Friday, April 29, 2005
I Love My Blog Readers
During my interminable commute home from work this afternoon, my thoughts of disabling the air bag and plowing into a brick wall were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a feces-brown Toyota truck that pulled out in front of me and slowed to ten miles under the posted speed limit. I would like, with your permission, to discuss the bumper stickers on said truck.

Bush/Cheney '04: Yeah, thanks for rubbing my nose in the carpet stain that is your political mindset.

Boycott France: Are we still on this subject? What a bold personal sacrifice for this lowlife to boycott all things French. How, after a hard day as mop boy at the peep show, does he unwind with inferior quality champagne and caviar?

I'm the Proud Parent of a D.A.R.E. Student: And he's the embarrassed offspring of a simple-minded douchebag.

I Love My Family: Why are you telling me this? "Oh, this bitchhole just made me slam on my brakes because he was too impatient to wait the two extra seconds for my car to clear the intersection, but that's okay, he loves his family." How can I nominate him for a Nobel Peace Prize? Is Sainthood an option? I'm not gay, but I want to have unprotected sex with the fabulous guy who loves his family.

The only thing missing was an unlicensed Calvin urinating on the car number of his least favorite Nascar driver.

Wednesday, April 27, 2005
My Favorite Derby Day
This is a long post (cue Beavis and Butthead-style laughter), but if you make it through to the end you'll be rewarded with a tale of hope and inspiration for all.

I grew up just a few miles from Churchill Downs, home of the Kentucky Derby. When we were both fifteen, my friend John Schwartz and I decided to go to the Derby infield to be among 100,000 drunks and degenerates.
The day began when a car pulled up to my boyhood home and a group of preppy yet seedy guys dropped John off on my front lawn. By the time I realized John was stinkin' drunk, pickled if you will, they were long gone.
John had began the day by drinking almost a case of beer. And this wasn't good beer; this was evil teenager beer. He was barely coherent but insisted on going to the Derby, so I proceeded to drag him down the street.
I didn't drink as a teenager, something those who know me now won't believe for a second, but I swear it's true. So there I was, sober, with a cooler of Cokes and sandwiches in one arm and a blitzed out of his gord six-foot tall high school sophomore in the other. As I walked along Taylor Blvd. in the direction of the track, my struggles were duly noted by passerby. Louisville is the unofficial sarcastic asshole capital of the world, and on that day I bore the brunt of the city's collective wit.
Also, in tenth grade I went to a private Christian school located directly across the street from the race track. We were almost in line for the infield when I spotted my vice-principal handing out anti-gambling literature and loudly voicing his disgust at the sinful cornucopia which surrounded him. I knew he'd see me, so I sat John on the edge of the cooler and innocently approached Mr. Vance.
"Todd," Mr. Vance bellowed, "what are you doing here?"
"Oh, just people watching," I replied, not too convincingly. "So, nice weather, huh?"
Damn, I was smooth. He now had the weather on his mind; no way he'd notice that ten feet to his left was a minor on the verge of complete organ shutdown.
"Does your mother know you're here?" Mr. Vance asked.
Shit. Vance had met my mother and was thusly aware of her existence. When I enrolled at the school, my mom had to meet with the school administrators and promise that our family had long ago rejected Satan and all his trappings.
"She's at Pic Pac," I said, referring to a dirty nearby grocery store. "She's gonna pick me up soon and we're going to the fish place. For, you know, fish sandwiches."
I didn't and don't know the name of the fish place, but it still exists, is near the University of Louisville, is only open on Saturday, is operated by Eternal Order of the Elk's Lodge old men and their surly granddaughters, and has the best fried fish on earth. But that's not important now. I had broken the first rule of lying: Don't give too many details.
Vance was on to me, but I was saved when a group of loudmouths from the northeast offered him a cold beer. As he turned to lecture them I made a quick getaway.
I was relieved that I wasn't going to be expelled three weeks before summer vacation, but my peace lasted about thirty seconds. That's when, as we stood in line, John Schwartz put on the most horrific and lengthy display of vomiting I've ever seen.
John chucked up the beer, his breakfast, a midnight snack, last evening's dinner, yesterday's lunch, strained carrots he ate as a baby, his spleen, and perhaps his mortal soul. All of this was witnessed by a shocked and disgusted yet oddly fascinated crowd.
When he finally finished, when I was sure he would turn to dust before my eyes, John Schwartz, spent from the Herculian effort of the expulsion, collapsed to the asphalt with a nauseating splat.
On the bright side, the cushioning effect of the barf he fell in probably saved him from a fractured skull. The crowd roared its approval as I hid my face in shame.
I glanced up just in time to see the ABC television camera coming toward John. I stood over John's motionless form with my back to the camera so they couldn't see either of our faces. It's been a while since this happened, but I think I said something like "Food poisoning...damn tainted clams!"
The camera crew, looking for a light and breezy "look at the crazies at the Derby" story, left when they saw we were kids; big kids, yes, but kids nonetheless. They couldn't follow a feature on which celebrity is wearing the dumbest hat with a seering expose on teenage alcoholism.
Once again I was relieved; once again it was short lived. John tried to get up. I don't know what was left in him that he managed to expell, but I do know this: it had the color of shit, it had the stench of shit, and it painted the cooler and shoes of two seriously burly women standing in front of us.
The women made it clear that they planned to kill John with their bare hands. The bigger of the two -I'm sure her clitoris had a foreskin - clinched her fists and was going to pick him up by his taint.
"Look at him!" I shouted. "He's pathetic. Anyway, if you pick him up he'll just throw up on you again."
The smaller one suggested they kick him to death, but after much pleading and debate, they decided it wouldn't be such a good idea to murder a fifteen-year-old and went about cleaning the sick off of their sensible shoes.
John refused to abort the mission and go back to my house, so I got him to stand and we made our way to the infield entrance. It says a lot about the Derby mindset that my cooler was painstakingly searched for any trace of alcohol but an inebriated, vomit-soaked minor staggered past a hundred state police officers without question.
Once inside, I dumped John off by a landmark so he'd be easy to find, grabbed a Coke out of the cooler, and began exploring the infield. These days, "Girls Gone Wild" has made public tit showin' almost commonplace, but the girls of the infield were true pioneers. Half of the girls I walked past showed me their breasts. I eventually just stood close to a group of guys with a succintly worded "Show Your Tits" sign and proceeded to get off the Derby bus in a town called Boobieland.
John, meanwhile, had discarded his soiled shirt, passed out, and acquired a second degree sunburn on his back. That was probably the last day I was glad I didn't have a drink.

Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Ho-Ho-Heavenly Father
I think the number one factor in determining one's "faith" can be summed up by this question: What do you want from God? Everyone, regardless of their seemingly selfless nature, wants something from their celestial Santa. Even atheists want something from God: to be left alone.
Members of the religious right want God as an excuse for hatred and bigotry. Christwhores(those who use Jesus for any gain other than spiritual) holding "God Hates Fags" signs are just updated versions of a mob of crackers hanging a black man from a tree in 1958. Yes, I know one is a stupid opinion and the other is murder, but the difference is of means, not of motive. Why, during the 2004 election, did George W. Bush repeatedly say, "Marriage should be between a man and a woman"? Because if he said, "White kids shouldn't go to school with them darkies" he might have lost Ohio.
Before you begin to think of me as some peaceful hippie type, allow me to state that I'm a very hate-filled person. However, my hate isn't based on race or religion or which consenting adult you decide to fuck. My hatred is a meritocracy, earned by people each and every day.
This brings me to what I want from God. I don't want money or power or fame; I don't even want happiness. All I want from God is punishment of my enemies. I want anyone who ever crossed me, even in the slightest, to roast in Hell for all eternity. If you stepped on my foot at Woodstock '94 and didn't say "Excuse me," I want Satan's knobby demon-cock to bruise your internal organs for ever and ever. If you charged me ten dollars for a watered-down drink and I wasn't in a strip club, I want to hear your anguished cries till the end of days.
I hope there's some way to avoid Hell, other than living a righteous life, of course. There's always the popular deathbed conversion, but I think that's completely unfair to those who die instantly.
I'm not worried about the heat - I live in Las Vegas - but the little things would bug the shit out of me. I imagine being in Hell and having to fend off the unwanted advances of a leering J. Edgar Hoover; being forced to lure teenage boys to John Wayne Gacy's place; and constantly reassuring Hitler, "Yeah, Adolph, the moustache looks great," just to shut him up. Man, I don't think I could deal with that.

Monday, April 25, 2005
Culinary Philistines
Two posts in one day. Sad.

I can't find a decent fried fish sandwich in this town. When I order a fried fish sandwich it turns out to be that fuck-awful english-style crap. Excuse me, did I just pay eight dollars for something I could get at Long John Silver's for $1.99? If they can build multi-million dollar replicas of New York, Paris and Venice, can't someone coat a piece of fish in cornmeal?

Here's to the Last Resort
I decided to try my luck at online dating, mainly because I don't have six grand for one of those ultra-realistic sex dolls. Oh, and because I yearn for human companionship blahblahblah.
I must have written a brilliant profile because several young ladies from Russia have fallen in love with me just from reading it. It's true, they really love me, each and every one of them. They wouldn't use me to get a travel visa and then mysteriously disappear, not these noble lasses.
Some of the profiles I read were priceless, they were so odd. One lady wrote, "No Ford drivers! I'm serious!!!" What kind of hick shit is that? Was her dad killed in a fiery Pinto crash back in '78? Also, it seems "Head Games" aren't desirable; none of the girls wanted them, whatever they may be. The most puzzling profile was for a woman who admitted up front she has herpes, but then added, "Physically fit men only. NO FATTIES!" Excuse me? You have herpes, you ignorant skank. Tell you what...I'll lose the extra weight when you lose the oozing open sores on your cootch.
I did have coffee with a woman I met online. She was almost my height, and I'm 6'6", but I'm almost certain she wasn't a man. We chatted a bit and seemed to have a good time, but I never heard from her again. I guess I shouldn't have worn that clown suit and talked about making curtains out of human flesh.

Sunday, April 24, 2005
Whatever happened to MC Skat Cat?
People ask me what I think about American Idol and to be honest I haven't seen an episode since the season one finale. I only watched it because I had somehow been made aware of that curly-haired twat who ended up losing to Kelly Clarkson. I was so terrified of that no -talent feeb winning that I watched and actually voted for Ms. Clarkson, time I'm sure I'll want back on my deathbed.
I'm no Kelly Clarkson fan, but every time I hear her inoffensive recorded pap I thank God almighty that Sideshow Idol has fallen to such a level of obscurity that I can't even remember his name. I think he gives one-dollar handies at a Greyhound station in Tempe, Arizona.
Clay Aiken sucks as well, but I wasn't aware of him until after he lost. I'm so pissed that I know who he is.

Friday, April 22, 2005
What happens of little consequence.
Everyone knows Vegas from the commercials, right? The ones those defenders of all things decent, the National Football League, don't want anyone to see during the Super Bowl. Fucking hypocrites. I want to make those commercials. I want to script, cast, shoot, and promote those commercials. I want to show the real stars of my adopted hometown: hordes of douchebag Califorinia dudes who saw Swingers eight years ago and pollute our streets with puke and retard testosterone; corn-fed, big-tittied girls from the midwest who jiggle their wares in front of the velvet ropes of every overrated nightclub in town, only to be shoved aside by the middle-aged, balding schlub whose cousin saved the bouncer a few bucks on his new condo; dumbass cowboy types to whom life is one big monster truck rally and it's always SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAY!!!; L.A. girls who fly in on Thursday night and make thousands of dollars sucking tourist cock until their planes leave Monday morning; starfucker locals who'll stand in line for hours and get treated like pouches of fuck-juice in their own hometown just to get a glimpse of the third-runner-up from "Who Wants to Finger My Sister" and the arena football player she's dating; and people who wonder every day of their miserable lives why they moved to this hellhole but find it hard to leave it behind.
That's why you should visit Vegas. You can get drunk, start fights, have sex with strangers and marry undesirables where you already live. What you can't get where you live is the sight of so many people in one place for so many wrong, fucked up reasons. The Strip is a car wreck, a wretched, bloody, limbless corpse of an accident, and you won't - middle class upbringing be damned - be able to look away.