Gay Butter

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.

True Story

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.

About 2

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.

Pickle Frenzy

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.

Therapy Today

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.”

“Go on.”

“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.”

“That’s impossible.”

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


“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.


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.

The Other Boleyn Girlfriend

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.

Girlfriend, Interrupted

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.”

“Why not?”

“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 willsaid. 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.”

“That’s impossible.”

“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.

Gone Girlfriend

Breaking up with her over a nice dinner is the best thing to do. Hear me out on this: we’re both dressed classy, there’s some wine, and it’s a Thursday night at the third nicest place in town. Sure, I could take her to the first or even the second nicest place in town but I may need those restaurants for future break-ups.

Amanda’s a nice girl so the last thing I can do for her is take her to some place we’ll both remember as “a nice time”.

It’s just that I don’t love her anymore. See, a couple of weeks ago we were in some post-coital position on my queen-sized bed and we were doing the typical sweet nothings whispering. And then she said something that made me wish for our relationship to land like a bad 9/11 joke— or an airplane on 9/11 for that matter:

“It’s just us against the world, Charlie,” she said.

And then I agreed with her— I don’t know why. The next sentence out of my mouth should have been “It’s over” or “I’m not into team sports”. Instead, I said, “I know baby. Just you and me.”

What a crock of shit, right? Us against the world? Come on. My friends don’t approve of her, sure, and neither do my parents. But those cunts are hardly “the world”. The whole “us against the world” comment would make me think that her friends and her parents don’t like me. I know better, though, because she has no friends and her parents are dead.

That conversation ruffled my feathers. The next morning she made me breakfast as if she didn’t know she had unwittingly ended the best thing going for her in her life. Me? I just wanted to get out of the house.

“Lets go see that new Ben Affleck movie,” I said. “I think it’s still in theaters.”

“He didn’t kill his wife,” Amanda said.

Right,” I said, winking. “He didn’t kill his wife.”

“No. He seriously doesn’t kill her; it’s all a rouse.”

“Exactly. I want to see how he gets away with it.”

“There’s nothing to get away with,” Amanda says. She sounds pretty angry, but she’s still making me breakfast so I haven’t completely offended her sensibilities. She continues: “He didn’t kill his wife.”

“I catch your drift.”

“I don’t think you do. Anyways, I was hoping we could…”

Don’t remember what she said after that. What I do remember is I didn’t get to see the movie where Ben Affleck totally gets away with killing his totally hot wife.

What I do remember isn’t something she said but something terrible she did: Amanda made me ride to whatever it is we did on her motorcycle. I say it’s “terrible” even though one of my dreams was to have a girlfriend who rides a motorcycle. Until I met Amanda.

First of all: We live in a mountain town where it snows between November and April. Amanda seems to think this is the perfect place to ride her motorcycle around. She also claims to be a bad driver. She also thinks it’s cute to be a bad driver.

Being a bad driver is not cute. Being a supermodel in overalls, picking flowers with kittens, and blowing bubbles is cute. Pigtails are cute. Rabbits. Rabbit ears are cute. Being scraped off the side of the road is not cute— regardless of the involvement of pigtails, overalls, bunny ears, and the other Reader Rabbit memorabilia.

The last straw was— is— her memory. Amanda’s memory was— is— at best, the kind of memory you could ask of a geriatric gold fish. She can’t remember how we met. She doesn’t know my birthday. She doesn’t remember—or know— her favorite food items.

No, really. One time she asked me what her favorite food was. I thought it was a test, you know? This was before I realized her brain had more static than a radio. This was also before I realized I’m a terrible writer.

“What’s my favorite food?” she asked as we left a local sushi joint. Even though we just had sushi I knew that wasn’t the answer.

“Pizza,” I said.

Really?” she said.

“Yeah. Is— was— that the wrong answer?”

“No, I guess not. I didn’t know the answer, actually— so I was asking you.”

“Oh, okay,” I said.

“Where did you park?”

“We took your motorcycle here.”

Amanda’s memory was— is— so poor that she even regularly forgets her rights and lefts. This sort of thing would make planning where our friends and family sit at our wedding an almost impossible task. Luckily, as I said before, she has no friends and her family is dead. The only impossible task that comes out of her directional forgetfulness is driving. And elevators, I guess. Those are ups and downs but it still may be difficult for her.

Yes, she was the first girl— or woman, rather, that I was giving serious thoughts to marry. Or at least accidentally impregnate and then later marry. Because Amanda was— and is— extremely attractive. We’re talking tall, skinny, a quarter Chinese, and breasts. She’s a solid 9/10— that one point subtracted because she’s a vegetarian who eats fish.

This break-up would have happened sooner but her birthday is in early December, Christmas just happened, and I wanted to have a guilt-free New Year. Now’s the time to get moving— lest we start talking about Valentine’s Day plans.

Reservations are at seven. I’m assuming it’ll all be over by 8:30, although I’ll probably take some extra time with the dessert of creme brulee whilst she’s crying in the bathroom. Then I’ll take her home, take myself home, and maybe catch up on some Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I’m like, 86 episodes in thanks to Amanda; it’s her favorite show.

Women Sitting On Women’s Faces

This Kickstarter project thing has gotten out of hand. Not because it’s a scam or it’s stupid– no, not at all. This Kickstarter thing has gotten out of hand because I’m not participating. Yet.

Some may say I’m late to the game but the people who are saying that can’t actually talk because they all have duct tapes over their mouths. And they’re in my trunk. And that trunk is at the bottom of a small pond. It’s actually more of a swamp but that’s not the point.

I digress.

It’s going to be a coffee-table book filled with lesbians. All sorts of lesbians in various states of (un)dress. Variety will be appreciated. It’s going to be called “Women Sitting on Women’s Faces”. Because that’s the whole book– women will sit on other women’s faces.

Seriously, variety isn’t just appreciated; variety is endorsed. I want all kinds of women sitting on all kinds of womens’ faces. Whether it be blacks on whites, Asians on Mexicans, or a bunch of dirty crack-whores sharing all their dirty crack with me. I want it.

No. I don’t just want it. No. We want it. All of us.

That includes those conjoined twins, Brittany and Abigail. I want to see two women sitting on one of their faces. Hell, I want to see one woman sitting on both of their faces. That would be impressive. That would be Kickstarter-worthy.

Because this is Kickstarter, we have to think about the donation levels. Luckily for you, my dear reader, I’ve given this plenty of thought. Let’s proceed:

Level 1 Donation (10.00 USD): You get a PDF file of the book and I’ll email you some pussy shots from my personal collection. Unless you’re my ex-girlfriends. If you’re my ex-girlfriends then those pictures were deleted a long time ago just like I said they were.

Level 2 Donation (25.00 USD): You get the PDF, the emails, and I’ll thank you in person– you pick the time and place and I’ll be there. With a gun. We’re going to rob a convenience store in broad daylight.

Level 3 Donation (50.00 USD): PDF, emails, and a copy of the book– hardcover and all that shit. Plus, I’ll throw in signatures from all the little chinese kids who put it together, too.

Level 4 Donation (75.00 USD): PDF, emails, signed sweatshop edition, and you get to design a page. But we get to pick the women.

Level 5 Donation (100.00 USD): I’ll suck your cock.

This is what my mother had to say about Women Sitting On Womens’ Faces:

“My son is a pervert.”

She didn’t actually say that. Not because I didn’t tell her about Women Sitting On Womens’ Faces but because she’s dead. I keep her ashes in a Diet Dr. Pepper can next to my bed.

San Juan

I’d been driving around for at least an hour– and this place was only supposed to be 20 minutes away. Where was this girl? What was her name again? God, how could I forget, this was only yesterday.

First left after Figeuroa. Second right after Thomas St. Go to the end of the road and make a left, “My place is on the left”.

That’s what she said. But there’s no home to be found. Why don’t…why haven’t I called her again? My phone was sitting in the passenger seat with two frozen Hot Pockets and four boxes of Top Ramen. Radio reception was bad down here so I had long since given up on listening to any music– that’s right, there wasn’t a CD to be found in the car. These were terrible times.

Oh, yes– now I remember: I know why I don’t have her phone number. It’s because I’m a pussy. That definitely makes sense.

Ever since the end of the musical, Melissa and I made friends online. Her myspace had her AIM screenname on it, so I figured it was fair game to message her on my account. Of course, it had been a while since I had been on the account. Opening the ancient program proved to be a trip down memory lane: it was a treasure trove of disaster-like conversations I had had with the various women I never ever dated.

At some point, you know, you have have to assume that if your favorite place to talk to your future girlfriend is in a cemetery filled with all your other future girlfriends, you’re doing something wrong.

Finally I refuse to pull over but I still grab my phone off the passenger seat and sign on to AIM and message my friend Jay. “Can you do me a favor? Sign onto my AIM account. Here’s the password:” I told him what to do off the bat because if you want to get somebody to do something for you you just tell them what to do instead of just asking them to do a favor without giving them the first step. So Jay never had to choose whether or not he wanted to do me a favor– the first step was the hook that got him in.

So I text Jay and he says he’s in my AIM account. I text him again: “MSG the sn Doublemey and ask her to give me her address one more time because I can’t find the place. Thank her when she does it”. This whole dialogue took nearly 3 messages to get out because I think I swore more than I have presented for you here today.

And, as calculated, Jay did it for me. What a bro, right? He sent me the address: 1161 King Ct. Shit, man, I must have passed that 15 times by now. I was coming up again on King Court so I thanked Jay again (without pulling over) and prepared myself for something I’d failed to notice. Failing to notice things is a big thing for me: literally. One time I didn’t know that my ex-girlfriend had a penis. Longest relationship I’ve been in, too.

Pulling up I saw what I’d seen time and time before: A couple of trailers, some mailboxes, and trash everywhere. So I drove to the end of the block, seeing the same picture time and time again: All of it just a bunch of trailers, mailboxes, and trash. And then it hit me: Melissa lived– lives– in a trailer.

Oh my God.

I pulled over back at her place and we had some good times– ate a couple Hot Pockets, talked shit on people we knew, and went on a walk. But she lives in a trailer. There won’t be a second date.

Chicken Bones All Over My Room

Could I ask her to marry me? Of course I could– I’m sure of it. I don’t know how sober I would have to be. But still, should I even be asking that question? Maybe there’s a better one, like “Why are we together?” or “What do you like about me?” or “Have you put on weight?”

Wait, sorry. Let me back up for a second; I think we’re really getting somewhere with this.

Convincing her to stay is out of the question; Maddie’s always been a free spirit and I’m not down for messing with free spirits. I don’t have anything clever to say about that because I really don’t want to get hurt. Of course, I want her to stay but I also want to be buried alive on Easter Island when I’m 37. Basically: I’ve learned that if I want something then it’s probably not good for me.

“Just tell her you don’t want her to leave,” Drew was telling me at the T-Club, a local dive.

“What?” I said.

Drew yelled over the music: “JUST TELL HER YOU DON’T WANT HER TO LEAVE!”

“I heard you the first time,” I said. I slammed the rest of my beer down and continued, “but it’s out of the question.”

Drew finished his beer. “Don’t you love her though?”

“Yeah I do, but think about the opportunity this affords me.”

We both got up and squeezed our way out of the crowded shit-hole. T-Club is the kind of bar you go to when you want to get drunk and not get bothered by anyone asking you if you’re driving home. Plus the beer is cheap; it’s great.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Drew said.

“Check this out: Maddie moves out of town in two and a half months. I get to stay. And nobody gets broken up with.”

“But the relationship ends.”

“Sure it does. But nobody has to get broken up with. Nobody has to do the actual breaking up. Two and a half months and the relationship is over.”

“Sounds kinda fucked.”

“No really, this expiration date is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“What about her?”


“Maddie. Your girlfriend. Drew headed for our cars so I followed.

“Oh I don’t care.” Drew turned around and cocked an eyebrow. “I mean, I do care but if you think of it like a crashing airplane…you know what I mean?”

“No clue,” he said.

“When the plane’s going down and they drop the oxygen masks,” I said, “you put yours on first. And then maybe help the little kid next to you.”

“What are you saying? You wouldn’t help the kid?”

“The plane’s going to crash anyway.”

I got home fine. All the lights were out which is good because that’s how I left them. My parents still weren’t– aren’t– back from their three month long vacation. Good, I thought. I’ll be really surprised if they stay gone for the whole three months.


So that’s where I sat with my original opening to the next blog. Or maybe that’s where I sit with it. My Girlfriend Is Out of Town is like a pie to me and my next project is also a pie but it’s a better pie. Sure, some of it is going to taste similar but goddamn it just go with me on this pie simile.

Check this out: I’m a vegetarian now; I only eat chips and coffee now and I feel great.

There was this yoga class I took the other day and the instructor asked us to sit on the ground. That shit was fucking bananas because the teacher tricked us into doing yoga from the start.

Shit, man, I’m the pinnacle of good health.


That was where I sat (or is it “sit”?) with the second opening of my next blog. My last few paragraphs have been kind of like a pie– kind of like my next project which is kind of like another pie. But better. Yeah, I know: some of the ingredients are the same but goddamn it I’m doing the pie thing again


What you previously read was the third opening of my next blog. Any and all instances of sitting have been entirely eliminated from the first sentence of this paragraph and its quality shows. This is a paragraph that is also entirely void of the word “pie” except for this instance that shows you just how strong-willed I am.


“This writing is going nowhere” is what I mean to say.

An Angel Disappears

“Is this a date?” she said. And I wasn’t prepared for this question. I’ve got no lies in the chamber, ready to fire. So I told her the truth.

“Yes—” And I should have stopped there, but I didn’t. “Yes,” I said, “at least it is for me.”

“Okay,” she— the Angel— said. That’s all she said: Okay. She looked at her wasabi as if it would have given her another talking point or at least some sort of out.

I decided to break the silence. “Have you ever smoked crack before?” I asked.

“What?” she said.

“Crack-cocaine. Have you ever smoked it?”

“No. God no.”

“Me neither.”

That was a lie, but it made me comfortable having told a lie; I smoked crack cocaine out of an apple once. It was a one time thing— the apple part, I mean. I used to have a crack pipe. Stilldo, actually.

My thoughts of crack-smoking filled the silence currently enveloping our little table. The Angel must have gotten over it when she asked me what I was thinking about.

“Did you think this was a date?” I responded.

“Well I thought it was clear that I’m a lesbian.”


“I’m a lesbian, Charlie,” she reiterated.

Good Christ. What have I gotten myself into. I had no idea.

“I had no idea,” I said.

“I’ve only dated women the past three years,” she said.

“Yeah but…that still means you had 15 years of men before that. The statistics are still in my favor.”

“Not really.”

“Statistically: yes, they are.

“What, do you want me to give men another chance?”

“No. I want you to give me my first chance.” Back to silence and wasabi-staring. Great. After about a minute, the Angel started again.

“I’m going to go now.” She stood up from the table and grabbed her purse.

“Aren’t you going to pay?” I said.

“This— you said it was a date. It’s on you.”

“But it’s clearly not a date. You should pay your share.”

“You said this was a date.”

“For me. But it isn’t— wasn’t— for you. So I think you should pay.”

The Angel sat back down and gave me a hard look. “Here’s the deal,” she said, “you tell me my name and I’ll pay for my half. Hell, I’ll pay for the whole meal.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said

“What’s ridiculous is the fact you don’t know my name yet here I am on a date with you.”

“So now it’s a date?”

“Tell me my name.”

“I know your name,” I said.

“Then what is it?” she asked.

She really got me there. Would she think it’s cute if I called her “the Angel”— like how you got to know her? I wracked my brain for the most popular female names I knew. All I could remember from the list I found on the internet in 2009 were the numbers 863 and 997— Keith and Robert, respectively.

“Robert,” I said. Best to just fail this one out the gate, I thought.

“Robert?” she raised her voice. People were now staring. “You don’t actually think my name is Robert, come on Charlie.” Okay, time to think fast: You’ve got this, Charlie.

Roberta. Your name is Roberta.”

“No fucking way,” she said. “You actually don’t know my name?” She got back up and headed for the door, but not without stopping to look back at me and say one more thing.

“One more thing,” she called out, “You’ve got some serious self-esteem issues. I wouldn’t doubt for a second that you are gay, Charlie Brown.”

“I’m not gay!” I yelled back.

“I think you are, and honestly, I think that’s the only thing we have in common.” And with that final stab, she left the sushi place. People were clapping and cheering. Somebody was waving a foam finger that said “Number 1”.

I paid the bill and left and now I don’t eat sushi anymore.

The Neighbors Are Getting Suspicious of Me

The neighbors are getting suspicious of me. I probably had it coming though, building a huge watch tower in my backyard and everything. Well, that my constant playing of my “Halloween Sounds and Frights” playlist.

And the lions.

I mean, they have every reason to be suspicious but they shouldn’t be staring at me in the backyard. It’s downright creepy. A guy should be able to perform his ritualistic sacrifices in peace sometimes. My cult friends and I were filming a simple gladiator match to send to Johnny Knoxville for the next season of Jackass the other day and the neighbors called the cops on us for being too loud. Um, I’m sorry, but I can’t control my friends’ screams of pain.

Don’t blame all of them though…Dave was really loud. He was the loudest, actually; he kept screaming, “SHOOT IT! JUST SHOOT THE FUCKING LION!”. Dave must have forgotten that guns would have been anachronistic in a Gladiator-like setting and would have been out of place and it would have been louder than his screams of pain and anguish. Maybe if I had a silencer…but those cost money… eh. Maybe next time.

Sorry, Dave.

The fireworks must be pissing them off too, but I don’t know why. Fireworks are beautiful. The police said that my neighbors had little children, but wouldn’t that just be a benefit to me? Kids love fireworks. Except deaf kids. But in respect to that, nobody loves deaf kids; they never listen.

Sometimes I’ll sit up in the tower and watch my neighbors– who are watching me. They think they’re getting the last laugh, but they aren’t: I have cameras monitoring their house. So even when the neighbors are watching me I’m watching them– in person and on my 40 inch monitor. That’s like watching them twice as much as they watch me.

Maybe I should call the cops on them. That’d be a treat. I’ll just say they’re invading my privacy by constantly watching me.

Hm. Forty inches… Brb, I think I know what kind of movie looks really good on a 40 inch screen and sounds like four guys anally penetrating Jessica Drake.

This acid’s tight.

Zombie Box Social

This is the first thing I ever wrote. I was kicked out of my house for writing it. I regret everything.

Day One

The scratching on my window was growing louder. It had woken me up, but I didn’t think twice about it. Maybe it was just a bird doing stupid bird things. But the scratching was becoming irritating. It became clear to me: something had to be done about the bird.

The girl that I had been sleeping with. I had just noticed her. Her name escapes me even today, but she was beautiful. Luscious breasts, long, blond hair, tall, silky smooth skin. She was the perfect specimen of beauty. A creation of some other being than God– she was too beautiful to be created by Him. With her head on my chest, sleeping soundly, I knew I had done my job last night– I had obviously banged the living shit out of her.

Whispering in her ear, “Honey, can I take care of that bird?” elicited no response from her. So I poked her. No movement. She wasn’t dead or anything like that but the night hadn’t treated her body too well, apparently. Neither had I. I sat up and looked out the window to get a look at my irksome avian friend.

A man was scratching my window. The man was sickly pale, sporting stringy and long black hair, with bags under his eyes. He was wearing a ripped t-shirt, and there was a lot of blood staining through the chest area. His arms seemed to be bulging with veins– crossing every which way, making him look as if he had colored his veins on his skin with purple marker. They eyes were bloodshot. Everything immediately became clear:

I was on an awesome LSD trip. Or this guy was. Either way, one of us was totally fucked up. I had never taken LSD before and probably didn’t even mean to but the box social I had attended the evening before was a bit of a mess; everyone was buttfucking each other and taking pills.

The man stopped scratching. He howled into the sky, spitting blood up. He paused. I took a second to breathe. This is some good shit, I thought.

Suddenly the window exploded inward into my room, covering the rug surrounding my bed with shards of glass. The man had bashed the window in with his head and was now lying three feet away from me, howling in pain. He stood up, scrambling to find his balance, still screeching something horrible. There was glass in his eye. But he didn’t pull it out. It became apparent to me that I wasn’t on LSD. That man might have, but I definitely wasn’t, because I’m pretty sure regular household objects like chairs and lamps try to eat you when you’re on LSD and not other people who are on LSD.

Obviously I was dealing with a zombie.

The zombie– this waste of human flesh– jumped at me, mouth agape He was trying to bite me. In one swift movement I hopped out of bed and pushed the girl towards him.She could buy me some time to get to my closet, I thought. Her head met his and he was knocked to the floor again, with her almost lifeless and naked body pinning him down. I rushed to the closet. Slamming the door open, I looked to the ground– no shotgun. Where had I put it?

I remembered what my mother had told me the day before she was taken from me by the gestapo. “Charlie, I left the shotgun in your sock drawer”. Those words always haunted me, but they now made sense: the bitch moved my fucking gun. Within three seconds my sock drawer was open and my shotgun had been procured.

Cocking the gun, I ran over to the girl and zombie and pushed her off of him. “I’ll show you,” I said, cocking my gun, “to wake me up at eleven in the morning you dirty chicken rapist.” I jammed my foot deep into the zombie’s chest. My foot sank deep into his chest cavity. He let out a painful howl. I cocked my gun and aimed at his head.

“Die, cunt!”. I pulled the trigger. The blast destroyed his head completely. Blood was everywhere. My ears were ringing. I was still naked.

The girl was sprawled on the floor near my bed. She was starting to awaken. Something told me that the shotgun blast was her alarm clock for the day. She got on her knees and tried getting up. While she was in this position I was starting to get some deja vu. The girl had been on her knees in my presence before. It took nearly a minute for her to get up without my help.

She turned to me as she sat up, but still slouching. Her eyes wandered to my penis, then to my six-pack. I was getting eye-fucked. She looked into my gorgeous eyes and stammered out, “How did I get here?”

I told her that it didn’t matter. All that mattered now was that we get the fuck out of there. She seemed unhappy with the answer I gave her, so I pointed at the zombie.

“Oh,” she said, “Holy shit, you killed a guy”.

“I think he was dead before I killed him, if that makes any sense,” I replied.

“It doesn’t, but it’ll do for an answer I guess. Hi, my name is Jessica,” she said, going for a handshake. I wanted to tell her that a handshake wasn’t the proper reward for saving a life– a hand job was. But in an amazing moment of clarity, I just bit my tongue instead.

“Hi, my name is Charlie,” I responded, walking over to my closet. “Would you like some clothes?” I picked a bra and some jeans from my closet and tossed it to her.

“Nice to meet you,” Elizabeth said. She started to dress in front of me. I put on the t-shirt and jeans I had been wearing the night before. I knew they were from the night before because of the vomit stains on the shirt and the ketchup stains on the crotch part of the jeans. Don’t ask.

After we dressed, we stared at the headless body lying near the window. “What should we do with it?” she asked.

“Something tells me we should take it outside, but could you do me a favor and turn on the news?” She fumbled with the remote sitting on my night stand.

“How do I–” she said

You have to change inputs, so hit INPUT” I said.

“Alright I’m doing that but it’s not working.”

“Hit TV and then INPUT or else it won’t work.”

“Alright I did that.”

“Then why isn’t my TV on?”

“Maybe the cable isn’t on. I’ll hit CABLE and then POWER and then TV and then POWER.”

“Yeah that’s fine but you still need to change inputs on the TV on and then hit INPUT so it switches to that input.”

“I’ll change inputs and then turn the TV.”

Michelle was obviously retarded. I snatched the remote away from her and turned on the news.

“Fox News, Charlie?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said, “What were you expecting?”

“Something not shit,” she retorted.

“You may be gorgeous but I have a gun. You have tits. One of these things can save us from zombies and one of these things can get in the way of lifting heavy objects. I’d like you to take a guess and shut the fuck up.”

She was silent. I had won the battle. The truth was that I trusted CNN just as much as Fox, but Fox was closer to Cinemax, so I watched it more often.
The television showed me what I feared most: total chaos. Talk of satellites, disease, and secret government experiments littered the screen. They all pointed to the same thing: zombies.Undead, they called them. We were warned to stay inside, not attempt to contact loved ones. I laughed. My cell phone provider was Verizon; I couldn’t contact my family even if I had wanted to. Or loved them.

I heard sirens in the neighborhood. “We’re staying in, Amanda,” I said. I struck on one of my pecs and lit a cig. “It’s going to be a long weekend, Jane. Strap in and get ready for the ride of your life.” I think the line was from a movie. That’s why I said it. I don’t even smoke, but I knew I looked really cool when I did it.

I am currently in a closet with a laptop writing this. I shall write to you tomorrow and update you on what happened the rest of the day. Possibly even what happens tomorrow as well, if I survive.
I hope you all make it through the night.

With respect,
Charlie Brown

Day Two

I’m downstairs in the kitchen in a pool of my own blood. I know it’s my own blood because it tastes like type AB. Janessa, the girl I woke up to yesterday, is gone. Where she went is anyone’s guess.

We used tables, chairs, anything to block off the windows and doors yesterday. Luckily, I had a seemingly infinite supply of nails and screws to take care of all of it. And power tools. Don’t remember buying those, but then again, who cares. This is my zombie experience.

We went to sleep very late. After nailing things to walls, killing a zombie, and losing the remote, Shawnee knew I was a man. We slept together, but we didn’t have sex. I didn’t have a condom, and the only reason I didn’t use one the night before was because it was her first time and everyone knows you can’t get pregnant the first time.

We both awakened in the afternoon. The sun was shining through my blinds. An actual bird woke me up this time. The first thought that went through my head was that everything had been a dream. But I turned the television on and saw even more wanton destruction. It seemed that the zombies’ numbers were growing. My area was relatively safe, but if the zombies ever broke into a jog instead of that pussy little limp dragging shit that they do, my whole entire community was going to be screwed.

Mary sat up, “Charlie, you’re my hero”. She smiled. I could tell that she was in love with me.

“I enjoy sandwiches too, Cheryl,” I said. It seemed like a subtle tip-off: If she wanted to be with me, she was going to have to make delicious sandwiches for me. In return, I would show mild interest in her. Maybe make some fleeting eye contact. She hopped out of bed and I gave her a little pat on the butt, “Chop chop”.

Ten minutes later, I heard a scream. “She better bring it to me in bed,” I muttered. But it soon became apparent that the screaming wasn’t a beckoning call to the downstairs table, but a call for help.

I cocked my shotgun. I hurried down the stairs, yelling for her to shut the fuck up. If she kept screaming, well, it would then confirm that she wasn’t just being a total bitch. Of course, she kept screaming. I cocked the gun.

“Freeze!” I yelled. There Christina was, butter knife in hand, going face to face with a zombie. I cocked my gun and started to scream and yell at the zombie. This did nothing for Jane’s case, however, as the zombie seemed to have hearing problems. Cocking my gun, I charged at him. “I said shut the fuck up!” I yelled, hitting the zombie over the head with my shotgun. The butt of the gun lodged in his brain. “Throw me the knife!” I called to the buxom blond beauty.
She tossed me the butter knife. I attempted to catch it, but her breasts must have thrown her off because I didn’t catch the knife. Don’t give me shit about that being my fault.

This terrible throw only put me in even more rage. In one swift movement, I balled my right hand into a fist and thrust it towards the zombie’s head. My fist penetrated the zombie’s forehead. I opened my hand and ripped its brain out. The zombie went limp but I, but I kept my hand in its head, held high above the ground. I kicked the zombie in the stomach and the gun became dislodged as the zombie fell Single-handed, I cocked the gun, flipped it around, and shot it in the head. Blood sprayed everywhere, creating a mess that my housekeeper was going to have “mucho funno” cleaning on Monday.

I bellowed a battle-cry, “Weeee!” and tore a piece of brain with my mouth, swallowing only to take another bite. Avery was slack-jawed. She wasn’t used to this shit.

“You’re not used to this shit, eh Melinda?” I inquired. I already knew the answer before she even said it.

“My name is Jessica, asshole,” she said. She was obviously unhappy.

“It’s not nice to call the guy who saved you from a zombie an asshole, cunt.”

“That wasn’t a zombie, fuck bucket,” she replied.

“Then who was it?”

“My father.”

I started to go dizzy. “You just ate my father’s fucking brains,” she said, “you just killed him.” Everything was getting darker. No way this was happening. “I was screaming in joy,” she said. How could this happen? How could this girl just back-talk to me like that?

I passed out.

And here I am now, Day 2 of this zombie invasion not even over. Reader, I hope you get this before it’s too late and send help. I’m hearing scratching and moaning, and my parents are on vacation so it surely can’t be them. The television is still blaring upstairs. Sirens grow louder. There’s only so much more of this shit I can take.

With respect,
Charlie Brown

Day Three

Dearest reader,
The shooting has stopped. The bombs have finished falling. The Sun is coming out again. I mean, the Sun was never really gone. It goes away at night, but that’s a given. Zombies had nothing to do with the Sun being gone for an extended period of time is what I meant to say.

When I woke up this morning I was in the hospital. I wasn’t in a room however– I mean– Christ. Fucking semantics.

Okay, I was in the bathroom. I don’t fucking know why I was but I was. There was an I.V. connected to my right arm, and somebody (or maybe something) had placed a blue wool blanket on me. There was cold pee on the blanket. I know it was pee.

You can always tell when it’s pee.

Crawling up a full-sized mirror, I looked at myself. Here I was, using a pee-covered blanket to keep warm in a hospital bathroom. Zombies have killed everyone. I would never met another human-being again. This was it. I looked in the mirror.

I looked like shit. My left eye was swollen, a cut on my forehead looked too real– too clean– to be fake. No bite marks though, that’s what matters.

It’s now dawned on me that nobody in the entire world will experience the joy of being tickled ever again.

Wish a clean swing of my right fist, the dirty mirror I was standing before shattered. Glass skittered everywhere. Some of it stayed in my knuckle.

“Dinner”, I said aloud.


The entire hospital was empty, much like a movie set. But in the interest of ending this, I heard a noise coming from the 24th floor. It must have been a television. I ran to the room I assumed the television was in. A television was on. It was a rerun of Lizzie McGuire. At this point, I lost all semblance of sanity. I had screamed for help, but it was useless. There was nobody around for miles that didn’t want to taste my dirty-as-fuck sunburned flesh. And then a way out of finishing this story appeared.

A nurse came rushing in. She was good-looking, no doubt about it, but she also seemed to be worn down. Her hair was a blond and stringy mess. Her lipstick smeared on her face.

A bite mark on her arm.

I ripped the I.V. out of my arm, because I never mentioned taking it out earlier. Blood fountained everywhere. The nurse charged at me. Thinking fast, I jumped over a hospital bed to a nearby window and sprayed it with blood. The zombie nurse sprang forward over the bed… and out the window. Shattered glass littered the inside of the room as I heard her final call, “Preciousssssssss!” These things are like fucking animals, I swear.

Another nurse came in. This one wasn’t an Undead Warrior, I could tell. Don’t really know why I had a hard time telling with the other nurse, but whatever. My story, not yours. Anyways, she walked in laughing to herself.

“You think that was fucking funny?” I yelled, “Do you know how much of this zombie bullshit I’ve dealt with in the past, what is it, four days?” The nurse kept laughing. “I’m not afraid to kill you,” I screamed, “I’ll push your ass out of this goddamn window just like that zombie!”

The nurse stopped laughing. She was still smiling as she said, “That bitch was some retard from the mental ward! We let her dress up as a nurse! HA HA HA!”

We both laughed together. The music started to kick in and the lights dimmed. We were still laughing as I poured the two of us glasses of some bubbly. She began to undress.

She unbuttoned her blouse. She wasn’t wearing a bra, so every button was just another step closer to glory. Six buttons and her shirt was open. Her breasts were full, definitely size D’s. She pulled off her skirt. She wasn’t wearing any underwear.

“How do you like my shaved pussy?” she asked. I nodded my head. Words weren’t needed for this. The nurse walked over to me and started to rub me. “You’re hard,” she said. No shit, this was fucking awesome, I thought.

She started to kiss me, all tongue. Before I knew it, all of my clothes were off. She jumped in the hospital bed. her legs were wide open, her mouth gaping.

“Ohhhh Charlieeeeee, fuck me pleaaaaaaaase! Fuck me rawwwwwwwww. Give it to my pussy baby oh baby baby. Yesss”

Just as I was about to jump on top of the nurse, the music stopped. We both heard a small bump. Then a large one. A zombie burst through the middle of the bed, its body ripping through the nurse’s torso. One hand was up as he held her heart like some prized trophy.The other hand was holding part of her spinal cord, torn from a formerly fine piece of ass.


The blast from my unit decapitated the zombie. Game over.

It wasn’t until a pencil hit me in the back of the head that I realized I was in class.

Yelling and screaming about fucking nurses fucking zombies fucking me.

The teacher looked at me, awestruck. “What did you just say?” he asked, all negative-like.


A little girl was crying in the seat behind me. Oh no. I had fallen asleep as a Teacher’s Assistant at the local preschool.

Children were throwing up everywhere.

One kid was repeatedly hitting his head against the desk. “Why is he doing this to us?” cried the child. “What did we do wrong?”

“I’m, uh, going to go now,” I said.

I walked out of the room, out of the school, into my car. Everything was fine. It was all a dream. Sure, I was going to get charged with sexual harassment, but it’s better than being eaten by a zombie.

Or a retarded nurse.

With respect,
Charlie Brown


Lets be honest:

Don’t you like it when people say “lets be honest”, “I’m being honest here”, and “honestly”? I do. I do so very, very much. What it does is let me know that everything the person was saying before they say the phrase was complete and utter dog shit. You think you’re getting on a more personal level with somebody when you say that? It just pushes us smart people away. We smart people know better than to trust somebody that ever uses the word “honest” in reference to what they are saying.

We smart people.

Honestly though, seriously,

I love that too, the Seriously Thing. It’s [usually] a pointless reaffirmation of something that was being taken seriously in the first place.

-[While I’m on it, we need to get rid of second place. Second place has always been considered the first loser and this kind of negativity in America can only serve to hurt our childrens’ and athletes’ morals. And it’s a fucking downer. You always feel bad for second place because theyalmost made it. Third place came in last by at least 10 points and never stood a chance. Not to mention they get bronze, which is really just a darker, dirtier gold. For more information on our society’s deplorable use of second place, see the phenomenon of sloppy seconds.]

“Seriously” is always said before something that should be taken seriously in the first place. It’s always something like “Seriously, the cancer is spreading to my asshole” or “Seriously, I can’t believe he hasn’t even gotten to the point of this blog thing yet” which are two Seriously Things that I’ve recently heard. I’ve yet to hear it before something that actually warrants a “seriously”, however. It’s never “Seriously, a clown finger-bangs me in my sleep” or “Seriously, fix the cankles you fat sack of shit”. These are great examples of proper “seriously” use and should be used as a reference from this point forward.

We’re all adults here, so we’ve all dealt with this: The guy whose last name is “Wiener”. Somewhere around the time we stopped calling our collective wiener a wiener, we stopped remembering that people with the last name “Wiener” have given all of us a gift: the gift of laughter. Wiener is the funniest word in the dictionary, bar-none. Find me a word funnier than wiener and I’ll show you my—never mind. Forget it. Point is, people like example-guy Joseph Wiener have been receiving our kindness and sensitivity towards his last name for far too long. Joe Wiener goes to bed at night knowing that people aren’t going to make fun of his last name because that isn’t what adults do, apparently. Adults don’t make fun of other peoples’ last names, but why?

Your last name is euphemism for a dong, and it’s the funniest thing in the world, Joe Wiener. You need to be reminded of this each and every day because it is one of the few givens in the world that could make any person smile. This name holds you back from everything you want to be, Joe, and you know it. Joe, when you ask your girlfriend “Who’s your daddy?” in bed, does she scream “JOE WIENER. JOE WIENER IS MY DADDY”. No, because you don’t ask questions like that in the sack because your last name is Wiener. Joe Wiener can’t google his name at work because he runs the risk of getting fired. Joe Wiener would like to become a CEO at some point but can’t because he will run the risk of getting the job and then getting “Mr. Wiener” engraved on his door. So very formal. Really, the only last name that could be funnier than “Wiener” is “Poop”. So this one’s to you, James Poop, wherever you are. Everybody might be adult enough about the last name Wiener, but your last name is Poop, and that’s hilarious.

James Poop. ahahahaha. So rich.

“Crank” Is The Best Movie Ever and it Deserves a Million Sequels

Anybody who knows me knows that my favorite thing in the world is the movie Crank. And anybody who knows me also knows that my second favorite thing in the world is its sequel, Crank: High Voltage. When Jason Statham brought his most believable hitman to screen back in 2006 I was blown away, partly because I hadn’t seen a Transporter movie and partly because I thought Jason Statham made being a hitman believable. The other part? Probably some pent up homosexuality that my therapist neglected to inform me about.

Nonetheless, since 2009’s Crank: High Voltage, we’ve heard nought of another sequel. I’ve since given up on directors Neveldine/Taylor bringing Chev Chelios back to life on the silver-screen. But I haven’t given up on that dream. Then again, I still think Amanda Bynes is going to live to see the New Year, so maybe you should go back to reading something else on the internet.

The next movie in the series should be called Crank 3: Burn Notice, and that’s because, well, Chev Chelios lit himself on fire at the end of the second movie. I can’t really remember why he lit himself on fire but it was simulatenously equal parts badass and awfully badass. Anyways, the Crank movies all involve Chev Chelios needs to continually abuse his body. In the first movie he only has a day to live because he has been injected with “Chinese synthetic shit” that will slow his heart down to a complete stop. So what he does to surive is he drinks a bunch of red bull and does coke in a whore-house. And then he then kills the motherfucker who poisoned him whilst falling to his death from a helicopter. In the second movie, Chev is still alive and has to continually electrically shock himself because his heart has been replaced by an, uh, artificial one. This is elegant story-telling.

Gettin High Voltage

Pictured: Cinema at its most elegant. Fucking peerless.

So in the third movie, Chev needs to keep setting himself on fire. Take that concept and throw in Jason Statham gratiuitously calling everybody a cunt and everybody else screaming “Fucking Chelios” and you’ve got yourself this summer’s next blockbuster because it’s only August 16th and these movies can be shot and edited on a cellphone in a matter of minutes. Oh, and it’s going to be in 3D. Crank 3D.

But then that leaves the question of yet another sequel. Where do we go from there? The answer is Crank 4: Son of Crank (although the marketing guys will call it Cr4nk because they are paid good money). That movie ends with Jason Statham riding the El Niño, howling to the moon, “Release the Cranken!” before killing the moon. Screen fades to black. I haven’t figured out a gimmick for keeping Chev alive in this movie just yet, but rest-be-assured that Jason Statham will be getting too old to be in movies by the time of its release so maybe mediocre CGI will be the thing keeping him from at least looking like he’s on the brink of death.

Then we have The Bride of Crankenstein. Chev Chelios has disappeared but his girlfriend Eve– now played by Michelle Rodriguez– must follow his footsteps. She dies soon and everybody gets to go home early.

There won’t be a Crank 6 because we already said what we needed to say with the first five Crank movies. That won’t stop us from making Crank 7, which will be a reboot. The marketing guys are throwing around The Dark Crank Rises and Crank Almighty, in which Jason Statham becomes God and relies on antiquated beliefs to remain immortal and call everybody a cunt.

Of course, what good is a series of movies without spin-off TV shows and obtusely related tie-in products? Don’t worry: a partnership with Pepsi-Cola will bring movie-goers the chance to get hyped up on Mountain Crank and Diet Mountain Crank while waiting in line at Wal-Mart to get the direct-to-DVD holiday movie It’s A Wonderful Crank. Pepsi-Cola took a pass on sponsoring the spin-off Million Dollar Crank, however, mostly because it is a porno and not about boxing on drugs.

Finally, we want to bring Crank to television audiences weekly. And we’ll do it in two flavors. First, we’ll have history’s first spin-off of a tv show that is also a combined spin-off of a movie. That dream will be realized as Crank & Order. The premise: in the criminal justice system, the worst criminal offenders are pursued not by members of an elite squad but by Jason Statham hopped up on Red Bull and coke. These are their stories.

And then we’ll have an educational show for children. I haven’t thought about what we’ll call it yet (we have an excellent marketing team, yet we don’t have lawyers that can help us get away with Sesame Crank) but it needs to have the feeling of a Crank movie whilst carrying a positive message for kids. Here is an example script:

Doc: You need to drink water to survive, Chevy

Chev: That’s Greek to me, Doc. What are you trying to say?

Doc: Eight glasses a day, motherfucker!

Chev: I’ve gotta go, Doc.

Chev runs out the door and kills everybody, but not before calling them cunts.

And that’s it for Crank. If you want more, however, I know a guy.


Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

Hey buddy, how’s it going? Honestly, I don’t care, so shut the fuck up. This isn’t one of those ‘o mi gosh i want a pony’ letters. No. I already wrote that letter. Last year in fact. And what did you get me? Honestly, you didn’t seem to care, so shut the fuck up.

There I am, Christmas morning. My mom’s out of work, my father still dead after getting caught in the chimney last year trying to impersonate you. This was supposed to be a great Christmas, since it was the last one I was going to spend with my mother who was dying with cancer at the time (thanks a lot, jackass. She asked for new earrings, not acute t-cell carcinoma). I go downstairs to open my gifts from you and what’s there:


Axxon. Axxon is clearly one of the worst Bionicles to have ever been created by Lego.

“What the fuck, Santa,” I said, under my breath. My mother looked at me.

“Did Santa give you what you wanted this year, honey?” she said, coughing. This was one of her long coughs. We always grew tense when these coughs happened.

“Fuck no, mom,” I said, “I didn’t want Axxon. Axxon is dog shit. I wanted Takutanuva. Not Axxon.”

For reference, Santa, this is Takutanuva:

“I guess Santa,” she paused to cough, “accidentally messed up this year. I’m sorry.” She started to cry.

“Don’t be sorry mom,” I said, “It’s that fat asshole’s fault. Don’t take it out on yourself. Santa’s just a mean old cock sucker for thinking I wanted Axxon. I hope he dies in his sleep.”

There was another box, which I assumed to be an Playstation 3. But was it an Playstation 3? No. It was clothes. Clothes, St. Prick. I wanted to immerse myself in the world of games, but instead I’m getting immersed in itchy cotton and onesies.

What the hell were you thinking? You ruined my last Christmas with mother. You are such an asshole, man. All I wanted was Takutaunuva and a Playstation 3. That would have made me happy. My mom didn’t have enough money to buy me a Playstation 3, so I assumed you would have. You should have. But you didn’t. Nope. My mom spent Christmas crying because I didn’t get the toys I wanted.

And now she’s dead; she took her own life. This is an excerpt from her suicide note:

“I did so much for you and yet you just turned around and called me an asshole and you wanted me to die in my sleep…after all I did?”

So not only did my mom do a whole lot of things for you, but you turn around and give me utter shit for Christmas? Blow me, Santa Claus. Blow me hard.

This is horseshit,
Charlie Brown

Your Facebook Status vs The World

It’s not original to write a whatever this is on status updates on facebook. No, wait. First of all, it’s blazing hot outside and my neighbor is blasting “Mele Keliki Maka” at full volume. It’s not funny Rob. It will never be funny. Rob you fucking idiot, it’s ninety shitting degrees at night. THE SUN ISN’T EVEN OUT YOU CRAZY SHIT.

You guys are doing this facebook status thing wrong. I know it sounds like I’m accusing all of you again for minor discrepancies, but minor discrepancies lead to things like occupational dermatitis, and God knows you don’t know what job can lead to occupational dermatitis. You may already have it.

Don’t update your status about an earthquake when one has just happened. Everybody on your friends list is probably in the same geographical region as you, so they’ll already know an earthquake has happened. They don’t need to be reminded when they go online because it’s hard to forget the world as you know it suddenly shaking back and forth between your very eyes as if you were in an earthquake.

As for the friends outside of your geographical area: They don’t need to know about earthquakes unless you want to share a horrifying experience like that with them via a private telephone conversation. If the quake is major they’ll hear about it from the news so you still don’t even have to update your status. If you’re in an affected area they’ll already assume you weren’t trying to update your status during a 9.7 magnitude earthquake in a computer lab in the basement of your community college. They’ll assume everything is alright and you’re not trapped under fourteen Dells and the entire library.

That E.E. Cummings quote about laughing being good for your soul or some gay shit like that? There’s a time and a place for that quote and the fact of the matter is I don’t even know the time and the place for it. Wedding vows maybe, I don’t know. But keep it away from the internet. This place is a filthy nightmare and there’s something wrong about having such an insightful piece on the healthiness of laughter next to midgets banging hairless donkeys. Whatever’s good left inside you will die the day that happens. On accident. Again.

Oh. My. God. It’s like Final Destination.

What if your status is now God’s Final Judgement? You’ve already made it this far, hear me out for only two more thrusts: You get to the gates of Heaven and Peter’s there and there’s a line and shit but it’s Heaven so like, whatever. I guess, you know? It’s only a couple more minutes. Theme parks were training for this bullshit.

And you get to the front of the line to get into Heaven and Peter’s all tripping balls in your fucking face and goes “Tell me what your last facebook status was.” Shit, and now you’re all pissed because Peter’s an asshole but then you remember that life’s entirety was training for this bullshit. So like, screw this cake fucker. Slap him down with some knowledge.

You give him your answer: “The most wasted of all days is one without laughter. It’s an E.E. Cummings quote.”

Peter gazes down at his magical book of life information. His eyes dart back and forth, searching for information about your life. You don’t say anything because it’s probably been a while since you’ve seen a book. Useless objects, you think. So glad President Obama called for The Burning in 2013. That was so cool, a nation united together, purging themselves of their most inefficient vessels of information while simultaneously giving the finger to the Ozone. Man, and who even knew Delaware was a state anyway—your mind drifts off. Peter has been looking at the book for an undetermined amount of time. His lips curl.

“You fell out of your computer chair laughing so hard.”

“Ahahahahaa,” you’ll laugh again, you stupid son of a bitch.

“You broke your neck.”

Is that irony or a coincidence, you’ll think, but “What was I laughing at?” is what will escape your mouth. “I’d think I’d remember how I died.”

“You were reading one of Jenna Rash’s status updates on facebook.” Your mouth hangs agape. You feel a sudden burning sensation in your heart. A little bit of you has died again. Peter just rolls his eyes.

“You’re the third guy we’ve had this week.”

This is how your journey to Hell begins.

Btw, don’t post poems because they don’t format correctly—especially haikus. Thx :3


Guys. Come on. Work with me on this one. has a “Word-A-Day” that is featured every day. It features—Guess what? Vivify! That’s today’s “Word-A-Day”. It’s a transitive verb which means God fuck it all– some kind of verb. It means to endue with life; to make alive; to animate. And just like that, you’ve learned a word today!

This is a wealth of knowledge, persons. Did you know that taradiddle is a noun which means God fuck it all. Some kind of verb. Did you know what taradiddle meant before Wednesday, February 10th, 2010? When I found out what “taradiddle” meant on Wednesday, February 10th, 2010, I drank a gallon of milk whilst delivering a litter of puppies from a talking goat. You guys who found out on that Wednesday know what I’m talking about.

Of course, it’s hard to not use words like billet-doux and not seem like an articulate child-molester. Then again, I’m the guy that tried passing off taradiddle in the last paragraph. Are you guys kidding me? Who the fuck is inventing words nowadays.

Taradiddle basically means a lie. One of the shortest words in our dictionary is now a ten-letter behemoth capable of padding any Clown School Applicant’s entrance essay.A three-letter word is turned into a horrific reminder for every girl named Tara with daddy issues.

You know, you have to take risks in your paragraphs. You go for a Clown School joke and a rape joke all in the short span of two sentences. There’s nothing really redeeming—emotionally, I mean—about making Clown School jokes. Clowns are people too. Clowns are silly-ass motherfuckers. Think about a Clown that can’t afford Clown School tonight before you go to bed. Imagine the Clown in the same position as you, but clutching its pillow tightly, grasping for something it can never afford because of Clown School Taxes. Pining for the sound of a honking nose, but only hearing echoes of the past in dreams laced with liquor and deep-rooted hatred for a nonexistent Clown Daddy who never existed. But a Clown can never cry Clown Tears because it always has a smile painted on its face.

I don’t know where this clown shit is going.

Nobody uses words like mondegreen, flibbertigibett, or constitutional anymore. I propose we ban use of these words in common lexicon from this day forward. These extraneous words only serve to clutter our vernacular selves. Oh shit, I just pulled a vernacular.

What to do with the words? First, I just want to say:

Give them to me.

I want these words. You guys never use these atrocities of the tongue. I want to do something amazing with these words. I don’t have any solid plans right now but one idea is to have a million kids and name them all of the funny names. Logorrhea Brown, I dub thee my first child! People will think that’s a riot. It’ll surely attract a girl with the same sense of humor into my direction. All I gotta do is wait until the first day of kindergarten so I can drop Little Logorrhea off at Pre-School and meet all the hot moms.

I mean, if you guys show child services all of this writing, you can surely stop this from ever happening.

Amazon Review

The reviews on Amazon inspire one to ask: Has anybody listened to “R______” after spending their hard-earned money on it? Or is everybody here because R______ asked them to review his album on his blog?

Kanye- sorry, I mean- R______ claims to be a “driving force” in underground hip hop in Orange County and claims to have been so for the last 8 years. Maybe R______ is confusing himself with people who actually record music that isn’t filled with references to the movies, tv shows, and comic books he consumes in his free time.

I almost wanted to make a reference about how this album sounds like a lazy man’s version of “Illmatic” , an old NAS album that anybody who enjoys hip hop should know by now. Well, one of those anybodys is R______, who’s homage to that brilliant record comes in the form of “Golden State of Mind”. Everything in here begs one to ask: does Kan- sorry, how could I forget – R______ come up with any original ideas of his own?

Does everything need to be a reference to a reference?

The album is also over-produced. Nary a second goes by when R______’s voice isn’t slathered with effects that only serve to remind the listener that R______ doesn’t actually have any vocal talent. Half the time it sounds like he recorded his vocals underwater, which is a feat in and of itself because the sound of a person drowning is usually quieter.

I know that rapping doesn’t always have to rhyme. Everybody knows that. And R______ knows it so well that he eschews every opportunity he has to rhyme by NOT rhyming. Example lyrics (from “Submarine”): “since you like drinking to break the tension /”i love you” /is your favorite sentence”. If I didn’t know better I would say this would have been LFO’s greatest record, but Rich Cronin is dead and we’re here to listen to his greatest impersonator that nobody asked for.

The opening track is probably the funniest thing I have ever heard in my life, though. A disembodied, booming voice (probably R______) claims that R______ was betrayed by those he loved and that he soon became apathetic to the things around him. “And consumed by depression”. The booming voice then declares that everybody has been waiting for him to “once again, light our darkest hour”. R______ then proceeds to metaphorically turn off every light in your house for the next 30 minutes.

What was I expecting? This is a guy that hands out free razor scooters and backpacks with his logo (with his name) plastered all over. This is a guy who writes his own Amazon reviews when he can’t get his friends to do it for him. Enjoy buying your reviews, R______, because I definitely didn’t enjoy buying your record.

Or listening to it.

The Pool

The moderately wealthy enjoy installing pools into their backyards. Well, when I’m filthy rich I want to install a pull and a jacuzzi in my backyard.

Filled with whatever I want.

Obviously the go to is pudding (a mix of tapioka and chocolate) but I think a pool filled with the fresh dough they use to make bread/pizza would feel good all over my body, too.

It’s going to take a pretty expensive filtering system and, also, a long time to ever actually happen. Today, I bring you what would be the fruitions of a person focused on making money– not friends.

Pool filled with Pudding
Estimated daily cost: $350,000
Estimated pleasure: High

Pool filled with Dough
Estimated daily cost: $750,000
Estimated pleasure: High

Pool filled with Rubbing Alcohol
Estimated daily cost: $100,000
Estimated pleasure: Low, but fun to watch

Having a pool really stews my creative juices. I’ve found that I do my best writing underwater. So a pool will help me actualize a workplace where I can focus. Writing underwater is great too because whenever people try to talk to me underwater they sound like like they’re drowning– and that’s as close as I’ll ever get to true nirvana.

Pool filled with Diet Coke
Estimated daily cost: $100,000
Estimated pleasure: High to low. Oh the highs. Oh the lows. So high. So low.

Most people suggest not drinking pool water. Don’t drink from Diet Coke pool, either; you can taste the schizophrenia.

Pool filled with Glue
Estimated daily cost: Worth it
Estimated pleasure: Highest

A pool filled with glue means a pool’s worth of horses died. It may not be fun to swim in every day but the real fun is the journey, not the destination. Although, metaphorically, I think all the dead horses make a great destination.