Gay Joe: I do not know why but I love this.
Me: You are fucked in the head. That is why.
Gay Joe: Well, yeah. So are you, though.
Me: Agreed. It is why we get along.
Gay Joe: It is always nice to know that you may run into someone you know if the State ever forces you into the asylum.
Me: Totally.
Gay Joe: “Matty?! Is that you?!” “Yeah! Wow! Shock therapy?” “Yup!” “Right on!”
Me: [screaming at cops] “FUCKIN’ PIGS! GET YOUR FUCKIN’ HANDS OFF ME! Oh, hey Joe. How are you man? … FUCKIN’ PIGS!”
Gay Joe: See you in Pueblo someday, Matty.
Me: Right back at you, fruitcake.
Strange Things Are Afoot At DIA
Conspiracy theorists have long been masturbating to DIA for its seemingly clandestine activities. To date, the Freemasons, Illuminati, UFOs, underground military bases and reptilian aliens have all been linked to Denver International Airport. Prophetic messages are claimed to be seen in the art murals of Leo Tanguma that predict the impending apocalypse (conspiracy theorists apparently have never taken an art history course nor are familiar with Mexican muralista painters). Traveling in and out of DIA on countless occasions I have never seen any concentration camps full of reptilian aliens nor any Freemasons holding a virgin sacrifice in Concourse A, but I have seen some long goddamn lines at the Frontier check-in counter.
Forget All Your Cares And Go Downtown
I am enjoying the new job and the downtown Denver scene. Within a block of the office there are five coffee shops, four sandwich joints, a Chipotle, a flower vendor, a blind bum that likes to sing Isley Brothers tunes and the always lively 16th Street Mall. The mall is usually teaming with business executives connected to their ear piece cell phones like Lobot, statuesque women in six inch heels walking with mean swaggers, homeless panhandlers and disheveled, mentally ill crazies that yell and carry signs. The latter are by far the most entertaining. Yesterday a wild-eyed maniac sporting a wig that looked like a dumpster diving reward was walking down the mall with a sign that read “GESUS LOVES U.” He nearly got ran over by a shuttle bus as he was thrusting said sign into the faces of a nice looking gentleman and his two younger daughters who were participating in Bring Your Child To Work Day. This morning as I was looping around the building to the parking garage, a filthy homeless drug addict was flashing a two-way sign on the corner which read “HILLARY IS FIDEL” on one side and “JFK SHOT MARILYN” on the other. It was comforting to learn that even homeless drug addicts hate Hillary.
Crazy About The Weather
Slow your roll, Rita; slow your roll. According to one batshit weatherman in Pocatello, Idaho, this years busy hurricane season is not the result of a natural 25-30 year cycle or global warming; instead it is the handiwork of the Japanese Mafia using a Russian-made electromagnetic generator to launch terrific storms against the US mainland as revenge for the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. Sounds about right.
Evil Pussy
An excerpt from the saga of Satan Cat:
“Even after he shot it, that cat was so hopped up; we’re talking about a little, eight-pound cat, Mickey ran down the hall into the bathroom and jumped into the tub,” the husband recollected. “He didn’t die for at least five minutes. He was all nerves and adrenaline. He wasn’t in his right mind.”
The Weekend That Was
My weekend was quiet and uneventful. I played some softball, drank some beer, sold 1970s style furniture at a garage sale, did some freelance web design and watched a crazy bastard demolish the town of Granby, Colorado with a customized bulldozer.
The Road Is A Cruel Mistress
This link about the trials and tribulations of a career roadie is fantastic. Some excerpts:
- “I started doing so much cocaine, my dick was completely useless. So when girls would come around and say they were willing to do anything to meet the band, I just started throwing meat at them. That’s what they had to do to earn their backstage pass. I’d make them strip down and stand in the corner while we pelted them with the deli tray. After a while, it became like this daily event. All the bands would stop sound check and gather round, just to watch me throw meat at some chick.”
- “He asked me if I wanted a drink, and I said ‘Sure,'” she recalls. “Then, out of nowhere, he puts his hand up my dress and, not even knowing me, sticks his finger in my asshole. I didn’t even flinch, though, because I knew he was just trying to get a reaction out of me. And right there he said he knew I was his girl.”
- Motorhead guitarist Phil Campbell offered him a hamburger. “I was starving because I hadn’t eaten for a long time, so I said, ‘Sure,'” Hickey says. “And because my nose was so torn up from all the speed I’d just snorted, I couldn’t smell.” He could taste it, though, and high as he was, it only took him one bite to realize that Campbell hadn’t given him a hamburger at all, but rather a patty of shit stuck between a bun. “That was my appreciation for being so dedicated to the band,” Hickey says. “A shit sandwich.”
Deep Concern From The Land O’ Lakes
This morning I received an email of distress from my friend Scott in Minnesota:
How you doin’ Matt?
After reading your blog, I’m here to check on you and make sure you’re all right. That’s some eyebrow-raising shit you’ve been linking to and I recommend a lavender bath to chill your ass out.
Maybe your friends are feeding you the links, I dunno, but all I can say is if Susan Wright’s now dead husband would have just gotten her a shit bitch bear, I bet he’d still be alive today. Pass it on. It could save a life!
Just to assure Scott that I am not going to the roof of a tall building with a high powered assault rifle to pick off old ladies with shopping bags anytime soon, check out this stupid sweater.
Crazy Bitches & The Guy Who Did Not Get His Penis Cut Off By Them
Christian Slater has a hot wife who happens to be a tornado of crazy. I have had numerous experiences with juicy psycho girls (thankfully, I completed my tour of the crazy bitch circuit in college) and here are two of the best:
- During my freshman year of college I was dating a girl I will call Skank Bait. Skank Bait and I dated for a few weeks, during which time, she asked me if I would be her date to the autumn formal dance. Not only do I hate formal dances, I hated most of the kids I went to college with (they were children of privilege who looked down upon crusty, blue collar kids like me who took advantage of the free tuition benefit given to children of the university’s employees). I had yet to have familiar relations with Skank Bait, so I assumed my attendance at this event would be the deal closer. Skank Bait invited a male friend of hers from Colorado State to be a date for her roommate. Skank Bait failed to inform me and her roommate that she was currently involved in a serious relationship with said male friend from Colorado State. Only the voices in her head and her psychiatrist know why she invited us both to the formal (my guess is it was an inability to trust brought on by emotionally abusive parents which caused her hurt people before they hurt her, but I digress). Skank Bait’s roommate and I quickly sized up the affair, so we got drunk at the bar and ignored Skank Bait and her male friend from Colorado State most of the evening. Skank Bait’s roommate and I decided to leave. Skank Bait sees us getting on the elevator, runs over to me, grabs my wrist and starts raising her voice and making a scene in the lobby of the hotel. I remove her filthy meat hook from my forearm and she screams, “Don’t you ever fucking touch me!” At this point, male friend from Colorado State enters the fray getting in my face and saying, “Get your hands off of my girlfriend!” He proceeds to put up his dukes in preparation for fisticuffs. I laugh at him as the elevator doors close. The highlight of the evening comes on the walk back to the car as Skank Bait’s roommate and I smoke cigarettes with a pack of drag queens on the 16th Street Mall that tell me I look “decent” in a tie. I never talk to Skank Bait again and Skank Bait’s roommate gets a single dorm room shortly thereafter.
- During my senior year of college I ran into a girl I will call Dishrag Whore while shopping at the local mall. I had been fond of Dishrag Whore’s fantastic body ever since I ogled it for an entire semester during a statistics class, so we exchanged numbers and decided to meet for drinks sometime. The next night Dishrag Whore calls me and we met up for beers at a local watering hole. Things end up going extremely well and the night ends with us hitting skins in a sweaty heap of meaningless joy atop her bed. Post-coitus, Dishrag Whore breaks down and cries for reasons known only to the voices in her head and her psychiatrist (my guess is our sexual encounter triggered a latent memory buried deep within her subconscious regarding sexual abuse at the hands of a friend or family member, but I digress). I never see Dishrag Whore again, but for the next two months, she calls me to discuss the following topics:
- Why she liked to drink a pint of vodka over the course of a day.
- If I knew of any good places she could score some blow.
- Why she would have sex with Jesus if he were alive today.
- If I would be interested in a three-way with her and her fat friend.
Eating A Bitches Lungs, Part II
Update on Big Lurch; The MB’s favorite aspiring rapper who smokes angel dust and and likes eating a bitches lungs.
Disturbing Aside: I forgot when I wrote my initial post on Big Lurch. Instead of sifting through my blog archives due to my laziness, I decided to Google “eating a bitches lungs.” I chuckled as I hit enter thinking it was a long shot at best. The MB is the number one search result. The internet is magical.