Joseph Goebbels has nothing on Dick Cheney. Dick reminds me of a crazy old man in the neighborhood I grew up in who threatened to shoot any kids that stepped on his lawn for retrieving an errant ball.
My weekend was filled with disturbing programming flashing across the vast wasteland of television. On Friday night Monica brought over her fella and some Chinese food over and we all watched Monster. I thought Charlize Theron engaging in lesbianism would soften the disturbing nature of the film (even if said lesbianism was with Christina Ricci who is hot if you are into elf sluts with big foreheads) but I was dead wrong. I have three words for you: tire iron sodomy. (I was guilty of this hot-chick-doing-an-uncharacteristic-sex-act fallacy during Requiem For A Dream, too. I heard Jennifer Connelly took a double ended dildo up the chute and that sounded like something I would enjoy watching. First, I had to endure a smack addict’s arm amputation (his limb became black and gangrenous due to his love of the vein candy) and an old woman being committed to a mental health facility for her eating disorder and addiction to diet pills. When the scene finally arrived, it was more disturbing than hot).
Saturday morning I made myself a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and turned on the Olympics in the hopes of catching some Women’s Beach Volleyball (Holly McPeak. Yummy). Instead I get the a broadcast of the Gymnastics Trampoline. The competition goes as such: an athlete (use the term athlete loosely) does tricks on a trampoline for an Olympic medal. We need an international competition forum for this? There was a kid named Jimmy in my neighborhood who would have dominated this event in the early eighties. That fucking kid was a wild man on the trampoline. His signature move was jumping off the roof and going into a double flip. I was waiting for a tandem Gymnastics Trampoline event when two competitors had a seat war or played a game of crack the egg. You know this event is not taken seriously when commentators had this exchange:
Announcer #1: Oh! That miscue on the back flip there is going to cost him.
Announcer #2: Yes. What kind of experience do you have with this event?
Announcer #1: Well, I have been jumping on trampolines since I was eight years old.
This morning I am awash in the inappropriate sexual habits of a slut teacher. I never had a hot teacher educate me nor did I ever want to have sex with or envision any sexual situations with the old hosebags that taught me. The closest I ever came to a having a hot teacher was my high school Sociology instructor. She (who will remain nameless lest some vagabond I graduated with feels the need to post it under my comments section) had a tremendous rack but a disturbing case of thinning hair. We all theorized that she was smoking when she was younger and attempted to envision her that way instead of the wrinkled, dried up husk of menopause that she really was.
Get an authentic pencil drawing of yourself or a loved with Stevie Nicks via Johanna’s Art Inspired by Stevie Nicks. I am thinking a stylized tambourine of myself, a wolf and Stevie Knicks in a black lace veil would look ideal next to my Appetite For Destruction cocaine mirror that I won in eighth grade at the Arvada Harvest Festival balloon-dart game.
My friend Tyler likes David Blaine. That makes my friend Tyler stupid. This is all you need to know about David Blaine: he is a poor man’s Harry Houdini. Tomorrow, Blaine will begin 44-day stint of isolation without food, suspended over the Thames River in a clear plastic box.
I hate magicians and endurance artists. They are attention whores that remind me of a pathetic kid I grew up with who always had the coolest toys and nobody to play with. I would go over to his house, endure his incessant whining, play some Nintendo, eat scrumptious snack food that his mom made and then peddle my Huffy home. That kid is now in jail for dealing drugs. Little FYI.
When I was a youngster, my mom would always encourage me to go outside and play. I usually complied and got my bike out of the garage to ride around or met up with the rest of the neighborhood kids in the area vacant lot for a game of baseball. One a hot summer day, a neighborhood kid thought we should get a game of Dungeons and Dragons going. We briefly read the rules, made up our characters, rolled the 12-sided die and got our geek on. Within the hour my avatar was slain and I was out of the game. Two neighborhood kids proceeded to play that game for another three weeks. Little did we know at the time we were fucking around with dark forces, Satanism and the occult. Coincidentally those two kids grew up to be the biggest drug dealers at my high school. The dark influences of DnD or absentee fathers with a penchant for hardcore pornography and liquor? You be the judge.
Everyday I carpool to work with my friend and coworker JT. It is an event filled with colorful metaphors mixed with mindless drivel about substance abuse, threats, sexual escapades, pornography, sporting events, video games and world events. We also yell out the window at bad drivers like a pair of crazed vigilantes. Every so often, a gem escapes in conversation that is worthy of praise and respect. Yesterday afternoon JT dropped the term chumming the waters to describe masturbation. The phrase’s beauty and elegance are truly something of wonder and henceforth I will be using it until my dying day.
I wish we had Club Satan at my high school because I might have actually joined and formulated a positive opinion about organized clubs into adulthood. Instead we had the garden-variety student council and pep club scene with kids promising another pop machine in the cafeteria should they be elected to a meaningless political post. Someone (read: my buddy Tim) should have dedicated a club to Satan, Lord of the Underworld. It would have been more constructive for me to talk about Lucifer within the safe confines of a high school classroom with a faculty adviser present mediating discussions rather than what I actually did; discussing the Prince of Darkness over a three foot bong in a stoned kid’s basement, listening to Slayer’s South Of Heaven on the stereo, smoking Camel Wide cigarettes and drinking stolen whiskey.
There is nothing I love more than the ingenuity of a teenager in search of a buzz. Lighting bus shelters on fire and getting high on the fumes seems to be the pinnacle of ingenuity.
Inhalants never seem to go out of style with the kids. I spent countless hours in my formidable years assembling model cars in the garage and I took a pull off the glue bottle bottle every now and then but that was as far as it went for me. The kids I went to school with, however, were inhalant fiends. There was the kid who enjoyed huffing gas from the lawnmower can in his shed. There was the kid who used to douse screwdrivers in cans of paint thinner and then inhale the fumes from the tips of said screwdrivers. There was the kid who was found dead in his room after huffing too much gas from a spent SCUBA tank. Lastly, there was the freaky goth bitch that sat behind me in life science class who used to get cheap highs from the nail polish and Liquid Paper stashed away in her ESprit bag (inhalants were the least of her problems as her mother had a penchant for test driving her teenage boyfriends. Rumor is they were both on Maury a few years back). I am guessing all those kids (save for the dead one) have graduated on to meth.