Just Off Center

The other morning Nina had a bad dream. Like most of her nightmares it included all the cussing, crying, and yelling that you may have seen in some Hollywood dream sequence. It always ends with me shaking the fuck out of her to wake her up and tell her that she was having a bad dream.

“It was just a dream, honey. Just a dream. No bad things happened, everything’s just fine. I love you. It was just a dream.”

Last night’s was no big surprise. Nina and I had gone on vacation, I don’t know where. While we were there, I just laid it on her that I was having an affair with Becky, a girl that I had been seeing (see also: using) just before Nina. Not only had I been having an affair, but I was leaving Nina for her…right then. Of course, despite Nina’s cries and screams, I just stood there stone face. I offered no explanation, no remorse, no reason, and no openness to discussion. This is how I always am in her dreams; cold, mean and heartless.

And as with all nightmares of hers I got to spend the next 24 hours or so assuring her that I wasn’t going to leave her for my fallback lay in college.

This is no new for us. You see ever since I met Nina I’ve become an integral part fo her dreams. Usually I’m the part that’s doing something terrible to her. Since we’ve met, I’ve beaten her, stabbed her, thrown her from rooftops, cheated on her with every woman who’s ever laid eyes on me, murdered her pets, run her over, cut her, and just generally been a complete dick. I am the amalgam and mergence of everything rotten and evil in her dreams.

I’ve learned to deal with this and the way she wakes up mad at me for the rest of the day when she has these dreams. I know it’s not intentional. However, lately she’s been very mindful of my interactions with the opposite sex. It could be the weight loss. It could be that I am away from home so much. It could be anything. But Nina has taken quite an interest in knowing who’s looking at me and why. Though I’ve only just begun to notice that women are looking at me more, she swears that they always did.

The other day, Nina and a friend of ours and I went to a makeup store called Ulta for some shampoo and stuff. I was really just tagging along. I don’t much like stores like that. Usually there are two reactions I get. First there’s “Oh, there’s a guy here…isn’t that cute. Look how he doesn’t know anything about any of this. That’s so cute.” Then there’s “God, I wish these men would just stay the fuck out. Why do they come in here trying to be all cute with their…man-ness!?!”

Anyway, inside the store was a young, pretty employee who was getting a makeover in the makeup section. Nina pointed out how beautiful she was and then just pouted and walked off. I didn’t pretend to understand. After the makeover was done, she was strutting around and I couldn’t help but notice that I was the only man in the store. And every direction I looked there would be eyes suddenly averted. I don’t think I was being checked out so much as the girls were all gauging my reaction to the makeover recipient. It was uncomfortable. When I left I told Nina and Vanessa about it. They hadn’t noticed a thing.

Yesterday, Nina was telling me that she doesn’t like that I’m noticing that women are looking at me more. Well, that’s not exactly the most confident or sexy reaction. But it doesn’t matter anyway. I tried to explain to her that, at most, I was just being looked at. Girls weren’t interested in me, just looking at me. Nina didn’t believe me. But I told her “Honey, if a girl is interested in you she doesn’t look away. She makes eye contact. That’s the sign to make a move”

Still I can’t deny it feels good to be looked at. Then again, I wonder if the Elephant Man shared my opinion.

Ok, so what is up with all the fucking lesbian overtones in blogland lately? I swear this once pure forum for our little cliques to express our thoughts and feelings is turning into a lesbian chatroom. I figure it’ll be about six months before one of these girls starts charging for access to her website.

Don’t misunderstand, I dig girl on girl flirtation as much as the next guy (who knows that they’d just be posturing until a real dick showed up), but I have to admit that it’s becoming more rampant with every passing day. All I see are girls posting pics of their clothes or some new shoes and every girl out there leaves comments like “damn, you’re a fucking hottie *rowr*!” Now, this is fun and all but then within the hour the comment gets a response along the lines of “name the place and I’m yours *double rowr*!” And the funniest part is that whenever one of you girls does something sexy, there are inevitably all these great responses from the men. But you don’t seem to even notice. It looks something like this:

Damn, I think I’m in love!
Buddy_Ravel | Homepage | 06.20.05 – 9:53 am | #

Holy hell, you are fucking SMOKIN’ hot. Thanks for the material. If you’re ever in the Massapequa area, look me up! : P
JoeSchmoe | Homepage | 06.20.05 – 9:58 am | #

*Rowr* I think I need to run to the ladies room for a minute.
Shellypie | Homepage | 06.20.05 – 10:02 am | #

B: Aw thanks, you’re so cute :P

J: Hehehe…don’t forget the Jergens :P

S: Ooh baby, that’s hot. You’re going to waste all the red hot passion on little ol’ me? Damn, now I’m REALLY glad I posted this. I’ll be at the Days Inn room 142 off the 101 exit 28 tonight at midnight. Do you like lace or leather. *double rowr* :D
Desperate_Housewife | Homepage | 06.20.05 – 10:03 am | #

So what’s up, ladies? Are you looking to hook up with each other or not? Seriously I’m confused. Most of you seem to have husbands or boyfriends. Are you really checking each other out or is this just one of those things you do to make sure that your girlfriends feel sexy? I mean I know this one girl who’s 400 pounds if she’s an ounce. When she said that she was fat, Nina remarked “oh no you’re not that bad.” What the fuck was she talking about? I mean the fucking passenger side of my car was sagging. So is this just your way of commending each other on being brave enough to publish pics of each other or are you really thinking about gettin’ some stinky on your pinky?

No it can’t be as simple as affirmation, because I’ve seen how you interact in real life. Some of you anyway. And when the hell did it become so fucking cool to be a lesbian anyway? Don’t get me wrong, I couldn’t give a fuck if you’re gay, lesbian, bi, tranny, etc… but when did it become so especially hip for a girl to get busy with another girl? Hell it’s almost at the point where a girl would thry her hand at eating pussy just for the street cred. I mean you’re all obviously not lesbians since most of you have a large, hairy arm to hang from when you go out. So what’s the deal? I’m utterly flummoxed.

And what if the roles were reversed, how sexy would that be? Last week I was riding in the back seat of a friend’s car with Sam. As a joke he put his hand on my thigh. I looked down at his hand then up at him and said, “Don’t let your hands make a promise your ass can’t keep”. We chortled like men and that was the end of it. But what if we weren’t kidding around or if we played like that all the time. Would you women think that it was hot? I mean not that Sam really wanted me. But isn’t it just so cute when we act fucking gay? Seriously, when did feigning an interest in licking your friend’s clit become the norm for cool female relational behavior? Well whatever the reason, I’m not going to encourage you to stop. Because you know in my mind nothing says “buddies” like sharing a double-ender.

Ah Phoenix. Home of the Suns, Diamondbacks, Coyotes, ASU, about 4.2 million illegal immigrants, and this giant pile of slag laid smack in the middle of the fucking metropolitan area. This is Mount Camelback. It's used as a training area and proving ground for health nuts valley-wide. This particular peak kicked the shit out of me the first time I took it on. So now I'm going back. The gauntlet has been thrown down. Well not literally, a mountain can't throw down a gauntlet. But you get the idea.


The three things I need for any good hike: my Ipod (decorated with a neutrino interaction event from within a bubble chamber couresy of Grace, some delicious, lovely, scrumptions, healthy, pure O-Premium water, and something to wrap my head in. The Viagra lable wasn't necessary, but I think it helped.


It's 6:15 AM and already as bright as an incubator. Here's the '98 Chevy Lumina that will take me to the mountain some fifty miles away, despite its constant squeaking and squawking.


This part of the mountain that I shot from the stairway was just cool as hell. I should have done some research to be able to tell you all about it. You likely couldn't give a rat fuck anyway. But it is pretty, huh?


I call this the stairway. It's right at the beginning of the hike and goes on and on and on and up and up and up for at least the first quarter of the total climb. I got good and winded by the time I got to some real climbing.


Without a doubt the steepest portion of the climb. It wasn't the hardest to handle, but you really had to mind your footing. A lot of people used the handrail they had to install. A lot of people are pussies too. Though I know the only reason I say that is because I haven't taken a proper tumble yet. Note the left side that is for the climbers while the right for descenders and how smoothe the left side has worn from foot traffic. Yeah, that made it tougher.


This snap really doesn't capture the true incline of this section. Remember, I'm pointing the camera upward here. I had to stop for air a few times on this part. Meanwhile I was getting passed by the "fitties" who were actually running this course.


A standing metaphor for the way I felt at this point. I think the dead cactus had it better off. Hikers and runners kept passing me by as I heaved and huffed my way over every boulder. Fuck 'em. They'll probably have heart attacks by 40.


I'm on top of the world! Well the Phoenix metro area anyway. This is a shot of the downtown area. Notice that we don't have a skyline at all. No, to survive in the desert, one must be low to the ground. But still, you're looking at about 800,000 people anyway here I assure you. I DON'T HAVE CITY ENVY!!!


And here I am at the top of the mountain. Yay. Is it just me or do I have some weird bowing thing going on with my left leg (the one on the right)? I might want to get that checked out.


It's a long way down from the summit, though this picture hardly does it justice. This spot was perfectly flat and extended out over the drop. A perfect place for a jump. So I'm morbid. Sue me.


And the hike is done. It always feels good to take care of my body on a Sunday morning. And here's a man's lunch to reward myself. It's Sunday, so I hit Subway up for two of the six inch chicken sandwiches on special. And the beer I got for $5, normally $7.99. How you like me NOW?!?


Here. You can have this for your precious half naked Thursdays or whatever it is. This is the weakest part of my body, my right ankle. More than any other part, this one let's me know that someday it might just decide to not let me keep my balance at these heights. It's sore, swollen, and tricky. It's had occasion to just stop working at times. Yes, Nina's already set me up with an appointment. Worrywarts.


OK, the truth here is that I still had a few shots left in the roll of film and I'm thinking about updating my bio pic. Still, maybe I'd want to get a shower and shave before I take a shot of myself for the new avatar.

And that's it! Thanks for following along my pictoral history of this morning's hike. Happy Monday (or whenever it is that you see this)!

I was listening to “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” this morning on my Ipod. It’s one of the only country songs I have, with the exception of all the Johnny Cash I can fit. It occurred to me that there might have been some errors in judgment in the song. In my mind, the Devil clearly won the fiddle battle against Johnny. Johnny’s soul should be scorching in Hell right now. That lame assed arpeggio he kept throwing out was nowhere near as cool as the funky ditty that Satan and his demons orchestrated. But the Devil just gave up and tossed Johnny that golden fiddle. I think Satan should have called in an objective third party to judge this one.

Has anyone ever noticed how pretty yellow lights are? I mean usually I’m just trying to race through the intersection before it turns red. But every now and again I’ll get caught at a yellow knowing that I won’t be able to make it. I noticed the other month that the yellow hue that holds the middle position on a traffic signal is actually quite pleasing. Maybe I’m weird. No, I’m definitely weird. But I might also be right about this.

Arrowhead water tastes like shit! I used to be one of those guys who thought that drinking bottled water was absolutely retarded. Then I started receiving some for Nina to use in her cooking and to drink while she worked out. I got used to it. Now tap water makes me fucking ill. And among bottled waters, Arrowhead is the worst. It’s just like tap. It probably is tap. Fuckers. I actually bought a bottle of it at the snack bar down the hall, emptied it out in the drinking fountain, and filled up the bottle with the Sparkletts jug in my office. That would make a nice commercial, huh?

I’m so proud of myself. I have to be careful about bragging though, because I don’t want to come off as cocky…oh fuck it, who am I kidding? I crossed under 200 pounds the other day, my lowest weight since I was 22. Plus, I’m running now. I wait until it’s dark and go for a run around my community. It’s just getting too fucking hot here in Phoenix to exercise outdoors during the day. Plus I get to run with no shirt on. There’s something very liberating about that. Anyway, I have been running five kilometers each time I’ve went out this week. It’s getting easier and I’m feeling better. Yay me! Wait, was that over the top?

I’m feeling a little guilty this morning. I really chewed the shit out of Sam today. I mean, I know he deserved it, but still I hate that I was put into that position. He’s feeling homesick again. So he decided that he was too upset to work. So did he call in or go tell his boss that he’s not well? No. Instead he decided to tell his boss that his aunt had just died. Great idea, asshole. And when his employer contacted Sam’s parents to offer their condolences, his mom was forced to cover for his story. I’m working two jobs and about 84 hours of my week are spent working or commuting. I can’t explain how offended this move makes me. So I called and ripped him a new one. I think he’s probably crying now. Fuck it. I fucking hate this situation.

Enough for now. Back to work.

I know that a few of you haven't finished your posts yet. But in the interest of not losing what little bit of attention of stirred up from this game I'll just go ahead and let everyone know who's who.

Duckie was assigned Jeremy
Jeremy was assigned Grace
Grace was assigned Quyen
Quyen was assigned Larry
Larry was assigned McGibfried
McGibfried was assigned Nina
Nina was assigned Cece
Cece was assigned me
I was assigned YoJ
YoJ was assigned Trevor
Trevor was assigned PlatinumGirl
PlatinumGirl was assigned Yankee Bob
Yankee Bob was assigned Mel Mega
Mel Mega was assigned Steve
Steve was assigned Agent LAH
Agent LAH was assigned Duckie
Duckie was assigned Jeremy

And we're full circle once again. Thanks to all who played (or are still playing). I'm thrilled about the turnout and the fluididty with which you all seemed to transition to another style. Except you, Cece. I would have TOTALLY said more rotten things about my exes!

And now back to your regularly scheduled angst.

We lay next to each other and the fan is whirling
It’s pace keeps me cool
But I want to turn it off and get hot against your flesh

We lay next to each other and my finger traces your thigh
I sense your awareness of my longing
A slight tension builds inside you about your next move
I can hear your mind bite its lower lip

You tell me I’m randy
You’re right, and I’m vulnerable again
Perhaps you’ll give me your body if only for a minute

“You’ll have to turn off the fan”
I try not to leap toward the control knob
But you already know that I’m desperate

A little lubrication in my hands to prepare your willing but tired body
The scent will stay with me through the night

You move to the center of the bed so my right leg stays on
I position myself above you.
Your knees point to the ceiling and I feel lucky and crazy
This must be my lust

I feel you stifle a small groan when I slide into you
I want you to know that I love you
I want you be my filthy little slut

I stroke evenly and gently, your body sucking me in
The room is dark and your breasts are magnets to my heart
And with only a moment elapsed I feel myself swell
This time is for me so I allow it to happen

And with one fluid motion I prop up and clutch my dick,
The only part of me in existence at this time
I feel the eruption of seed from my shoulders
The room is still dark and your stomach is puddled

You say nothing and I know you accept me
I have soiled my Madonna, which you never wanted to be
I am grateful. You are empathic.

And as I take care to tumble to the side
You stand and walk away unaffected
I know you’ll be back and want me to talk
I know you’ll lay down and expect me to sleep

We talk about things I can’t even remember
And the sex we just shared is a gift you’ll remember giving
I’ll carry your scent and the memory of the silk ribbons you keep inside

The alarm wrenches me from a dream
My blood rushes to my cock
My first thoughts are of coffee, my clothes, your pussy,
And the next time I’ll be allowed to press your wrists to the bed

I’m ready for the day

Ok folks, so far a good solid turnout. It's thirteen of us in the game right now. If anyone else wants to join in, let me know right away by email. I MIGHT be able to squeeze you in.

So it looks like our participants are:

Cece
Duckie
Grace
Jeremy
McGibfried
Mel
Nina
PlatinumGirl
Steve
Trevor
Yankee Bob
And of course, yours truly, Mike K.

Did I leave anyone out? I hope not. If so don't be offended just email me and I'll update this. And since I'm an arrogant son of a bitch I've decided to just go ahead and draft a few more:

Larry - You won't believe how many requests I've been getting for you. Your "10 Things" format is the most sought after thing in blogland since the pony dance.
Lena - I mean... your boyfriend's in. Plus you say fuck at will. I like that.
YoJ - You made mention of it being a cool idea. Therefore, I'll return the compliment by enrolling you into this public game without your permission. Yes, I'm made of sugar.
Quyen - We need an even number of people. Quyen, you're style is unique and campy. Plus of all the others I can think of who haven't responded yea or nay, you're the only one I can think of who won't have a panic attack at the thought of being drafted. Good luck!

Ok, folks. That's it for now. I'll send each of you your writing assignments individually. Good luck and have fun!

When I was a music student I was introduced to all manner of classical composers. Many of these great men lived in the same countries, in the same cities, and in the same time periods. Sure we’ve never heard of most of them, but that doesn’t mean that they weren’t musical virtuosos.

One of the interesting things that we learned is just how often these musicians befriended one another and composed variations are each other’s themes. True, these were rarely, if ever, concert compositions. But it seems that the saying “imitation is the highest form of flattery” held true even then, among geniuses. So I got to thinking about our little cliques we have here. We all have blogs that we read regularly, some more frequently than others. Certainly we’ve come to expect a certain style in the daily ramblings of our favorite journals. We know sarcasm when we see it. We can sense when an opinion written down is one that the author is not completely convinced of.

Game time motherfuckers!

So what’s the game? Well it’s simple. Everyone who’s interested participating emails me. Or I might ask one or more of the more popular blogs to publish a similar post explaining the rules. Then, once all the names are in, I’ll throw them in a hat. And by hat I mean a computer randomizer program. Then each one of us gets a name of a fellow blogger. Then we each write a post in the writing style of that person. For example, if Grace wants in, she writes me to say so. Then supposing she gets my name, she has to write a post trying as best she can to replicate my writing style. Then everyone chimes in to try and guess who she’s imitating.

Here are the rules:

1. Posts must be published within 24 hours of being assigned. Any longer and I’m sending Lena to eat your soul.
2. Posts must be written in the assigned blogger’s style, but the post must remain relavant to the true author’s life. For example, if Grace gets me, she can’t write about Nina. She’d write about Steve, but she’d do so in my writing style.
3. No dropping out if you don’t like who you get or Mel crushes your skull with her thighs.
4. No refusals
5. No swapping
6. No telling anyone who you are. Let everyone guess in the comments section and then after a few days I’ll publish the pairings. Everyone can link to it or copy and paste. Then we all have hearty belly laughs
7. In order to identify your imitation, all imitation posts must be entitled “What Blogger Am I?”
8. Other than 1 through 7 the sky’s the limit!

Some of us get easier bloggers to imitate. For example, Grace and Larry have very noticeable formats and writing styles. Others will take more time and research because the unique qualities of that blogger’s style are subtler, like Lena or Nina. Heh. Lena and Nina. Hehehe. Plus, you may get a blogger that you never really read anyway. Then you’ll have to do some research. But keep it light and fun. I think this will be a hoot.

So who’s in? If you are let me know. I’d appreciate spreading the word by linking to this post or just writing a mock up of it on your blog. Once I have everyone’s names, I’ll send out emails to you telling you who you are. And then it’s 24 hours to completion. If you finish in one hour, take a few more and tweak it for accuracy. I can’t think of any prizes to be had here. But then, the knowledge by the general blogging public that you are an adaptable, skilled author with the ability to transition styles so fluidly should be prize enough. So let’s go. Any takers?

Wanna know how fucking bored I am today? I’m ditching this place to go fucking clothes shopping. That’s right. I’m going to Arizona Mills to check out the Old Navy store. Hell I might even jump into Ross for a minute.

Last night I went to work and sat next to the guy that I’d classify as most like me in the room. He’s taller than me, but still he’s a white boy who comes across as smart, witty, and a little bit intolerant of idiocy. My kind of fella. Anyway, before I went to work I stopped in at Jamba Juice for an original size Orange-A-Peel smoothie. This place rocks my socks. And the Jamba Juice is located inside one of those healthy groceries called Whole Foods. I spotted one-pound packages of fresh strawberries on sale two for $3.00 so I grabbed a couple, picked up my smoothie and went to the call center.

Once I walked in and had a seat he looked at me and said, “you’re on a diet aren’t you?” I told him that I was. He said he could tell because of the healthy food for one thing, but mainly because every time he’s seen me I’ve worn pants that didn’t fit. Ordinarily this is the time when a straight man starts to wonder what this guy’s doing looking at my pants. (Side note: just then when I typed “doing” I spelled it “dong”. Dong is funny.) I just sort of looked at him weird like, ummm thanks for noticing. That’s when he eased the tension by telling me that he’s kind of an expert on dieting since he’d dropped down to his current, healthy weight from 350 pounds not two years ago.

So like a couple of business women having salad lunches we sat there talking about food and all our favorite restaurants between calls. I shared my strawberries with everyone. There was one girl who took one and about came when she bit into it. She said it had been years since she’d actually eaten a piece of fruit.

Anyway, I’ve been needing some new clothes for a while now. But the problem is two-fold. First, I don’t have money to be clothes shopping. If I had cash to spare I wouldn’t be working two jobs. Nina brought up the valid point that I didn’t have a problem spending when I had one job and she was working or receiving disability. Very true. But I guess since I started the second job I’ve come to appreciate what I do for each and every dollar earned. Clothing is essential, but still seems like kind of a waste. I’d rather spend it on..oh, I don’t know… maybe groceries, mortgage, electricity, and gas.

The second reason I don’t’ buy any clothes is because I may keep changing. A while back when I went with Nina to visit Grace and Steve, I had to buy a pair of jeans for the party because everything else I had was falling off. So I went to Old Navy and got a pair of cool, boot cut jeans. Nina was most proud of me for picking out jeans that looked good on me all by myself. I’m big to pick out my own clothes. To offset her pride I also purchased the infamous “Illest” sleeveless shirt I love so much. The point is that I’m wearing those very jeans today and I didn’t have to even unbutton them to put them on. They’re bunched up around the waste from the belt. So if I go buy some 36 pants now, what if those stop fitting? What a waste. I’ll see if Old Navy will swap these out. But still, I’d hate to waste my money on clothing that I may not get a full use out of.

Nina mentioned that I did purchase a pair of seven-dollar socks. Well here’s the tale of that. I took a long lunch the other day and went to a running store. You see, I’ve switched my exercise regimen a bit to trail running. So I’m learning quickly that street shoes aren’t quite the best thing for jagged rocks and toe bumping into cacti. Also I’ve learned that cotton, for all it’s comfort, is the primary ingredient for blisters. So I went shoe shopping. I found a few really cool pairs that I put on hold. But when I got there, this girl gave me a pair of running socks to put on while I was trying on shoes. I saw the trap here, but I’m in the market for a full rewardrobing of wicking material clothes, so I tried them on. I didn’t buy the shoes, but I decided to keep the socks because (1) they were really comfy, (2) they had already been on my feet, (3) I felt guilty for not buying the shoes, and (4) because I just fucking wanted them.

So now I’m sitting here on a Friday with nothing going on until 11:30, when my supervisor is taking us all out for pizza. Of course, I can’t eat pizza. But fuck it; if he’s buying I’m picking out something I want. Otherwise I’ll just say thanks and make a not-so-discreet exit.

Damn, I’m wasting time. Tempe supermall, here I come… and I’m bringing my estrogen and a Visa.

I got an email a little while ago with a few of those questions about what I’d do in certain tricky situations. I think they were from that “Book of Questions”. It’s a book that asks hundreds of situational questions that test your moral and ethical standing. I can see how most people would have difficulty coming up with answers to them. However, being the super decisive ass that I am I found them surprisingly simple.

DO YOU THINK THE WORLD WILL BE A BETTER OR WORSE PLACE 100 YEARS FROM NOW?

Better…way better. I mean let’s look at history here. Anyone remember their world history from 1905? Ok, not much was going on, but look at all the advancements since then. Technology, industry, medicine, etc. Just knowing that I’ve got that whole Smallpox thing covered makes me think that the year 2105 will be better than today. But then I’ll be long dead, so what the fuck do I care. I just hope that I can get a few cybernetic implants before I die.

If you had a button that whenever you pressed it increased your bank account by $20,000 but also caused an innocent person to die, would you press it? How many times?

Are you kidding me? I’d put that button smack in the middle of a fucking trampoline! What the hell do I care if some “innocent person” dies as a result? Maybe that’s a bit cold, but it’s not like the innocents are immortal anyway, right? And I’ve heard this one before. When I gave my answer someone in the room said, “what if it was your wife that died. How would you feel then?” Then she gave me that annoying head-cocked bug-eyed look your mom gives you when she thinks she’s made a point. How would I feel? I’d feel sad, dumbass! But rich too! I don’t have any life insurance in her name. At $20,000 per push, I can’t afford let her live.

WOULD YOU PLAY RUSSIAN ROULETTE FOR $1,000,000.00?

Again with the money for potential death, huh? The answer is yes, I would. Now we’re talking a one in six chance of dying right? That gives me more than an 83 percent chance of living. And if I take the slug in my temple, so be it. Why should I be afraid of dying this way? It would be by my own hand, my way, my choice. If I live, I get a million simoleons. If I die, then what difference does it make? I don’t look at dying like the end of anything really. The truth is I have no fucking idea what’s going to happen. None of us do. Shit, I’m pretty jazzed that no matter what happens in this life, at the end I get to see what’s on the other side, no matter what. Next!

WHAT IS YOUR MOST TREASURED MEMORY?

I’ve been sitting at my desk here pondering this one for a while. I suppose they don’t all come to me so easily. I find that every memory I recall cherishing is in some way tinted by the events that transpired before or after. And that really does affect how much I treasure it. So all things being equal, I’ll just say that there was a time once when a girlfriend of mine had cheated on me with this loser asshole she’d befriended. After a couple of days of fuming I took a heart full of boiling blood and drove to his house. His roommate saw in my eyes that I was coming in regardless of his permission so he just opened the door and told me he was asleep in his room. I walked upstairs, entered the dark bedroom, flipped on the light and took a perch on the foot of his bed, my feet at each side of his knees. He woke slowly and wasn’t quite sure that he wasn’t dreaming. I gave him the chance to talk. He remained silent. Then I jumped to my feet, smacked him around a bit, and finally got a good grasp on his throat with one hand while the other deflected his attempts to free his trachea. At that moment I knew I had control, absolute control. His life was in my hands. I had every moral right to strangle the life out of him. I saw absolute fear in his eyes with a hint of acceptance. I took his gaze for a moment and released him. I gave him a choice. He could either take a broken nose now and call it even, or I could come back sometime when I was a lot more drunk and feeling a lot less generous. He started crying and begged me to just leave. Then I turned off the light and walked out. It wasn’t the greatest thing I’d ever done and I certainly don’t look back with regret for not killing him. But the sheer power and absolution that swelled in me gave me an insight I had never known. If you get the chance, I highly recommend the strangulation of your enemies.

Would you have one of your fingers surgically removed if it somehow guaranteed immunity from all major diseases?

Hell yes! It would have to be one of the middle ones though. The thumb and pinky are too easy to lose in an accident. Then I’d go home and tell Nina that I’d lost it in a fight with a man who had insulted her honor. “I had the upper hand until he pulled out a blade and lunged for my throat. In a flash I shoved my hand toward the blade, losing the finger but getting a firm grasp on the hilt. Seeing my fearlessness and rage he released the knife, turned and ran. As he ran I exclaimed ‘You forgot something!’ then I hurled the blade into his back. He yelped and staggered away in defeat. And so I returned home to show my wife my wounds gotten in her defense and to see if you would still have me in this crippled, mutilated form.” Then I’d make a fat living injecting myself with diseases on stage. That would rock!

FINALLY, WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU STOLE SOMETHING? WHY HAVEN’T YOU STOLEN ANYTHING SINCE THEN?

About thirty minutes ago I stole a Caffeine Free Diet Coke from the snack bar down the hall. They’re $0.35 each so I just opened the cabinet, tapped the quarters and then the dimes and took my soda. Why haven’t I stolen since? I’m neither hungry nor thirsty. Nor do I see anything in the general vicinity that I want.

1. An obscene number of people think it’s cute to have their small children record their answering machine messages. I run into this no fewer than ten times per night. These are usually kids who haven’t yet learned how to form about seventeen of their consonants and four of their vowels. It’s completely unintelligible. Yet somehow the message always sounds exactly the same:

“Hello, you have reached a gaggle of intellectually incontinent retards with a dangerously high amount of our self worth based in the regular receipt of compliments on our child’s cuteness. Please give us some justification for our existence. *BEEP*”

2. Women seem to always consider having the last word more important than making sure that last word doesn’t give the impression that you have the brains of a tree stump. So by no surprise, it’s the women who are by far the more common practitioners of the “no and click”. This occurs when I am casually and pleasantly giving my pitch to some careerless, purposeless, futureless wretch of a woman when she suddenly cuts me off and says “no” followed by hanging up on me. This must seem to her to be a good way to make me think, “damn, I wouldn’t want to have to go through that again. I’d better remove that number.” In fact, I’ll usually just code it for another call in the next twelve hours. It’s simple, bitch. Just hear me out and say no or tell me to take you off the call list.

3. People are just impossibly clever. I mean take last night for example. I’m calling for National Geographic and this guy answers the phone. Instead of the hesitant “yes?” I normally get, this monument to wit spouts off with “whaddaya got for me, chief!?!” I mean that right there was enough to make me feel a bond between us. I mean he called me chief, and he cut right through the pleasantries. It’s almost as if he knew that I was calling to try and sell him something. I had to check the name on my screen to make sure I wasn’t calling Kreskin. And then when I told him I was going to be sending him a free gift; a detailed satellite imaged world map, he really knocked my socks off. Oh, man this was soooo fresh:

“Will it be autographed?”

“Autographed sir? By whom?”

“Ok, buddy, here’s what I want you to do. I want you to send me that map, but I want it to be autographed by all the mayors of all the major cities in the world that are on that map. And I want it done… in HIEROGLYPHS!!!! *click*”

Oh damn! Man, did you see what he did there? Did you see how he hooked me in by telling me that he wanted the map, but then put the impossible task of getting all those autographs on me? I mean who was I calling here? Did this guy have his own variety show on Comedy Central? And then just when I thought that I had it hard enough with my charge to accumulate all these signatures he hits me with…I can hardly believe it… “in HIEROGLYPHS!” Holy shit, yo! I thought I this sale was going to take me a lifetime to complete. But then just to let me off the hook he hung up on me. Wow… I mean fucking hellawow. All I can say is that if this guy is indicative of the type of cleverness of the average American, we are in for some funny times, people. Some funny times indeed.

4. Young mothers are the most evil horrible human beings imaginable. I spent three hours on Saturday selling Puzzlemania activity books for Highlights for Children. This means I’m calling a bunch of mothers of young kids. By the end of three hours, I was ready to destroy my monitor with my keyboard in one single Judo chop. I was hung up on, cut off, yelled at, cussed out, insulted, and even burped at. I guess you young moms are so busy instilling your young’uns with so much moral and ethical goodness that you’ve left none for yourselves. Pity. So go ahead and hang up on me. I’m sure you can teach your kids logic and reasoning skills all by yourself. After all, your big ass brains and great decision making skills are what landed you with this awesome mom/housewife gig in the first place. You monstrous, demonic slits.

5. 1^st Generation immigrants in California will buy anything you try to sell them. All I have to do is pronounce their names correctly and I could sell them timeshares in Hell. True, some of them have names like Jminstrvesstra, but you just sound it out your best and they appreciate the effort. And the Asians? Oh, my beloved Asians. You just can’t get enough of my shit can you? I earned enough commission to surpass my hourly pay this week thanks to you and all I had to do was not bust out laughing at the ones with a last name of Ho. Here’s to you, Ho. BONZAI!

6. People act like the National Do Not Call List can cure cancer. The simple fact is that that list only prevents you from being called by companies you’ve never done business with. But if I’ve got your number, it’s because you fucking gave it to me. But still at least three times I hear some pompous fuck rattle off “I’m on the National Do Not Call list!” I suppose this is the point when I’m supposed to ask them where to send my life savings before I commit Hare Kare at my desk. Well guess what, Columbo. I’m not stopping ‘til you hang up on me. And then I’m gonna code you for a call back the next day. So just hear me out and deal with me now and we can end the pain right here.

7. Most of my coworkers are blithering idiots. This is the bottom, people. I mean the collective IQ is probably about as low as the total number of teeth. It’s nothing but fat white trash women, skinny white trash men, ghetto blacks whose voices justify every big lip joke ever told, and scrawny drama loving gays. I mean the manager had to actually tell the black guys to try to do a white person impersonation to get more sales. And it worked. So when these people call you, just stop and listen. Even if you have no interest in buying the product, you’re guaranteed some entertainment when they say “axe you a question” or try to say that National Geographic’s mission is to increase global awareness through education and conversation. It’s conservation you fucking twit!