What's it gonna take?

I heard some bad news about you, brother.  I heard you were pretty much at death's door.  So I wanted to write you a letter, because, it's not that I think I'm going to miraculously save you by writing you a letter, but at least you'll know that I do love you and how much I love you and maybe you can take that with you where you're going because it looks like you're going down to a place where I can't follow you.  

I love you.  I always have.  I remember the first time I met you, and I remember so many things.  I remember watching you skate and when you popped your finger out of place.  I remember when you tried to teach me how to roll a joint out at the boat launch and how I always felt so special when you'd take me places just you and me.  I remember being in the Flats with you for hours and hours, we began at the top of the Shale Pile, and you were lost and sitting there and had gone down some tunnel far away in your mind and I looked into you in that moment and saw something I'd never seen in you before and something I'm sure you have most of the time tried to hide.  It's okay to hide that part of yourself sometimes, to protect it, because it is quite fragile, but there comes a time when you need to embrace it before it's concealment poisons you, and I think you should maybe think about it now.  

Listen, it's not enough for me to just say I love you and leave it at that.  I love you doesn't quite cut it.  Baby, I will do anything for you.  I would give pieces of myself for you.  Pounds of flesh and strips of my heart.  Do you need a mother?  I will be your mother.  I will let you rest your head on my chest and sing you to sleep.  I will hold you and hold the wolves of this world at bay.  I will cook you meals and make sure you tie your shoes and wash behind your ears. Is that what you need?  Do you need someone who will take away the hurt and become a veil between you and the world?  I will do it.  I will.  If this will save you.  And I'm sorry, I'm sorry that back in the Fall, I didn't hang out with you when you called me because I thought to myself "Well, I can't go to the bar because I'm sober now and I just can't really be around all that shit."  Maybe if I had just hung out with you, you'd have seen that you could have a friend who was sober and you maybe could have stayed clean, too.  I'm sorry.  I know, I shouldn't give myself so much credit, it probably wouldn't have been enough anyway because I know it's hard, but I just can't help thinking what if I'd been there for you more back then...and now maybe it's too late and I won't even get to hug you one last time.

I don't understand.  I know that this is obvious to you.  I don't understand why you are punishing yourself like this.  Why you are punishing the people who love you.  You are a smart person, I know this.  You are smart and you must see that death is very near to you.  And there are those who would say that death is near us at all times and that everyone dies so what's the big deal?  And I would say to you that I know that, I know that everyone dies, but I don't want you to die like this.  I don't want you to die like an animal, like a dog, who slinks off alone somewhere so he can die a quiet death without being ripped apart, or like a dog who is hunted down and exterminated by master's who have become it's enemy and who's body will be left for the crows.  I don't want you to die this way.  I don't want to go to your funeral and look at your body with a face I can't even recognize anymore either through violence or starvation.  

I want to hug you.  I want to hold you in my arms and smell your smell, your warm, clean, laundry and cologne smell.  I want to kiss your smooth face, your forehead, your cheekbones, your eyes.  I want to press my cheek against your cheek and hold you for a long time and let you feel something good that's real.  Not this good, this artificial good, this devil that has taken you and will take you from us all.  Something real.  Feel me, baby.  I love you, brother.  Feel me.  Feel me and know that I can make a wall between you and the world.  Feel me and know that I'm real and I'm a love that is a fire that you can step into and burn with love.

Some Republican probably Made that up

Ok, so I thought to myself how much I dislike the phrase "God helps those that helps themselves" because I think that was just some Republican's way of trying to get those good-for-nothing ne'er-do-wells to stop "loafing around" and get to work so they (the Republicans) didn't have to step over their (the poor people) malnourished bodies as they (the fat cats) made their way to the bank.  Because from what I know about God, and what it says in the Bible and other Holy Books, God helps those who call on him when they're in need, the helpless, you know the meek shall inherit the earth and all that.  Well guess what.  It's not in the Bible.  Our old friend Benjamin Franklin made it up in Poor Richard's Almanac.  So there.  Except I do like Benjamin Franklin, but maybe that's just because every time I think of him I think of the jovial version of him I saw in the Broadway musical adapted from stage to screen in 1972, "1776".  Seriously, check it out.  Hilarious.

Argument with a white man

So I was looking for a dentist yesterday, I had to perform a rigorous search on the internet because, believe it or not, once you have Medicaid, a lot of doctors and especially a lot of dentists do not want to see your broke ass sitting in their office.  In the course of this search I found out that in Michigan even fewer dentists than normal accept Medicaid, they organized some...organization to not take patients on Medicaid.  Apparently poor people deserve bad teeth.  But more on that later.  I also came across one of those forum questions where a woman (or man) was in a similar situation, asking the same question.  She got two answers, one was helpful (or as helpful as possible considering about the only thing you can do is call 1800-Dentist and hope you get a representative who's willing to take the time to help you find the list of clinics because 1800-Dentist only represents dentists who are rolling in it) and the other was some condescending prick offering one amendment to the first response and the ever so thoughtful follow-up "Hope you're doing something to get off Medicaid".  What a fucking dick.  

Here is my response to that guy (and he was obviously a white republican male):  

I hope you're doing something to become less of a douchebag.  You know what?  I'm on Medicaid too, sir.  You think I WANT to be broke?  You think I like having to fish around for medical care with physicians who all assume I am an idiot because I am poor?  Do you think my life is tra-la-la fucking great?  I need medical attention AND I have no money.  Why don't you make a couple inferences from that, ass.  Yea, you know what?  We should just start calling Medicaid "State Insurance" because that would probably carry less of a stigma.  I pay for my insurance, we all do, with our taxes, and it's not great.  You know what I hope YOU'RE doing?  I hope you're selling your cottage on the lake and getting rid of your second car (which is an SUV or a Lexus, or both I don't know, I don't know if you're that cool, but you probably are) and canceling that trip to Vegas where you were going to give your wife a diamond solitaire in a glass of champagne for your anniversary you unoriginal sleaze-bucket.  Yes, I hope you're cutting down on your superfluous expenses so it will be less of a pain in your ass to help your fellow human beings get what they need.  She wasn't asking for a fucking Wii, she wants to get her teeth checked out.  Asshole!  Asshole!

You know what you should be doing instead of responding to this question, since she already had gotten a helpful and non-pejorative answer?  You should be asking yourself whether its really going to make a difference if people "try doing something to get themselves off Medicaid" or if it would make more of a difference if the government and the insurance companies got out of bed with each other, tried having a little humanity and stopped blackmailing people for medical coverage.  The greatest country on Earth and we don't have universal healthcare?  What the fuck?  If it bothers you so much that you have to pay for someone else's healthcare coverage why don't you start harassing the government to do something about the insidious racket being run by insurance companies.  Not everyone can have what you have, dude, since you like your America the way it is, where some people succeed fiscally and some people don't (because to have such an inequitable class system as we do here, it necessitates the reality that some will exist in poverty and a few will have what they want) you better get used to the idea that you will have to shell out a few extra dollars to help those who actually are struggling to help themselves while you bitch about inflation and they don't have enough money to heat their houses in the winter.  Or would you like it better if we let the impoverished fend for themselves in some Thunderdome/Lord of the Flies/Road Warrior-esque scenario where rich people can buy tickets to watch the inhuman poor-ees rip each other to shreds for bologne sandwiches.  I just want to let you know that not all poor people are willfully unemployed.  You republicans seem to be dedicated to the delusional fantasy that all poor people are delinquent sycophantic laze-abouts who refuse to look for work and laugh at all you working-stiff suckers who have to foot their bills as they're cashing government checks.  The reality of it is most of them work their asses off in jobs where they get little or no respect for a pittance.  They usually have two jobs and work about 60 or 70 hours a week and they make less than $30,000 dollars a year.  Did you know that $6.20 an hour is not a living wage?  Neither is $8.20 or even $10.20.  $10.20 might be a living wage if we had free daycare and universal healthcare, but we don't so go fuck yourself.  Imagine doing much more irritating, less respected job for $6.20 an hour.  You don't want to do you, because it would fucking suck.  If you think it's ok for people to work for $6.20 an hour, get ready to help them pay for groceries, daycare and healthcare.  Otherwise, get writing your congressmen and do something about it you egotistical bastard.  

Excuse me, I'm not finished yet.  It must be nice to be white.  It must be nice to go to a decent school because of where you live growing up and actually have a chance in hell of getting into college.  It must be nice to have parents who can afford to help you go to college so you can have a chance at getting a decent job.  It must be nice to think you are above ever becoming poor and dependent on someone else for the necessities of life.  It must be nice to not have to struggle day in and day out with no end in sight and no realistic way out of your situation other than death and to see what your kids are getting set up for and to try so hard to do something about it and know you probably won't be able to.  It must be nice to not have to run a hose from your neighbor's house so you can have water or get your power shut off in the middle of January or not be able to give your kids shit for Christmas or have to put your name in the paper to ask for someone to please help you get your kid some fucking sweat pants and socks for Christmas.  I hope you get humble before it's too late, sir.  Maybe your son will end up addicted to Oxy-Contin and your daughter will be a single mother.  Maybe that will be enough.  But you seem like you will end up in a nursing home unloved and uncared for and then your underpaid caretakers (who you so conveniently brushed aside as deserving their lot) will be in the position to abuse you or treat you humanely, because I'm willing to bet that you are actually not all that rich, but just rich enough to be rich compared to these people.  

In conclusion, sir, I would like to inform you that I am actually not doing anything to get myself off Medicaid.  And since I know it will rub a little salt on your wounds, I now plan on doing nothing to get myself off Medicaid for a long long time.  I've paid for insurance before and I felt totally ripped off.  $120 bucks a month for some bullshit coverage that only gave me $1000 worth of lab fees for the whole year?  Fuck that.  If you've ever had to have bloodwork even once, you will know why I say this.  My Doctor's Office co-pays were $20 a pop.  And Emergency room Care coverage, $1000 for the year? No Vision care to speak of, no dental care to speak of.  And that's not even if I had added my child to my plan.  It would have been like another $90.  Not when I'm making less than $2000 a month.  You can kiss my indigent, cold little ass.  I will think of you from now on every time I use my Bridge Card and I want you to know that I was thinking about getting braces while I'm on State Insurance and now I will because it will be another dime out of your pocket, dude.  

I'd also like to add this:  has your wife called you an asshole lately?  'Cause you are one.

Oh, Brother

Hey, there is something we need to talk about.  I was going through my writing the other day and found all these poems I was writing to you.  They all say how much I love you and I'm trying, in them, to express gratitude for the way you treat me and make me feel about my self.  So I want to tell you that I'm sorry for what happened.  You don't know how embarrassed I feel.  A drunken phone call at 3 am and I'm ruining our friendship and now it's been 18 months since we've sat together on your porch drinking Miller High Life from those funny shaped bottles, talking about things, our journey, and listening to the lonely traffic roll up and through and over the dips on Hope Valley in the darkness of the earliest parts of morning before a white thread can be distinguished from a black.  We were two space cadets repairing the damage to our ships, taking turns holding the light for one another.  I had never felt so much less like a piece of  meat than when I was with you and even though you don't share so much of my genetic material, I think it was supposed to be that you were also my brother.  

So, I'm sorry.  How insulting it must have been to listen to me intoxicatedly insinuating that I needed something more from you.  The terrible ultimatum I delivered, "Oh look, when I get back home, I need to be with someone and it's either going to be you or this horrible horrible toolbox of a human being because I need somebody and I'll take what I can get."  I threw back into your face all of the secret jokes and looks and said they wouldn't be good enough anymore.  I demanded something more, something I didn't need and you couldn't give.  And I'll say it would have been enough to know that I was special and your sister, but in my wild desperate need to have everyone love me more than they love anyone else, I asked for what was not mine to have even though I know it wouldn't have been right.  And in my pettiness I was insulted, that somehow I wasn't good enough for you.  So I came back and gave myself to someone who didn't deserve me, and was too stupid to even know he was alive.  Ha.  How many of you really know you're alive?  What a terrible affront that in that I not only totally fucked our friendship, but I put you on his level.  Well it's either you or this ass-master.  Dude, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean it.  Can you just understand that I was terribly alone?  Can you just understand that what I needed was what I got from him and now I'm free?  Can you understand that my head wasn't working right and that I was still halfway between worlds after having almost left this one for another?

If there was someway to take it back, I wouldn't, though.  I have the greatest thing I may ever be allowed in this life.  At a price, yes, but what wouldn't I have paid to gain this?  And now you and I have fallen by the wayside and all I can do is stand in the light left by this comet's tail as it rises, rises.  

This is not sufficient.  This is not what I had thought it would be.  This is a poor attempt at assuaging the shame I feel and the guilt for hurting and degrading you and our friendship.  I may spend the rest of my life trying to articulate what I feel for you.  But this is the start of it.  I love you, Brother.  

If you should find it in you to forgive me, to condescend to keep some company with me, I will feed you and give you whatever it is that you need if only I get to laugh with you in your presence and feel you pleased to be with me one more time.   And I may pray it lasts a long time.

  If someday, the world is ending, and you should find yourself wanting to see me again, there will be an empty, comfortable chair on my porch in the nighttime next to me, under the stars where we can watch it all fall down.

Why I hate my dad

Maybe some of you opened this blog up and thought you were going to read something about how my dad cheated on my mom and then left the family and became a psychotic jerkface.  But you're not going to.  I don't hate Pops for that.  I mean, obviously, he's a piece, but he had already let me down.  I hate my dad because of, get ready for it, the sub-par sack-lunches he made for me to take to school.  There I sat in the cafeteria eating some variant of my three sandwich choices- 1. Turkey with cheese, iceberg lettuce and mayo, 2.  Peanut butter and jelly (with strawberry jam with actual strawberries in it which was super gross because the strawberries in preserve form took on this really bizarre texture which I would liken to raw meat, yea imagine biting into that, mmm) never with the right balance between the two spreads, or 3. Cheese sandwich with American cheese and sometimes a little Italian dressing (where he cooked that one up, I'll never know).  Sometimes I would have an apple or a branch of grapes.  Sometimes I would have a bag (never the fun-pack kind always janky looking in the sandwich baggie) pretzels or Cheez-its.  A toughened fruit roll up (mmm some dehydrated jelly to go with my regular jelly, thanks!) Then, Motts apple juice.  Where was my fruit punch, my Sunny D?  Where were my Gushers, snack size portions of Ruffles or Lays, or my Dunkaroos?  Huh Dad?  Where were my Dunkaroos?  What about a Hostess cupcake or some Twinkies?  Why didn't I ever get a Lunchables Pizza Pack for Friday as a special treat?  You bastard.  I'm scarred for life.  At least the other kids who brought their lunch didn't seem like they were eating a throw-back to the Eisenhower administration.  I sat there, eating my embarrassing lunch and washing it down with warm Mott's apple juice from a box.  I hate apple juice.  Oh and the piece de resistance...sometimes (Lauren stop reading this right now) I would be eating one of his carefully prepared cheese sandwiches and I'd try to swallow part of the bite only to have it stuck, hanging in my throat, dangling in my esophagus like a fishing lure on a line, still attached to the other half of the bite still betwixt my teeth by one of his overly-long well-groomed hairs rendering me to near choking.  At least twice this happened.  Fuck you, Dad.  

You know what Chrysalis Dreams? You know what?

I don't like you.  I don't like your jerk-off face, I don't like your jerk-off name, and I don't like you, jerk-off.  You are polluting the cynical, jaded world of blogging with your hopeful, effervescent, born-again, gratitude writings.  Why were you mentioned as a blog of note?  I want to know.  I read some of your stuff.  It gave me that feeling you get on Easter after eating too many Peeps and jelly beans.  I'm glad it makes you happy that you are  a blog of note.  I'm glad it makes you happy that you are saved, or whatever.  I don't think you deserve to be a blog of note just because of your immature and naive approach to your underdeveloped sense of faith.  Maybe that is why you are a blog of note, though.  Because you are not embittered like the rest of us.  Good for you.

Shouldering the Burden

There are some people who talk about having to shoulder the burden of those confounded Mexicans who keep jumping the border into our beloved country.  Then there's Fergie who will spend $40,000 in a few hours at a Calvin Klein store, which is more money than most people make in a year.  Nuh-uh, nuh-uh, you say, I make more than that.  Well, good for you.  But the fact of the matter is that 1% of the people possess 90% of the wealth.  Now, I'm no math wiz, no Will Hunting, if you will, but I think I can pretty fairly say that is an inexcusably uneven distribution.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think people should be required by law or forcibly compelled to share the wealth.  I just think that people should be nice and do it of their own free will.  The problem is that lots of people, too many, don't feel this way and so we have people starving right around the corner from people like me who is sitting around on her laptop with a full belly and the cable tv running for background noise.  I don't have much.  I live at my mom's house.  I'm on food stamps.  I'm unemployed.  But I have more than many thousands and millions of people around the country and around the world.  I have food.  I have clothes (old and second-hand, but still looking good).  I have a car.  I have the means to provide for my daughter.  Not fancy stuff, but what I need and enough so that sometimes I can also have what I want- the ability to buy my friends birthday presents, a book for myself or some ice cream, an outfit for Mimi.  Even with my modest means, I feel the need to help out others where I can.  One of the main reasons I want a decent job is that I want the ability to donate to charity.  I want others to have what they need and maybe even some of the things that they want.  I don't see what's so bad about forgoing some of the extravagances that we as Americans are used to so that people like my Grandma don't have to make a choice between medications and food.  I don't see why single people need to live in 4,000 or 5,000 or 10,000 sq. foot houses when there are families of 5 are living in 1 bedroom apartments.  And it's not because they're lazy or because they deserve it.  It's because many people have much more than they need or deserve.  It's shameful.  We're all in this together and we should stop pretending that it's every man for himself.  Because it's not.  We owe it to ourselves and to each other to give a little, just a little.  I don't mind.  I like it.  

However, in the end some people just don't feel that way and that's their right.  That just means people like me are going to have to work a little harder to help others and help themselves.  I can't change the core of someone's spirit, I can't change the manner of their heart.  And while I do feel we're all responsible for caring for and helping each other, at the very end of it all every man will stand accountable for his heart and his heart alone.

You think you're too cool for school, well, I've got a newsflash for you, Walter Cronkite...

You aren't.

On tour for the summer, following bands like Phish, The Other Ones, and String Cheese Incident, you'd think everyone you met hanging out in the hot parking lot in various hippie gear from baggy, flowing tie-dye to homemade patchworks of calico and corduroy (by the way, just realized I would've never guessed that's how you spelled corduroy without spellcheck and the beloved book by Don Freeman) to earth-tone skater-wear, would be laid-back, free-loving, "I'm okay, you're okay", peace-peddling long-hairs with smiles and hugs for everyone...and you'd be wrong, so wrong.  Oh how wrong you'd be.    You see, there are a lot of people who anyone can walk up to and strike up a conversation that would be as open and intimate as if you'd known each other for years.  There are many more who will do the walking up to you.  It will be at times uncomfortable.  It will be wacky.  You will hear new words and old mantras warmed-over.  But do not, under any circumstances, think you're going to get this warm-fuzzy reception from the kids in the skater gear.  They are what we call, cold-pricklies.  Or just pricks if you want to be blunt about it.  

I don't know who told these kids it was kosher to act the way they do, but they think they are cooler than everyone, they lie, cheat, and steal and stab their best friends in the back.  First of all, they probably won't talk to you in the first place.  But if they do, know they are not to be trusted with even your shoelaces.  They will sell them.  Or use them to strangle someone and then when the cops come a-knockin' point them in your direction.  If you start traveling with these people, they might have your back in a fight (because, rest assured, you WILL get into a fight if you are with these kids) and if they do, you will most likely win the fight because they are like a pack of wild dogs (and if you say this to them they will take it as a compliment).  They sense weakness and rip it to shreds.  However, this does not make them cool.  It makes them mongrels more fit for euthanasia than any cur you'd find in the street because while dogs may in some cases show loyalty and dependability, the only thing you can depend on these kids for is that they don't care about you as far as they can throw you.  

Don't bother trying to talk to them.  It's not worth it.  They will be mean to you.  And don't try buying anything from them, because they'll rip you off.  Unless you're on tour for exactly the same reason as them- to sell a bunch of drugs so they can throw money around like an Arab prince and then also have rights to brag about what badasses they are- they do not want to be your friend.  If you do happen to be on tour for this reason, it is also probably not a good idea to hang with them because at some point or another they will fuck you over whether it be financially, physically, or romantically.  Certainly don't expect them to help you out and be there for you if you get arrested.  You're going down the hard way, and alone.  

They come to shows acting like Young Jeezy, with their hundreds all wadded up and tied with rubber bands, and their fucking trucker hats set atop their faking-the-funk dreads and their sunglasses and they will shoo you away unless you want to buy some drugs from them, in which case they will take your money and act like they're giving you a good deal or 'cause you're special or something and for a second it will be like high school that one day when you thought maybe the cool kids liked you, then they will tell you to beat it with looks like "What are you still doing here?" and you will walk away with your little handful of drugs and a hangdog look not even in the mood to party anymore because they made you feel like an asshole.  Then they will ride around the lot on their pocket bikes (you know those tiny little motorcycles that look like they've been built for six-year-olds), disturbing the peace and trying to make as much money from unsuspecting "custies" as possible.  Oh yeah, they will also refer to everyone who they think is not as hardcore as they are as "custies" or customers, because that's all everyone is to them, walking dollar signs.  Then they will pop some Cris or some Dom and kick back doing drugs and wasting their lives and maybe paying some girls to go at it (either sexually or violently) for show and making their poor poor parents (and me) very sad that they didn't get that vasectomy.  

Well you know what asshole?  You can keep your Cristal, I'm gonna be just fine sipping on my High Life and partying with my real friends over here and probably enjoying the music and yes, dancing which you will never do in your whole life because you are so afraid of looking "uncool" that you spend all your time trying to look cool and you end up being a dick.  Thanks!

Dreams

You know the general rule that you shouldn't share dreams with people even if you think they are really funny and/or interesting because somehow the humor/intrigue just doesn't translate?  Well, if you have a dream where you're on vacation in Paris with your family and you run into your friend and his family while you're there and your friend, his father and his older brother are all wearing matching tight, fitted, black turtlenecks and gigantic (like toilet seat size) white berets, you can, and should, break this rule.

Don't do me any favors

No, seriously, don't do me any favors.  I like people who do nice things.  I hate people who do favors.  You know what the difference is?  People who do "favors" tend to bring them up later on or they'll even let you know that you owe them while they're doing the favor for you, like "Hey, remember I did you a favor."  Excuse me, no, I won't.  I actually would have, but I have this weird kind of amnesia that's triggered by rudeness.  And now I will actually forget anything nice you've ever done for me, and may even forget that I like you at all.  

Really though, it's so bad to do something nice for people and then bring it up later on.  You're supposed to do nice things for people to make them feel good and you're definitely not supposed to expect anything in return.  What, you ask, are you supposed to do if they end up being total assholes to you after you bought them a new car?  Nothing, actually.  Certainly don't bring up the fact that you bought them a car.  Unless you want to be just as big of an asshole as they are.  Aside from the fact that it's super annoying to hear somebody do this, did you know that in some religions if you do a good deed you get a reward from God but if you mention the good deed after you've done it it's cancelled out?  

Do nice things for people because it's the right thing to do.  Do it to make them feel happy.  Do it to help them out.  Heck, do it even because it makes you feel good.  But don't do it so you can hold it over their heads later on.  That's really messed up.  Take note: remember when George Costanza bought a salad for Elaine and his girlfriend ends up taking credit for the purchase and he freaks out?  If you can in any way take George Costanza as a role model for how you want to behave, I tip my hat to you, sir.  But you're better off holding him up as an example of how you don't want to act.  That's actually one of my baseline rules of life:  If George Costanza did it, I probably shouldn't.  I admit, this incidence is a bit more complex to deconstruct, but the basic principle still applies: he did something nice, so somebody else got thanked for it, just let it go.  Know that the Universe is well aware of what you did and if you want those Karma points, you'd better keep your mouth shut.  

Man, this is kind of hard to remember, I know.  Especially after you take into account that people tend to be pretty thankless anyway, then add to it they do something to piss you off after you did something cool for them.  Yeah.  But if maybe you should check with yourself before you do the cool thing and say "Hmm, would the possible outcome that this person will be totally ungrateful and perhaps even a dick after I do this very nice thing for them turn me into a blithering mess of rage?"  If the answer is yes, don't even bother doing something nice.  It's not worth finding out.

My President is Black

I just wanted to take a little time to reflect on what a major deal it is that a person of mixed race (or anything other than pure whitey) is our president.  I feel like there are a lot of people out there kind of overlooking the fact that this is an enormous step forward, mostly because they want to deny that racism still exists other than in the context of the KKK or other blatantly prejudiced organizations.  It's out there people, it's in your school, at your work, on your television, in your home, in your face.  The problem is, it's in what people view as innocuous forms, so they see no harm in it, it's not overtly aggressive or hateful, it may not even be overtly racist.  Honestly, I was afraid that Obama's being African-American, or even more horrifyingly suspect Muslim, would stop many people from voting for the most intelligent, well-meaning, and (let's just say it) dead sexy candidate we've had in, well, American history.  Ask anyone who was around for it, they haven't seen this type of enthusiasm over a new president taking office since John Kennedy, and personally I think Obama is much handsomer.  I was afraid, though, that people would not be able to see past the color of his skin, and they wouldn't vote for him because of it.  And I was afraid to watch the inauguration.  I did, but with my eyes averted the whole time, because I was afraid some psycho or group of psychos would set off a bomb or something before he had the chance to take the oath of office.  "A colored in the white house? Not on my watch."  And I'm sure there were plenty of assholes sitting at home thinking this, thankfully they couldn't get it together enough to do anything about it, probably because they had to make it to a rally about how the Mexicans are taking all our jobs and how they're sick of having to pay for everyone's life through the liberal government's entitlement programs.  This is an enormous step.   Like the biggest thing to happen since the end of segregation.  You could even say that it's the last place to be de-segregated, the white house that is.  I knew it would happen someday, but I didn't expect it to happen in my time.  A black man in the white house and he's not waiting on anyone?!  It's the first time in my life I can say I'm proud to be an American.  Even though we still have a long way to go (like to the moon and back) before we can say we're doing the right thing, this is a good start.  

Vomit Showers

I had a really bizarre dream last night where I was hanging out with these drunk people and they were puking all over themselves.  I mean ALL over themselves, like head to toe, covered in puke, like vomit showers.  Just thought I'd share.

More Head-F@#$&%*! Please!

Just insert dick into ear and let mind-fucking commence!  

I like to wake up to a fresh glass of intensely emotional e-mail from ex-lover whom you haven't heard from in a year mentioning, among other things, how they still love you, would do anything to be with you again and do it all different this time, how good you feel and are like no one else, and won't you please please let them know how you feel so you respond in kind admitting that yes, you too still have feelings for them (not something you would have gone advertising since you were trying to let them get on with their life as you were trying to get on with yours) then they drop by when they're in town to hang out with you and in passing mention their girlfriend.  Mmmmm!  Tastes delicious served hot or cold, and chalk full of vitamins and minerals that are so hard to find anywhere else like Bitter Shame and Embarrassment and Vitamin I'm a Huge Sucker.  And let's not forget Why do I Always do Shit Like This?  Sure, you can get these essential supplements other places, but it never tastes quite as wholesomely degrading as in a big, ice cold glass of emotional vulnerability.  I just can't get enough of this shit!

'Cause tonight we're gonna party like our name is Michael Phelps

Would everyone just step off Michael Phelps's balls for a minute?  Stop being so angry at the guy for smoking a little pot.  I never heard about him driving drunk and getting a DUI until this footage of him smoking a water bong shows up on the internet (by the way, Phelps, might want to re-think the tool-ass friend who actually is going to take a picture of you doing that and then post it on the internet, what a dick (also, why did you cop to it?  say it's not you, say it's a digitally enhanced photo with a CGI bong, it worked for R. Kelly)).  Sure, hop behind the wheel all toasty and you get a little slap on the wrist, but huff on the kind and you're a disgrace!

Hey, hey, relax.  It's not like he took some performance enhancing drugs thusly invalidating his aquatic achievements.  If anything, I think Phelps should get awarded an extra gold medal or two seeing as how he overcame the handicap of being someone who smokes marijuana, which, according to all those "Above the Influence" PSAs will immediately turn you into a raging loser who lets their little sister drown, ditches grandma for dinner, lives in the basement of his parents' house when he's like thirty and is a total embarrassment to his younger sibling, melts into the couch and never does anything ever again and makes their dog sad (you bastard how could you do that to your dog?!) the second it touches your lips.  Hey man, Michael Phelps doesn't live with his parents and I'll bet you money he's never let his little sister drown, ya know why?  'Cause he can swim like a salmon swimming upstream, dude.  He's an overachiever and now everybody's pissed because they have to find a different reason that marijuana's bad, because Michael Phelps just flushed the "it'll make you a giant disappointment" argument down the tubes.

Oh, god, and now he's losing all his endorsements and stuff from athletic gear companies run by middle-aged white dudes.  And guess what those middle-aged white dudes were doing 40 years ago?  That's right, chiefin' on some Thai Stick and dropping acid while they attended private universities on their parents' dime who they bitched about for being so square and hypocritical 'cause they would drink scotch and the like but were heavy about the mind-expanding journeys their ungrateful whelps were undertaking before the 80s came around and they were up and coming ad execs who developed major cocaine problems and shrank their balls to cold, shriveled peas.  They're just jealous 'cause Phelps obviously does not share their same weakness for Peruvian Snow Magic (thank you speedos) and no little boys say "I want to be a high-powered, type-A, three time divorcee when I grow up with hair plugs and an overwhelming need to overcompensate by purchasing sports cars with ever decreasing seating space and ever increasing horsepower."

My Honda was Grey

My Honda was grey.  Four doors and four windows.  Plastic hubcaps with flaking paint.  And an unidentifiable insect shoved into the crevice of the back windshield that I could never reach and was bleached white by the sun.  You took me through the mountains with no radio, by myself.  How many times did we go driving alone together?  Through snowstorms and rain that I couldn't even see through, sandwiched between two semis because that was the only way I could tell where we were going.  You took me up and downhill, you always got me where I was going.  You never gave up and broke down.  You never even complained.  Oh Judy, you were my friend.  And I sold you like a cheap whore, with a classified ad on the internet.  I'm sorry I betrayed you to some stranger who stripped you down for your faithful parts for $500.  I sold you off to pay some bills and thought I'd have no more worries 'cause my old man would take care of me, but instead he quit his job because he was an asshole.  Or maybe that guy loved you and fixed you up, retooled you, tricked you out real nice, put in hydraulics and you're rollin' on dubs in a Honda Paradise.  And if I get to Heaven, you're the first car I'll drive, right after I drive my very first car the Plymouth Grand Voyager from 1989, the one I used to take out the back seats of and throw in like 8 of my friends and we'd go party, the one all the other kids at high school probably made fun of me for driving but it never even occurred to me that they would because I thought it was the baddest-ass car ever (and it was)...right after that I'm gonna drive you, just you and me by ourselves, just like old times.  Oh Judy, you had such great pickup, especially for a little 4-cylinder, I'd like to kiss the wonderful Japanese man that assembled you with such skill.  You could hit 100 with not even a cough, girl.  Oh girl, you were my friend.  I loved you and I love you still.  I need you now and I needed you then.  I should have kept you and we could've run away together, somewhere where no one would have ever found us.  Maybe I would've airbrushed a dove with an olive leaf on your hood, or those super hot "Azteca" girls and "Viva la Raza" and a spoiler and we could've been super cool together somewhere in California.  I will never love another car the way I loved you and to tell you the truth the car I own right now can really suck it.  Oh Judy, I'm the only one who knows how to open and lock and unlock you, and open up your trunk.  We know each other's secrets and I know you loved me too 'cause you came back to me even after you got stolen and I didn't know your VIN number and the police officer who took the report laughed at me like no one would ever find you.  But you came back because you loved me, and I never judged you for that weird smell that you got after the impound lot left your windows down for two days in the North Carolina monsoon rain.  Judy, I know you're out there somewhere, strong and free on the open road and I know we'll be together again someday.  Just wait for me with the right slant on the driver's seat and I'll be there in a while.

Things Beyonce and I agree on

As I'm sure you'd imagine, the category of things which Beyonce and I agree on is rather small.  For instance, if you can't pay my bills that doesn't necessarily mean we can't chill, likewise if I were a boy, I would not turn off my phone and tell everyone it was broken, I'd probably answer it in the middle of getting a blowjob so everyone would know what a pimp I was and I don't even know how to "get me bodied" whatever that means.  But one thing I can get with her on is that if you liked it, you should've put a ring on it.  Son of a Bitch! If you're with someone for like five years or something and they break up with you, don't pull out the "But I was going to marry you card"...give me a break.  Listen, I never would break up with someone because they weren't popping the question fast enough, but I don't want to hear that bullshit if we've been together for a while and the last time I mentioned marriage you screamed at me to stop talking about it and that was a year and a half ago.  Whatever reason I have for breaking up with you, you can bet your ass I've thought it over and that weak emotional blackmail is not going to work.  It might for one second soften my resolve, but rest assured, I will be going through with the break up.  You liked it the way it was, admit it.  You got to have all the benefits of marriage, and none of the responsibilities and commitments.  You wanted your foot in the door the whole time just in case, you wanted to have an easy out for your self, but what you never expected was for me to be the one making for the exit.  You thought you had me, you thought you were safe because you knew I wanted to marry you so you thought I wasn't going anywhere.  But now you're getting dropped and you're pouting about it.  Listen, what's really going to help your case if you "like it" isn't actually putting a ring on "it", what's really going to help you out here is not being an asshole.  If you "like it" don't give "it" a reason to leave you, instead give "it" many reasons to stay.  But seriously, once "it" decides to move on with "its" life just let "it" go.  You had your chance, Broseph.

Post Post Script

I am very vocal about having headaches, backaches, and being tired.  I don't actuallly want anyone's sympathy, verbalizing it helps me not think about it.  In the future I plan on NOT doing this so as not to look like Captain Douchebag (or any of his friends).  You still may not say "Welcome to my world".

Post Script

Given the current economic climate I wanted to add that if you actually ARE broke (not can't-afford-tickets-to-the-Radiohead-concert-after-I-spent-five-out-of-the-seven-nights-of-the-week-at-the-bar broke or even have-to-decide-between-beer-and-cigarettes broke), like getting evicted broke, then you may complain without looking like Captain Douchebag.

Dude don't say that shit

Listen, I just want to tell you this, if somebody says something like "My head hurts," or "I'm broke," or "I'm really upset that my zebra print vinyl suit is no longer en vogue," don't say "Welcome to my world" as a response.  It's fucking obnoxious.  Oh gee, really?  This is actually YOUR world?  You love that zebra print suit so much that you constructed and now rule a world dedicated to lamenting it's passing out of fashion?  And you're actually going to be gracious enough to WELCOME me to your world even though you've obviously cornered the market on this one?  Man, you sure are sweet.

No, dude, it's not cute, it's not funny, it's not even remotely NOT impolite to say "Welcome to my world" unless you're actually welcoming someone into your secret basement room you've plastered floor to ceiling with supersweet comic book graphics of your own imagining, design and illustration, in that case say "Welcome to my world" in a super creepy way as you shut the door behind them.  In any other case, don't say it.  Just politely commiserate with the person, e.g.:  "Man, I'm totally broke" potential response: "Dude, that sucks" or even just "Dude" will suffice without making you look like a totally narcissistic dicknose.  You don't even have to be super sympathetic, just don't turn it into something about YOU.  You know why this is such an unacceptable thing to say?  Because the implication is basically "yeah, I don't really want to hear about it because I've got it way worse than you.  Let's talk about MY problems instead."  That is your lesson to learn.  

My lesson:

On the flip side of this- don't complain.  No one wants to hear it.  Did you ever notice how those "Make-a-Wish" kids walk around with their terminal conditions and never say anything about how bad they've got it but smile and act all grateful and stuff and then everyone acts like they're these incredible courageous heroic special people?  It's because they are.  Because they're facing their own mortality and they're not sitting around bitching about it 24/7 but they're being all nice to other people and appreciative and stuff.  Is being broke a terminal illness?  is having a headache (people with inoperable brain tumors need not mull this one over)?  You're the one bitching about that's most likely going to end in you NOT dying from it.  You're a lot cooler when you suffer in silence.

Here's a tip

 Just want to throw this one out there for all my homies.  If you ever get married and you become estranged from your spouse, don't leave comments that are sad, thinly veiled attempts at being cute, palling around, or being funny on their MySpace or Facebook page after not speaking to them for two months.  You guys actually aren't friends and now that you feel like a dick because you realize that you actually have no one who really cares about you because you took your spouse for granted and didn't realize you didn't deserve them in the first place, don't try to be their buddy when you're sitting on your ass at home being lonely and getting no phone calls.  It's really unbecoming.