Sir! Sir! you can use my "you as Jesus" pictures anytime.

Who better to heal the weary Savior than the man himself. Dr. President!

Uh-oh, indeed! For all you doubting Thomases out there, take heed, for there is an Easter special still going on until the end of April. Buy one Trump Bible and pay twice! One time for God, and one time for your favorite president.

Be not so amazed, for it is our favorite president, healing the sick with a soul transplant. Your sick soul, caused by diseases like herpes, will receive a transplant with a strong soul, forged in the furnace fire of the underworld. America!

 

Gamily Fatherings

 I will be a father to a baby boy soon. Most of my brain is overjoyed with this soon to be reality. A small part of my brain is all "fhat the wuck?" How in the world did this happen to an overweight 50 something? Yeah, I'm old now.  My wife is still young and that's all that matters.  

Welpo, (I'm doing that instead of "welp") when baby comes, which will be soon, I will have a human baby, two fur baby dogs, and one horse.  Yeah, I'm a horse guy now. I bet you're thinking that I drive around in my truck, Clyde, with a Trump flag flying. Nope, that would be TIGF!!!, but in a bad way. Doug Stanhope did a bit about guys flying flags with another guy's name on it. These guys, most likely, would call themselves straight, alpha male types. The bit concludes that you should only fly a flag with your own name or don't fly one at all. Maybe I will start flying a
flag with my name from my truck.

I'm sorry my posts aren't masterpieces, if they ever were before. I'm the only one that reads this blog anymore.  But I need this blog more than you, so there.

Badong!

Btw, my boy dog says hi.

No!

 No! Nooooooooooooooo! No! Somebody stop him! For the love of all that is holy, end it. End the circus, whatever in the hell it is. Just stop already. I can't take this shit much longer. The lunatics have control of the asylum. The song Beds Are Burning, by Midnight Oil, comes to mind. Maybe making America great again means the destruction of our nation, our people, and letting the native people of these lands take over. At least nature and people that respect it will preside over it all. I'd still get to live here. My grandma told me I was 1/64th Cherokee. Yeah, like that one hasn't been tried before. I'd rather be Navajo anyway.

The Birth of Cheesus

 Christmas time is here and all are filled with cheer. Jesus Christ, it's that time of year! Check out my bulbous rear.  

I want to bring awareness to another important religious figure that needs celebrating: Cheesus. Cheesus is our Savor. Cheesus doesn't walk on water, but Cheesus melts on top of anything, making them instantly better.  Cheesus Rice, it's good!  

Okay, I just wanted some attention. I'm at work and I'm bored. Have a good day.

How about the weather we've been having?

 For those of us that didn't get the president that we wanted, or the ones who really just wanted anyone but Trump, be kind to yourself.  After that, be kind to your family. Be kind to your neighbor. You don't have to agree with others, but the world needs kind, loving people now more than ever.

I'm so virtuous. Please pat me on the back and tell me I'm a good boy.

P.S. I just farted.

Ronald Mump

Once wasn't enough.  Not enough of?? Rabid letting of humors. Bile-stained American flags. Distrusting the other. Hatred. Bibles tailor made for today's "real" Americans. Disinformation. Lies upon lies. Cozying up to our enemies. Calling other Americans "the enemy within". The constant victim.  Up is down and dogs are cats. I could go on. I don't care anymore. I don't care about a lot of things anymore. I just go to work and try my best to take care of my family. If the world is going to end, I can't stop it. If this country goes to hell in a hand basket, I can't anything. I lack the ability to change minds, to debate, and to argue.  I see what I see and call it how I see it. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter at all. I don't want to die. I just don't want to live in this reality anymore.

I had what I found out later was a panic attack. I was walking around the street in front of the offices where I work, and the world became dark around the edges. Sound was that of muted gobbledygook. Everything that was the conscious me detached from my body. I was weightless. My vision was narrow, like I was looking at a projection that was a floating beach ball. I didn't feel any pain. I had to move my body in a way that felt like remote control. I didn't fall. I was able to grab a rail and ride out this episode. It lasted a good couple of minutes. After the dial got turned back up on reality, I went and sat down in a courtyard for a while, trying to recover and gather my thoughts. If what happened to me wasn't an indication of something terribly wrong with me, I would've preferred to stay in that state. 

This is dangerous because I have major depressive disorder. I have struggled with suicidal ideation for a good part of my life. While I am being treated by my primary care physician, a psychiatrist, and a therapist, the thoughts never really go away. I am just better able to deal with them, as well as the noise being turned down considerably. I still wonder, though, if being on the other side would be more pleasant for me. But that doesn't mean that I want to kill myself to escape this reality. I'm feeling overwhelmed and powerless--hanging by a thread. I need rescue. 

Taco Tuesday Tea

Some time ago, I had an amazing experience.  My wife and I were attending a class, and the class had two breaks.  I needed to pee, so I went to the bathroom. I walked in, got in position, and unzipped my pants. It was then that I heard a strange, unearthly, voice. It was a woman's voice. She said, "hello". I got scared, zipped up my pants, and left the bathroom. 

I thought I had entered into the ladies' room by accident. I then saw that I was clearly in the men's bathroom, as well as the fact that I was about to use the urinal. I got so spooked. Was there a woman in there? Was it a ghost? I decided to go back in and see what the heck was happening. 

When I entered back into the bathroom, I noticed a pair of feet on the floor in one of the toilet stalls. I recognized the boots as belonging to one of the guys in the class. I started to think that I had imagined the whole thing. I went up to the urinal again. This time I heard the man strain, then he let out the weirdest fart I've ever heard. It was his fart that said "hello" to me before. It said it to me again! I mistook a fart for a woman saying hello. You can't make this shart up.

Stand By Your Ham

 Ham is just who Ham is. Ham gonna Ham. Ham brings home the bacon. Ham sometimes smokes, but can also come home with a sweet glaze, ready to treat you right. Ham will spiral with you on the dance floor. Ham likes pineapple, and you know what they say about eating pineapple, right? Ham, bamalam! Black Forest, hamalam! So many Hams.  

I don't know what I set out to accomplish with this silliness. All I know is that I'm hungry and ham tastes good, bamalam.

Here's a picture of the best ham in the world.  This man likes to ham. He was also a former supervisor of mine, back in the day. Ham Man.

Ham Man, complete with "Ham Action Grip". Kids, tell your parents that you want Ham Man for Christmas. Cloves not included. 

Touched by a Ham Angel.

Slapped Ham.

Ham on Ham

"I know what you're thinking" Ham.

Hot Ham.

Pressure Wash Your Cares Away

There's something to be said for mindless, menial labor. Since I became king of the grunt world some time ago, I can order people to do these mindless things, instead of me. However, I need this kind of work in my life, occasionally. 

I'm currently pressure washing the north side of a building, blasting off all the lichens growing on the stucco exterior. What do I do for a living now, you may ask? Well, same thing I did before but fatter. I'm a facility manager of a large office complex. The cream has risen to the top, well, at least past the halfway mark of the coffee mug. Anyway, I could have any of the workers under my supervision do this mindless, menial task. I could stay warm, dry, and fat in my office.  I don't want to do that shit. Time fucks up your body--relationships, finances, and work stress does the rest. I have to keep my body moving and my mind focused on something methodical, predictable, and most importantly, controllable. 

When life turns out to be something you never expected, and that spans the good and bad, there has to be something you can turn to that will never change. What never changes are the tasks that you go to that are reliably boring, repetitious, and constant. It's the task that puts you in a state of meditation, no cares, and subconscious prayer, where the physical pain fades into a drone, a hypnotic vibration, and auto pilot cause you to leave your body, in a sense.

I'm pressure washing this building because I need to do it for myself. I need to take the pain of my heart, mind, and body and throw it at an immovable object, knowing that if I only move it an atom's width, I have triumphed.

I am back.

I'm a Kucking Flutz!

 I spilt Dr. Pepper on the bed tonight. I was trying to help by taking it and some food to the fridge for my wife. As usual, I fucked everything up. Something is wrong with me. I can feel it. I drop things more and more. I seem to forget things more. I'm experiencing brain fog. I don't know what is happening. I just feel like I'm letting people down all the time. I feel like my body and brain are starting to decline. This can't be happening. I feel uneasy and unsure about myself. I don't know what to do. 

The World Is Fucked, By Bartholomew T. Gruntington

News Flash: The world is fucked! What's that, you say, fucked? Yes, fucked!  Oh no! What shall we do?  Go out to the streets and yell? Sure, why not. Wear masks so we don't die? Absolutely! Above all, vote Orange Man out of office.

I'm not as clever or funny as I used to be, sorry.  Just don't screw shit up this November, okay?  Hey, I don't like Biden as a presidential candidate either, but sometimes you just have to take that damn bitter pill in order to get better. Hillary wasn't a great choice either, but I still voted for her. Why? Because Trump is a fucking dumpster fire of a human being and a black hole of humanity to boot. Didn't everybody get that memo back in 2015? I sure as hell did. I don't know what gave anybody north of a 70 I.Q. the impression that Trump was anything other than a neon conman with a T.V. show and a trail of destruction that spanned the globe. Oh, I forgot. He owned the libtards. Well, fuck you! If we don't get Trump out of office this election, then we are truly and most certainly fucked in the literal sense.

Grunt mad!

Blog Is Dead. Long Live Blog!

I will never quit this blog. Never! I may not come on here very often anymore, but with the other things that people have fled to (Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Fartfinder), I still feel the need to keep myself rooted in this thing called blog.  I think it is where all the cool kids are right now, anyway.

About Fartfinder.com, well, that was more of an idea for a website that I had. It's more of a service than a social media platform. It can be used to find farts or to place blame--find out who dealt it. Why would you want to find a fart? Well, I'm thinking that it's more of a fetish thing, but those loud farts that don't end up smelling bad, the smell found its way into another dimension, by way of our Lord's eternal grace.  If you wanted to find out how bad it really smelled, then this service can find out and recreate it for you and your friends. Judging by how strong the fart smelled, you can determine God's love towards you, that God spared you from such stench in the first place.

My work here today is done.

Old Timey and a Little Bit Stinky

My beloved laptop has been pushed into a corner by all the major browsers.  So, I run Vista. What's the big deal? I still remember how to fuckin' DOS man. So, I have been all a-scared to go online  and do stuff because my operating system is no longer supported by Firefox and Chrome, the two browsers that have made my life so fabulous and complete, until now.  I feel so old and obsolete.

I'm writing this post at the risk of sounding old timey.  I'm crossing into dangerous "Hey kids, get off my lawn" territory.  Fortunately, I found that I didn't have to get all pissed off.  I haven't descended into the fear of being left behind in a strange new world (like a Trump supporter's persecution fantasy). No, I found out that there are other browsers that accept me and my Windows Vista.  Hooray!

I have found myself on my phone too much, anyway. I need to get back to the tactile "typey-typey" thing. I need to get on here more and let loose the little Grunt man again. Strange things happen when you become an even more grown-ass adult and I shouldn't let the opportunity slip away from me to blog about it. Yeah!

That's the other thing bugging me. It's "yeah" not "yea". Unless you're reading Shakespeare or the Bible, you really shouldn't be coming across yea too much.  OH, YEAH! Yea, verily.

Okay, I need to get going.  I have decided to just wash my hair and trust that the rest of me is not stinky.  The things that happen when you are running your own little rest home, well, let's just say, drain you of life and the motivation to stay on top of every routine that used to come so easy. That may sound like I'm depressed. I'm not depressed; tired, yes. But, my life is actually pretty good, when I think about it. I've just channeled my energies into areas that are much more rewarding.  So, while there is the mire, I also have developed a great life outside of that hard slog.  It doesn't come easy, but it's damn sure worth the effort.

Holding fast to slow people (An old post that didn't get published but should have)

(Grunty's notes: I've been looking back at my posts and noticed that I didn't publish this post. I'm not sure why. It does seem to be a bit negative and self defecating--I literally shit myself. Anyhoo, whether or not it makes me look pathetic, it represents me at that time. My inner person is doing pretty good right now and I've grown up a lot since. That's probably why I'm not funny anymore. Tee-hee!)

I often feel like the Shepard of a special flock. I don't know how this has happened. It probably has something to do with insecurity, my need to feel depended on and superior. All of my smart friends are out being smart, with good jobs and beautiful families. I don't get to see much of them anymore. Somehow, the gaping hole that is my life needs to be filled. Stupid people usually fall into holes. Therefore, my life is full of "special" people.

I am going to start paying homage to those special people in my life. They may not be the brightest bulbs, but they are always happy to see me and to put up with my paranoid rants. They don't judge me or point out my failings to reach my potential. I was and am too weird for most to want me to work with them, if they actually are with it enough to realize what effect that would have on them professionally. This is why most of my networking contacts have usually only given me leads on jobs like auto detailing and door to door salesman. What the fuck is so wrong with me? I think this all stems from an incident at scout camp where I built a bomb out of human feces. Don't ask. It didn't work. Well, it worked in that the whole surrounding camp ground stunk like shit for the rest of the evening. I have long accepted that I suffer from an unmarketable personality and mind.

Stupid, Dumb-Ass, Well-Meaning, Nice People Sharing "Quotes"

Okay. I have had people share a quote from Gandhi, that goes something like, "Be the change you want to see in the world." First off, Gandhi never said this, just like Jesus never said, "I never said it would be easy. I only said it would be worth it." I actually looked for that shit in the bible when I was younger, "Wow, they really broke away from the King James's English there for a sec."  Gandhi did say this, however, "We but mirror the world. All the tendencies present in the outer world are to be found in the world of our body. If we could change ourselves, the tendencies in the world would also change. As a man changes his own nature, so does the attitude of the world change towards him. This is the divine mystery supreme. A wonderful thing it is and the source of our happiness. We need not wait to see what others do." It's a bit more soul stirring, wouldn't you say? It is a bit harder to plaster that on a t-shirt and sell the shit out of it, though.

"Get your facts first, and then you can distort them as much as you please." ~Mark "Choo-Choo"Twain

Gah! I feel that is what people do with our great philosophers, prophets, and leaders: make the marketable for mass consumption and for profit.  Everything's got to be a damned bullet point or tweetable. It also annoys me to no end that people have no desire to do any due diligence with regards to verifying the credibility or source of these things.  Now when I see this fake quote pinned to a bulletin board at work I just want to rip it to shreds or burn it in front of the stupid smiley person who goes around without a fucking care in the world, perpetuating feel-good falsehoods, thinking that they're making the world a better place.  The thing is, as long as no one points this shit out, they are making the world a better place...for other stupid smiley people.  So, I go on with my inner screamy "I really know what the hell is going on here" voice and say, "Meh, fuck it anyway" and let the babies have their bottle.

Mountain Clowns

I have stated in the past that I like the idea of Bigfoot.  What I mean by that is that I feel that the possibility of Bigfoot keeps me feeling hopeful, kind of like believing in God.  Thinking about Bigfoot, I recently asked myself, "Can the same be said about clowns?" Why compare the two? I mean, clowns do exist and they do not give me hope...except Ronald McDonald. He's a pretty good clown in my book, so not all clowns must be bad, right? I feel I could get behind the idea of a new type of clown, or yet to be discovered clown.

I went about thinking of different types of clowns: party, circus, sad ones, killer, alien, and the ones that hang out at 7-Elevens. I'm sure I left some out. However, the clown must've had its origins along side primitive man somewhere along the way.  If so, then there was a wild clown who roamed the earth at some point in time.  I have wondered occasionally that some of those wild clowns might exist still to this day, much in the same way Neanderthal DNA found it's way into modern humans via interbreeding, or perhaps, a clown version of Bigfoot.

Rendering of a possible clown/Bigfoot hybrid.

Is there a lost tribe of Mountain Clown, perhaps?  There's been several situations where I believed that I was indeed confronted with evidence of mountain clowns: graffiti on rocks and trees, trash, used "balloons", and torn up hillsides. Those turned out to just be idiots who treat the outdoors as their personal trashcan. Moving on, the real mountain clown would most likely be timid and hole up in caves, with the occasional pine cone juggling or prat fall into bear shit being captured in an out of focus photo.

The odds are that mountain clowns do not exist, but if they did, I would imagine that they would be covered in technicolor fur, with huge floppy feet, red noses, and a comical way of moving through the forest. They would originate from the Clown Mountains, where flowers squirt the purest spring water, and all the animals are made from balloons. I can just hear their mating call of "honk-honk" filling the air among the cottoncandywood trees and seeing tourists feed them jelly beans, despite the park's strict "do not feed the clowns" policy.

P.S. No, I haven't been micro dosing LSD.

The Captain of Köpenick

I don't feel like the person that people tell me I am. Praise is hard for me to accept. It's not that I want people to stop telling me the good about me and when I do good work. I'm sure it sticks somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind. When I'm told something bad or negative about myself or my performance, I tend to give it undue credence or am already expecting to hear such things. Why? Probably because I had already thought those bad things about myself first. I suffer from a form of perfectionism that rarely lends to productivity. 

I spent my college years believing that I was only lucky and not as good as my grades and professors told me I was. I had a good chunk of time serving my LDS mission where I felt good about myself, because everything I was doing had a purpose in bringing truth and the goodness of the Lord to people in need.It was such a beautiful time in my life. Once cracks were made in that, I became worse and have lamented over it ever since. It is a terrible feeling to believe that you are not worthy of success, love, and the "you" that others see. I have survived by hardening my heart and succumbing to cynicism. That isn't good. Also, it's probably not totally true; it's something that I tell myself to avoid letting it out that I am a blubbering feely deep down inside. 

After coming home from my mission in England, I had gone through a string of jobs only to end up working at my old high school job at McDonald's. I was a lowly grill worker trying to figure out how my life had hit the shitter so hard after all the promises I believed in from my service to the Lord. I thought my co-worker was on break and that my exclamation would just evaporate into the grill vents. "Fuck me, I feel sooo jaded!" Sunny, my co-worker, was right behind me and she started laughing like crazy. She kept doing impersonations of me saying this throughout the day. In a weird way it helped. It helped me to know how silly I was in that moment. It helped me to know how serious I was taking it all and that I needed to chill the fuck out and laugh it off. I like laughing things off now....It is the best therapy by far. 

I only share all of this, not to punish or shame myself, but to help others, because I know there are others that experience this. I am growing from grace to grace with regards to this feeling of being an imposter. I have been posing as "me" and that is a fallacy, because I am that man and I must embrace the good in me.

Fartistic

You know, if it weren't for the smell, I believe that farts would be a socially acceptable form of self expression. Heck, farts might have also become incorporated in language, punctuating sentences for dramatic effect or acting as commas in speech.  Farts could even be used in symphonies and the like. Think of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture (cannons anyone?) or an all fart rendition of Beethoven's 5th. Magnificent!  Wet farts could be used in painting. I'm pretty sure that Jackson Pollock just shoved random colors of paint up his ass and shat them out in random order: ta-da! (F)art.

Farting could be a way of expressing your moods. I've had many sad sounding farts in my days, as well as excited sounding farts. More often than not, my farts sound out my displeasure, relief, and satisfaction. But less often, my farts have expressed awe, wonderment, and confusion. I have had my farts ask "why" on occasion. I didn't always have the answers to my farts, but I really did appreciate their inquisitiveness.

As I mentioned in the beginning, the smell that most farts produce may be what is giving them a bad rap. But what is a fart without the smell?  I do believe that one without the other is robs the fart of it's true purpose: to amuse and offend at the same time.  The fart is probably the first comedian, in this case.  To quote some random hobo that I once met, "If yer a feller that don't think farts is funny, well mister, I don' wanna share my beans witchu."  I couldn't have said it better, Skippy.

In conclusion, farts may not be socially acceptable now, but I do hope in time that they will be embraced by all.  We all pass gas from our ass, some with more sass than grass, but alas, I've run out of things that rhyme with ass. Bass. Anyway, try using farts as way to express yourself, become a fartist. Be the vanguard in this movement, but keep the movement from turning into a full on shit. Thank you.

Slippery Psyche

I find that my emotions aren't helping me out much lately. There's got to be a switch inside where I can turn them off. You take a few days off from people and whammo, they feel hurt. Hermitsville or homelessness would suit me. I can't continue being inconsistent in my feelings, but it appears that I don't know how to change that right now. Honestly, if I could settle my psyche one way or another, I would. It would make my life a lot easier. The question of whether to advance or retreat becomes another question of how to avoid fracturing my being. Vulnerability takes a backseat to survival, especially when it involves the welfare of dependents. Why can't I just let my hair down and be free? Because, if I did there would be real consequences. That's how you know life has deemed you too old for dreams. Move over, Charlie, and let the young 'uns on by. I at least have this fascinating "relic of times past" role to play; to inspire the occasional starry-eyed dreamer, who just might make it to Xandadu. When you get there send me a postcard. Let me know if the milk of paradise is as good as I've heard. I'll snap out of it. Ok?

Recumbent Exercise Bicycle as Imaginary Friend

Sometimes when I am watching T.V. I am guilty of making commentary out loud to no one.  Recently I caught myself turning to the recumbent exercise bike after I had made such out loud comments, as if I needed its take on what just happened on the T.V. program.  At first, I felt silly as I continued to catch myself making comments and looking for the bike's response. I felt like I was going crazy, but then something even more crazy happened.  

After some time, I began to feel as though the bike could understand me.  This bike knew what I was going through and how frustrated I had become with life, feeling left behind, professionally stunted, the struggles of being a white male, and generally none too good with the state of affairs in the world. It felt good to have something listen to me and my troubles, no matter how trivial they may be. Soon, the bike would appear in my thoughts and dreams at night.

These thoughts and dreams started out innocent enough but eventually got weird.  Here is the first and only significant exchange that we had.

Me: What? What was that? Who said that?

Bike: It is I, the all-powerful Recumbent Exercise Bicycle.

Me: You can talk?

Bike: I can do many things.  I can change your body.  I make annoying beeping sounds.  My seat has the power to destroy asses. I know your pulse. I am stationary, yet everywhere at the same time.

Me: If you could talk, why are you talking to me now?

Bike: I chose to speak to you because I have a purpose in mind for you.  You seemed to lack a direction in life and expressed that you felt forgotten. Yet you did not vote Trump, despite so many white men feeling the way you did, and who ended up voting this man into the highest office of this nation. Why is that?

Me: Well, because he's an asshole that in the end only looks to serve himself.  I don't care how persecuted or how invisible I feel, a tyrant is still a tyrant, and I won't make the world pay for my insecurities and hurt feelings.

Bike: That is precisely why I chose you for my purpose.

Me: What is this purpose that you have ordained me for, oh Recumbent Exercise Bicycle?

Bike: The purpose that I have designed for you is start to blog like a mofo.  Keep the people entertained, while being heartfelt and thought provoking.  It is going to be a long four years. 

Me: Do I get paid for this? Will this get me into heaven?

Bike: No. What? How the hell should I know? I'm just a fucking exercise bike. 

After this encounter with the bike, I felt a renewed commitment to blog about shit, like maybe once a month.  The bike continued talking to me about certain other things, but mostly about Game of Thrones.  It really hasn't been that great, to be honest. The fact that no one else hears the bike makes me feel a bit scared. I wish the thing would just shut up now.

The End!