Why do they make it easier to kill yourself than to put together a trampoline?
I don’t know if I’m just really hungry right now or if I’m actually going to die where I’m sitting. God, what if my body is just really confused and I’m actually incredibly horny? I should probably still get some food.
Either Elijah Wood is sitting in this coffee shop or a very unfortunate looking person is sitting in this coffee shop.
I feel like anybody who has ever said I’m full of potential doesn’t really know who I am or they’re on my mom’s side of the family.
“Oh yeah, Charlie. He’s bound to do great things.”
No, I’m not. But there’s a McDonald’s on the way to most great things. And, honestly, that place has some real fucking draw to me.
I’m flattered. I really am. But I’m also incredibly lazy and have terrible money management skills. Again, McDonald’s is everywhere. I can tell you how much an Iced Coffee, two McDoubles, and a McChicken cost in five different states, but I can’t tell you what 0% APR Financing is and why I don’t qualify for it.
Five different states. And I don’t even work for McDonald’s. Never, once, have I ever had the opportunity to call Ronald McDonald my boss.
Ronald McDonald is a missed opportunity. So full of potential– dude is born looking like a clown, for one. Born with clownish features like big red hair, a big red nose, big red feet, and porcelain white skin even a chinese person would be jealous to have.
Motherfucker wakes up one day and is like — “I’m going to put on big red shoes and yellow overalls and cook some burgers” Are those even non-slip clown shoes, Mr. McDonald? You can’t hold your employees to OSHA standards if you can’t even get the right footwear.
The future can suck my dick. And I truly believe that because the future is gonna be great.
Caught myself thinking about how much happier I would be if I was gay. Does that make me gay? I catch myself doing this, like, twice an hour. It’s starting to feel like work.
Go with me on this: We call it Gay Butter.
The tagline is You’re getting gay butter™. We need to be aggressive with this sort of marketing: we don’t want people asking for gay butter– we want people being told they’re getting gay butter. You’re getting it gay™. There you go. That’s a much better tagline. It’s important to remember this isn’t about the name of the butter: if we wanted people to know our butter was gay we would call it You Call This Butter?
This is about making butter for everybody.
It’s also important that we start a movement. Or maybe it’s not. A movement may start, however. And a lot of people may actually want to go gay for our delicious butter; gluten-free products did wonders for the gays, after all.
Look at the stats for people coming out of the closet after gay butter hits the streets; I’m willing to bet there will be an increase. And if there’s an increase in gays then that means there’s an increase in gay butter sales. Some say there’s a sucker born ever day. I say there’s two faggots born every day and those faggots need to buy butter. Faggot Butter. I mean, Gay Butter. Get your butter better, gayer™.
Let me be clear: we’re going to need the gays behind us in more than two ways at the end of all of this. Reason one: Obviously I’m going to be making a joke about getting gays behind us. That’s a classic right out of the ol’ book of microaggressions. Reason two: Gay Butter is animal-tested™. This may come as a shock to our share-holders here at Big Gay Butter, but that’s just the way things is here. Are.
I’m scared. I’m scared of what they’re going to write in the papers when they find out we’re testing this shit on animals. My idea is that we just tell them that the animals are gay, too. That’ll be hard to prove in court. That could buy us time to move to Gay Mexico, this new country I also want you to hear me out on.
Gay Butter. The gayer butter™.
Or maybe a better tagline is You’re getting gay™. My dad came up with that one at dinner when I told him I cried at work today.
It’s an island management simulator based on my script for Cast Away 2: Cast Away Again.
I love playing the “Would You Rather?” game.
Would you rather lick 50 snake vaginas or have 50 snakes lick your vagina?
I spent way too much time trying to figure out if 50 snake vaginas is funnier that 50 snake pussies.
Being an adult is knowing you can afford a fleshlight but not actually affording one.
It’s either that or being in a place where Amazon Prime isn’t available.
My human resources advisor begged me to think about what I’d do if I was a woman for just one day.
Throughout the day I would do little experiments to see how I’m being treated as a woman. Visit the grocery story, pump gas, order an ass load of buffalo wings and eat them all in a single sitting alone at a Buffalo Wild Wings at one in the afternoon. Normal things– but as a woman. And hopefully attractive.
I would also use this single day as a woman to attempt to sleep with an acquaintance and get him caught cheating. This way when I wake up as a dude the next day I can try banging his poor, poor girlfriend working in human resources.
Blowjobs are the greatest. If you don’t think so you’re the one doing the job part.
I always have to look over my shoulder before making a racist joke. Retard jokes are different though because I’ll always hear them before they hear me.
Wharf is a funny word. I hope I die on one.
Excerpt from “First Date Topics” by Chuck Goodman (Women Sitting on Womens Faces, Random House. 2017)
Finally watched a movie and pointed out all the hot chicks and nobody stopped me– and it was only my third time watching Saving Private Ryan.
I can’t believe she left me. The nerve of her to do it like this gives me goosebump dick.
I really thought she was going to die in a car accident or something. At least I could have said, “She left me. It was so sudden. Jettisoned through the windshield. We were so happy, too.”
See, that would have given me the opportunity to lie about being happy. And that’s what relationships are all about.
Seriously, though: If you’re an empath then why aren’t you feeling my boner right now?
I don’t want to worry you guys but it’s frightening how many empaths around me aren’t trying to accidentally kill themselves while jacking off.
I was thinking about dating somebody I used to work with. She’s a Jehovah’s witness, though, and they don’t celebrate anything. Not Christmas. Not the Fourth of July. Not even September 11th.
On one hand, our wedding will be cheap. On the other hand, there won’t even be a funeral– and I’ve always wanted to have a funeral.
My funeral is going to have a prize for the person who travels the furthest distance to attend. Obviously it’ll be a tie between my ex-girlfriends since they’ll all be burning in Hell.
This time was different. Usually, I’m the one that instigates these sorts of things. So I started steering the conversation plane somewhere safe to land. And here was Alexis, flapping her gums, but I couldn’t hear the words. So I grabbed her skinny-ass arms with my Hebrew National-sized fingers. “You can’t do this” I said, “You can’t do this to me. Not today.”
“Sure I can,” she said, pulling back as if my bulging digits had stung her something putrid. She even rubbed those skinny-ass arms as if she were allergic to my touch. This was a terrifying side of Alexis I’d never seen before. But I was also getting a boner from thinking about her skinny-ass arms. Birds were singing.
Alexis and I were standing in my backyard, but we weren’t looking at each other. I was looking at the abandoned loaders and excavators past my property. Nothing would be built past the fence until next summer but the local construction companies would leave their equipment.
She was looking at her feet. They were nice feet if nothing to write home for. She must have been thinking about the last week. I was, too. It had been a week of fighting over the phone. We were fighting because we should have broken up months– nay, years– before she moved to Lake Tahoe. So she made the drive down to Orange County to do the deed.
“Not today. You can’t do this today,” I reiterated, clenching my right leg to keep my half-chub from going full mast. Clenching a leg will re-purpose the blood in your body to avoid public boners, by the way. Works wonders in family court.
“Why not, Chuck?” Alexis said, crossing her arms as if my excuse was going to be complete bullshit.
“Tomorrow is 9/11,” I said. “It’s a national holiday. You should know that.”
“No it’s not, Chuck. It’s the 10th. Tomorrow’s the 10th of September.”
“Denying 9/11 like a true terrorist. So fucking typical.”
“I don’t even think 9/11 is a National Holiday.”
“Sure it is,” I retorted. “It’s like Christmas.”
Alexis uncrossed her arms and waved them in the air like a monkey. “What does that have to do with anything?” she hooted. “That has nothing to do with any of this,” she hollered. She was also hopping around, scratching her armpits if it helps your imagination any bit.
“Everything has to do with 9/11. Everything around us is because of that terrible day. That’s the way the world works. Don’t you understand or are you a terrorist?” I said. This break-up could have gone better. This relationship could have gone better. She pointed out what seemed obvious:
“This isn’t work–” she started.
“How dare you,” I interrupted. “This is work. And this isn’t working out.”
“I was trying to say that Charlie. You wouldn’t let me finish.”
“Oh so now you care about finishing?” This was an attack on our sex life. She never finished when it came to sex, and I always did. So if anybody should have been complaining about bad sex, it was her. But here we were, arguing about sex and terrorism like true Americans.
Tears started welling in Alexis’ stupid, beautiful eyes. Alexis would cry for anything. “There you go, crying. You cry for anything,” I said out loud. “You cry on birthdays, during break-ups, weddings…the list goes on.” Her breathing started getting heavier. Full blown water-works were on their way.
“We’ve never been to a wedding together,” she sniffled.
“And now we’ll never have one together because you’re breaking up with me.”
Kelly– I mean, Alexis— buried her beautiful face into her hideous gorilla hands and turned toward her car.
“You can’t keep casually denying our country’s legacy like this!” I yelped.
“You’re an asshole!” she called back– without looking back. I was hoping she would look back. If she had looked back right there– right at this crucial moment– we would have had break-up sex. It wouldn’t have been very good break-up sex because our normal sex wasn’t, but at least it would have been sex. I miss sex. Are you still reading this? Does anybody read this shit?
Alexis had made it to her bullshit Yaris. I needed to get in the last word before it was too late and she was lost in the ether.
“What do you know? You don’t even remember 9/11!” I picked up some gravel and threw it in her general direction.
“I was three years old, Charlie!” she called out, before ducking into her bullshit Yaris.
“Yeah, that’s the story. You were three. Or maybe you weren’t. Maybe you were on one of those goddamn planes,” I screamed. But she didn’t respond. She slammed the door, backed out of the driveway, and went where all my ex-girlfriends go: somewhere else.
This was written at a third-grade level.
This happened in 2016. This was when the state penitentiary was still at Saddleback Mountain.
That’s the first line I have for this story. It’s thriller about how the bears re-take California for themselves. I’m going to give you a story about english-speaking bears taking over our country’s gayest state. And if you don’t think California is our gayest state please ask yourself how we weren’t the first to legalize marijuana. We weren’t even the second state. Or the third. We haven’t even done it yet. That’s what being gay is all about.
California legalized marijuana in November, actually. If starter-caps with pot plants on them were votes, however, we would have legalized marijuana back in November, 1999. None of this has to do with California being the gayest state but it’s still statistically correct and, therefore, worth your time reading. And, by my understanding of math, I’m making a pretty solid correlation here. Whatever that means. Jesus Christ.
I know Americans have the motivation to head down to the local drive-in or pirate bay and see a movie about english-speaking bears taking over the country, starting with California. People will pay big. Maybe not in California or at the pirate bay, but everywhere else for sure. Such a terrific idea.
When I say that people will pay big to see my big fucked up talking-bear indie horror film, I mean it. I’m not going to threaten you into finding out where the local drive-in theater is so you can see my big fucked up talking-bear indie horror film. No. Because I’m not going be the one holding the gun– Arturo’s the gun guy. You haven’t met Arturo yet but he’s the guy who’s going to hold the gun, like I said before. That should be enough motivation. Fantastic motivation.
That’s not to say all the bears will speak english in my movie because the spanish bears will speak spanish because they are spanish. That’s not the point of any of this, though. That isn’t the point of anything. I’m not getting anywhere here, actually. It’s probably just the horse pills talking. Still, can we all just take a moment and laud my genius?
Is this just going to be bears or other creatures that have “bear” attached to their names? Cases in point: koala bears, panda bears, and water bears. I didn’t do any research on this but I’m pretty sure koala bears aren’t actually bears just like how killer whales aren’t actually muslim. And I guess panda bears are bears but water bears are just bacteria. Okay, so I googled water bears but I didn’t google koalas or pandas because I’m selectively lazy like every good millennial. This is phenomenal stuff, by the way. Best writing I’ve done in a minute.
I’ve worked on example dialogue to sell my pitch to the studio-execs at Sony (this too, is phenomenal stuff):
Henry: Jesus Christ, did you see the bathroom?
Jeff: No, I didn’t.
Jesus Christ: He was talking to me, Jeffrey, my son.
Jeff: Well what was in the bathroom, Jesus?
Jesus Christ: Small-scale tiling.
Henry: Oh Christ.
Jesus Christ: I know, my son.
Actually, after looking into this on google it seems that a book has been previously written about bears taking over human real-estate– “The Bears’ Famous Invasion of Sicily” by Dino Buzzati in 1945. But it’s been a while since that was in the public spotlight, right? I can call it “The Bears’ Famous Invasion of Orange County” or something like that. Maybe “Top Gun 2” if that still isn’t a thing.
Imagine that discovery moment. You know, the part in the movie where Henry– our audience surrogate character– finally realizes that bears really are on a murder spree.
Valerie: We have to get out of here. Now.
Henry: Calm down and tell us–
Valerie: I’m just so glad I locked the door because…because…
Henry: Because bears can’t open a locked door?
Valerie: SEE? Even you believe it. You KNOW it, Henry. It was bears. The bears have already raised their flag, Henry.
Henry: You mean..?
Valerie: Yes. Their bear on our state flag was only the beginning.
Henry: Oh Christ.
Jesus Christ: Yes, my son?
Maybe the story will take place on April 1st so all of the characters can repeatedly ask if this is some sort of April Fool’s joke. That’d make a great running gag, I bet. The only running gag I can think of better than this was the time my ex-girlfriend just up and bolted during the most wicked blowjob ever. Seriously, she didn’t stop sucking till she was halfway out the driveway. I don’t exactly know why she had to leave so quickly but I’m glad she still followed through on the blowjob part. What a guy.
Obviously the bears can’t drive because that would be ridiculous. We’re trying to keep this project grounded, you guys. But they have an army. And guns. Bears are frightening on their own– but with guns? At least its not spiders; those things have eight arms. Think of how many guns they could carry.
I don’t want to shoot this like some sort of “found footage” film, either. What a cop-out. Even ISIS doesn’t film their executions like that. Why would any self-respecting film-maker do something even ISIS wouldn’t do? Exactly. That’s why America did another Ghostbusters movie. Even ISIS wouldn’t do that to freedom.
What else, what else, what else? Oh, yes: The ending. The end of this movie is going to be epic. We end everything with the bears actually winning California. I like it when the bears win and I think audiences will too. It’s funny. Who would have thought, you know? The bears actually winning? I mean, come on. Jesus Christ. That’s another things, too. This whole “Jesus Christ” thing. We’re going to make him cool again. Real cool, real funny sorta Jesus Christ, you know? People already love Christ. People will if they don’t already. That’s a promise.
Sometimes I feel like I’m writing the next great American novel but then I realize I’m just writing a long and rather unfocused suicide note.
Guess I forgot to put a joke in this one.
My grandma complains I don’t call. But not anymore. With this new app, all it takes is a push of a button and we’ll connect you with any random grandma with a cell phone. Thanks, Instagram.
I feel like every problem on Sons of Anarchy could have been solved if the characters started driving minivans and stopped wearing leather.
You might not know this but there is a difference between simple baby wipes and Clorox Disinfecting Wipes. I’m letting you know before your asshole does.
I was never beat as a child. Sure, my parents hit me plenty but they never let me lose a baseball game. And there’s a lesson there, somewhere.
I’ve always wanted to write a novel. Unfortunately, I’m not a very good writer– and even if I could write good it’s only good short bursts is are.
This is all I have mustered over the years. Well, there was one story– but, like everything ever in the entire fucking universe, it was my own downfall. Besides that bitch, I mean. Ooh, that bitch. It still gets me, that bitch.
There’s always a bitch in one of my stories. Somebody’s always wronging me. Somebody’s always sucking my dick. There’s always a bitch. Always.
So bitch Kelly and I were nailing each other in my apartment. It was hot. Lots of pee-pee. There’s always gotta be lots of pee-pee in my stories. So there was lots of pee-pee going on between the two of us. First year college stuff, you know what I mean? After the pee-pee we were laying down in the pee-pee, spooning each other in the pee-pee, giving each other sloppy pee-pee kisses. She says, “Hey”. And I roll over in the pee-pee and look at her all covered in pee-pee.
“Hey, you,” I say, all smooth-like, covered in her sloppy pee-pee kisses.
“Tell me more,” she says. “I want to know more about you.”
And shit, you know? Even after all the pee-pee she yearns for more? I tell you, these thirsty pee-pee bitches are just the fucking worst. All they want is more, more, more. They want all dat piddy. You know what I mean. You know all them piddy bitches are just all kinds of piddy-wack. You know it– that’s why you’re here. That’s why we’re all here. We’re all just looking for a little more piddy-wack.
“I’m working on a book. Novel, actually,” I say.
“That’s cool,” she says. She’s now staring into my beautiful green eyes. “What’s it called?”
“Women Are Fish,” I say.
“Why’s it called that?”
“Because fish can’t read. So it doesn’t matter what I write about them.”
…It was a joke. Not even a good joke or even a respectable joke… I recognize this now. I’ll be the first to admit that my ‘women are fish’ joke blows whale dork. But I was high off all the pee-pee. The pee-pee made me do it is what I’m telling you.
This was back in 2009, right at the beginning of this new era of feminism where white women started looking out for each other and only each other only when other white women were looking. So I had no idea that racism and sexism were going to be totally uncool just one year later. But Kelly, this pee-pee bitch. Kelly fucking outed me to everybody. It seemed like everybody in Orange County knew me as “Charlie Brown, the Sexy and Racy Sexist and Racist” after that one, single, sexist joke I made that one, single, sexist time.
The backlash made it impossible for me to get a job– especially at Five Guys. I’ve always wanted to work at Five Guys because it seems like just the right amount of employees for a business. But after that? Job opportunities dried up faster than boiled pee-pee water. Plus, that bitch stuck around for some extra sloppy pee-pee kisses even after I made that stupid joke. That makes her a pee-pee stealer, you know? She’s a goddamn pee-pee burglar is what she is. And I was the one who was pee-pee burgled.
How did it all end? There was a knock at the door. “I need you to go,” I said. “Your replacement is here”. That was also a joke. It was also not a joke because her replacement was there. And by the time that sweet young pig named Cora jumped into bed, the pee-pee had gone cold.
I told you. I said I wasn’t very good at writing.
Apparently deaf people care about what the non-deaf say about them. They complain that they aren’t “deaf”. Apparently they’re “hard of hearing”, which involves far too many syllables when spoken aloud. So I won’t do it. Apparently this makes me an asshole. But the truth? I’m just hard of caring.
After Michelle broke up with me, my friends told me that getting in shape would be the best thing for myself. They called it a revenge body. Think of it like that, they said. But you know what’ll burn even fewer calories than a revenge body? Straight up revenge. In fact, the only thing I’ll be burning this holiday season is her house. That and the calories from running away from all that screaming.
It’s a joke, Michelle. You know I’m not going to burn down your house because you live under a bridge.
At least you can’t get diarrhea if you already have it.
Can you help me with some grammar real quick? Okay, how should this phrase be written:
- Is Tinder just for burn victims? Because the only people I’ve matched with look like their face is melting off.
or is it
- Is Tinder just for burn victims? Because the only people I’ve matched with look like their faces are melting off.
I can’t figure out what’s going on with that last sentence.
A close friend told me he was feeling “pretty suicidal”. I told him that was ridiculous.
“As opposed to being kinda suicidal?” I asked him once. What an idiot.
We don’t talk anymore because of the suicide.
“Grab her by the pussy” is something I’ve taught every single one of my friends when showing them how to throw a bowling ball. You gotta grab the ball by the pussy. Everybody knows that.
I teach all my friends how to bowl. The world revolves around me, by the way. You know what’s up.
I’ve said similar lewd things in the locker room too, I guess. I understand where Trump is coming from. My friend, Sam. Him and I, for instance, were standing there naked. You know. In the locker room. Then I realized that we’d been in the locker room changing all these years, you know? But neither of us had been naked together at the same time. And I told him– this is filthy, I swear to god– I told him that if he wanted to grab me by– hold on. Never mind.
Why aren’t there any charities for normal people?
Whenever somebody says they’re a foodie, I always ask them if they would eat people. And they always say they wouldn’t. What shit bullery. Why wouldn’t you eat people? It’s one of the most abundant foods in the world and you’re just going to pass it up like a chinaman? I thought you were serious about this food thing, man.
What? Do you think President Obama– a notorious foodie– didn’t sit down for his first meal at the White House, look up from the White House Menu, and not request from the White House waiter “I want to try the people”?
“People?” The chef grips the white linen cloth laid upon the magnificent oak table President George Washington himself once ate at. “But people? The people are the ones who put you in office, my leader.”
“Yes,” President of the United States Barack Hussein Obama says. “And now I will put the people who put me in office into my stomach. I want people and mashed potatoes.” A limber and presidential arm is placed upon the chef’s shoulder. An impassioned, presidential look is exchanged.
“Of course, Mr. President,” the White House chef says.
“Now go,” the first black man to ever be President of the United States said, “Please hurry. And– Preston?– It’s Preston, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
Whew. I almost went eight years without writing about our President eating people. Almost missed an opportunity to make jokes about whoever the current President is. Heh. That one was for me.
Peter Pan isn’t as popular in Thailand as I thought he’d be.
Chicks crying is a major turn-on for me. So when we broke up it was hard for the both of us.
I’m all for gender equality but man walked on the moon almost 50 years ago; what’s taking women so long?
That’s how you fuckin’ do semicolons.
I’ve been doing this thing where I just eat a butt-load of fuckin pickles. Sliced pickles, whole pickles, miniature pickles. And the pickle juice. All of it.
This isn’t some sort of thing where I’m exaggerating the amount of pickles I’m eating per day. It’s not like I’m just having pickles a couple times a week or I’m asking for extra on my McDouble. No. Let me be clear: I am eating pickles three times a day, seven days a week. Pickle frenzies have replaced my meals. For breakfast it’s a pickle frenzy. For lunch it’s a pickle frenzy. Dinner? A classic pickle shuffle followed by a dazzling pickle frenzy.
My hands smell like pickles all day. People at work are starting to notice. Like, Ted called me out on it yesterday. Ted. Ted never says anything to anybody. That might have to do with his comically egregious under bite. Or it could be that he’s going to shoot-up the place. Either way, I don’t like him. Underbites are God’s way of telling parents they should have a SIDS-related “accident”.
“You smell like pickles, Charlie,” he told me in the break room.
“That’s odd,” I feigned, stepping back in the corner to block Ted’s view of my locker because there are pickles in my locker.
“Are you washing your hands with pickle juice or something, dude?”
“What? Why would I wash my hands with pickles?” I turned around and pickle-shuffled my pickle-prize out of sight. Ted would have to go on a serious pickle hunt now if he wanted to find them.
“Because you smell like pickles, Charlie. Countless pickles,” he said, taking a step forward. At this point in the conversation I was worried for my life more than any white person has right to feel. And it’s not because I’m a racist– I am– but Ted is white just like me, and, like I said, this poker-faced rat fuck and his teeth are frightening. What if he touches me or something and I develop some sort of god awful under-bite like him? This is also something that bothers me about old people. It’s disgusting when they touch you. Like, seriously, don’t get your old on me. I don’t want my skin to end up like yours, old man. So thin and gross.
“You don’t need to be such a dick,” I said, talking to both Ted and myself.
“I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt that you’re only washing your hands with pickle juice and not all over your entire body,” he said. It was at this point I realized that Ted’s dramatic under-bite made him look like a piranha. A piranha with a job.
The drugs were working.
Ted continued: “Nobody should smell like pickles. Not like this.”
“This is sexual harassment.” I went on the attack. Ted wasn’t going to bring me down. No. The only thing that can bring a pickle glutton down is not having anymore pickles.
“I never mentioned anything about sex,” Ted reeled back, giving me some much needed room.
“There it is. You son of a bitch, you think I’m fucking the pickles.”
“Jesus Christ, Charlie. I never mentioned having sex with pickles.”
“There are no pickles, Ted.”
These pickles are kosher, too. You know, just in case you’re the kind of person who would object to a pickle Jesus Christ wouldn’t eat. Hey, I said “Jesus Christ” a couple times there in completely unrelated pickle scenarios. Neat. I guess He is everywhere. Good for Jesus.
So I did the right thing and went to CVS and bought a pregnancy test.
When you google “Am I an addict?” you already know the answer.
“When you google “Should I break up with her” you already know the answer.
When you google “Oh god, it burns” you’re probably on fire. Dunk that ball.
I was in the grocery store thinking about babies in public. You know, at weddings and airports acting annoying with all their crying and shitting because I hate being happy. Crying and shitting in public is illegal for everybody but babies, but that still doesn’t mean it’s okay. It’s embarrassing, really. Who do you think you are, Aiden– or whatever your bullshit name is. This is the Produce aisle, not the Aiden Will Never See A Glacier aisle.
A baby crying and shitting baby at a funeral, however, is appropriate and it’s a joyous occasion. Here we get this tiny little person who’s so sad that they’re crying and shitting themselves on another person? What a deal!
No Shave November is dangerous when you’re dating a feminist. And itchy.
It’s a vagina joke, by the way. Like half of this web page. The other half is dick jokes because I’m all about equality.
Men don’t have more rights than women. More rights would make us worse drivers.
Therapy today was eye-opening— that’s for sure. I’ve been seeing Dr. Russo for about three months now— you know, ever since the fire. And he started today’s session with a conversational rocket punch:
“So, Charlie,” he asked, “What’s been bothering you? Why are you here?”
“Let’s make some breakthroughs, then. Well, I think I’m dying,” I told him.
“Tell me about that,” he said. He adjusted his spectacles in a clichéd manner reserved for old and out of touch psychiatrist types. “Do you mean in a physical or figurative sense?”
I took off my hundred dollar Birkenstock’s and hoisted my right foot to show off the blood soaking through my two dollar Fruit of the Loom socks because, you know, I Wear Socks With My Birkenstock’s™.
“Oh my God, what happened?” Dr. Russo gasped.
“No, no, it’s fine. Nobody Is Spilling Blood On Your Carpet This Morning™,” I assured him. “What kind of carpet is this, anyways? Did you steal it from Hometown Buffet or something?”
“What— what happened, Charlie?”
“Check out my new tattoo,” I said, attempting to lift up my foot but, alas, I was already too decrepit for even the simplest of operations. That’s the price you pay for getting “ANDY” tattooed on the bottom of your foot as a hemophiliac. “Got it two weeks ago,” I said.
“It can’t be good for it to still be bleeding.”
“Because of the hemophilia, Dr. Russo.”
“You got a tattoo and you have hemophilia?”
Dr. Russo, ladies and gentleman. Unable to understand and apply even the simplest of slang terms used by today’s prodigious youth. What a rube.
“It’s not being retarded; it’s just a bleeding disorder.”
“So is this related to what’s bothering you?”
“No, but I’m glad you asked. You ask a lot of questions.”
I brought up the image issues I had shared with Dr. Russo from a previous session. “What about all of these ‘Keep Calm and Chive On’ shirts? Somehow I’m supposed to believe they’ve existed since the 1940’s?”
And there are so many variations of this phrase. For shopping addicts there’s “Keep Calm and Go Shopping”. For people who purchase Apple products there’s “Keep Calm and Think Different”. For bakers there’s “Keep Calm and Bake On”. For people who bake. Get it? I don’t. Is it a pot reference? There’s even a “Keep Calm and Eat a Cookie” shirt for the Cookie Monster. Cookie Monster doesn’t even wear shirts.
Where’s “Keep Calm and Smoke Crack” for crack heads? Where’s “Keep Calm and Don’t Make a Sound Or I’ll Kill You and Your Entire Family” for people who are fans of threatening the meager and impressionable? Where’s “Keep Calm and Don’t Make a Sound Or I’ll Kill You and Your Entire Family” for people who are wearing it because they are fans of threatening the meager and impressionable ironically?
But what about shirts for the people who are so poor or fat that they can’t find a really good shirt. Like, people who wear pumpkin heads for shirts. Or the people who are so large that they can only wear shirts made out of shower curtains? Where’s the shirt for my homies looking for that coveted sousaphone scholarship that’ll get them straight outta Tuscon and into the Sousaphone Big Leagues?
Dr. Russo told me that that wasn’t the problem. He said that the “Keep Calm” shirts were a “projection, as in “[I’m] projecting [my] problems onto other people.” Here’s the thing: I don’t own a single “Keep Calm and Keep Calm and Don’t Make a Sound Or I’ll Kill You and Your Entire Family” shirt, mug, or hatchet. This is something I shouldn’t have to worry about. Like DNA tracing.
“What’s really bothering you?” he interrupted my train of thought with. Also, check that out: it’s a sentence that ended with “with”. And now two.
“Reality. I don’t know what’s real anymore,” I said.
“Explain,” Dr. Russo leaned back, letting out the sigh of an exasperated giraffe-like figure from a shitty young-writer’s first attempt at inserting fantasy fiction elements into his story would imagine.
“I don’t know if Shia Lebouf is a cannibal or not,” I confessed.
“Who?” Dr. Russo once again said all fantasy-like, again. Whatever; I’m over it.
“The kid from the first three Transformers movies. Does he eat people or not? I can’t tell.”
“And this is something that is bothering you.” He almost accused me with that tone of his. I feels like it lacks a question mark when typed out loud.
“I can usually google shit like this. I should be able to do it from my phone. Three seconds, tops, I could have an answer. But google isn’t helping me at all with this because I’m The Sucker Who Bought A Windows Phone So Now I Have To Use Bing™. And it’s not even all that easy to look up on google. There is no hard-sourced information about him eating people but tons of people are saying he’s an actual cannibal. I have no idea.”
“It doesn’t bother me if he, you know, eats people but it’s good to know which people are the ones that eat other people— especially if you’re going to be hanging out around them.”
“You’re hanging out with this guy?”
“I mean, not on paper. But yes.”
“Are you thinking about harming him?”
“No, but I’m wondering if he’s thinking about harming me.”
There was a long, pregnant pause. Like nine months pregnant. It reminded me of my ex-girlfriend.
“And my ex-girlfriend,” I said.
“Does she know Shia Layboof.” Another sharp accusation from the Doctor himself.
“Which girlfriend was this?”
“Not the last one but the one before her.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Yeah, I just can’t remember the stupid thing.”
Which was true. Is true. I miss my ex-girlfriend, whatever her stupid name is or was. I miss her stupid eyes. I miss her stupid non-pregnant belly. I miss the stupid son I could never have with her because she didn’t want to get stupid pregnant right out of high school, the bitch. What about my needs? What about my wants? You’re like a sponge; all you do is take, take, take, and drain others of their love and emotion.
We had gotten in a fight one night. Sure, it’s long behind the both of us but sometimes I go back and visit this fight because it was one of the most notable moments of our entire relationship because, when it came to this fight, I was right.
So when it’s her turn to make up and say her graces, she goes, I swear to God she says, “I apologize. I apologize for disrespecting your needs and wants.”
What is this shit? I’m pretty sure I whispered that out loud. And then I said
“That’s all you have to say?”
“I mean, yeah,” she said. “I figured I should apologize.”
“Oh, so you figure you should have. You don’t mean to say it. That’s why you, in the third person vernacular, say ‘I apologize.’”
Michelle was starting to get those big ass fake tears in her big ass unapologetic eyes. Her tears and eyes kind of matched her face, ass, tits, and face. But I wasn’t going to fall for this trick. Not this time, Batman. Saying “I apologize” isn’t the same as actually saying “I’m sorry”; that’s a cop-out. That’s referring to yourself in the third person, apologizing. I want you to be in the moment when you’re apologizing to me.
“Sweetie,” I said, “then why don’t you say you’re sorry?”
Michelle sniffled and tried to make it seem as if she had already done so. But both you and I, reader— we both know she didn’t do that. She didn’t actually apologize. She just said “I apologize”. So, so trashy. So I so, so told her that.
“That’s so, so trashy,” I said.
“Charlie, I didn’t mean to make fun of you for asking me to dress up as a lobster and have sex with you.”
“It’s more than that,” I said, “You can get the surgery. You can pay the hundreds of thousands of dollars to get it done. You can change your name; you don’t have to be Michelle Powell forever. You can be Bob ‘The Lobsterman’ Dabadino. I know you can.”
“Impossible!” I whisper-yelled back.
“Unfeasible then, Charlie.”
I grabbed both of her shoulders and went for the Oscar: “You can be the lobsterman I want you to be. You can be the lobsterman I want us both to be.”
By the way, I’m not gay. But I am a demagogue scandalmonger and I want to be sure my girlfriend is always willing to do whatever I want her to. Not just what she wants to do but what I want her to do. Because that’s love.
“That’s real love, baby” I said. “And I know you’re scared. So am I.” This was accented with me grabbing Michelle by one of her stupid fat cheeks and squeezing it like I was some kind of grandmother that was also dating her. She ate this all up (no surprise for a fatty) and kissed me.
“You think I’m smart to stay with you?” she asked, pulling away and straightening up her hair.
“I know it, pumpkin,” I said because she was the pumpkin in the relationship.
“What was the reason for the breakup?” my therapist burst into the narrative like some fucked up donkey.
Her birthday was two weeks later. My gift was something she surely wouldn’t like. It wasn’t the kind of “surely” when you know the smell of another man on your girl is just her brother. No, because I got her 10 cans of Fancy Salted Mixed nuts. And Michelle hated surprises.
“Really?” she said, pulling the first can out of the plastic shopping bag I used as gift-wrap. Plastic bags really are cheaper than fancy gift bags, by the way.
“Happy Birthday, Michelle,” I said. My hands shot out for hers and I looked her in right in her fat ass eyes. “You said these were your favorite so I went all out this year for you.”
Poor girl actually believed I thought her favorite kind of nuts were Fancy Salted Mixed nuts for just a second. Everybody knew her favorite nuts were Deez Salted Mixed nuts. I mean, these salted mixed nuts. As in my testicles. Because I’m half-black and I salt my balls and dick because I’m a goddamn weirdo.
Fuck you. Leave me alone.
Michelle’s hands were trembling, holding the can. She didn’t notice that her trembling wasn’t creating a rattling sound from the nuts that were supposed to be inside.
“Why not have some right now?” I asked.
“I, I,” Michelle stuttered. Everybody stutters in stories, don’t worry about it. “I’m not hungry right now. Maybe later tonight.”
“Oh come on,” I pleaded, “Eat some.” I lit a cigarette in her living room and immediately threw it to the wood floor, crushing it out with a child-sized -11- steel-toed boot (Now just $49.99 at Payless. Get More, Payless™).
She started crying. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“What’s in the cans, Michelle?”
“Nuts, Charlie. They’re just nuts.”
“You think they’re nuts?”
“I don’t know!”
“Open the cans, Michelle.” I lit another cigarette and threw it back on the ground, crushing it with my other child-sized -11- steel-toed boot (Now just $49.99 at Payless. Payless, Where When You’re Looking For More, You’re Looking For Less. Payless™).
“I don’t want to,” she cried.
“Open the cans, Michelle.”
Michelle grabbed one of the cans of the Fancy Salted Mixed nuts with her long, dead lady spider fingers. They reminded me of my mother who also had dead lady spider fingers because she was— and remains—dead and her fingers were eaten by spiders.
My girlfriend took her nasty phalanges back to her fat self and turned the Fancy Salted Mixed nuts can halfway. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”
“You don’t want to open the cans because you know what’s in the cans!” I bellowed, banging my hands on the plastic coffee table (Starting at $65.47 this Labor Day. Ikea. A Better Every Day Life, At Home™) that was situated in her living room.
“Stop it!” she screamed
“WHAT’S IN THE CANS?”
“NO NO NO NO NO!” she slammed her hands down on that bitchin’ Ikea table I just told you about. Her hands were all balled up. Dude, you should have been there; it was like she was Donkey Kong or something playing Whack-A-Mole with her ape-like hands. I don’t know, man. I don’t write this shit for you people.
And then I saw something I hadn’t seen in so two weeks. A look that was missing from our sex-life since the very start of our relationship: Stacy looked sorry. And not fat.
“Snakes, Charlie Brown,” she said shortly after I deposited that look into my mental spank-bank.
“I can’t hear you,” I shot back.
“SNAKES!” she erupted like a volcano made of marshmallows— big but ultimately powerless. Powerless but delicious.
“SAY IT AGAIN!” I roared like goddamn fucking indian savage.
“THEY’RE FUCKING SNAKES CHARLIE! ALL OF THEM— EVERY LAST ONE IS A CAN OF FANCY SALTED MIXED NUTS FILLED WITH SNAKES, OK?”
I didn’t want to tell Dr. Russo any of this, though, so I just told him that she just moved away.
“But hey,” I said, “At least I now remember her name was Amanda.”
“That’s good, Charlie,” he said, not quite even believing himself as he said it.
“Also,” I continued, “I think this guy is selling drugs at my work.”
“Why do you think that?” Dr. Russo asked, again because all he does is ask questions.
“Because I bought drugs from him.”
“Let’s call these 15 minute a breakthrough,” Dr. Russo said.
“Sure,” I said. After all, I’d forgotten everything about the fire. And that was enough of a breakthrough. Until I started the next one.
I can’t tell you where I work but I can tell you that it’s a place that serves ice cream, the employees— myself included— must sing birthday songs to children, and domestic terrorists should really give it a shot— if you know what I mean. And I mean it.
Remember how I said that if Amanda was pregnant then the kid better be black or there’s no kid at all? Well, first of all: there isn’t going to be a kid. Fuck dramatic tension— she tested negative on three tests (one from the dollar store and two from CVS. Oh, and a popsicle stick, just for kicks.)
So I brought up the whole “black kid or no kid” thing again because I hate kids. Especially the ugly ones. And at my job? Yep: I sing birthday songs to kids. Even the ugly ones.
They don’t even deserve it— nobody loves ugly kids so why should we celebrate their birthdays? Fuck that. As a society we shouldn’t celebrate ugly kids’ birthdays. Instead, we should save all the celebrations from all their birthdays for their funerals. Just throw the biggest party on the day they die or something— not even bother with the funeral. I don’t know; it’s never too soon to bury a dead, unloved child. Or adult.
This all may seem a little harsh but this wasn’t what I expected my life to end up like.
Anyways: this is an excellent job to show up drunk for. Here’s the key: you pound four, five, seven shots, get in the car, and hightail it to work. My record is five minutes. It’s great because your blood alcohol content isn’t actually, you know, high when you’re speeding your way to Satan’s den. Fucking swell, you know? And I do this six days a week. Sometimes ten.
One of my favorite co-workers— it’s like having a favorite person in a gulag slowly filling with water— is my roommate Drew. I don’t know all that much about Drew, although he did recently pick up a DUI. Or he was slapped down with one. I don’t know, I don’t get pulled over when I’m drunk driving. Drew was telling me about it today at work because this isn’t the kind of shit you save for home.
“The cops pulled me over again last night,” he says in between birthday celebrations for a pair of kids that should have been on American Horror Story last season. “They pulled me over,” he says, “and they told me it was too dark to be riding my bike without lights.”
“Did you get a ticket?” I said.
“No— they gave me a ride home,” he said.
“Sounds like a good deal,” I said.
“Hardly. Where were those pigs when I was drunk and needed a ride home from the bar?”
“Giving you a DUI.”
Drew didn’t talk to me for the rest of the shift. Probably because he’s jealous that he’s been pulled over twice in the last month and that I’ve never been pulled over. It’s nice.
Anyways, the point I was trying to make is that my girlfriend isn’t pregnant and she’s still my girlfriend.
Maybe I should tell you about the people I surround myself with. You know, my co-workers. Associate employee contemporaries, if you will.
Starting with Kelly Gallagher is the best, probably because he killed himself a month ago so you never have to hear about him again. That’s it; there’s no joke: the man shot himself in his backyard.
And you already know about Drew, my roommate with the DUI— you know him just as well as I do at this point.
Then there’s Jenna. Or Jennifer. Or both of them. See, Jenna is a fat girl. And so is Jennifer. And on my first day of work a year ago I mixed the two of them up.
Jenna (or, Jennifer) goes “You’re mistaking me for Jennifer (or, Jenna)”— and the look in her eyes when I did that… it was the look Asian people get when you call them “Taro”— know what I mean?
Of course, there’s Miles. Miles is the dumbest person I’ve met on this planet, newborns notwithstanding. Miles is the reason white people are looked down upon on Tumblr. Seriously, he’s dumber than a shoe.
Miles once asked me if it was snowing. I was in front of a window. He was outside. In the snow.
Miles is probably my most special co-worker. He has had the job at the ice cream palace longer than anybody else— probably combined, too— including the founder, his wife, and all the extra paid time he got for molesting small children on the clock on their birthdays. What a gift!
Miles once asked me how far away North Korea was from the sun. I told him to Google it. He did an image search that came up with zero results.
Miles is also a big fan of fighting. Don’t know why he hasn’t been fired but since I’ve been here he has tried to fight me twice and everybody else mostly twice.
I remember one of the days that he pushed me.
“Why do you have to be so smart all the time?” he said.
“What’s the alternative?”
“See, there you go again, acting all smart using big words. Fucking smart ass.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“What, smart ass?”
“You don’t know what ‘alternative’ means?”
“What’s the alternative to being a smart ass, smart ass?” he says in a mocking, condescending tone.
“Being a dumb ass.”
“Did you just call me a fucking dumbass?”
“Lookit! He finally put two and two together. That’s four, by the way—”
And then I remember paramedics and no assault report being filed because ruffling the animals is apparently against zoo rules.
But let us not forget Aaron. Now, we tried to give my co-worker Aaron the benefit of the doubt when he was new with his anger issues because he used to be in the Army. We all figured that he was suffering from the PTSD people in the Army get when they find out they’re not good enough to join the Marines, Navy, Airforce, or the workforce.
But then we realized that Aaron is just a shitty person.
Aaron had this theory, and like, don’t get me wrong: if you told me his theory and you threw in a couple chuckles and smiled— you know, threw in a few jokes, you’d think he was just having a good laugh. But he wasn’t. His theory was this: He get one. “One” being a kill. Because he actually does have PTSD from whatever the Army did to him, he is granted at lease one (1) civilian rage kill (CRK) with virtually zero (0) long-standing repercussions (LSR’s).
I have to get going. I’m going to try to break up with Amanda over the phone and she’s calling right now. Wish me luck.
This was supposed to be easy; I was going to break up with my girlfriend, write a blog about it, and maybe smoke an egregious amount of clinical-grade marijuana. You know, The Good Stuff™.
Lets address point number two: “Write a blog about [breaking up with my girlfirend]”: That didn’t quite work out the way I wanted it to. And not just because I couldn’t quite go through with point number one (break up with my girlfriend).
What happened? After dinner— the dinner where I was supposed to sever the emotional and physical connection with Amanda over creme brulee— I went home and got high. Egregiously high (which is point number three).
My roommate, Drew, was watching something on Netflix— probably Dr. Who or Sherlock or whatever hip shit is available— when I figured I would eat a coconut. Coconuts are always out of season in the High Sierras, but I was high in the Sierras and they only cost a dollar regardless of the season. So I bought a few coconuts.
Butcher knives weren’t on sale but I’m sure you can understand why our kitchen had one of those. Or even thirty.
This wasn’t my first time chopping up a
cocunt coconut with a butcher knife whilst being higher than the Dalai Llama’s kite. It wasn’t my third time either, but still. And it’s like, the hospital workers knew I was blitzed when I showed up with my left pointer finger (or “trigger finger” if you’re playing the home game) hanging on by a thread. They’re professionals; they’ve seen some shit.
But I’ve never seen so much blood in person. That’s mostly because when my mom died all the blood was building up in her internal organs and not on her hospital bed, but I digress.
You have to make a phone call when you go to the hospital. Not because you’re worried about your family wondering about where you are— mine still lives in Orange County so they don’t actively worry where I am. But you wanted to be dramatic. So I called Amanda.
“Baby, I’m at the hospital,” I said.
“Oh my God, is everything okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, I just almost chopped off my trigger finger with a butcher knife.”
“Why would you do that?”
“It was a coconut that did it to me. Everything’s going to be fine— thanks for asking— the doctors said they’ll be able to get it back on.”
“I’m on my way right now.”
“No, please don’t come.”
“Because I’m higher than the Dalai Llama’s kite,” I didn’t say.
Oh yeah. Breaking up with Amanda. Yeah. That didn’t work out. I mean, things didn’t— Amanda and I didn’t break up. Things didn’t work out for me. Things are still working out for us. On paper.
At least the creme brulee was good, although it was unmarred by (ex)girlfriend tears. Which is a crying shame. Or a non-crying shame if you’ve made it this far. I know I haven’t.
What happened was, well, I ordered the creme brulee. At least that went according to plan.
“We’ll split the creme brulee,” I said, knowing full well that she’d be crying so much from the breaking up thing that she’d be having none of it.
“Great, that’ll be out for you shortly,” the server— waitress, if you will— said. I grabbed a hold of Amanda’s hand and squeezed. This was my last planned sign of affection.
“There’s no way I can enjoy this creme brulee without going right now,” she said. She pulled her hand away and headed for whatever corner the restaurant kept its bathroom in. Now’s when I wished that smoking indoors was still legal. Now’s when I wished that I still smoked. On paper. I still smoke, but Amanda doesn’t know that and you better not fucking tell her I swear to God.
Part of the problem with this whole bathroom dalliance of Amanda’s was that this was the time I was supposed to be breaking up up with her. This was supposed to be the time for me to break up with her. This was supposed to be an important moment for the both of us. Instead, it was a moment where I pined for menthols and she was crapping.
I was going to at least be half-way decent when she came back; I was gonna wait for her to put her napkin back on her lap, maybe take a sip or two of her water, and then I would lay down the heart-break. But no, Amanda hadn’t even sat down and she was already dominating the conversation at the table:
“I want to take a pregnancy test,” she started with. She pulled herself back into the table and takes one of those sips and doesn’t even bother with the napkin. Goddamn heathen. This was supposed to be the prelude to the end of our relationship— now? Bad manners showmanship, if that’s even a thing. Maybe it is for hippies, I don’t know.
“Okay,” I said, “How come?”
“I feel weird, you know?” she says.
“No, I don’t. What’s going on?”
“Well, I just went to the bathroom and it was really hard for me to go pee,” she says.
“Go on,” I say, taking a sip of Diet Coke. I decided against getting wine that night because it seemed a little too expensive for a break up. At least, I thought it was a little too expensive for this break-up. Wine is for my future black girlfriend. Diet Coke is for Amanda.
“And when I did go pee it kinda burned a little.”
“So it sounds like you’ve got a UTI.”
“So’s being pregnant.”
“You’re right. Don’t worry about it.”
“Well I have to worry about it now. If one of us is worried about you being pregnant then we both have to worry about you being pregnant.”
“Maybe this wasn’t the best time to talk about it, Charlie.”
“I’d agree with you if you weren’t the one who brought it up.”
“I texted you before dinner and you said nothing about it. You didn’t even reply. You never reply to my texts.”
And, gee wilikers— the bitch was right. I pulled out my phone and saw four missed texts from Amanda— all of them from between 3:51pm and 3:56pm on that Thursday. Shit.
Why didn’t I notice the texts? Because I’m the sucker who bought a Windows Phone. Goddamn, what a mistake. Just like Amanda. Wait, no— that’s a terrible thing to say; that could be my kid inside her. Our kid inside her. Or nothing— just a side-effect of being a vegetarian, you know what I mean? I hope you don’t because even I don’t know what I meant by that; it just seemed like the right thing to say.
Our kid.That feels weird to say. Gosh, I really hope the kid is black— if there is a kid, I mean. This is confusing. I don’t want the kid to be black, actually, and not because it won’t be mine— no. See, I’ve actually always wanted a black kid. For me it’s black kid or no kid at all. Part of the fun of having a black kid is you can tell them how scary the world is and it’s considered “good parenting”. You’re doing the kid a favor. It doesn’t work the same way for white kids— or a kid with autism, regardless of race.
So, no: I did not break up with Amanda. She totally cock-blocked my maneuver except it was a cock-block that keeps the pussy coming. Not that I need it; not to say I’m gay but maybe I’m asexual…which is not to say I don’t fuck— it’s to say I can reproduce without the need for a sexual partner.
Although Amanda would be proof against that.
We shouldn’t have made it past Valentine’s Day. Or Mother’s Day.
My dreams can get pretty crazy. Last night I had a dream that I could fly. It was great but I still remembered that I had only nine dollars in my bank account.
Flying isn’t fun when you have only nine dollars in your bank account.