Just Off Center

For those of you who didn't see the changes I made this probably doesn't make much sense. I've returned my blog to it's previous state.

I was getting exceptionally bored with the layout of my blog. It needed an overhaul. I'm not talking anything too extreme and nothing that would piss you all off. Don't forget I invented the rules of the blog. I won't break them.

What I need is some thirteen year old pale skinny friendless geek to show me how to change things around. Hell I have my own webspace. I could have this site linked to a site I maintain from home if I had the time to learn how. I've even managed to pirate enough software to make my site as cool as anything you're likely to find on the Net. How proactive am I?

In the end I decided just to display only one post on the main page (because blogger made me show at least one) and put links to all of my other post directly underneath. That way you can all jump around my blog at will, free to revel in my literary talents and genius commentary on the hot issues of our generation. I feel like the proprietor of America's first library, offering such a wide array wisdom and incite with such ease.

Ok, back to earth. I just got chewed out but good this morning by one of my customers. I was just going to his desk to ask him if I could borrow a piece of his equipment because another lab had theirs go bad and were shut down because of it. Earlier I wrote about the disturbing pictures that had been fingerpainted by some kid and hung up by his father. This is the same guy. Here's how it went down.

Me: Hi Dan, sorry to interrupt.
Impotent asshat: *staring blankly at me as if I have two seconds to give a reason for being there before he pulls the lever that opens the trap door to the croc pit under my fee*
Me: Ahem. I need to see if there's any way I can borrow your ______ for a couple of days. The factory lab has one that went out for repair and their at a stoppage because of it. I know you're using yours at the moment, but the factory's downtime is of great concern to management.
Impotent asshat: What the fuck do you want mine for? I'm using it!
Me: Yes, I know and I'm sorry about that. I've already tried to get every other one inthe building, but all of them are locked in test racks or classified labs. I'm afraid your sis the only one left I can get.
Impotent asshat: What's wrong with you motherfuckers? You assholes never plan for shit like this. You know you just gave that back to me? I've been down for six weeks (lie) and now you want to steal it from me again?
Me: Was it just out for repair? Huh, I didn't know that. I can understand why you're upset then. But it should only be for a couple days. Maybe less if the cal lab can repair teh factory's sooner. It's already on a priority.
Impotent asshat: You cocksuckers just aren't happy unless I can't get any work done at all are you? Fine. Just go find out when theirs will be done. Maybe I can have it disconnected by 2:00.
Me: Sure, Dan, I'll go check with the cal lab. Like I said, we may not need it for very long at all. Thanks for being so understanding.
Impotent asshat: Yeah, whatever. It's not like you dicks gave me much a choice. Goddamnit!

Now if you're doubting that I was really so nice and accomodating, just bear in mind that this blog does not represent how I actually talk to my customers. I was a waiter for acouple years in my teens, so I guess that tempered me against such barrages. Yes he was waaaay out of line and a couple of my coworkers want me to go to HR. But I won't. He's a miserable little bastard and it felt good just taking his assault with a cute little smile on my face. I'll go talk to his supervisor, but that's about it. Whenever this happens I actually feel good. I feel that it's a skill that assholes like this don't even phase me. Still, what a prick.

In times of confusion I like to turn to the wisdom of The Byrds' "Turn Turn Turn". Sure the lyrics are taken from a book of the Bible, but we can't hold that against them. To everything there is a season. A time to be born. A time to die. A time to plant. A time to tell that psychotic cunt across the street who never stops talking and asking for your help to take care of her own shriveled ass before you take a machete to her Shar-Pei looking face.

Nina called me this morning all upset because Lynn needs her help again. Nina is losing it. She's extremely upset. And when Nina's upset she can't relax. If she can't relax we can't have fun. If we can't have fun I don't get laid. And when I don't get laid people are going to be held fucking responsible, goddamnit! For those of you who don't pay attention, I'll give the background. Lynn is our neighbor across the street. She is a sixtyish retired military officer's wife with absolutely no touch on reality. She believes she's an artist, which is a good thing because she's paying Nina to babysit her "art" at this art show that goes on all of October. She hasn't really sold anything. And the only reason anyone would like it is because they think that she's mastered the art of making it just look like she has no artistic abilities at all. It must be genius, they'll say. No, she just sucks dong at painting, but won't accept it. You should see the way the real artists at the show tear into her stuff. They're insulted by her very presence.

Lynn is about 5'6" with a face like Deputy Dog. Her body is all loose and flabby, like she never did a day's work in her whole life. She has these gigantic bulging eyes like a serial killer on approach. She's automatically in your personal space. She has a slight forward hunch due to the enormous waist level breasts she has. And she always wants a hug which pushes those things right into my stomach, causing me to lose my appetite for weeks. She is seen in her bathrobe more often than real clothes. And in case she hasn't told you yet, her cousin is Vice President Dick Cheney. This alone is reason enough to vote for Kerry. If there's even the slightest chance that the craziness in this bitch's mind is genetic, I refuse to allow it to be one heartbeat away from executive leadership.

It's the funniest thing at the art show, because she won't stop trying to impress people with the fact the she's the VP's cousin and that one of her whackjob paintings is in the Library of Congress. All she does is push people away and make small children scream in terror. I mean, so what if it's in the Library of Congress. So is every issue of Swank and Hustler. Is this something to brag on? Her signature piece is called the pink bearded iris. Check it out. It looks like a vagina exploding from the inside out. And it's a pretty good visual representation of her psyche. The woman is absolutely nuts and completely helpless. She can't do anything for herself and everything is an emergency. And ever since Nina signed up to sell her garbage at the art fair, she's been calling Nina every day to help her with whatever bullshit she's too stupid to do for herself. She really did sell her soul to the devil.

When Nina called me I decided that there was simply no way to be polite and "good husband" about helping her. Nina's problem is that she's too nice to everyone else, especially people who take advantage of her. Every time Lynn asks her to help with something, Nina does it. Whenever she goes over to her house for whatever reason, she's there for hours. Lynn just won't shut up and let her go. I get out of there by saying "well, thanks. See you later." And then, unlike Nina, I walk the fuck out the door. If she gets offended she can call her cousin to arrange a hit. But Nina won't do that. And it's really affecting her.

So I kind of got on Nina's ass about it. Maybe she wanted me to tell her that I was sorry she had to go through all this. Maybe I should have told her that I can relate to her problems. I could have been sympathetic and empathic. But now I'm getting upset about this old hag upsetting my wife and it's affecting my happiness. So I told her that she needs to set a time limit and no matter what she has to leave when the time is up. Even if Lynn is mid-sentence, which she will be since she never stops talking, Nina has to just up and leave. I guess it wasn't what she wanted to hear, and I understand that. But damn it women, if it's understanding you want, call a girl. We're men. We offer solutions, nothing more.

So this brings me back to the topic. Nina has a tough time being rude to people. I personally feel better every time I rip into some jackass who's pissing me off. But Nina's just a sweet little thing. What I'm trying to get across is that there are times when courtesy is useless, and hints and innuendo go unrecognized. There are very real times when it is not only acceptable but the only effective course of action to be a fucking asshole. "Look, I'm going to leave now. I can't help you anymore today and I doubt I'll have any time for you tomorrow. You're just going to have to figure it out for yourself. Goodbye!" She says that she can't do that because Lynn really needs her. But I don't buy it. What if I were to come up to her screaming, "Nina, it's an emergency! I need to have my dick sucked right now! I know we're in the middle of Target, but it's important!" I don't think that I'd get the same level of sweet, milquetoast response.

I'm not mad at her at all. I just wish that I could get her to let loose some of that anger. It's justified. Lynn's got it coming. And Nina will feel better. Once she feels better she can relax. Once she's relaxed we can have fun. Once we have fun I can have happy, fun sex with her. And that's really what this is all about anyway, right?

Mel's new boyfriend. You gotta love a man who knows how to use his tongue. 

Monday morning and I'm already pissed at the world. Why oh why does the whole world have to be wrong? I just need another twenty years off or so. But while I wait for the Power Ball to hit for me here are some observations I have made over the past weekend as well as today:

I was flipping through the channels the other day and I came upon the porn network. After 10 PM they switch over to hardcore porn. In case anyone is hazy on the ddiference between hardcore and softcore porn, hardcore is when they actually show the man's penis being inserted somewhere. Softcore is when they just show the woman's head bobbing from the nose up while maintaining constant eye contact with the blowjob recipient. Anyway, I stopped to watch a couple minutes of hard penetrating action when I noticed that the guy had no balls. I don't mean that weird little golfball sized uniball nutsack that a lot of porn guys have. I mean I could not spot a scrotum of any kind on this guy. And believe me, they gave me the angles to check. I can't decide if he's fortunate or not. I know most women find men's balls to be somewhat unattractive, but if the whole damn thing has shriveled up and retreated inside, that's just creepy.

There is one immutable fact about weekends. Somebody wakes up earlier than you. And they want to talk to you. Now. No matter how hard Nina and I try to plan a weekend where we can just get some fucking sleep, somehow it always gets blown by someone knocking or calling, or knocking while calling. Do we need little "do not disturb" signs for our front doors like in hotels. I mean what is it about friends and family that they don't have to show the same respect and courtesy of housekeeping?

Without a doubt the most annoying thing that I have to deal with at work is the throng of fat women who insist on using the elevator. My building is two stories. IT'S A FREIGHT ELEVATOR! And they're always carrying food. They come in pairs or trios with their Krispy Kremes and danishes in their chubby little fingers and make me wait to get on with my cartload of equipment while they gossip and bitch. Can women close their fucking yaps for even three seconds around each other? I don't even care. Just stay off my goddamned elevator you fat ugly SOGGY FUCKBRAINED FLAPPY ARMED FUCKTWIT LAZY UNFUCKABLE ASSHOOOOOOLLES!!!

My coworker, the previously blogged about Mike, was crawling around my cubicle this morning while I was surfing around some of my favorite blogs. He just happened to see Mel's blog and asked who the hottie was. I told him that I didn't know her name and that she's a girl who writes one of the blogs I read. His response? "Dude, hook me up!" Well, Mike, that may prove difficult. You see, Mel (if that's even her name) and I have never actually spoken to each other. Couple this with the fact that she lives in Long Beach and she's probably read some of the shit I've written about you in the past, I question her potential interest. But since he called me fucking cockblocker I figured, why not just make the interest known. So Mel, Mike wants to fuck you. Now somebody go get her some smelling salts.

You just know that grocery stores don't expect that a single bag of Halloween candy that they stock prior to October 15 will ever see the pumpkin buckets of their intended recipients. I mean, I must have bought $30 worth of goodies about three weeks ago. All we have left are four "fun size" Snickers and Milk Duds. It's a fucking conspiracy I tell you. The candy companies are providing kickbacks to the grocery owners and giving them all of their little bags of goodies in mid September, with orange and black chocolate coating. And we suckers just buy it all up, you know, be cause we want to be prepared. Now I'm four pounds heavier and my teeth are falling out. We Americans are under such a constant barrage from the man.

Indians are mean. Don't get me wrong, I don't expect anyone to be nice to me for no reason, and I have no intention of singling any groups out. But my place of business is right by a reservation and on it is a Chevron station where I stop for gas, coffee, soda, and the occasional pack of smokes. But every time I go in I get three times more attitude and neglect from the employees as I would ever get from the Mexicans, East Indians, blacks, and white trash that I can normally expect. It's the same in the casinos, or the liquor store, or anywhere else. It's just this stare that I get just for being near. What the hell did I do? And why do I feel like an asshole for even mentioning this?

My trusty Mozilla Bookmarks is filled with blogs of all kinds. The ones on top are my favorites and most regular reads. Somewhere in the middle are the blogs that are of intermittently entertaining content or infrequent postings. Toward the bottom are the blogs that I'm not entirely sure why I read, yet continue to click on anyway.

I won't list her blog here, because she has made me laugh on occasion, but I was cycling through the blogs this morning and came to one that had a new post entitled "Things I Hate:". It was a list of, get this, things that the blogger hates. It included things like spiders and snakes, rude people, and runny eggs. OK, fair enough. Boring as all hell but fair just the same. I can see having a list of things that you hate being a post in your blog. But shouldn't it be a list of things that you actually hate instead of a list of things that are just annoying or kind of gross?

I would have just clicked on my next favorite blog when I saw the number one thing she hates:

1. rainy depressing days unless I can stay in bed all day & watch lifetime

So this is it, huh folks? This is the worst thing that can happen? A rainy depressing day? And even that has a qualifier. Look, I don't particularly care for rainy days either. In fact I've grown quite accustomed the weather in Arizona, sunny and hot. But to say that this is the number one thing on a list of things to hate just tells me that this person has one blissful fucking life. I can just picture her during that rainy day sitting on the bench by her window, and you know she has one. As the rain comes down in sheets pounding against her aluminum siding she looks out with a morose expression as the bleak climate reminds her of those nights she sat by the phone listening to Richard Marx while waiting for "him" to call. And you know he never did.

But what really gets my goat about this is that the day can be made better by watching Lifetime Television for Women. Maybe it's just the testosterone talking, but I can't see why anyone would watch this shit. Every show is the same. And not one of them has even one foot in the doorstep of reality. I watch action movies. I like superhero stories. But that doesn't mean that I'm going to sit around wishing I was Commando or The Green Lantern. That would take away from my awareness of my life as it truly is.

Plus, Lifetime shows aren't even happy. The same character is played by a different actress on the downslope of her career. I bet I can write a storyline for a Lifetime movie without even trying. And just for kicks we'll do it Mad Libs style. Here's how it goes:

In the city of (warm metropolitan suburb) there lives a beautiful woman with a beautiful husband and the perfect life. Her name is (white girl name) and her husband's name is (one-syllable power-tie sounding name). She enjoys her life as a (independent "you go girl" career or housewife), her friends with whom she only sees while out for brunch or power walking, and her perfect relationship with her (power tie job) husband who brings her flowers, talks about his feelings and cuddles and nuzzles her without sexual expectation.

One day while (domestic task accomplished during lunch hour) she hears her husband's voice on the other side of the (partition within store). Out of curiosity she sneaks a peek through, and to her shock and emotional destruction she sees him (something that would be a sin for non-married couples) with a younger and prettier woman. Instead of facing him right then she drops her (potential purchase + self esteem) and runs out of the store. She finds the nearest ladies room where she bawls uncontrollably over the sink for a while and then slowly lifts her head up to face the mirror. There she is, her face dripping with makeup symbolic of her mask of her life being removed. She finds her womanly strength and walks out to execute her already completed, intricate plan to (means of getting back at her husband).

Cut to the next day. She kisses her husband goodbye and goes out in her new suit. She starts kicking ass at work and exercising. She is reborn unto herself. After being mistreated by her older and abusive male boss she (something completely inappropriate) and storms out swelling with pride. On her way out to her (domesticated, but trendy car) she bumps into (guy from about ten years ago). He can't believe how beautiful and strong she is. Her options are expanding. Cut to eight minute string of commercials on tampons, makeup, shoe sales, and douche.

An hour of meaningless plot building ensues. She is now the owner of (company that allows her to express her art and skills) and has left her husband at some indeterminate point. She enjoys spending time with her new guyfriend at (dinner, movies, walking, etc.). When the husband tries to bankrupt her new company and destroy her all over again she (pulls off completely unrealistic twist to destroy him). As he leaves the (boardroom or other conference location) he gives her a beaming look of newfound respect, puts on the slightest of smiles and exits.

The final scene puts her in (airport, dock, or other place she can begin her European vacation) where she shares one true love's kiss with her new guy who is constantly pumping her full of compliments like she's his last chance of ever getting laid. She calls her best friend whom we haven't heard from since all the boy troubles and gives her complete control over the company until her return. As she starts walking to her (airplane or whatever) the movie goes slow-mo and (newest girl power pop song) starts to play. The camera remains stationary as she walks in victory right past it. Cut to credits at the moment the chorus begins.

The End

Lunch today was at Taco Bell. Of course I didn't want to stuff myself with that garbage, but the other two guys insisted. The two guys are Richard and Mike. Richard is the guy who would have you believe that he's incredibly smart and funny. He's actually a rube. He always has a story that trumps whatever story you have. Most of these stories are bullshit. Richard is really a nice enough guy. You just wish that he'd stop trying so hard. That and he talks way too loud and says things that he thinks make him sound cool, but actually make him sound like a putz. He's been married for a few years and has two kids and three enormous dogs.

Mike is the same Mike from earlier posts. Mike is 33, tall, strongly built, balding, and has a big head. You remember those Tropicana Orange Juice commercials where some guy would jam a straw right into an orange? That's Mike. Mike comes from the Midwest, is a racist, a womanizer, and an extremely paranoid and private man. He is divorced and has no kids.

So after we all got our respective south-of-the-border treats we sat down and started talking. Since nonce of us really pay much attention to sports we had to resort to basically laughing at each other. Guys can do that. Girls would just start crying. Mike makes fun of my gut, I make fun of Richard's social ineptitude, and Richard makes fun of Mike's bald head. And then the cycle reverses. It's great fun. About two minutes into our meal three girls came in. They seemed like friends. They were all pretty thin and well groomed. They all had similar shoulder lengths, highlighted hair. Two of them were wearing their white outfits from the Aesthetics Institute down the road. They must have been students. They made their orders and sat down at the table next to us, the closest girl back to back with Mike.

Around this time we're making hypothetical "Book of Questions" type scenarios for each other. For a million dollars would you leave your life and never return? Would you suck our boss' dick? Would you get ass raped by five guys? Would you let another man have sex with your wife? Would you play one round of Russian Roulette? Would you lop off your non-dominant hand? For the record my answers were no, yes, yes, yes, yes, and no. Of course each scenario had to be qualified before an answer was given. Will anyone know about it? If I get shot can Nina have the money? Are they disease free? Is the million taxable?

As we continue our discussion, within which I was the most willing to do these things for my money, the girls next to us are getting up one by one refilling their drinks and getting napkins and shit. One of them walked by us, gave Mike a glance and then bent over the counter to ask an employee a question while pointing her slightly rocking ass at us. Since we were all against a wall I could watch the girls by looking at their reflections in the window. The two students had such terrible acne. How is that possible? Would you trust and aesthetician with zits? Mike isn't really paying much attention to them either. He already has three girlfriends as it is. Plus with Christmas coming up, he's going to have to start cutting them loose.

For a brief moment Richard stopped talking, allowing me the opportunity to listen in to their conversation. They were doing as all girls do when they group together during daylight hours: bitching. I only was able to make out one small portion of one of the students' monologues:

"And I'm like, hello? And then she comes over and is all like what. And I'm like yeah, I need an instructor to look at this. And she's just like well are you done? I'm like oh my God would I even have asked if I wasn't? (insert popping breath noise here) So she's all well just wait a minute, so I'm like fine, what the fuck ever. God what a fucking bitch"

Now in order to really understand what was happening here you have to try and read this out loud and in less than ten seconds. The other two girls sat there, riveted by this unleashing of girl power into the room. It was cause enough for each of them to air their own story of unfair treatment of the young, pretty (chuckle), single white girl.

After a few minutes more of Mike and Richard asking me a series of hypotheticals that generally involved some kind of anal intrusion we were running out of things to discuss. The girls got up before we did to throw away their wrappers. I was impressed with their consumption, however. Homegirls knew how to put down some nachos belgrande. So as they each get up, in turn, to go the trash can that was the furthest away they rest groomed themselves for the trip back to school. The one girl who was facing us stood up and for absolutely no reason whatsoever lifted up her smock. We could all see her cute little overtanned tummy with the cubic zirconium belly ring. She just held her shirt there for about three seconds and then dropped it and threw away her trash. The other two, not to be outdone, took their own turns inexplicably lifting up their shirts so that we could all see their cute little flat(ish) bellies. Even Mike had to admit that this was pretty ridiculous.

So we got up and threw away our trash and as we left we noticed that the girls were now sitting outside talking and smoking. This couldn't be done somewhere else. As we approached them the conversations stopped, and not even in such a way as to let us think that this was just a natural lull in discussion. We walked past, without interruption and continued our hypothetical queries all the way back to work. The girls were never mentioned. We did learn, however, that I am the only one who would consent to letting his wife get tapped by another man for a million bucks. My explanation? A million bucks is a good chunk of money, and I'm enough of a freak that I'm not entirely sure I wouldn't like it. Might as well get paid to find out.

Thanks to Amanda, I have finally managed to figure out what is wrong with me. You see, Nina and I were just happily blog surfing and talking about how everyone is beneath us because we are so inherently superior to everyone else. And suddenly, there was a link to this fantastic personality questionnaire. I just couldn't resist the opportunity to diagnose Nina as being a schizoid or some other kind of social deviant.

Twenty minutes later Nina had answer all of the yes or no questions and the results were being tallied. What a fucking rip off. The results came back that Nina was absolutely normal. I don't mean normal like "wanting to try out lesbianism for a semester or two" normal. I'm talking absolutely, totally, completely, not a fucking thing weird about her head normal. How can this be? I know damn well that my results aren't coming back so plain. There's no way that I'd find her the least bit attractive if I didn't think that there was even a slight chance I'd come home to find her with an aluminum foil hat, telling me that the AOL satellite is trying to rob her of her memories of cheese.

This test must be bunk. You know that Looney Tunes cartoon where Yosemite Sam straps some TNT to a certain key on a piano and has Bugs play The Entertainer or some shit like that? The whole idea is that once bugs hits that key, he's going to blow up into a million pieces. Dead bunny. Funny shit. Unfortunately, Bugs just won't play the song right. Every time he's supposed to hit the death key he goes off the music and plays just flat of the ivory hellbutton. In his frustration, Sam jumps in to show him how it's done. He plays it correctly and the TNT blows him up. Ironic, but still funny shit.

Well this is how I felt in my efforts to prove this test bunk. Imagine my surprise when I took the same exhaustive test as she did and it turned out that my results shows that I'm all fucked up. According to these fuckwads I have a great possibility of being a narcissist. A narcissist? Who the fuck do these maggots think they are? I'm one humble motherfucker, god damnit! OK, maybe I do crave a small amount of attention. And perhaps I've been known to hold my opinions above some of the brain doners I work with. But by and large I'm just a regular guy. Tell me otherwise and I'll cut your fucking heart out!

For the record, here are my results:

Disorder	Rating
Paranoid:	High
Schizoid:	High
Schizotypal:	Moderate
Antisocial:	High
Borderline:	Low
Histrionic:	Moderate
Narcissistic:	Very High
Avoidant:	Low
Dependent:	Low
Obsessive-Compulsive:	Low
-- Personality Disorder Test - Take It! --

Ain't this about a bitch? And they're trying to tell me that Nina earned a rating of "low" across the board? HA! I say HA to this test. In what world do I, Mike, have an issue with paranoia or schizophrenia? And antisocial? I've been to a bunch of parties. They just didn't understand my viewpoints. I'd like to see all of those asshats take this test. It'd come out the same for them all: YOU ARE FUCKING INFERIOR! DIE! DIE! DIE YOU FUCKING MAGGOTS DIE!!!! Narcissistic my ass.

For a long time I was hesitant to submit any posts about all of those Quizilla quizzes. Most of them are pretty lame. I mean even if you've got me pegged, do I really give a rat fuck about what character on Miami Vice I am. The banality is nauseating.

So like most things in my life, I decided to just take things under my own control. And since I've always been more interested in the more permanent and deep things in life (or death) I now give you:

What method of suicide are you?

Now, I've had one hell of a time getting this to work. It wouldn't publish all day yesterday and most of this morning. Quizilla is one shaky ass bit of intellectual property. If it doesn't work for you let me know. I'll keep working on it. Good luck!

There are times when all of your arguments have broken down. There are times when everything that you thought you were right about was actually wrong. There are times when you feel sorry for yourself for screwing up what you thought you had so perfectly pegged. And when this happens there is usually a person there with you who has both caused this feeling and is the only person who can bring you back. This person is an asshole.

The fact that I can be a complete asshole hasn't been a recent revelation. It's been an ongoing acknowledgement since about age ten. When I was a kid I would be the first to point out the way a classmate's last name would rhyme with something funny with which I could mock him or her. Around the age that girls became an interest I automatically took it upon myself to insult and pick on the ones who I thought would never have liked me anyway. The life of an asshole is frought with examples of hurting people before they have a chance to hurt you. Most of you know an asshole. Some of you love one.

I have come a long way from being a full time, unrepentant asshole. But still I know that I have caused a fair amount of pain in my 28 years. And as a result I feel like I have soiled some of my best chances at improving myself and helping others. I'd like to think that I have grown beyond the asshole and have done some fair amount of good in this world to match my ill. But the asshole is still in there. I can feel it. And there's no telling when he'll decide to come out for a little playtime. I have decided that others should know what an asshole really is. They should be able to identify one by his actions. They should be able to identify him, because they themselves are not assholes, and should be able to remove themselves from the situation.

• An asshole is a hypocrite. He is an emotional roller coaster who will, at times when he is behaving, proclaim that the behavior of other assholes is reprehensible and that they deserve to be lonely and unloved. But when the true asshole comes out he needs your attention and your understanding. It isn't his fault he is so misunderstood. He is right all of the time, and nobody ever seems to value his advice. If only you had the ability to see beyond what your friends wanted you to see, you'd know that he is the only person in this world who cares about you enough to tell you what about you should change.
  
  
• An asshole can rationalize his behavior. The reason he has made you feel so angry or sad is because he is just looking out for you, remember? He doesn't want you to be like everyone else, who simply refuses to see all the ways that they are wrong. You're better than that. He has taken the time out of his day to explain that the reason you feel he is being unfair is because you have a skewed perspective of right and wrong. If only you would come to understand how blessed you are that you are the train wreck he is trying to prevent. Because then you wouldn't give him such a hard time.
  
  
• An asshole wants you to feel bad. The truth about the asshole is not that he wants the best from you. It's that he wants only so much that you are better than most, but still just slightly beneath him. He wants you to recognize that the problem in most every situation is that you are too weak and stupid. He is small. He wants you to be just a little bit smaller. The fact is that you are probably a much better person than he is. But he won't want you to figure that out. He'll build you up to the point that you believe you are better than the people who hurt you. Just remember that you are not better than him.
  
  
• An asshole holds double standards. Yes, he hurt you when he said what he said. No you are not allowed to say the same thing back. Yes, he wants you to accept that he is the way he is and that you are doing him a disservice by trying to change him. No, that disservice does not extend to prevent you from changing to suit his will. Most every unacceptable thing about you should be accepted about him. And woe betides he or she who tries to make this known.
  
  
• An asshole is filled with self pity. But he doesn't want his pity out in the open. He doesn't just want you to tell him that you feel that everybody shits on him. He'd rather you just stood up for him when he's not around. He is utterly misunderstood and he is alone because of the weakness and ignorance of others. If you've ever been with someone who you felt you were always defending when he isn't around, it's most likely because you have fallen for a complete asshole.
  
  
• An asshole will self destruct when cornered. When you've finally had enough of his shit and have found a way to stand up for yourself beyond what he is able to argue, he will collapse. He will admit not that he is being unfair, nor that he was wrong in that one isolated circumstance. Instead he will volunteer that he is an utter failure at life. He will feel sorry for himself openly and ask that you just leave him already, because he is a terrible person and doesn't deserve your, or anybody else's , company. You will feel bad for hurting him so terribly. You will build him back up. He will take his ego boost and punish you again.
  
  
• An asshole knows that he is intelligent and inciteful. Why doesn't anybody get that? He knows exactly what is wrong with everyone he meets. He can instantly identify the personality flaw that will allow somebody to upset you. He is fantastic at pointing out how your enemies are weak-minded, immoral, and stupid. He will give you everything you need to feel superior to the world. He has had to develop this skill because everyone knows what an asshole he is.
  
  

You may work with an asshole. You make work for an asshole. You may have an asshole as your best friend. And god forbid, you may have an asshole in your bed. The best defense is to build yourself up. An asshole will try to tell you who you are. This is only a control mechanism. The best way to get around this is to allow the asshole to think he is being successful in this endeavor while you seek an exit. The best thing about assholes is that they burn every bridge they see. And if you are involved with one, you will see that there are many many people who will be there to help you escape. Or you may decide that you'd rather just stay with an asshole. In that case, you are probably an asshole too.

Last night, for the first time, I was approached by a group of high schoolers wanting me to buy alcohol for them. It was a strange situation. I was on break from class and just walking around the strip mall area next door where there's an Albertson's market. As I'm just peacefully moving along I notice light from a car's headlights approaching me. My peripheral vision catches a glimpse of a small white sedan looking like it's about ten years old. And as I'm walking the car is moving at the same pace as me just a few feet behind me.

Now I'm beginning to wonder what's about to happen. This is a pretty decent looking neighborhood and a public, well lit place, so if this is going to be some kind of assault, I'd be quite surprised. All the same I take my hands out of my pockets and suddenly stop walking. I whip my head around to face off my approachers. I see a little car with five even littler faces, three boys, and two girls. I can't believe how young they look. All the same, I lock eyes with the driver awaiting his explanation for creeping.

"Hey man, can my friend here get a cigarette?"
"I don't have one. I bummed this one."
"Thanks anyway, man."

I keep my eyes on the car as it slowly drives past me, toward the grocery store parking area. I continue walking as I was. I pass the store and continue to the end of the strip mall. As I am about to turn around to head back I hear a voice about a hundred feet behind me saying, "Hey dude!" I turn around. I don't recognize the two guys approaching me, but I can tell from their apparent age that they were two of the kids from the car.

"Are you 21?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Would you buy us and our friends some alcohol?"

Suddenly I feel sixteen again, waiting outside the local liquor store by my house in my friend's car, while he propositioned entering patrons. I remember the anxiety I felt wondering if a cop was going to pull up at that moment. I remember all the good times I had thanks to people of legal age who were sympathetic to our teenage plight. I immediately know that, despite my pangs of fear of being busted, I simply have to aid these kids.

I ask them what they want and they don't even know. Young kids have the worst taste in hooch. I walk out to the car with the two kids so the five of them can decide what to get. They have eleven dollars between them. The girls have nothing. They asked me for two six-packs of Skyy Blue Vodka drink. If I can't afford that, then they'd like as many 40's of Steel Reserve as can be afforded. So I walk in, buy one six-pack of the super trendy vodka crap and one 40 of the rotgut malt liquor. I decide that they can buy me bottle of Diet Pepsi for my troubles. Unfortunately I still had to pay for my own Pepsi after the alcohol amounted to about $10.70.

When I walk outside all of the kids are still just hanging out outside the car waiting for me. This is far more brazen than I was when soliciting such a service. The driver opens his trunk and they all say thanks and tell me I'm a life saver. Whatever. Then the three guys each extend their hand to me so that I can grab it in whatever hip handshake proves I'm not uncool. I tell them to take it easy and walk away. It isn't until a minute or two later that I realize that I should have taken down one of the kids' numbers, specifically the skinny, unshaven stoner-looking one. While a high school kid can't buy alcohol without an adult, a grown-up doesn't have anywhere near the access to other drugs.

I don't really do any drugs. If I'm at a party and someone hands me a joint, I'll take it and be happy that they offered. That hasn't happened in quite a while either. But in my world, it's far more difficult to find someone who can locate the fun hallucinogens I loved so much. Damn, I guess I missed my opportunity. Oh well, back to class. I sit through the rest of class with this buzzy feeling of having just broken the law. I wonder if anyone in my class saw me buy it. I wonder if they'd care if they had. But nobody did, and class when on as normal. I go home to my wife and house so that I can go to my bed and wake up to go to my job, after which I will begin my weekend during which I will write several papers for my college courses. I am glad to not be a teenager anymore. I am glad that I can't fully relate to them anymore. But mostly, I am glad to have all that I have, earned what I own, and survived far more than those kids are aware lays before them.

I was fifteen years old when I first heard Nirvana's 'Smells Like Teen Spirit'. I was simply passing through the living room in my parents' house when I heard that distinct intro coming from the family television. Right as I stopped walking and I turned my eyes toward the screen, the distortion and heavy drum beats were kicking in. It wasn't metal, but it certainly wasn't the glam rock that had been monopolizing my MTV for too long. I stood alone in the center of the room, staring in awe at the mediocre, yet dark and unapologetic video.

The unintelligible rant was nothing like I had heard. But I knew right away that it was formulaic of a new kind of music. With each passing bar I felt a swell of angst and anger rising from the pit of my guts, something that would otherwise go repressed. My face began to twist and twitch in realization of this feeling welling inside me, not growing so much as emerging. I looked like Michael from The Lost Boys did as he first watched his friends tear apart a band of drunks, slowly being overcome with the knowledge that he was the same monster as the creatures he observed.

Two weeks later, Nirvana's Nevermind broke publicly. Their first single became the anthem of Grunge rock, which brought solemnity and passion back into a genre that been consumed by ostentation and narcissism. While the rave reviews came in from critic and peer alike I remained silently pleased with my ability to so immediately recognize the impact this kind of music would have, that now seems to have been so imminent.

Over the years I have spoken with people about this, and have found that most people have their own story of recognition. People have known at first sight the likely influences that a movie or tv show would have. Others have beheld the work of certain artists and just "known" that they would alter the face of their craft. Perhaps the most impressive to me are those who have the precognition to point out a great mind before it changes the world.

The most influential ideas and intellectual inventions rarely spring from the mind of a genius without nurture and support. Sir Isaac Newton was brought up in the best schools and given government grants and access to the works and assistance of other geniuses. Abraham Lincoln was taught to speak Latin so that he would be able to understand that, while viewpoints will always differ, the language was from the same roots as his. It seems that those who recognize great gifts of intellectual capacity have the opportunity to nurture its development.

And while I sit here at work so pleasantly wasting company time on this blog I wonder if the minds of my very coworkers are the buds of genius, requiring only the proper cultivating to bloom. Recent conversations with Carl, a coworker in my office have caught my attention. Perhaps I have mistaken his odd logic for ignorance. Perhaps I should consider some of his stances on the issues surrounding our society and determine his potential for effecting a great and wonderful change in our world. I'll make an effort to paraphrase his ideas here from a collection of conversations over the past two years.

The number of hours that I get to spend with Nina each week is dwindling. Tonight I have to write a 1,400 word paper that will be due Friday. Now that the weather has dropped below coronal center here in Phoenix I am reinstating my Wednesday night trail ride with my friend Mike. This usually is completed by dusk, but then there are the few beers and associated male bonding and a 45 minute ride home. Thursdays I have class from six to ten. I attend the University of Phoenix, but I just couldn't handle that online study. Thursday through Sunday Nina works for that psychotic artist for varying hours. This Saturday I have one more class from nine until one. And then next week it starts over again.

So armed with this foreknowledge I have been enjoying every moment I have with the little woman. I love the sound of the term "little woman". It just makes her seem so cute and adorable....and utterly mine, but in the good caring way, not the scary stalker way. Well maybe just a hint of the scary stalker. So last night we watched the first two disks of Sex In The City, Season Six. It took us until about 11:30 to finish them. They were good. I've always enjoyed the show, but these episodes were just better somehow.

After the shows, it was definitely time for bed. I didn't get nearly enough sleep the night before and I wasn't trying to be a zombie this morning. I am a zombie this morning. I laid in bed trying to get comfortable and tucked in for the night. Nina had given me a quickie during a commercial break Sunday, and we had some brief, yet all out sex when we went to bed that night. So I wasn't expecting anything. Then she comes over to cuddle with me and starts kissing my neck and biting my earlobes. I'm a sucker for some earlobe nibblin'. I started rubbing her back, still thinking that we were just cuddling, maybe progressing to a little pre-sleep making out.

But even then she started increasing her rate of breath and began to rub my body with the palms of her hands while her fingers brushed lightly on the tail of each slow swipe. I decided that if this was a makeout session and if the door to petting had been opened, I was going to get a handful of those beautiful breasts of hers. The problem with accomplishing this is access. She was facing me with her chest slightly pressed against my left side. The motion of my right hand from her back to her tits was not going to be a fluid, natural one. She would know that I was going for her chest. Therefore, she would know that I was getting more committed to the idea of trying to fuck her. And if that isn't what she wanted she would likely stop being so nuzzly with me so as not to provoke or tease me. Even if we weren't going to have sex, I didn't want her to stop.

All the same, I was willing to make an effort. Second base is worth the risk. I slowly slid my fingertips down her back and around her waistline. With my fingers still pointed upward I slid my hand higher until I reached the base of her left breast. The remainder of her tit was pressed against my left bicep. There would be no mistaking my intentions here. If I was going to achieve cuppage and potential nipple rolling between the thumb and index finger I was going to have to make an aggressive move. But if she showed she was accepting of that move by backing off slightly to allow me more room to feel I knew that I was going to be allowed inside of her as well. It was a moment of truth.

And the truth was that Nina, despite her headache, back pain, and day-long nausea was not just willing to submit, but aggressively seeking some Michael dick. Within a minute of my reaching second base she had her mouth by my ear and whispered "I know you want to fuck me" She's such a sport. She's been trying so hard to let loose some dirty talk in bed to turn me on. She knows how much I love hearing her say "fuck me" in her light, feminine voice. Works every time. She followed it with a "don't you" in a very seductive and aggresive way, almost to intimidate me about what I was about to have to handle. OK, now I'm 90% sure that she's up for sex. I have to leave some room for the unexpected like maybe she just wants to give me a blowjob, or perhaps she'd rather we just got each other off with our hands. We're pretty good at that.

After a couple more moments and a great increase in the frequency and heaviness of my breathing she's still kissing and nibbling all over me and her hand reaches down to grab my cock. "Mmm. Is this for me?" Hell fucking yeah its for you! That's it. I'm convinced. Time to start working the oven. I have to say, no matter how old I am or how many times I've done it, every time I slide my hand under my wife's panties and feel that soft skin on my pads with that soft fabric on my knuckles I feel sixteen again...but able to find the clit. Still, despite all the moves she's putting on, I can't guarantee that I'm getting my wick wet until I hear that one golden phrase. "Turn off the fan."

You know that move Karate experts do where they get up off their back and onto their feet with one, kicking motion? That's about what I imagine it looks like to see me leap from bed to the ceiling fan control knob. So we're both naked, the fan is off and the mood is right. I climb back to her and we continue the heavy petting. She comes to my ear one more time to ask "what do you want?" Oh, now that's one hell of a question. At this moment I'm trying to think of something fun, imaginative, and untried. I picture one of those sex swings and other things that are logistical impossibilities. But after a moment of thinking I realize that all I want to do is get on top of her and fuck her, make myself come, and make her come until she cries.

"I just want to fuck you."
"OK. But you'd better get me off."

Ma'am, you've got yourself a deal. And so I'm on top of her. At first I indulge myself by putting my full weight on her, pinning her down and immobilizing her. Her body is mine to have as I wish in this place. But then my conscience starts to make those wise little comments. "You know how much you love getting her off? Well she gets off best when you sit up." So I do. I'm a lucky man. Nina is very flexible. I stopped to look at her body all splayed out and felt just fucking blessed. I mean women keep their legs closed all day long. They keep so much of their bodies' functions private. Their sexuality is so rarely expressed in those masculine terms. So when I see her with my arms stretched wide and one foot in each hand, such a perfect vision of this offering, I feel...loved.

Alright, enough of this touchy feely shit. This bitch is in for a fucking ride. Boom boom boom boom...SHIT!!! It's not time yet, I'm not ready to come. Quick, think of something. Ummmm... AHA! Go down on her! That'll give me those moments I need to let the boys back off. Plus it's a sure way to get her off, as long as I follow it up with some more sex. And so began the cycle. Give her head, fuck her brains out, repeat, repeat, repeat. At some point in the beginning of this process I came, and came hard. But that's no excuse for stopping. Repeat. After a particularly big one she starts pounding my chest with the bottoms of her feet to get me out and off of her. Not this time, bitch. You can forget about control. You gave your body to me and I'm not giving it back just yet. Repeat. Repeat.

Finally those powerful (and adorable) muscle legs of hers give me a squat thrust that nearly throws me off the bed. We're done now. She lies panting with little exclamations and moans from every other heaving exhale. I'm out of breath. I'm sweating. I'm a fucking God. I feel so utterly male and powerful for my accomplishments. We catch our breath and a drink of water. We cuddle again and have pillow talk. We talk fantasies and what-do-you-like's. We pass out on opposite sides of the bed, but still bound as though there were little invisible strings connecting our hearts, hands, minds, and loins.

I'm tired today. But I'm not cranky. In fact I feel pretty damned good. Good enough to write all about what went down last night. I didn't want to let this come across as an attempt at erotica. But this forum is the closest thing I have to a mountaintop; this narrative, my shout.

This past weekend I finally got around to watching Bad Lieutenant, starring Harvey Kietel as the title character. For a long time I had heard this film was a classic must-see. It was hailed as a searing indictment of the church and professed that Kietel's character was one of the most tragic in all of cinema. I'd had this movie from Netflix for about two weeks. After telling Nina the movie's description she wanted to see it too. She loves detective stories. But since it was supposed to be such a depressing film we had to find the right time to watch it. This time was yesterday, between football games and after the quickie.

After the first thirty minutes Nina had to walk away. So far all he had done was talk about the bets he was making on the upcoming baseball playoff, snort coke, drink rum, chase the dragon, complain about Catholicism, hire two hookers, and show his penis to the camera. Understanding that this was all an "artistic representation" and not being one who puts her head in the sand when an unpleasant sight presents itself, Nina just gave me a couple looks like "this is what you wanted me to see?". But she was able to cope with everything, including a nun raping, until Kietel pulled over a couple of Jersey chicks and, in exchange for not arresting them, made one show him his ass and the other pretend to give a blowjob while he jerked off on the car door. Lovely.

At this point Nina got up in disgust and told me to go ahead and watch the rest of the movie myself. This isn't the first time this has happened. It occurred to me that she did the exact same time in Bad Santa, right around the time Lorelie Gilmore started chanting "Fuck me Santa, Fuck me Santa. Fuck me Santa." I can see how that would upset her. Gilmore Girls is one of her favorite shows, and the wonan's character is this adorable, witty, beautiful woman who would never say "fuck me" to anybody. It would be like me watching Brent Spiner (aka Data from Star Trek) sucking dick for crack.

So now I'm beginning to wonder if all movies with a title beginning with "Bad" are inherently disturbing. Because so far we've got Mr. White's full frontal nudity and and American sweetheart repeatedly ordering Santa Claus to fuck her. What other movies begin with "Bad"? Let's review.

Bad Boys I/II - Well the only really disturbing thing about these movies is that they just really suck. Don't get me wrong, the acting was superb. I always enjoy watching Will Smith stretching his acting prowess by playing Will Smith if he were a cop who didn't have to follow any rules, be held accountable, wear a real uniform, or think before killing people or destroying property. What a stretch. Oscar, anyone? However, I'd already seen Lethal Weapon so this movie wasn't really doing it for me. And am I the only person who feels that if Martin Lawrence were to pull a gun on me and tell me to freeze that I'd just say "aww, that's so cute" and try to pet him on the head? Still, there's nothing inherently disturbing about these train wrecks. Oh, and my coworker, Carl, absolutely loved them. 'Nuff said.

Bad Company (2002) - See Bad Boys. Exchange players with Chris Rock and Anthony Hopkins. Again, nothing really terrible here except the fact that such a legendary actor apparantly had a few bills left unpaid and had to do a shitty black cop/white cop comedy/action thing. A sad moment for Dr. Lecter to be sure.

Bad Company (1995) - Watching Morpheus come is about as vile a thing as I can tolerate. Granted, I was relieved to see that in the end almost everybody died Tarantino style. But aside from the impossible plot, I was definitely repulsed by watching not one, but two gratuitous and loveless sex scenes between him and Ellen Barkin, who by the way graces the big screen with a flash of her bush. That too was absolutely necessary for the progression of the plotline. Next.

Bad Secretary - As far as BDSM films go, this is the Chariots of Fire. There is a kind of brutality in this S&M porno that is rarely found in today's more watered down, adulterated crap that's put out today. You've got your clamps. You've got your gags. You've definitely got your rope burns. Is it disturbing? Absolutely. OK, I can't back this up. I've never even seen it. I just ran out of titles that began with "Bad". But maybe one of you sick fucks out there can go find it help me put in a more fitting analysis of it's off-putting qualities.

Wow! That "Bad" in the title is a really telling feature on these movies. Perhaps it's a staple, kind of an understood, but unspoken rule of films like this. Then again, I did see The "Good" Son, and that was pretty disturbing too. Elijah Wood was such a whiney little pussy. That little Home aAlone dude can babysit for me any day! Hey Nina, if I let you go, do you think you could fly? BWAHAHAHAHA!!!!

As I've mentioned before, for a period of time I was training at the Indiana University School of Music for a career as an opera baritone. I chose this vocal style because my voice had changed from tenor to bass, then back to tenor all in the span of two years in high school. By the time I entered college, I had developed a very rich baritone voice that I was very proud of. But it took me all of three semesters to realize that, talented though I was, I simply didn't want to spend my life in a career I hated.I loved singing, but I just couldn't imagine depending on it my whole life. And I have almost no tolerance for drama types, though at times I have to admit that I am one, through and through.

One of the benefits of the strenuous musical curriculum I was on was that it gave me the tools needed to dissect music to its basic components with my ears. At the time I sought out only music that had some degree of musical ingenuity to listen to. I listened to Nine Inch Nails and Bizet, Counting Crows and Hoagie Carmichael. I simply couldn't tolerate the redundancies of pop, country or heavy metal and I may never be able to truly respect most forms of hip-hop and R&B. Not that there aren't talented musicians in these genres. But once you break down these songs to their base components they all look 90%. That's just not enough to keep my interest.

Every now and then Nina will tell me to listen to a song she likes to see if I like it. Sometimes I do and sometimes I don't. But I always take a stab at trying to figure out what she likes about it. A couple years ago she was all about the band Fuel. She just couldn't place what it was about the songs she liked. I could tell right away by process of elimination. There simply wasn't anything at all unique about the band other than the singer's voice, who seemed to place a great deal of emphasis on just yelling in key. That made him sound passionate. Nina likes passionate. And Mike likes Nina thinking about passion, so I decided not to do any real bubble bursting.

However, some things have changed in pop music lately so I thought maybe I should take another shot at figuring out why I like (or dislike) some of America's favorite bands and songs. And since I just happen to have a radio station on at work I'll just write about what I'm hearing.

JIMMY EAT WORLD - Their new track "Pain" is a slight variation on the repetitive tracks of their first album. J.E.W. has smartly decided not to stray from their trademark hook, constant eighth notes. In every song of theirs you like you are bound to hear that catchy hard rockin' chorus and just want to pump your fist in revolt. The reason for this is because J.E.W. uses a steady pulsing of guitar, bass and drums all playing eighth notes almost exclusively. It gives the music a very structured, but revolutionary feel. Still, I just can't get enough of it. The singer does have some talent too.

BEASTIE BOYS - Ok, now don't change the channel on me just yet, but I simply can't figure out for the life of me why I like these guys. Their lyrics are so retarded that I spend the entire song with my finger over the button of another radio station. Yet I never press it. Their samples are just fantastic and I love Ad Rock's voice. Mike D. puts me to sleep every time and you can really tell by his dynamics that MCA truly believes that his rhymes couldn't have been formulated by a 1st grade class during recess. Regardless, it looks like I'm gonna have to research this some more.

VELVET REVOLVER - Why is everyone so hot shit about this band? I think that millions were spent by the recording studio on publicity before their release just getting DJ's to tell their listening audience that they were destined for rock legend status and that their new sound is phenomenal. You know what they sound like? Guns n Roses with Scott Weiland singing, that's what. Slash is still an amazing guitar player, but he spends the entire song playing sixteenth notes in scales around the tonic and dominant. It just never ends. My prediction is that these guys will be Damn Yankees by the end of 2005.

GREEN DAY - How the fuck is "American Idiot" the number one song in America? And what is up with radio personalities trying to compare the change in their musical style to the change found in Metallica's Black Album? OK, I get it, you blame the media for the problems in America, just like Michael Moore...and Al Franken...and about twelve other members of the liberal media. So that would make you part of this new and oh so "it" anti-media wave. You know what that makes these former punk idols? Sell-outs, plain and simple. It's like that Nextel commercial with Dennis Franz telling his agent how he won't do commercials because they're deceptive...over a Nextel phone.

LINKIN PARK - It breaks my heart to say it, but I'm getting pretty fucking sick of hearing the newest permutation of "One Step Closer" they've put out this month. It's the same thing every damned time. Every song starts out with their DJ Shadow clone, aka Mr. Hahn, pumping out some catchy little sample, then the guitarist who always has his headphones on starts blaring out so much distortion you can hardly tell what note he's playing, followed by the rapper doing his usual angst filled, desperate-to-sound-intellectual rant, and finished by the blonde guy without any milk money screaming about why he's just not good enough to....whatever. Now I'm sad.

CROSSFADE - I simply can't get enough of the song "Cold". Sure it's a cookie cutter score straight out of the textbook. The melody is fairly catchy, but nothing that wouldn't be forgotten in a couple months. It gets a little repetitive in the middle too. But the singer's clarity and his transitions are just fucking beautiful. I could listen to this song every morning for a year and be ready to hate everyone who crosses my path. Let's hope they can keep the drugs and loose women at a level that they don't crash and burn Sponge-style.

I'm starting to believe that the only true test of maturity is one's ability to abstain from saying the things they want to say in the face of impending disapproval. I'm not talking about telling somebody "please stop raping my wife" here. I mean things like, "put that nasty ass cigar out you inconsiderate fuck!" not that anybody's smoking cigars in my presence, but I just wanted to offer up an example. We just seem to be seen as immature and bitchy when we don't just tolerate the stupidity and rudeness of others.

A good example is phrase "I was so mad I wanted to cry". You don't hear men spouting this one out. And women are, despite all their bitchiness, still considered the more sophisticated and mature of our race. It just seems to me that when a person denies the impulse to vocalize their base reactions to situations that upset them, that person is trying to be "mature" or at least not "be a bitch".

After our fight the other day, Nina and I made up and I decided to really really try to be a good boy to her. These things included cleaning up the dishes when she makes dinner, scooping the litter box more frequently than weekly, and not pressure her to get freaky when she doesn't want to or her back is fucking with her. The first two are easy enough. But the third has proven to be more difficult.

I'm something of a major hornball. Nina's post about us fucking all the time when we met is absolutely true and her comment about how I'm always the one who suggests something new is pretty accurate as well. Well most people would think that as we get older and more secure in our relationships that it's natural for both people to let their libido drop a couple notches. In my case the opposite has proven true. I want to get nasty every day, several times a day, and if I can think of some new way to do it, I'm totally there. I even applied at Fascination's Superstore just for the discount. Bastards still haven't called me back yet.

But to get to the point, Nina and I have been cuddling in bed these past few days. We'll turn on the tube and she'll snuggle up on my shoulder with the top of her head in my face. I like that because her hair smells nice. That reminds me, you know that list of things that women say the "perfect man" would do? Like three of them are about hair. one of them is about smelling a girl's hair. Look, I like the scent, it's not a fucking gesture of how madly in love I am. Anyway, she lays there just rocking gently as we watch either the news or one of her goddamned forensic shows. She places her arm over me with her hand on my chest. It's sweet.

I know she doesn't want to have sex. I know that her back hurts. Hell, I'm having a great time just snuggling. But then there's that other guy in my head.

"OK, now grab my cock and jerk me off. C'mon grab it. It's right there damn it! Hell I even took off my covers for you. Come on you fucking tease, my dick is right fucking there. Look at it, just laying there smiling at you, waiting for you. Grabmycockgrabmycockgrabmycock..."

What the hell is wrong with us guys? I swear this horny little voice sticks it's horny little nose into every situation. If there were a giant invasion of America and Nina and I were separated for a year by it and had to fight our way back to each other, when we first locked eyes and embraced each other bawling at our fated reunion that voice would still be there saying "finally, now I can get a blowjob again." Am I alone in this or are all guys like this? I tend to think that while I may be a bit obsessed with fucking my wife, most if not all guys are pervy bastards to some degree.

What I love most is how women think that when they go out looking all cute and sexy that guys are looking at them and thinking "Damn she looks good. I'd love to hit that!" You see the truth is along those lines, but a tad more disturbing. What women may not realize is that, unlike women, most men don't have such a well coordinated inner monologue. Most of us see that girl and immediately picture her holding on to the side of the dumpster behind the bar while they ram her in the ass while grunting incoherently. In fact, if women could somehow truly tap into our minds to watch our thoughts like a tv show I think they'd all wear baggy sweats wherever they go. And the worst part is that this isn't even a forced thought. It's a kneejerk reaction. All guys do it to some degree, with almost every even halfway attractive woman they see. Women don't want to hear that shit, but it's true and we can't help it.

Yes, men are scum. Oh well, too bad for you. Just on occasion when your snuggling with us grab our cocks and everything will be fine.

First off, all is well. Thanks for your concern. I rate yesterday's conflict about 7. I just chose this one to write about. We're just fine, but thanks again.

Well the last two posts have been so introspective and revealing that I'm beginning to feel like you're all my own personal Psychiatrists. If any of you out there are in college, I'm sure I've given plenty enough of information about myself for you to write a paper. After reading over my own writing I tend to hesitate before clicking "publish". But then I think to myself, "hey, if this upsets anybody out there, fuck 'em. Let them click "next blog", stupid assholes". So then I always publish it anyway and sit at my desk with my head in my hands thinking that if I ever run for office, every last one of these is gonna come back to haunt me.

So to lighten things up a bit, I thought what this blog needs more than anything is yet another gratuitous sex post. But I don't really have anything to talk about. Nina suggested that I write about what it was like being a vocal performance major at Indiana University. She also thought I should write about the first time we both realized that our being together was meant to be. It was a scene fresh out of a romantic comedy. But that's just a little too bipolar for me considering the last post was about fighting. Then she suggested I should write about when I thought about becoming a priest. But that only lasted about one semester and it's pretty boring.

So once again I turn to the readers. I've gotten a lot of comments and emails about how people seem to like my angle or perspective on topics I write about. So let's have it. I'll probably write another post before I get to yours so don't fret. So leave me a comment. Ask me a question, make a demand, request a clarification, or submit for my opinions. Just make sure that you somehow work the word "penis" in there somewhere.

Fuck! This fucking day just fucking sucks. I can't fucking stand fighting with Nina. We don't clash very often, but when we do we go all out. I'm not talking flying plates or smashed ottomans, but there are certainly a lot of well timed phrases meant to draw out the other's rage to a point that they can no longer use logic, thus losing the fight. It's a weird way to fight, and it's definitely more my style than Nina's. When we first got together, we fought the way we had fought with out parents. I had to be ready to defend my stance until it was utterly defeated by a logical progression of a priori truths. Then came the base insults. Nina and her mom...well I can't say because I wasn't there, but I'm guessing it was more typical of a mother/daughter conflict.

This morning's fight was all about intimacy. I don't want to get into the details of it. Don't ask me why since you can find most every other private detail about my life in this blog. Anyway, it started out with just some innocent instant messaging, then progressed into a topical discussion of the problem. Then it got nasty and ended with me just logging off. FUCK! I walked away and went back to work with a surly grimace on my face, taking extra care to intimidate all of my customers, especially the ones who like to push people around.

The main thing that bothers me about our fights is that I always feel like the loser no matter how it turns out. Even if Nina had taken a Louisville Slugger to my face for spilling milk on the carpet I'd still end up feeling guilty about the fucking milk. I'm such a bitch. There's this part of me that feels like I should be the big man who just ends this shit and takes control of his home and his woman. "Listen here, woman. I don't care what you're upset about, you don't ever EVER disrespect me in my own home!" But that'll never happen, nor do I think that it should.

So now I'm walking around all day long feeling like absolute dogshit. The problem still isn't resolved. Christ I'm so conflicted. I need some inner dialogue:

Mike 1 - Alright now we need to figure out how we're gonna make things better. We have to go home to her in about four hours, so start thinking about some methods of healing and resolving this bullshit.

Mike 2 - Fine, here's an idea. How about she stops being such an asshole and giving us an emotional beating every time she "feels" like we're not being fair, and we stop showing her all the ways that she's wrong. That works for me.

Mike 1 - That doesn't help anything, you selfish dick. She wouldn't act like this if she wasn't hurt. You know she busts her ass all day long every fucking day just trying to get everything done before we get home so that she can spend some quality time together. What the hell more does she need to do for you to just openly listen to her opinions?

Mike 2 - How about start listening to our thoughts and feelings, how's that for starters? Every fucking time we have a complaint it's like fucking Hamburger Hill over and over again. I mean it shouldn't be this hard, should it? So what if she has her own complaints. Why should we listen to her if she's not gonna produce any results for us?

Mike 1 - Look, when we met her we had a hell of a lot of growing up to do. Up to that point I gave you the reigns and look where it got us. If I hadn't intervened to help us grow up a bit we wouldn't have this job, we wouldn't have this education, we wouldn't have this home, and we sure as shit wouldn't still have her. So just shut up and take my advice. We've grown because of her. And all she wants is for us to grow just a little bit more. Just being more considerate isn't that far to stretch is it?

Mike 2 - No, in fact it's easy as hell. Here's proof. When she wanted to change careers and not hold a job while she attended school we went way the hell out of our way to show her the kind of consideration of her wants that most people never get in their whole lives? That was fucking consideration. And that's just one example. We've considered her feelings and thoughts and wants and needs and anything else you can think of for almost a fucking decade, and the demands haven't even slowed.

Mike 1 - You arrogant fucking prick! What the fuck does that have to do with this discussion? Fine, how about when she played the role of the submissive and ineffectual military housewife who just happened to work manual labor sixty hours a week while you were jaunting around in your cock-swinging, camouflage boys club? She's given just as much as we have, so leave the past out of this shit. Stick to the subject and we might be able to get through this. Otherwise I'm gonna coldcock your militant ass and just get on my knees begging her for her forgiveness, whether we need her forgiveness or not. Now quit changing the subject!

Mike 2 - Fine! Look, here's what's happening right now. She's walking around with Scott, doing chores and talking about some bullshit. All the while she's feeling like shit because of this morning's exchange. She feels hurt and vulnerable. She probably wants to make things right, and is willing to sweep some of her problems under a rug to do it. Why not take advantage of that situation? If you let me write the narrative, I can have her truly believing that she was wrong.

Mike 1 - You're probably right. And guess what. That's exactly where we are too. And besides, it's not about who's right and who's wrong, dumbass! It's about communication. I know we tried to be polite and apologetic, but it was you who chose to just log off like that, essentially hanging up on her. And you know how pissed you get when someone hangs up on you. As far as I'm concerned this whole mess could have been avoided if you had just been a little more respectful of her feelings when she was talking to us not only this morning, but last night as well.

Mike 2 - Maybe that's true. So what. Hell even though I don't believe it I'll go ahead and concede that this whole thing is my fault. And guess what. It still doesn't change the fact that she was way the fuck out of line on IM this morning. You heard her. "I'm giving it my all and you're giving it your minimum". What the fuck was that? If she thinks this is our fucking minimum, maybe we need to drop the ball and show her what the fuck a minimum effort really is. I bet she'd have some respect then, wouldn't she?

Mike 1 - From now on I'm just gonna call you Grudge, okay? I mean yeah that hurt when she said that. And before you get going, yes she did say a lot of shit that hurt us. But don't kid yourself. Even though I was doing my best to keep the peace and rephrase all of our thoughts, some of those thoughts were still yours, and still selfish and hurtful. Now here's what's going to happen. We're going to call her and see what she has to say. We'll take it from there.

Mike 2 - No more apologies.

Mike 1 - Fine, no more apologies. She knows we feel bad anyway, and we know that she feels bad too.

Mike 2 - We don't know that. For all we know, she's just waiting for us to put up the flag of truce so she can pull out the big cannons.

Mike 1 - And if that happens a promise you right here and now that I will hand over the controls to you and make no judgements or attempts to impede. But aside from that, you are just gonna follow my lead. It's the only thing that's ever really worked. And remember, we've got a whole lifetime left to spend with her. I'm not gonna spend it uncomfortable.

Mike 2 - Alright, I'll let you take the helm this time. But don't think for one second that I'm not gonna be whispering in your ear the entire fucking time. If she throws out even one "asshole" I'm taking over.

Mike 1 - Trust me, it won't come to that. She's sick of this discussion as it is. Just give me one hour of conversation. It'll be fine.

Mike 2 - Fuck you.

Mike 1 - Fuck you right back.

I was ten years old when I got my first boner. My buddy Kyle and I were on recess drawing anatomically poor renditions of the naked female form. We had no idea why we were doing this. We just had to do it as though we were cavemen chiseling huge, perfectly round boobies in the slate walls of our Catholic elementary school. Kyle asked me if these things gave me a "boner". I had no idea what a boner was. In all probability I had probably had several of them, but simply didn't realize it. At that age anything that didn't help me in my pursuit of building the perfect Lego creation didn't warrant much attention. Kyle was able to explain to me what was going on as best as another ten year old could. During a sleepover that next weekend he showed me his father's magazine collection, my introduction to the true beauty of the female form.

Page after page we flipped in awe of these mysterious creatures as we sat on his bed with the lights out and a green Army flashlight in hand. The layouts were much the same then as they are now. The first page or two would show a woman who could have been our mothers' age wearing a slip or scarf or some other garment. The point was that her naughty little bits were covered, so we flipped right past. The rest of the layout showed these representations of physical beauty nude and unashamed, posing in all manner of unnatural contortions.

The boners were always there, but that didn't matter because at that age we didn't know what the hell to do with them anyway. At least I didn't. It didn't seem at all wrong to be sitting on a bed with your best friend when you both had little preteen woodies. Most of the girls in thes pictures were looking at me. Some were touching themselves. Some were touching each other! And in a few magazines the girls had close-up pics of them stretching apart and opening the flesh around their...their...well we didn't really even have a name for it back then. And we certainly had no idea why it was quickly becoming an obsession. These photos made up my first memories of nudity and sex.

Several years later, around age 14, I was well aware that the girls in my class were now beginning to look very similar to the women in those magazines. Maybe I just hadn't been looking before, but they seemed to be swelling up in certain areas, while staying the same in others. They were growing taller than me and those Catholic schoolgirl uniforms were hanging on them very differently. Not only were their bodies changing, but so was their behavior. They were no longer huddling together on the playground to tell secrets, utterly isolating themselves from the boys. Now they were still whispering in each other's ears, but they were looking directly at us. They were grouping together to watch us play our recess sports. And they started to "like" us as word traveled through lunch line and the passed note. This was strange to me because they were still completely laden with cooties.

Going to bed that year, I began to notice that my thoughts were strolling away from blacktop fights and soccer field glory. Now there were just stationary images in my head of the girls in my class, some of whom I didn't like at all. They didn't move at all. Perhaps my mind didn't know what they were supposed to be doing, so it just imagined them still. I wasn't touching them or talking. And I couldn't get their faces and bodies out of my head. The erections were back and they were beginning to affect my schoolwork. They popped up randomly throughout the day. And each night I would slip into bed and there it would be, as swollen and sensitive as ever. I began to play around with it out of sheer curiosity. What the hell was causing this condition? Why did it feel different to touch it at this state than it did any other time? Should I ask the school nurse?

Within a week of touching it deliberately I had my first orgasm. It scared the living shit out of me and I didn't touch it again for over a month. I had discovered that if I grabbed it and pulled upward that this strange feeling begin to overtake me. It took several days of bringing myself to the brink and stopping out of fear before I committed to discovering this unknown region of my body's functionality. I decided that whatever was about to happen it couldn't happen in bed. It definitely felt that there was something that wanted out, and I couldn't risk letting my mother find it, so I moved into the bathtub. Whatever it was, it could be drained away with the bath water. And so I went all out, despite the splashing noises coming from my movements. And what happened next terrified me for weeks.

I had gotten to a point close to that before, but I always stopped. But this time, instead of just feeling a linear progression of the sensation, it seemed to be increasing exponentially. I couldn't hear, I couldn't think. I was in the grips of some great pressure and I couldn't decide if it was hurting me or hugging me. It felt like I was trying to piss, but it was difficult like using rusted out pipes that hadn't been used in decades. And in an instant it subsided. It took me a few seconds before I could open my eyes again. And what I saw forced me to leap out of the tub as though I had just noticed a copperhead snake writhing around next to me. I could only think to myself "what the hell is that!?!?" I drained the tub, scrubbed it down, dressed, and left the bathroom feeling confused and a little frightened.

I couldn't touch myself like that for over a month. By that time I was 15 and falling in love with my first real girlfriend. As we fumbled around with each other's body I realized that if I wanted to seem like a real man, I was going to have to face up to my fears and try that tugging thing again. If there was any more left in there I needed to get it out before she decided to start touching it for herself. I just knew she'd dump me if she saw it. And so began a lifetime of self-exploration, a path we all take alone, and sometimes without the knowledge that anybody else is going through it too.

In retrospect, it seems to me that a great majority of this awkwardness and fear could have been easily averted with just a couple of candid parent/child talks. I never got the "birds and the bees". My budding sexuality was met with silence, feigned ignorance, and the occasional disapproving look when my mother would find a wad of soiled toilet paper I had forgotten to flush. I also find it strange that my, and so many other boys', first image of sexuality was in men's adult magazines, some of which containing rather disturbing pictures of women holding themselves open or getting busy with other women. Perhaps there's some clue to our weird little ways in there.

Anyway, I wrote this because I think my experience was a lot more difficult and embarrassing than it needed to be, and also out of curiosity of whether or not anybody else had a similar experience. Of course the girls go through something altogether different, but perhaps they can read this and know that they weren't the only ones with awkwardness or fear, even disgust. But then, maybe it means nothing and will have no impact at all. It is just a blog.

There simply must be an explanation for why I only think to call my mother or other family back in Indiana when I have a 40 in my hands. It's just a trigger. I'll be sitting there enjoying my domestic pilsner and it will occur to me that I hadn't received my weekly dose of guilt yet. So about every weekend I call and listen to my mother give me the same speech she wrote about five years ago and has been replaying every time I call. It goes a little like this:

"Hi Mike, how are you? How's Nina's back? Is she working yet? I just finished talking to your brother. When are you going to move back to the midwest (this used to be Evansville, but I think she's broadened it to midwest to improve her chances)? Don't you love me? You know, we don't have anything in this world except our families. Can't you have your company transfer you? Are you still in school? I just want one of my kids to get a bachelor's degree. You'll be so proud of yourself when it's finally yours. You could ask for a transfer and move to Atlanta. Then you could at least fly up for a long weekend once in a while. How's Nina's back? Is she working yet? It was nice talking to you. Bye."

This has been what I've been subjected to every single time I call for years. She nags constantly, begs me to move back to farmland fuckhole Indiana and repeats over and over the questions I'd just answered five minutes prior. Well, I guess it's becoming a bit more clear why I only think to call when I drink. But to spice things up, among the usual complaints, last night's run-through included a new element:

"You know the midwest is a great place to raise your kids. I know you say you don't want kids, but I'm telling you, you're going to regret it. Well there's still some time. I think you should be thinking about it, and I'm your mother, so I'm right. Your brother only has daughters. It's up to you to carry on the family name by give me grandsons. OK, but you'll regret it."

Holy fuck. The first time she brought this up was right in front of my grandma, like I was going to somehow be cornered into agreeing to impregnate my wife. And is it me or is it a little creepy discussing reproduction with your mother? Maybe I'm just old fashioned, but I don't want to say "ejaculate" to my mother. But anyway, this was the first time she had introduced the pressure to reproduce in a weekly call. And knowing her, in about a year it'll be part of the regular routine. And what the fuck is she wanting the family named carried on for? It's not even her name. Dad left when I was 14. We jsut never changed our last names. And no one in that bloodline has ever accomplished anything worthy of holding onto anyway. Just let it die, already.

So let's just get the record straight one more time so there's no confusion:

"Hi mom. I miss you too. Nina's back hurts. Yes, she's working anyway. Mom, I may never move back to the midwest, and I'm definitely never moving back to Evansville. Yes I do love you. Yes I think family is very important. Yes I do. Yes I do. Mom, I said I do, so I do. No, I can't have them transfer me yet. Atlanta is our HQ, so I don't really get to "tell them" anything. Yes I'm still in college. Yes. Yes. Yes. Nina's back hurts. Yes, she's working anyway. Nina and I aren't having kids. No, mom, not ever. No I don't think we will regret it. Mom, I'm only 28. Nice talking to you too. Bye"

I should just record each of these phrases on my computer and press a button to suit each question she asks. She did tell me that she is very proud of me and that despite having no role models to look up to I've turned into a very good man. That was nice of her. But I'm still not moving back and I'm still not having kids. Mothers. What more can be said except just...mothers?

have you ever wondered, if when you were a little kid and your mom came in your room to kiss you goodnight, if she'd just given your dad a blowjob?

On the topic of cannibalism, if you are in a group of starving people and have no choice but to eat the dead, how do you go about selecting a survivor for the filleting process? I mean supposing you have a healthy sampling of professions at your disposal, which one do you vote to actually separate the meat from the bone? A chef would definitely be able to cleanly pull the flesh off and maybe make the meals more savory, but isn't it likely that he'd make the portions too big. Plus there's always the knowledge that he'll from that point on only think about the next meal he's planning which is a little creepy. A doctor could probably do a good job too. But who wants to eat just a severed liver. Doctors don't usually do well with seasoning dead people. My vote is just whichever one will puke on the meat the least and will get enough satisfaction that he doesn't end up trying to stab me instead.

I was once told that country music is the only kind of music that represents the common man. This was done with a great deal of satisfaction like "take THAT you NIN loving freak!". Well what's so great about being common? I thought that being a common man just meant that there was absolutely nothing extraordinary about you. And why the hell do common people need their own form of music anyway? These are the same people who would answer that question with "well, black people have rap". Rather than ask these questions I asked him if he had ever heard the composer Aaron Copland's "Fanfare for the Common Man". I now have a permanent mental image for "dumbfounded".

When are talking electronics going to come back? There was a brief period of time in the late 80's when scientists were giving all of the high-end electronics voices to go with their displays. Anyone remember, "Your door is ajar. Your door is ajar"? How about talking calculators and personal translators. But then it all just disappeared. When I scan my badge at work I want to hear the turnstile say "welcome, professor". I want my watch to tell me it's lunchtime. I know we're moving in the right direction with the new phones that say "you have an incoming call", but damnit I want to hear a stoplight that calls cadence for a change.

What on this beautiful planet is better than International Delight brand French Vanilla creamer? It's like a magical elixer. This stuff turns even the most murky caffeinated liquid shit into a fine cafe. If Nina told me that the blowjobs were coming to a screeching halt unless I gave up the creamer, I'd sign up for yoga and a rib removal procedure. There are some things that just aren't negotiable.

I've put a lot of effort into this and I still can't think of a better way to die than blowing up. People wonder how these suicide bombers are able to do their duty, but it seems plainly obvious to me. It's got little to do with the promise of great gifts in the afterlife and everything to do with knowing that you're about to make a noise heard six mile away. Gun enthusiasts feel safer and more powerful when they have the bigger better firearm in their hands. Just imagine how it feels to walk around sporting a polyester/C-4 blend sweater vest. I think that deep down everybody know that getting blown up is super cool so we can't implement it as a form of capital punishment. It would almost be like a reward.

They may be hard to spot but there are still people around who are just as proud as they can be of how low tech they are. I'm talking about people who boast that they have never owned a computer, cell phone, pager, cd player, digital watch, etc... They still listen to cassette tapes of David Lee Roth's "Eat 'em and Smile" and have a garage door opener the size of their foot strapped to the visor of their rusted out Nissan. People like this get a small amount of respect from me that I just can't bring myself to display openly. It's like watching a pterodactyl flying over the horizon. You know their time is coming to a close. You don't really care, but you're kind of glad you were around to see their last descent.

Hearing disorders rule. Mine rules especially well. Sure, not being able to hear anything in noisy environments has caused me to do poorly in school, bloom late in social skills, and generally develop a shitload of weird mannerisms like staring at my own hand. But it's given me a great deal of time to brush up on other skills like instant arithmetic (when I'm hot, I'm like a fucking calculator), creative thought, and lip reading. Well I still can't read lips, but that's just because in relatively quiet places I have the ears of a hawk so it's not really all that necessary. Plus I don't usually care enough about what people are saying to bother.

No matter how many times I see Wile E. Coyote fall off of a cliff it never fails to crack me up. It's just such a perfect world they live in. Coyote chases Roadrunner. Roadrunner outwits Coyote. Coyote plummets to the earth with a giant chunk of rock to smash him in the head on impact. To this day, I can't think of a better way to see the demise of my enemies. I think we should all carry around little signs in our back pockets with phrases like "Oops!" and "Mother".

I've found that as a general rule, whenever faced with the opportunity to offer up a quantitative testimonial, women will always exaggerate by 50 to 2000 percent. For instance, when a woman says that she gives her husband about twenty blowjobs every year, the truth will usually be between 2 and 10. If a woman says she's had to deal with "like fifty people" on the phone that day, it's probably more like eight. Some men do the same kind of thing, but I see no reason to drone on about that.

Almost every conservative person I've ever met has their entire belief structure rooted in fear. Those poor suckers who actually attempt to take me on in debating the issues have always backed up their stances (ripped right from the mouths of politicians and news anchors) with some comment on how they're just protecting themselves and their families from terrorists/criminals/Mexicans/etc... Here's an idea, try opening up your mind to the reality that you don't need to kill people to be safe and no matter how much you shield yourself, you're still going to die anyway and so is your entire family. What a bunch of asshats. Also, if you want to beat up on a conservative in debate just start making up statistics to back up your claims like "in 1931 the number of guns in America spiked 212% and the rate of gun related crimes went up 197%". They'll never know you're just pulling proof out of your ass.