's gonna get to have the job of taking the old ones back? "Sorry mam, the country don't have no team spirit no more. Give me the damn flag back or I's gonna have ta arrest ya's."

Wow, I was in the "Wounded Goose" on assignment to gander, when all of a sudden I see this: The Speech Hut. I turn to my co-pilot and says, "Is that like the Pizza Hut....I wonder how good their delivery is?"

He looks at me, his captain, and replies, "I don't get it". I then continue on driving the Goose down the road, wondering when I'll get to be with my own kind.

A conversation between Socrates and Plato (female), whilst The Grunt eavesdrops:

Plato: "I need a damn calculator. Where's one I can use?"

Socrates: "Here's one. It's for adding up stuff. You use the big button for adding up stuff."

Plato (a bit mystified and disbelieving): "Well, I'm going to use it to multiply."

Socrates (with total conviction): "You're not supposed to multiply. My momma says not to multiply, just add. That's what the big button does."

Plato (sensing something here is very wrong): "Um, yeah. You ever go to school?"

Socrates (proudly): "Yeah, I graduated from high school in 1985. I was the football team manager. My momma says you are supposed to add those up, because when you multiply it comes out all different."

Plato (laughing): "Did you ever stop to think that your momma might be wrong?"

Socrates (defiantly gallant): "No."

Plato (defiantly doesn't give a shit about what momma says): "Well, I'm going to multiply mine."

Socrates (with latent astonishment): "I told you, you can't do that....wait, you can multiply?"

Plato (with calm from the storm of her giggling): "Yes, I do it all the time."

Socrates (thinks he's got it figured out again): "But, when you multiply 2 and 3 it comes out different than when you add them. You are only supposed to add is what my momma says."

Plato (with a tenative grasp on her manners and sanity): "Well, I think your momma tells only you to not multiply because you are too stupid to do anything other than add. People multiply all the time."

Grunt (making his entrance): "What in the hell are you dumb motha huckabee's arguing about now? Have you seen your boss around?"

Socrates: "She's out of town."

Plato (swooning): "Hey."

Grunt: "Socrates, your mother is out in the parking lot looking for you. Says she's got your jacket."

Socrates (exitedly): "I'm gonna go and get my momma to explain this stuff to you. She took care of our money when I did the carpet cleaning business."

Plato (looking from me to Socrates): "Whatever, just give me the calculator."

Grunt (growing impatient): "Do you guys know anything about a burnt-out ballast?"

Plato and Socrates: "?"

Grunt (with a slight, joking, yet dismissive tone): "Okay. See you later, meatbags."

Plato and Socrates (feeling the melancholy, seeing that the highlight of their day is almost over): "Bye."

Grunt (dipping his head back into the office doorway): "Oh, Socrates..."

Socrates: "Yeah?"

Grunt (knows better not to pick on him): "You know what? Your momma and pops made you an addition to their family through multiplication. What'd you think of that, superfriend?"

Socrates: "I don't get it."

Grunt (thinking/sighing): When will I get to be with my own kind?

Friday, September 22, 2006

TIGF!!!(That's Incredibly Gay Friday): The Two Extremes of Divine!

Yeah, first you have the "Divine One". I'm thinking that he could get any chick he wanted, but whoever painted this had a serious hard on. It's okay, as long as it is a hard on for Jesus, I'm sure it will get you big points in heaven. Naw, me and "J" are pals. I just like to give him grief for hiding behind so many sickly images for a couple of thousand of years. Who would have thought that he was such a freakin' stud muffin? I want to pick up chicks with this guy and do the walking on stuff that you aren't supposed to be able to walk on stuff. I hear that impresses the ladies.

The other "Divine", well, is just darn fun to watch:

Have you seen "Pink Flamingos"? Well you ain't seen nothing yet if you haven't seen this movie. It stars Divine. Very TIGF. It was directed by this guy:

Still have no idea? Well, he is the king of Trash Cinema. If you can't handle it, then don't watch it. It isn't porn... it is trash! It is sooooo TIGF!!!

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Grunt Confidential: Confessions of an anonymous toilet librarian

Okay, I know you are wondering what in the hell I am up to now. Well, I am taking a true life event of an individual (we'll call him Frank) that involves the activity of taking books into bathrooms. We are not talking Seinfeld, either. I will take the liberty of adapting Frank's story so that it will not suck. Frank is too dull to tell a good story....yeah, Frank--heh, heh.

So, I was on break one day and decided to take a look at the new books that they are offering from the book thingy (he can't remember). Well, after I got looking through most of them, I settled on Rachel Ray's "30 Minute Meals" and decided to take her into the bathroom for some "me" time. We have this nice private restroom right by the breakroom. It is totally noise maker friendly, in that it doesn't tattle on ya! So, I go into this bathroom, sit down, and take a sizable bowel movement--a combo--and get to work on a 30-minute something or other. Heh, more like a one minute something or other.

I had the book in one hand and the other hand was busy grilling something. Olive oil is the shiznit! Anyhoo, I get cooking and I'm just about to flip the burgers, so I stand up to take aim, set the book on the top of the paper dispenser, and dinner is served. I went to wipe a bit of grease off the spatula with some toilet paper and I knocked the damn book off the dispenser. Guess where this book went? Yep! Right into the the coals. Oh God, why hast thou forsaken me? I just had one question for myself: What in the hell do I do now? I immediately started to laugh maniacally at the stewed cookbook, toilet paper greens, and fecal dressing, like I was either going to die immediately, or have all my doings paraded about the water coolers throughout the complex.

See, this book was for display purposes only. You fill out an order form and they mail you the book(s). Shit, this was awkward. So, Rachel Ray is now swimming with the tadpoles: glug-glug! The fugk this had to happen to me for? I'm a good boy. I help old ladies, er, old hot ones....Um, well hot ladies cross the road. That's still helping, for chrissakes! Anyway, I decided that the only thing left to do was spit, bleed, and cry into the melting pot of my own bodily fluids. Hey, I figured that since I was on a roll already, I might as well finish the job.

After much time had passed, and constant panicked laughing, I came to the conclusion that a fishing expedition was in order. I contemplated many things, like mugging the janitor, getting his keys to open his closet, get the big rubber gloves, and bingo! No, the janitor would just kick my puny ass. Fugk! Ah, I could just go in quickly and throw the book into the sink. Yeah! Believe it or not, I did not think to flush the toilet first. Double fugk!!!

I get the book from point A to point B with no cockups. Oh lord on rye, I caught a break. This dripping mess still looked salvageable. Naw, I can't...I thought...This is just plain wrong, not to mention WRONG-WRONG-WRONG! God, what am I going to do? I quickly devised a plan using an old cigar tube, some twine, and some vinegar mixed with baking soda. YAY! Uh, didn't happen that way, I'm afraid. No, it went more like this, in form of a song: Oh fuggity fugk, a fugk-fugk-fugk...what am I to dooooooo??? (There was a dance involved as well) I looked all around me, just like my friend McGyver would do (thanks Grunty/Bubba). What did I find? HAIRDRYER and LYSOL!!! Yes, there was a freakin' hair dryer under the sink in the cabinet. The Lysol was up on a shelf.

I checked the cover for skid marks. None! I then did the smell test, phew! I guess drinking all that water had paid off: my urine was pretty clear. I then had to check for any amphibious, a little on her blouse. Figures. I wiped the jacket down the best I could. Wow, I thought, what a freakin' well made book. See, Rachel Ray doesn't lend her name out to just any old crap publisher. No, she is first class all the way. I got every page wiped and disinfected with the Lysol, dried it out well with the dryer on low heat, and then had to plot my non-chalant entrance back to the breakroom. What I didn't expect was the pages curling up, or how to explain my twenty-minute bowel movement to my co-workers. Eh, fugk it. You just walk out there and act like nothing happened. But, you aren't even supposed to take books into the bathroom--haven't you learned anything from watching Seinfeld? I was sooooo screwed.

I cleaned up myself and took a bunch of paper towels to wrap up the book. After the book was sufficiently wrapped, I tucked it under my shirt, down my back waist line...yeah, the small of my back, but that sounds so gay, sheesh. Ok, I felt secure enough to go out and make for the breakroom.

Upon entering the breakroom, I was greeted by Marilyn from accounting: Just wave hi and move on. Sheeeewhooooo! She passed right on by, leaving me all to myself in the breakroom. I immediately placed the book back on the table, flat, and put a heavy book on top of this one so as to keep the pages from warping and curling up. Clever me...clever me. Then I started to laugh like mad again. Well, I pretty much laughed like an idiot throughout the rest of the day and had everyone wondering what in the hell was wrong with me.

I had no idea that I'd have a moral crisis after the perfect crime.

Me: Well, maybe I should see if I can buy the display book and then I can throw it away. I couldn't throw it away before, because that would be stealing. But, if I buy the book, I can do whatever with it. I mean, someone is going to notice that it ain't right. What if I get busted? Can they fire me? Would I even want to continue working here if they all found out? How in the hell do explain this to the book lady? Do they call in CSI for this stuff? Oh god, I'm so dead!

This was starting to get all Poe's "Tell Tale Heart" on me.

I figured out what to do: I will put the right amount of cash in the book, with a printed note explaining that the book was not fit for sale or display, due to an "accident". This way I didn't run the chance of someone seeing me cart this book off again.

All together now: I am a fugking genius!!!

The book lady came, took her books, and I am as they say, pretty damn chuffed. One last thing: I will never take another book that I do not own into a restroom ever again. A magazine, sure, but not a book.

Rachel, call me. Baby, it was guud!

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

The Cyclist

She rode for an amateur women's mountain bike team. She even had a spread, a modest one, in a sexy team calendar. I was driving down the road today and caught a glimpse of her. It has been two years since I said goodbye. Yeah, I was only one of the many to see her go to another job, but she was nice, a friend to me when I wasn't feeling very attractive. It meant a lot to me.

She now rides for a true professional team. I'm sure she's made up with her ex-fiance and is now married. She wasn't leggy, even for a cyclist. Pretty damn trim. Probably one of the best fit women I've ever seen. She always looked like a woman no matter how hard she was training. She kept her light brown hair long, which I like: sometimes up in a sexy twist, or Indian braids. She rode GT's. That is pretty damn sexy.

I remember telling me about her childhood racing horses in steeple chase events in Illinois. She won a championship at 14. Damn, she was a competitor. Still is, I guess. I looked up her finishing results, after I had my little blast from the past today. Mostly top tens in the first part of the season, but lately has had some DNF's and places in the 30s and 40s.

I don't know where to start. I met her when I was a total fat fuck--my words, my explanation....don't get offended. Before that came to pass, I was that guy who hiked it, biked it, skied it either downhill or cross-country. I was still a big boy, but a trim healthy one. Somewhere along the way of having setbacks, family trials, watching my friends get married and move on to successful careers, I got lost...and morbidly destitute in spirit. I don't think I can really explain the details here, or to anyone, really. I will say that, in the end, I restored my integrity and my sense of morality. I didn't cross any lines that couldn't be uncrossed. I think that I have pretty much left out the last sixish years to those that I have talked to here. I just make like I stopped at 2000 and started back up at late 2005--that was that. If I can't be honest, then I just won't talk.

I finished school, but was hell-bent on exploding in that vacuum of isolation and prison of self destructive behavior. I thought that going back into religion would fix me and it seemed to only set me in strange patterns of "good/bad" cycles. I immersed myself in learning electronic theory. I was buying bulk obsolete semiconductors for awhile and trying to resell them on Ebay in smaller lots for a higher price. I just ended up walling myself in with creation after creation. I ate and ate, didn't go out much. I ballooned to 260 pounds. I was a fat fucking mess of a man. I shut myself off from friends. It was horrible.

I should have sought help, but I didn't. I was a psychology graduate (B.S.), had taken my GRE and made good scores. I applied for graduate programs and got to a final interview at one school. It was in that interview that my faith in psychologists and psychology was shot to hell for a time. I was told by this professor that she knew my "type", she was trained to see this--like it was a bad thing--all while I was making this Hail Mary pass for my life. I was right in the middle of destroying myself and took a chance to make an improvement. This lady never sought to help, only to make my fault shine like a fucking chromed lump of shit. I called her a stuffed shirt and that pretty much blew that interview. Hey, at least I was an alternate for a few months. Besides, they picked only five out of 160. I should've given myself more credit for making it as far as I did, considering. I didn't, however.

I thought that whatever "type" I was, I wasn't going to let anyone touch me. If they were going to ridicule me, which is what I thought, I would either just quit life or fix myself. So, I started to fix myself.

My first attempts were pretty undisciplined. I just tried the self analyzing. Too subjective, you can't make a proper diagnoses this way, not what's going on in your head. I coasted for a year. That is when I was called on some jobs that took me to the occupational therapy suite. It was there that I met a pretty girl. Yeah, her, the cyclist. She was the type of girl that I would see on the trails when I was that young buck rider. I felt self conscious and ashamed at first around her. I don't know why. I guess I felt like she'd never see that former "me" that would have had so much in common with her. I was thinking that she would pretty much laugh me off, or think I was a creep if I started talking shop--noticing all the bike paraphenalia--like I just picked up on whatever just to bug a cute girl. I mean, would she believe this fat fuck? Yeah, it turns out she did, and she was impressed with my little stories of certain trails and trips. Hell, she even took some of my trail advice. I don't think she ever knew how much this all meant to me. I felt like a man again, and more importantly, human.

I was always a bit shy. Having to look at myself all distorted, distended, and bloated, I couldn't quite muster up enough to ask her out. I did get to flirt again. I'll tell you, that was nice. She was involved, anyway, but I couldn't help but hope. I always made comments on her hair, and she would change it up for me so I could see what she looked like in different styles. When her team's calendar came out, I got one. Man, she photographed well. I was lust struck. I was also heart broken when she quit to pursue her pro mountain bike career, taking part-time work in that locale.

Whatever the case, I was different after meeting her. No steamy sex, or make out sessions, but I just felt valued again. As part of the self therapy I came up with, I made some cards with specific statements on each one. I have read these to myself each morning and night since about that time. I won't go into what the cards say, but I have been on the steady up and up since. No more of those dreaded "rope flashes".

Since blogging, I have met some very special people. I have had some ups, downs, heartaches, and lessons learned, but these people have helped me out big time, too. They have been those people that give out Gatorade at certain points of a marathon. This particular marathon is not over, but their Gatorade to me came at the right time, just as Jennifer's did. Oh yeah, that's her name.

I don't seem to be able to own much of any of these friends. I have to cherish what I have and just let it be. That is the hardest part for me because I never forget or completely let go of people. It seems easy for them to do so and I admire that--I wish I were more capable and could move on easier. I'm getting better at it, I suppose.

Back to today: So, I decided to not be creepy and try to pull over and stop Jenny while she was training. I didn't even know if she would recognize me, now that I am trim. I wonder what she would have thought? I guess I won't know. Hell, I don't even know what she was doing down here in the first place. Maybe I'll see her around. I'm getting my bike tuned and ready.

(Note: I don't recommend anybody take the course that I chose to take care of my issues. Just do yourself a favor and get counseling. As for me, I guess I am both smart, blessed, and lucky to have this thing work for me--I am an exception.)

Monday, September 18, 2006

Tuesday's Tips for Teens: Brought to you by John the Evil Janitor

John the Evil Janitor is a creation of Seth Michael Forman, a painting from his "American Histories: Life in Exile". As you can see, John the Evil Janitor is engaged in a little Duncan Yo-Yo with a white mouse that he copped from Miss Jenkins' science class. At the moment he is getting the mouse to "walk the dog" and will try to follow with a "shoot the moon". While he is entertaining us with his little show, he has agreed to give us some free-form advice on adolescence. Uh, I hope.

John here, and I don't need anybody getting up to goes to the bathrooms. Where yous are is just the a-the-okay. Just never no minds the neighbor with their judging eyes. Life: yous gotta just piss where yous are and leave it for someone elses to clean ups. That's what they teach yas kids. No ones knows hows to clean up there own damn messes. Hows the dickens yous going to get away with evil doings if yo cleaning skills ain't up to snuff? Hell, yous gotta get dirty.

Sure as that awful smell comes with every dead body, you better get on top of that...not that I know anythings about no dead bodies. Naw, sometimes a kid comes at yous in lunch and takes yous for a fool by tripping yous in front of the cheerleaders. This is time for yous to plan yo evil back at em. So, yous make a mess when theys brakes go out down the fifths street intersection. Yous forgot to cleans up those damn prints. Foolish fool, yous! Wipe those prints off.

They is not the only ways not to get caught: Yous got to eliminates the possibilities! Damn, see now, teens, we's got witnesses and ones even with eyes. Be carefuls now. Do this with those smart muscles and no clean ups be needed a-tall.

Waits there a sec, I gotta rock the baby for yous....Hey, Micey, you stop damn squeaks in the middle bit. I can tells yous a nervous now. Pow! Sees that there? If yous do that trick right, the mouse goes ta sleep. Well, he there just asleepin'. I put hims in my pocket. Snug and no's moving now, yous hear me? Good Micey!

Yous all see my eyes o' concentratin'? Hey, theys what yous gotta have if yous gotta get those "eyes" blinded, hear? Yous gotta see thems before theys a sees you. If they done spy yous, that's when yous gotta cleans up. I am the masters of subtlety in my threats. Yous say to them, "The hell you want with knowledge when yous got brains on the flo?" I'm usually holding somes kine of heavy tools when I says that to Mr. Kowolski. I knows he listens 'cause he ain't yets gone and tolds Principal Goldberg about my wank tank. He neithers pay no minds when he's caught me filling up Miss Jenkin's Volvo with the high test, if yous got my drifts. That's what's known as self cleaning. You put the fears in them and no one's gonna do yous in the ass. Man, theys no idea what you up to when you dangle Micey from a string. They alls think I crazy. I get aways with tons o' shit.

Peoples think yous crazy, but yous clean. What theys do? Nothings. I am wheres I am today because I shoots the moon with Micey, and I's clean. I knows because I's done made sure myself. Now watch me takes Micey for the triple loops stall and walks. Micey? Yous still asleep?

Saturday, September 16, 2006

This "cornfed boy" shot is for you (you know who you are).

I knew you always wanted to know what I looked like in overalls. I had to perform some surgery on Clyde and I bust out the redneck gear when I work on my pickup truck--yeah, I like to do things in theme. I took the opportunity to take a shot of what I don't usually go around looking like. I am preemptively flipping anyone off that makes any hillbilly cracks at my expense. I didn't say you couldn't make any. I encourage the roasting! I just have to flip people off at least once a day, or I feel that my estate in heaven is not secure.

Please note the size of my shoulders, forearms, and hands. I really don't know how I am perceived in bloggerland, but in real life I seem to be perceived as that one dude in "Sixteen Candles" that got super pissed when some geeks knocked over his beer can pyramid. It really dumbfounds people when they find out that I am a smart, witty man who would rather write songs and stories than fuck shit up with his pure machismo.

I hope this isn't a deal breaker. As my mantra goes: Please, baby don't go....I can change!

P.S. The T-shirt underneath the hillbilly garb is an R.E.M. concert "T" from their "Green" era. I hope this clears things up.

(Notice: My music blog, "120 dB's", has been updated. This post features the artist Nick Drake, of "Pink Moon" fame. It is still not known if he actually committed suicide. Link: Safe in your place deep in the earth, that's when they'll know what you were really worth. )

Thursday, September 14, 2006

TIGF!!! (That's Incredibly Gay Friday): Anybody other than Billy Jack

Billy Jack is 100% ass kicking, gun wielding, freedom-fighting manly-man! Anyone is totally gay in comparison to this man. Sorry, Cash, Evel Knievel, and Steve Austin, even you.

I mean, just look at the guy. So not gay. He saved minority teens from an oppressive townsfolk, and was always giving it to the kid's "progressive" teacher. The man knows how to give to a cause, I tells ya! He is a Native American, Vietnam vet with kick-ass martial arts skills. The man could mess you up! I've got to question his taste in women, though. Well...

At least he still has his woman (yes, the homely teacher in his flicks was actually his real wife). Call me TIGF, but someday I'm going to grow up and be like Billy Jack. (Yes, I acknowledge the fact that I need to grow up some, sheesh!)

Today's post is brought to you by (guess)

That's right folks. I had to get up real early to attend a function and guess what? I didn't sleep: zero, zip, nada! I've still got to fix the steering on my pickup and then get my ass to work. Around 10:15pm I'll finally be done with the day and have to find something gay for you Gruntheads to giggle at.

I just wonder what part of the day is going to suck the most. I guess whatever part is now will do. I hope I'm not falling back to this crazy shit. Expect the weird factor of posts to be stepped ip a notch, folks. Later.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

This post is brought to you by my favorite, sunny, goodtime movie: "The Deer Hunter"

Oooooooh, this scene here is where Christopher Walken's character really gets messed up for life, yo! Or, rather, finds his true calling. By the way, I always bet on red when playing this kind of roulette.
As usual, Bobby here has to play all Mr. Tough Guy, and he does it sooooo well in this movie. Bobby was like the Michael Jordan of mayhem in this scene. He even makes Rambo look like a pussy-sucka chump! Yes, they were motha fucka's, and they all did die. Take that Mr. Motherfuckin' Samuel L. Jackson.
Ah, the disconnected look in Mr. Walken's face here is just classic--not to mention the fashionable, red communist headband. That's what chasing the dragon will do to you, kiddies. Playing Russian Roulette as a way to support a drug habit is just plain cool, too. Take note of that, all you aspiring junkies. Why ride a horse with no name when you can take old trigger out for a trot, eh? That pun worked on multiple levels. I know you just wet yourself in sheer delight.

Diddy Mow!


Oscar gold, my friends...Oscar gold. Probably because Meryl Streep was so hot in this movie. Yeah, I think it is one of my faves. You all probably think I'm smokin' horse hair and kitty litter, but it is so true.

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Tuesday's Tips for Teens: Featuring Frankenstein Q&A!

Teen: Oh, Franky! What do you think about oral pleasure? Does it count as sex, or is it just part of making out?

Frankenstein: Mmmmuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhh! Bwaaaaaaah! Uhgh! Fire bad!!!

Teen: Very interesting point. I think I'll go cloister myself right now. My second question is, do you think that teens should have to get permission from a guardian in order to get an abortion?

Frankenstein: Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrghraaaaaaaaar.....whoooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaraaaaar? Whaaaaaaaaaaaababababqagbababababagrrrrrrrrrrrrr! Put it on the riiitz!

Teen: Well, I see your point but I think that you are probably coming from a place of anger on that one. Final question for you, what do you think is the single biggest issue teens face today and what is your take on it?

Frankenstein: Rrrrrrrrrr? AHAHAHHAHAAaaaaaa! Guh. No be stupid!!!

(*sigh* Okay, so it wasn't my finest moment. Just read the post below or something in my archives. I know this, spell checker hates me now.)

Monday, September 11, 2006

My ubiquitous 9/11 post.

What can I say that hasn't already been said? We haven't killed or captured Bin Laden yet. There are some theories backed by some decent evidence that the towers were tampered with before the planes hit. I don't know if I would ever buy into that, but it is interesting. I could go into more detail on that, but I won't. It just isn't right for this memorial of 9/11.

What is right?

Showing your love to those whom you are closest. You never know when you will have to say goodbye.

If you really don't feel bad, why don't you spend some time making someone's life better, rather than doing the forced sorrow routine.

If you do feel true sorrow, take some time on 9/12, and so on, to pay tribute.

If you are the President of the United Sates, why don't you get over your hard on for "Tearrists" and actually capture and kill terrorists that live outside of Afghanistan and Iraq? What about it? Leaving that one up to the other countries, eh? What terrorist cells have we busted outside of our current "hard on" wars? Isn't using a tragedy to get what you want immoral?

Isn't using this tragedy for personal gain--attention or otherwise--a bit sad?

I hope you grieved today. I know I did.

Sunday, September 10, 2006

Something from one of my bastard blogs

Just read this: Suicide....

I don't post there often, but for this Fall I will be featuring artists who have committed suicide. This is not a way of glamorizing it. I understand certain things about this act that I will not talk about here. All I will say is that it is one of the most terrible and tragic acts a person can commit, not to mention incredibly selfish.

I added Vera as a contributor, so she will also have some posts in the future. The blog is mainly my little respite where I can gush about the loud music that I like.

Saturday, September 09, 2006

What's eating me?

Yeah, I at least have a better job than him. I've got a kick-ass, old-as-the-earth pickup, too. I've got the Gilbert Grape equivalent family to take care of, as well. What don't I have yet?
Well, I'm still waiting to get my hands on that International Travelall.....

Hey, what happens...

When you cross Stephen Hawking...
With Julian Troy, of Nip/Tuck?

You'd get this guy:

Happy B-Day,

Ladies, click on his name after you leave some love for him here and leave some for him on his site. This is not pity commenting, either. This is his freaking birthday present! We're aiming for 40 totally hot comments (Don't hold back--I'm talking hot, hot, hot!!!). Make this man feel 18 again, alright?

Friday, September 08, 2006

TIGF!!! (That's Incredibly Gay Friday): Motivational Gayitude!

Really? I have lots of doubts throughout the course of the day, folks. I really should be getting more, if you know what I mean. "Real Skills for Real Life", so you slip them the pickle and then get your promotion! See how real life works, kiddies?

I wish I were joking on this one, but I'm not. I had to go through this whole freakin' motivational seminar where this old dude kept telling us to "Just give them the pickle!" He is supposedly some kind of big time restauranteer in Washington. He was alright, but of course he's getting paid pretty good to talk about this stuff. It just is way too much to stomach when every staff meeting you have after this we have to talk about how we "gave" out pickles for this month. I thought I was funneh and started using the phrase, "Slipping the pickle", and believe it or not, my boss did not catch on! So, I get paid to slip people the pickle now. Sometimes it is not that great, but sometimes it is pretty freaking awesome. It's dill, btw.

I wonder how many of you I've already given the "slip" to? How many will I? I'm on a cloud right now thinking about it, and that cloud is Temperpedic! I am not responsible for any ill side effects or swelling, ok? Heh, lawyer shit, you know?

I want to hear your work motivational seminar horror stories: posters, meetings, and conversations can count.

Thursday, September 07, 2006

A taste of Grunt: Oprah would totally be my sugar momma!

I was lazy tonight, so whoomp they it is! I clean up nicely, no? Don't get used to seeing me much. I am skittish, and only usually reserve these images for special friends and/or visiting dignitaries in need of escorting services.

Well, I know it was a cop out, but since I've had so many new faces come in, I thought it would be nice to reveal myself to y'alls. I hope this isn't a deal breaker, 'cause I was so going to do a post on Casper the Friendly Ghost and imaginary friends. Maybe next week, perhaps.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

A post for those with sexual fixations

You dirty bitch! No, toast it darker. Yes, I like that. Pop it! Pop it now!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Butter or marmalade?

Monday, September 04, 2006

Tuesday's Tips for Teens: Featuring Red Foreman

Red Foreman here, dumbass! Why in the hell I let Kitty talk me into this gawdamn thing is beyond me. Well, I'm in no mood to be talking to any dumbasses or commie bastards, either!

You've seen my little girl's, er, Eric's friends: dumbasses! The one thing I can't stand is long hair. Long hair makes me want to vomit on your bullet ridden commie corpse. Why are you so full of holes, dumbass? Because you piss me off, you damn hippy!

The Army shouldn't have let me keep my grease gun, or my M1 carbine for that matter. Eh, my Colt 45, too. Why the hell are all you hippies wanting to take my guns, anyway? Next thing you'll be wanting me to stop eating bacon. That makes me want to put my foot up your ass! That's another thing that having long hair makes me want to do!!!

Oh, another thing, why can't we just give all men crew cuts? This is the hair style that Moses surely would have had if it weren't for those dumbass Egyptians. I can tell you hippies this, there would be no wandering around for forty years in the desert if just one of those dumbasses had a decent haircut!

So, dumbasses, I will personally put my foot up your ass if I catch you growing your hair. Girls, you are excluded from this. But don't dare let me catch you burning your bra *shudder*. Thanks, Gloria--damn commie. I'd put my foot up your ass, but it would slip, and I don't want to go fishing for that wing tip!

Well? Get the hell outta my garage, crimeny!

P.S. Dumbass!!!

Sunday, September 03, 2006

Our emotions: Courtesy of "The Jerk"

While one might consider this more of a personality trait, let's just say nuts to that. See how each party here is determined to do opposing things? The moral of the story is to be bigger and stronger than your companions or foes. But if you find that you are just smaller and can't help it, out determine your supposed master until they give in and give you a "doggie" treat. I think one method that seems to do the trick is to be an asshole, or a total bitch. If those don't work, try a little passive aggression. Yeah, in short, anti-social behavior just gets re-categorized as determination and will, if you are the victor. Remember that one, kiddies: You just might find yourself leading a major superpower or corporation in the future.

Loneliness and depression:
Sometimes life is just too much for us and we feel like running away from our troubles. But sometimes, it is more of a matter that we are trying and life just has a way of making you feel like it's out to get you something fierce. It's always good to persuade someone to come along with you. If you can't do that, get a pet. They seem to depend on you for their food, so they will stick around and make you feel loved. It may be a relationship of necessity for the pet, but you paid for them. Yeah, sit that dog/cat/fish/alligator down and tell them outright, "I own you, ain't ta goin' nowheres, bwahahahaha!"
Hey sometimes good things just happen to you. Why fight it? Let your head spin a few times. Don't worry, they have doctors that can fix that sort of thing. Besides, if you look this excited people will start to wonder what in the hell is wrong with you. After they give up trying to figure out what in the hell you're so happy for, they will give into peer pressure and start wetting their pants in total glee.

Shit yeah, it could happen! Try it out: go to a supermarket or a bank and start smiling like you just got hit with the news that your lotto ticket was a winner. Start exclaiming stuff like, "Oh, my gosh! Oh, my lord! What a wonderful day it is today! Oh, I love your shoes!!! Did some kind of magical shoe making elf do those for you? Oh, could this day get any better? What? What's that you say? They are giving out free samples of Hot Pockets? Thank you Oprah! Thank you Jesus! I am on top of the friggin' world!!!"

I'm not done with this theme. I still need to provide the Rx. More to come in the future, kids.

Saturday, September 02, 2006

I had a dream....

And it went something like this. I have been dancing a lot lately. I sure like to dance for good causes. It tends to make things go well--the outcomes are positive. Right now I'm dancing for a very worthy cause. Is it working? I think it is.

Anyway, don't try dancing with a cat. It will most likely end in a trip to the ER. The same goes for walking a dog like a wheel barrow. That is just cruel...funny, but cruel nonetheless.

Well, this Silly Hans is a dancin' fool. Won't you have this dance with me?