a tiger with socks on

Chlamydia

2009-10-26T05:34:00.000-07:00

I am going to the doctor because it burns when I pee.

It is a begrudging effort because it opens me up to all kinds of speculation. I ultimately accept that I am human and call to make the appointment. As I call what I believe to be the physician I regularly visit I make a conscious decision to adopt the tone of a man who is casual and upbeat about penile impairment that inadvertently slips into the tone of a desperate and naïve young boy who really ought to make more informed decisions about where he puts his genitalia. A woman answers the phone.

“Ahwatukee Family Physicians. This is Megan.”

“Yes, hi. I’m calling to schedule an appointment.”

“Just a second. Let me put you on hold.”

Megan affords me the opportunity to rethink my strategy. When asked in regards to my appointment, do I simply blurt out, ‘My dick hurts?’, or should I be coy? Should I say something to the effect of, ‘Something is wrong … you know, Megan. Down there.’ She joins me on the line quicker than I anticipate.

“Thank you for holding. And what are you setting this appointment up for?”

Suddenly I am aware that all of my roommates are home. I have not told them of my terrible affliction. Suddenly the walls are paper – the word ‘penis’ has potential to burn through the house like a towering inferno. Mark is in his room and I can hear his voice audibly through the vent in the wall that separates our living quarters.

“Yes, I uh … I’m calling in regards to a possible … bladder infection.”

The last two words are quiet, quieter than I expected or intended.

“I’m sorry?”

“A POSSIBLE BLADDER INFECTION.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

When I arrive to the doctors I am relieved to find it is not the one I normally visit. The normal one I visit I awkwardly used to be friends with his son Brian in elementary school and attended his birthday party. For this particular event we went to what I can only believe to be a carnival, where each birthday attendant was allotted a small amount of money [by the aforementioned doctor] for games that yielded prizes, of which, was a stuffed animal I had personally won. Later during the slumber aspect of the party, I, for whatever it was that compels children to be destructive, decapitated my stuffed animal. Perhaps to prove a point. Perhaps merely to say, ‘Hey. I’m too big for this.’ Whatever the reason, Brian tattled on me. In the early hours of the morning I was scolded by his father. Brian and I were no longer friends after that night. The experience was so great my mother decided to utilize his stern father’s medical abilities for the entire family. Now every time I have an infection I must have an obligatory conversation about the things Brian is up to these days that I don’t care about before I can be healthy. Except today. It is a lady doctor, cooing my innate male with an embarrassing penis problem instincts out of its dreary cave.

I dress up my symptoms to sound mysterious. I make it sound like a medical phenomenon exclusive to me. The doctor is not impressed. She listens to me momentarily, listens to my breathing, and then tells me I probably have Chlamydia. She essentially believes this because typically any male in their 20’s who is sexually active who speaks of things within this ballpark have Chlamydia. As much alternative music, skinny jeans, hoodies as I invested in all throughout my college career in an effort to distance myself from the other dudes, I am reminded I am painfully average. She writes me a prescription for a powerful antibiotic. Before leaving she hands me a little cup and instructs me to pee in it and hand it to an old man in a little room on my way out. I do this and feel very sorry for the old man when he clasps the warm container of my urine in his hand because I indirectly feel as though I have pissed on him.

I drive to the pharmacy immediately. I have to wait for the pharmacists to fill my prescription so I grab a bite to eat while I mull over what is really plaguing my junk. I develop many theories. When I return to collect my meds the woman at the counter asks me if I’d like instructions from the pharmacist. I politely shrug. The pharmacist approaches me and grabs the bottle in front of me, reads the label, and immediately passes sweeping judgment over me. “You’re gonna want to take this, immediately,” she says glaring down at me. These are the instructions. With them, many implied instructions are given as well.

A few days later I am at work when I receive a phone call. I don’t recognize the number but I answer it. The woman on the line informs me she has the results of my urine test, screened for Chlamydia. She mumbles the result and I ask her to repeat it. “Negative,” she says, more audibly.

Hopefully next time when I’ve potentially contracted AIDS it’s also amusing.

More wisdom from Jordan

2009-10-14T20:15:00.000-07:00

More status updates ...

- 602-377-XXXX does anybody reckognize that phone number someone called me onit?

- LMFAO!!!!!!!!!!! AHAHHAAHAAHAHAHAhahaha god dammit butters what did i tell you about shooting guys in the dick ughhh that is not cool lmfaoooo o good the indiana jones rape epsidoe is by the best in season twelve lmao o dear god im crying with laughter ahahaa

- man i just watched the economy southpark episode it makes so much sense why the fuck arent they doing just that wipe out everyones debt and the economy can pickup again da fuuuuuuuuuuck lol

- da fuuuuuuck lmao o god i love south park just watched the pirate episode great haha

- playin mario party on the wii with the roomate its my day off bitches hit it up if u wanna come chill 480-703-XXXX

- the library is awesome i got ten cds for freeeeee and ima get ten more tomorow my collection is going to be digustingly rich with music

- sometimes i just wish anarchy would insue and engulf the entire world either that or everyone in the world turned into a zombie that way i could own the world to myself and shoot everyone i dont like lol

- dam i keep having dreams of my x and her family its fucking wierd and outa nowhere wierd

Jordan later replies to his own update with the following ...

hasnt she torchered me enough dam now i gotta see her in my dreams thassum fucked up shit

- man i cant wait till i start spinnin im gonna killllll the shit for real man u dont even know i cant wait to unleash my talent i just need the tools and its fucking over your friends with a future superstar a legend in the making im gonna destroy th...is music industry and build it back from the ground up

- off to do the arens and visit my homie hit me up 480-703-XXXX

- yay get to visit my homie in the pen today miss her soooo much wooooafter that aint doin shit hit me up if u wanna kick it 480-703-XXXX *in case you missed his phone number

- fuckin weak dude i sat at that god dam jail visitor room for three hours and i didnt get to see her fucking bullshit im gonna try again wensday horse shit

You know I spoil you guys, right? Just because I love you, I'm including a wall-to-wall between Jordan and a girl he is scheming on - a sad situation that is apparently going nowhere. The comments appear in chronological order.

Jordan:

yo kendra wad up its been a while what u been up to?

Kendra:

ha ha good times...

Jordan:

indeed so how ya been whats new man and when do i get to chill with u again? haha

Kendra:

ive been good just really busy with school and work. im down to grab a drink but maybe sometime next week....this week has already worn me out. hope all is well with you.

Jordan:

right on dude sounds good ill hit u up on here next week man glad to hear ur hangin in there definitly good to hear from ya man

Jordan, again:

dude kendra have u seen jennifers body? proly not but u should it was surprisingly good and u really look like the main character needy is her name in it and her real name is Amanda Seyfried check it out dude haha

Jordan, again:

and when u avaiable to kick it dude this weekend lookin at all good?

Jordan, once again:

kendra ima keep buggin u till we chill lol i miss you dude set it up and get it over with lol im free today if ya wanna grab lunch or a movie or somthin my treat ill even get ya homie hit me up man 480-703-XXXX

Kendra:

sorry man can't today. worked all weekend so today is the only day i have to get all my homework done as well as laundry and groceries....blah blah blah. ill hit you up soon. sorry....just crazy busy with school and work and interning. wish i wasn't.

Jordan:

wurd dude wurd

Jordan:

kendraaaaaaaa hows tomorow lookin for u dude haha

Jordan:

sunday that is

Kendra, mercifully:

sorry man i was in show low all weekend.

Jordan:

gotcha

Hey. Look at this kid I hate.

2009-10-02T02:04:00.000-07:00

So a real update is in order -- I've got plenty to tell you about the clap that I didn't have/was treated for. In the mean time, YOU NEED TO READ THIS.

So this stupid piece of shit loser from high school friend requested me on Facebook awhile ago. When he added me I was surprised because I thought he was aware of how much I hated him. Evidently not. His status updates have pissed me off so bad I nearly deleted him, which would have been a shame. He is so horrible that everyone should benefit from his stupidity. So, I present to you his status updates in their original form. Enjoy. Perhaps this will be a recurring theme.

Updates appear in chronological order.

Jordan says:

o man 500 days of summer was fucking depressing as shit that movie just pissed me off haha

Jordan says:

wow i went to sleep at 11 this morning and just woke up now haha id proly still be sleepin if i didnt have hw i love sleep its the best

*posted at 8:45 pm

Jordan says:

why is terry reid so dam good seriusly sooo chilll soooo soothing soooooo silk i feel like im flying everytime i listen to seed of memory

Jordan says:

wow surrogets was a good ass movie dude its so true if we were given that technology we all would just sit at home and turn into robots good movie good message good shit man

Jordan says:

dam i didnt realize how many hernandeze'z there were on face book jeese

Jordan says:

lol it just occured to me oooo man lol why are boobs sooo freakin awsome seriusly i must thank god for creating such a lovely gift to us men i mean seriusly u can suckem play with em humpem and man o man are they fun as hell to look at

Jordan says:

hahahahahhahaha and motorboat and cudddle and squeeze lol ooo boobs hahaahaha men thank your ladies right now for sprouting such funbags and thank them again for letting u have soo much fun with them we love you boobs haha

Dude is unfucking believable. The best part is on my news feed a lot of this shit appears one after the other. I'll keep you posted on any further words of wisdom. In the mean time here is a picture of the american badass.

Dogs

2009-08-30T23:10:00.000-07:00

I wake up sometime around noon with one item on my agenda for the day which is to be drunk by early evening. I soon remember telling Audrey and Heather the day before that we'll take a trip to the Arizona Humane Society with all intensive purposes to adopt a dog. As it turns out being drunk quickly has to fit in around another item on the agenda after all. I have a generous portion of what I have dubbed a community box of Captain Crunch that belongs to one of my roommates and I'm too looking forward to breakfast to care if I'm wrong. It is delicious.

Audrey ends up driving to the shelter after she gets out of work. Before we get on the freeway a woman is standing by the road with a sign that reads, 'FREE BABY TURTLES'. We consider this alternative momentarily.

Our trip takes us through central Phoenix. The scenery outside the passenger's seat window makes me feel both gallant, in respect to delivering an animal out of such a miserable area, as well as immediately turning the car around, in respect to never coming back to such a miserable area. But pretty soon we arrive at the shelter and once inside it isn't nearly as bad as I exaggerated. Unlike the pound closer to my house the animals here appear to be taken care of by people that seem to enjoy what they're doing.

We walk through several kennels where the dogs are housed. No dogs particularly stick out and it soon dawns on me I don't entirely know what I'm doing here. A few days of processing the news that adopting a dog was allowed, if not encouraged, it somehow evolved into a how-hum feeling that I should just go ahead and do it.

This how-hum feeling is compelling enough to at least request an 'interview' with a 7-year-old German Shepard/Husky mix. I become drawn to him through sympathy because behind his steel cage I plainly see he was fitted with a traditional blue bandana around the neck. He looks too wise not to be considering how stupid he looks and I empathize. I suppose the equivalent of this situation would be putting someone in jail and dressing them up like an asshole.

A man who works at the shelter who lacked any hair apart from a horseshoe around the back and sides of his head coerces Stanley into a larger confined area. He mutters something to himself about needing treats and leaves us alone with the dog. Stanley is less than impressed with being in a cage with three humans, Audrey, Heather, and myself; his nonchalant attitude suggesting he doesn't give a shit because this happens everyday. He sulks about the edges of the pen until the balding man returns with a couple treats in his clenched fist. "Actually, Stanley can sit," the balding man says. He holds out a treat for Stanley and pulls it away as he meets up to grab it, while simultaneously the bald man instructs Stanley to sit first. This action is repeated a few times until Stanley does ultimately oblige. The three of us observe the balding man baby talk Stanley for an unbearable amount of time. Finally I tell the man we'll consider Stanley so we can leave.

I continue walking around the shelter talking myself into adopting something. We come upon a 5-month-old lab named Barkley who I am instantly endeared to because he shares the name with Suns' great, Sir Charles Barkley. I regrettably ask the bald man one more time for an 'interview'. This time he brings us into a smaller room with just a chair and a couple dog toys strewn about the floor. Quite the opposite of Stanley, Barkley immediately loses his shit being around so many people at once. The balding man gives an obligatory speech on how puppies are so different from older dogs and need a lot of love. As the speech ends, the balding man transitions into a grave and quiet uttering of, "He just loves to play". As if to solidify this account of Barkley, the balding man stoops to the floor in herky-jerky fashion, laying face down on the concrete as Barkley aggressively nips around his face. The situation quickly divulges into quietly witnessing this scrappy 40-something year-old man lay in the fetal position against concrete while covering his face and giggling as Barkley quite literally bites his head. This too is allowed to go on for an uncomfortable period of time in complete silence.

Noticeably absent from the car on the ride back is any Stanley, Barkley, or otherwise. I spend the remainder of the 30-some minute ride contemplating whether or not wasting my money on an iPhone or bullshit tattoo is worth more than adopting a dog from central Phoenix. I'm still on the fence.

Waking up to Walt

2009-08-04T04:01:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke up to the doorbell ringing in excess.

Adopting my former mentality from living with my parents, by default, answering a door being rung or knocked upon is not my responsibility. I can’t really explain the logic you have when you’re half asleep, but it’s different from being awake logic. The half of me inflicted with exhaustion won out against the quarter of me that felt like being a good citizen. Making matters worse was I knew Walt, the odd job working ex-crack addict, was lurking outside the door waiting to repair something that I wouldn’t notice was fixed so I’d be compelled to ask, “What the hell was Walt fixing today?”, and when I learned what it was I would follow up with, “Oh.” I vaguely recall a hypothetical situation playing in my mind of him fuming outside the door and reprimanding me for not answering the door, further solidifying my stance on not answering the door.

I eventually woke up to a knock on my bedroom door, a door being knocked upon much harder to play oblivious to. It was Walt. He said, “You ready for a ceiling fan?”.

I’ve been in this house for two weeks now, but the unassembled ceiling fan sitting in the room I live in has been here longer. I got quite used to seeing that box on the bedroom floor day to day, to the point I disregarded it ever being assembled. It would be hard to look at because I imagined how much cooler my room might be with it adorned to the ceiling. For his final act, Walt also fixed the cross bar in my closet.

His closing remark to me as he left the house today: “You sure guys live here?”, in reference to the generally agreed upon perception that our house is pretty clean. I think it was sort of Walt’s way of telling me, ‘I just built a fan and fixed a closet for you, fucking faggot. Whatchu goin’ do?’.
I responded by despondently brushing my teeth in the bathroom, discovering Walt had assembled the bathroom mirror that’s been sitting unassembled in the bathroom since I got here.

Academic Probation

2009-08-03T04:18:00.000-07:00

I’m only allowed to take up to nine credit hours this semester because I never learned how to apply myself in school.

Specifically, I missed the withdrawal deadline for two classes I was taking the previous semester, a deadline which unmercifully saw my GPA walking to its car in a poorly lit parking lot too late during the night, proceeded to stalk away in the shadows, ultimately sensing no speculation in the vicinity during an otherwise opportune moment and rushed up, grabbed it with vehemence from behind, and violently fucked it in the ass. My GPA was the kind that didn’t even have the presence of mind to carry mace around ASU so when you hear about it being raped, part of you saw it coming and just hoped the girls down the hall learned a stern lesson from it.

I am enrolled in an independent film class, a reflective essay writing class in the spirit of Klosterman, and a class that I can’t pronounce with a former professor I had & loathed. This last class I’m enrolled in because a thirty something English advisor I had a mandated meeting with as part of my probation said I might be interested in it. I fell halfway in love with said thirty something English advisor so I would have agreed to any of her demands in that moment. She liked Dave Mathhews Band a lot, but I forgave her.

I live in a house that is currently being ‘flipped’ with a dude I barely know but had a connection with through his cousin whom I roomed with freshmen year that I only know pretty well. The house, rooted in an historic neighborhood in the belly of the Mesa beast, makes me wish ever more I had a camera to document it all. Monday through Friday an independent contractor/ex-crack addict comes to perform odd jobs around the house. His name is Walt. I have only glimpsed him about two or three times. The only thing I really know about him is that he has several characters that are level 80 in World of Warcraft. I have an irrational fear that if I look him directly in the eyes my body will turn to stone or I’ll have a conversation with him.

Smirnoff Ice

2009-07-10T01:28:00.000-07:00

All right, Smirnoff Ice commercials.

I concede. You win. You’ve unabashedly created an advertising campaign that has handedly trivialized my entire conception of being young and having a good time. Watching your commercials makes being a divorced father who’s only satisfaction comes from watching three hour blocks of Law and Order reruns on VHS prior to going to bed at 7:00 pm on a weekday in preparation for my life as a substitute teacher look absolutely fucking wild. Don’t get me wrong. My idea of a good time isn’t quite sneaking onto a golf course with my friends to setup an impromtu slip 'n slide with excessive amounts of a particularly shitty and too sweet alcoholic beverage popularized by sorority girls leeching off dad’s wallet to live a comfortable life of being ceaselessly fucked by fraternity boys named Luke, Tyson or Austin. I’m just offended you think we’re in the same ballpark.

I mean jesus fucking christ, Smirnoff Ice. You make me never want to have fun. Ever again. From this day forward I’ll get the chills every time myself and all my friends with toned bodies who don’t look fucking ridiculous in fedoras sneak into abandoned pools to have one of our impromptu ‘fill this shit with old mattresses and sponges that god knows how we came upon so we can fucking JUMP in it’ party, on the grounds some asshole might show up with a case of Smirnoff Ice and trivialize the whole god damn thing.

Depressing Dispatch Girl

2009-07-08T00:46:00.001-07:00

This is Jerry.

First off, I should be commended on this candid shot with my awful phone - Rhoads inspired me with some of his Mesa voyeurism. Back to the subject at hand, Jerry. Mother fucking Jerry. She is one of the more depressing/repugnant people whom I work with. I can't say I blame her. She confines herself full time to a stuffy 10x8 room inside the PTS office fielding calls from people looking to claim their cars that the bastards who pay me towed - people looking to claim their cars who assumably attend classes/work at ASU and thus are already being fucked in the ass for thousands of dollars for a degree/paycheck, so ... you can imagine how most of those conversations go down (See also: fucking miserable.).

Every so often Jerry slithers out from under her bridge to complain about something, such as the lack of billy goats to gobble up. Today it was her body figure. She announced to everyone in the conference room that she couldn't drink any of the free Amp energy drinks that had been given to PTS in lue of America's birthday. No one asked, she just told them. This prompted an obligatory, 'Why?', from my supervisor Henry, a dude that is clearly too nice to not be baited. Jerry went on to explain that she just started her new diet which would consist of exercise and not eating junk food. She went into needlessly hilarious detail about obtaining her figure through excessively eating hot fudge with peanut butter in context with her completely sedentary lifestyle. At this point it should be duly noted neither the water bottle or Subway cup from the photo above belonged to Jerry. She's not really into that sort of thing.

I tuned out pretty quick while intermittently reading my book. I know, I know. What could be better than listening to a miserable lady complain about her excessive body fat? Jerry didn't perpetuate gender stereotypes for too long before not all too ironically moving to the subject of suicide. According to Jerry she would opt to hang herself rather than shooting herself in the face on the grounds that leaving a mess behind would only make matters worse for the unlucky person who would stumble upon her body.

She then proceeded to saunter back to the dispatch office, and I'm sure, really think about that.

Baby with a hat on

2009-07-06T16:14:00.000-07:00

More often than not I wake up on someone’s couch.

I’ve almost become a pro at it. An unhealthy portion of my young adult years have been fueled by Stella, Sierra Nevada, and an assortment of microbrews on tap. Thanks to this influx of alcohol, you’ve probably gotten your own chance to see me peacefully sleep on your own couch. If not I have no idea what the hell is wrong with you. You should probably buy me a drink sometime.

Some mornings are better than others on the couch. Typically, I spend the first minute I’m conscious regretting I don’t have the presence of mind to have planned ahead and brought a binge drinking travel kit – much like a little kid would bring a kit to a sleepover. Shit for contacts. A god damn tooth brush. Sometimes I improvise this complete kit using the materials on hand covertly. I spend a few more minutes contemplating how I will ultimately get back to my car in some cases, which usually translates I’m going to walk 3-5 miles in 100 degree weather with a hangover. Really not any of this is very glamorous. Sometimes I need a reward for destroying my spinal column on a shit couch from the 1970’s. Today I received that award.

While sleeping peacefully on Brian’s shit couch from the 1970’s (probably more 1990’s), Brian, Trevor, and fellow Silver Miner Alex took a trip to the Yucca taproom. This field trip was unbeknownst to me. Because it is exceedingly difficult to get uninterrupted sleep on a shit couch probably more from the 1990’s as opposed to say, a fucking bed, I awoke sometime in the early morning to Trevor on the phone with his lady friend, every indication that he was fully coherent and accountable for his actions, etc. I drifted off back to sleep. The next time I woke up I requested the slumbering Brian to provide a lift back to my truck stationed at the local Casey Moore’s. I sat in the living room and turned on the Michael Jackson movie recorded on the DVR. Finally I heard a door open and someone, who I believed was Brian, moving around. Another half hour passed. Still no Brian.

Around this time my brother walked through the front door and started grabbing all his shit for work. He walks towards the direction of his room and immediately reemerges in the hall saying, ‘You guys have to see something’. Audrey, who was also there at the time, walked down the length of the hall as I followed closely behind and finally poked our head into Chuck’s room. There, sleeping like a baby in regards to the fetal position and lack of any clothing whatsoever (besides a hat somehow), was Trevor. So more rather a baby with a hat on.

“He better wash my sheets”, my brother remarked on his way off to work. I checked in on Trevor one last time when Brian finally woke up to take us home only to find him in a much less subtle position.

Self Checkout

2009-06-23T01:27:00.000-07:00

I had to complain about this tonight so as to avoid the risk of not over exaggerating.

God forbid I wake up tomorrow and brush off the entire experience I had at the Walmart self checkout this evening as just mildly irritating. The time is ripe to delve into what I view more and more as a rhetorical question: Why the fuck are fucking people so fucking awful at fucking self checkout?

The woman in front of me must have been fresh off the boat from the 16th century, lost at sea for centuries only hundreds and hundreds of years later to find safe port outside of the Mesa Walmart where she could barter and trade her collective treasures from the voyage for bushels upon bushels of instant lunch Ramen packs that she can't find the fucking barcode on to scan. I swear to christ this lady had never seen a machine before. She stood in front of the machine with the 'START' button glaring back in her face while frantically trying to scan her assortment of unsatisfying cuisine. The Walmart employee running self checkout came over to assist this bitch literally four times over the duration of her 10-12 item purchase.

When this fucking idiot lady hit the home stretch of her purchase, I thought I'd be leaving Walmart in due time. But this fucking idiot lady saved the good fireworks for last -- to the tune of a plastic bag full of socks, as clearly when she'd be eating her soup this evening her feet would grow cold. She waved the bag in front of the scanner. No dice. I started an entire family and was about to see my kids off to college in the time it took her to register she could key in the item's PLU code instead. She keyed it in and failed. I just had my third grand kid. She keyed it in again and failed. I just retired and began working on my memoir. I'm positive what she was keying in rather was the price of her big bag of socks. At this point the Walmart employee running self checkout received her encore.

Using the self checkout immediately after her made me feel like a god damn genius.

I dream of Roseanne

2009-06-20T22:15:00.000-07:00

Some people dream of fame.

Others, immense fortunes. Fast cars. Adventure. All sorts of shit. I dream about the cast from the sitcom 'Roseanne' reuniting in front of a studio audience to field questions. Sometime before I slapped my alarm clock to pacify its incessant mother fucking BEEP BEEP BEEP noise (I wish it had a radio, but buying a fancy alarm clock would be like buying a really nice pair of pants I hate to fucking wear every day), I vaguely remember a young girl being passed a microphone by a host undecipherable, and asking the following question: "Is it good to contract pneumonia for a girl of my age?", to which Roseanne would have supplied an answer had I the presence of mind to roll my wake up alarm ahead a few more minutes the night before. I'm imagining if she managed to get a word in edge wise, she probably would have replied with something to the effect of, "No." Then again, this all occurred in dream land where anything is possible. I think somewhere in the midst of my dream there were actual questions directed towards the cast, but Roseanne did not seem to be insulted. It's always refreshing to see starlets acknowledge the world does not completely revolve around them!

In other news, there is a vampire dunking on my arm now and forever.

I'm going to go ride bikes. XOXO.

Vids

2009-06-18T03:01:00.000-07:00

I made this song forever ago. I made the video for youtube just right now.

Danny Glover

2009-06-15T21:32:00.000-07:00

My job is a lot easier than yours.

Just trust me on this. I almost feel guilty for using the word ‘job’ for what I do, but regardless I pay my taxes all good like, so I think it qualifies as employment. I won’t go into how or why in explicit detail – this is just something you can either take or leave.

One example of how ridiculous my job can be is we’re responsible for scheduling ourselves weekly on a Google document page connected to my ASU account. Every weekend or so, I open the shit up and look at what’s going on each day the following week and make the ultimate ruling on how I want to make my money. This is a very small liberty I realize, as I’m sure many others out there are afforded something similar. Nevertheless, the bottom line is I don’t have anyone breathing down my neck telling me, “You have to work this day,” and on the other hand, “You can’t work this day,” which is to say the days I’m up in the air on in the coming week, I can conveniently leave myself off the schedule and change my mind if I’m so inclined. Today was unfortunately one of those days.

There’s a kid at work who has a stutter named Chris and he’ll make you realize just how truly terrible a person you are just by being Chris. Don’t get me wrong: dude’s speech impediment is not anything I can’t handle. Still, when you’re at work and actually working (a rare occasion in my line of employment), you can get a little stressed out because dude can’t spit out the fucking words at the same time your mind processes what he is clearly going to say. The rude thing to do, in my humble opinion, would be to finish his sentence for him. I try my best to treat him like any other dude I work with. Still … some days, man. I swear to christ.

Here’s an example of a daily conversation with Chris:

(I see Chris coming in the front door of the office.)
“Yo, Chris. What’s up?”
“H-hey, T-T-T-T-“
(Ty)
“T-T-“
(Fucking Ty)
“Ty.”

But back to the present. Today was unfortunately one of the days I wasn’t scheduled, by my own choosing, but stupidly chose to come in anyways for some extra money. The big task of the day delegated to myself and Chris was to move the video board – a 20k hulking piece of shit equipment (powered by the sun!) used to direct traffic. Upon acceptance of the task, my immediate thought was, “I’m gonna fuck this up somehow.”

Me and Chris set out and discover the hulking piece of shit equipment in front of parking structure 4 (Some argue the best parking structure ASU has to offer), and shit is on top of a curb in the dirt. I started to wonder how the fuck we’d be able to hitch the video board and move it. We had two options.

A. Make a wide ass turn and hope to god we didn’t get fucked by the median.
B. Back the hell off the curb and hope for the best.

To frame your mind around this, it was two idiots who’ve never hauled a trailer or anything in their lives. Something shitty had to happen. Well, Chris ended up backing the hell off the curb and we eventually were in the clear. As soon as we arrived to the location, Chris the genius opted not to take the easy route and make a wide turn into the entrance, choosing instead to drive a whole fuck of a lot more around a tiny barricaded parking lot. Unfortunately for Chris, his route involved a lot of backing up which resulted in the hulking piece of shit video board snapping off the hitch and one end of it smashing into the ground.

[At this point, the two idiots get out of the car to survey the damage.]

It takes about 20 minutes standing in the 108 degree weather to determine that two strapping men cannot physically do a god damn thing to fix this, hitch it up again. I started having thoughts like Danny Glover. Like, this was supposed to be my day off. I was this close to retirement. I’m getting too old for this.

Chris stood there and stuttered about a whole bunch of garbage I wasn’t even listening to, because I was waiting for the dude to own the moment and drive back to the office, tail between his legs, and say, “I sort of broke the hulking piece of shit 20k video board.” I wanted no part in the shit storm. I was riding shotgun, fuck that.

Chris seemed pretty nervous about going back, so he stuttered about it for a long time. I started to get irritated, realizing we were just fucking standing there. Chris and his speech impediment make me realize how terrible of a father I’ll be one day.

Chris comes rolling back with some dude Mark I always see at the office, whom the only thing I know about is used to want to be a cop. We don’t talk. Mark radios in a crew of two other mild mannered gentlemen. He then instructs Chris and one dude to stand on the side that’s pointing up, while me and sunglasses pathetically attempt to lift the downed side. Miraculously, this happens somehow. So long story short, we narrowly missed breaking a hulking piece of shit 20k equipment.

Supposed to be my day off, man.

Fat

2009-06-13T16:45:00.001-07:00

I used to look like this.

Moms!

2009-06-11T23:46:00.000-07:00

Moms love exclamation points.

Undisputedly.

There is no use contesting/questioning it.

It’s in their genetic makeup. From the moment their first child leaves the womb and enters the world the first thing they think of is all the terrible shit they can text aforementioned child when aforementioned child is of age to have a cell phone and frame it around an exclamation point.
Examples include, “Call me if you need a ride!”

“Don’t stay out to late!”
“Have a good day!”
“I saw you driving!”

I’m by no means implicating that mothers of the world feign enthusiasm behind this little symbol of language, because I’ll be the first to tell you: Moms get wild – just not like they used to. To mothers of the world, the exclamation point has added symbolism besides, “Look at how excited I am!”; your mom means to also say, “I’m fucking old and look how excited I can still get!”. So respect it. The next time you get a text from dear old mom, make sure to include some exclamation points of your own. Try it out. You’ll know you left your god damn mom satisfied if, upon transcribing, your brief text to text conversation reads like you’re screaming at each other.

Why if Nicholas Cage was really predetermined to save the world I would probably just kill myself

2009-03-23T00:45:00.000-07:00

In the latest film by Nicholas Cage, 'Knowing', Cage stumbles upon a list of numbers that precisely date all of the biggest disasters in history -- those that have happened and yet to transpire. The discovery charges Cage with the task of saving the world. First of all this movie asks us, "What if a list like this really existed?". Rather perplexing. Secondly this movie asks, "What would happen if Nicholas Cage found that list?", to which my response is more or less the end of the world so I would probably just go ahead and kill myself. This probably sounds morbid and everything but everyone would be dead by the very last date on the paper. I'm positive. More specifically, here is why I would end it all if Nick Cage was humanity's last hope.

1) Nicholas Cage is not really Nicholas Cage. He is John Travolta with Nicholas Cage's face.

You couldn't really tell what Nicholas Cage's true intention was when you don't know his true identity. If the real Nicholas Cage found a map with the dates of all the disasters in history, past/present/future, John Travolta would actually find it because he is Nicholas Cage. In all of this confusion, the physical form of John Travolta would undoubtedly receive the artifact because people would think he was actually Nicholas Cage. And if Face/Off was any example of how evil Nicholas Cage is, who is now John Travolta, he would probably tear the artifact to pieces. It all adds up to a clumsy apocalypse that I wouldn't have to be a part of but you would.

More reasons to come.

2009-01-12T22:25:00.000-08:00

Another one for the haters.

2009-01-11T18:38:00.000-08:00

I made this using a site called xtranormal.com, provided by my friend DC's blog. I'm pushing all of my friends to make their own cartoons with it because I'm sure they'll be even more fucked up than what I've done here.

2009-01-05T01:44:00.000-08:00

Today at work there was a cricket in the urinal.

This isn't the first time this has happened. Somehow, when I pissed all over whom is likely the original cricket I pissed all over's best mate, I started to wonder what the appeal of hanging out in a urinal would be. It's not that I necessitate cricket's have the consciousness to loaf about all day, staking out the best places to get splashed with urine. But this had me wondering, hypothetically, what if crickets did do that? What if they sought out to a be doused in a hot lasso of piss? The evidence is hard to negate: two crickets in the urinal in the span of one month.

This whole line of thinking brought me to a natural conclusion: I could write a cautionary tale for children about a cricket who loves pee. In fact, it is called, 'The Cricket Who Drank Pee". I wish I could show you some pictures to give you somewhat of a storyboard, but surprisingly a google image search of 'cricket drinking pee' yields really lackluster results. Anyway, the story sort of goes like this. There's a cricket named Chris who goes around from urinal to urinal for the sole purpose of being pissed on. I'm talking absolutely doused. Chris is so nuts about getting sprayed with piss that he thinks he's invincible, but it ultimately leads to his undoing. In chapter 63 Chris the cricket contracts Hepatitis and dies. This is a story that I feel many kids will be able to identify with because Chris liked to draw with his legs before his liver failed and he died.

This is a copy of a real e-mail I sent out to Random House publishing proposing my book:

Dear you guys, I have a good idea for one of your books. I would like to write a book for kids called "The Cricket Who Drank Pee". It is a cautionary tale about a cricket named Chris. He is an artist who draws with all his legs and he goes around to all the urinals in town to get pissed on. I'm talking absolutely soaked. His reasoning behind this is because he derives great satisfaction from it, which starts to get in the way of his family and personal life. He never stops thinking about drinking buckets and buckets of pee all day. Chris drinks all of the pee he can get his legs on. He invites his cricket friends over to his palace where all he has to drink there is pee. His friends don't want to drink it so they have Dr. Pepper's instead. Chris eventually comes down with Hepatitis and dies.

I would like to sell you the publishing rights to "The Cricket Who Drank Pee" for $120,000. Please contact me immediately if you wish to purchase. Also, any feedback would be great. Thanks you guys.

Great wishes,
T.J. Thursby

Robbed

2008-12-23T12:44:00.000-08:00

I got fucking robbed this morning.

I woke up this morning with twenty minutes till I was due in the offices of ASU Parking and Transit services. Wiping cold out of my eyes, I begrudgingly walked the distance to my car only to discover the glimmering fragments splayed about the asphalt. My window was absolutely murdered. The crunching under my feet was probably what set me off initially. I knew how to break down the rest of the situation without peering into the car. The stereo (not a very good one) had been gutted from the console and my iPod had the shit burgled out of it. All things considered, counting the money needed to replace the window, I started work this morning -$500. A little ironic with Christmas being two days away.

Which got me thinking. Sure, this all sucks. But what would be so great that in contrast to the ill fate that fell upon my Tacoma it would make me delighted? I figured it out at work. I decided that if I ever became a billionaire tycoon (I've had previous posts about this subject.) I would invest heavily in a Bear Nap Room. So let me pitch this to you, right? Bears. Love sleep. So do I, right? So I'd have an elaborate mansion in which a designated room of the property was specifically devoted to drowsy bears and naps. There would be a big fireplace at the front of the room. I would quietly enter while the bears were hibernating, and the softest bear would sort of hear me and crack an eye open. At this point, he'd wrap his great soft arm around me and I'd burrow into his warm belly while he spooned me by the fire.

There would also be a bear who wore an apron that would yawn a lot and look really tired but make me sandwiches. Be so sick dude.

2008-12-20T12:14:00.000-08:00

Grandma's here.

In an effort to conserve space not needed she combined all of the Special K cereals on top of the refrigerator. It was a very old person move considering at least two of the boxes were cinnamon pecan (which I've earlier declared my affinity towards in previous posts), one was an ancient Special K with strawberries, and the new host box is a family size Special K with strawberries that was barely opened and mysteriously didn't have enough space for any of these cereals to begin with. When I woke up this morning I went straight to the kitchen and couldn't find the cinnamon box, where upon I was informed grandma undertook a massive/unnecessary cereal conservation project. I informed both my mother and grandma that while the cereals were in the same family tree, they were like brother and sister and they couldn't get married to the same box, only not in those words. They then complained that I was too picky to eat the Special K medley.

I just woke up. I'm not shopping around for science experiments. Give me Special K Cinnamon Pecan or bust.

DMV

2008-12-19T00:59:00.000-08:00

I set my alarm extra early so I can take a trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles.

My reasoning behind this is that I require a new driver's license. One where my card reads horizontally and bouncers in Arizona bars can instantly see that I'm legally allowed to get drunk, take my shirt off for the topless shot, and throw trash can lids in their bar. One where my face doesn't have "Hey you guys, I seriously love Chipotle burritos" written all over it and my cheeks refrain, "Yes, it is entirely possible for me to weigh 160 lbs even for a 5'6 boyish man." One where my mysterious hereditary neck beard has been shaved. Because my life is simple and my goals are honest and true, I will strive to take the best picture possible that I don't want taken of me.

I couldn't sleep last night just thinking about the potential this new driver's license has. I've already given a lot of thought as to how I can become entirely more excellent at being alive through my graduated driver's license. First of all, I'm going to kick the photo's ass. When the woman tells me I need to smile with my mouth open, I'm going to say, "get out of here, you dummy." I can't smile like a real person; don't need to, thanks. I smirk, as anyone with swagger does. So photo. Good. Done. As for my height? I'll tell the lady 5'7. She'll get all finicky and say, "But your previous says 5'6!". At this point, I'll lean over the counter and audibly whisper, "I know." Holy shit. The roof tears off the Chandler DMV. The crowd goes wild. Finally when she asks me if I want to be an organ donor I'll say yes, and she'll say oh my god you're so brave, and then we'll go back to my parent's house and kiss forever.

The best part of my morning will be eating my bowl of Special K Cinnamon Pecan in preparation. It's like Cinnamon Toast Crunch for grown ups.

BOOK REPORT

2008-11-30T22:35:00.000-08:00

In an effort to give a nod to the part of me that is wild for literature, as well as shamelessly promote my taste in reading to my friends, I've decided that upon completion of each book to write a review of it here. On this blog. So on certain days when you find your way over here, you'll usually see something written in a very dry and sarcastic tone. Don't confuse this for the book report. My book reports are from the heart.

This week, 'Chuck Klosterman IV: A Decade of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas'.

I'm a pretty big fan of Klosterman's writing. If you haven't read any of his material, he generally composes a collection of essays about pop culture. I kind of look at it like intricate bathroom reading. Granted you're not really learning anything by reading most of his work, his writing kind of draws you in like a conversation you're having with a friend. He tackles a wide range of subjects of no great importance; the notion that Britney Spears sells herself as a sexual icon (at least she used to, and then got fat, and is now vying to reclaim her former glory) but fervently denies it either makes her a mastermind because of how successful she is or a complete idiot. A chronicle of how solely eating McDonald's chicken nuggets for seven days causes a person to literally lose their mind by about day six. And sometimes he writes about basketball.

Overall, this really isn't my favorite collection of his essays. That title is probably reserved for Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, which is initially what turned me on to his writing. The problem with most of his collections of essays is just that; he'll bounce from subject to subject and certain topics just don't click. With IV, I certainly experienced disinterest in parts but I can't disregard the notion that it's still Klosterman's writing. He has a certain sharpness that would make a lot of authors a hundred times more compelling to read. I think the biggest surprise was towards the end of the book, Klosterman writes a bit of fiction. Though his imagination is expansive in the context of his essays generally based around reality, he easily projects this into a small piece in the last leg of the book. There's a lot of gritty details, reminiscent of Palahniuk. If you're a Klosterman fan you should take a look at this one. If you're interested and haven't read his stuff yet, I'd suggest starting with Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs. Although, the random dude working at Borders as I bought this latest one informed me Fargo Rock City is his best book, which I have yet to read.

Thus, this concludes my book report.

* Other shit I learned today

1) During the height of the Nazi party, a tinker made a homemade explosive and installed it inside a column behind a podium in a hall Adolf Hitler was set to give a speech in. Since technology was a little slow, he had to time the explosive three days ahead, with the detonation to occur sometime midway into Hitler's speech. At the last minute, Hitler made a change in his plans to deliver the speech earlier; he ended up leaving the hall nearly an hour after the explosion that probably would have killed him went off. Holy shit. History rules.

2) The drummer from the Strokes is in a band called 'Little Joy'. They're totally awesome.

2008-11-27T20:19:00.000-08:00

I want to get a decently priced apartment with at least one more person. Soon. Holla at me.

Qualities to offer:

*Agreeable taste in music.
*Know how to cook excellently prepared frozen pizzas.
*Lots of laughs.
*Have a readily accessible parent's house for stealing items preferable not to dispense personal income upon (batteries, toilet paper, vacuums, etc.).
*Back rubs/blow jobs.
*Will make you feel better about your academics based off being in midst of senior year and having roughly 50% of DARS complete, as a result of being drunk 60% of the time.
*Owner of a blu-ray player.
*Steady supply of delicious cereals.

God's Taste In Music

2008-11-26T00:13:00.000-08:00

Assuming there is a god, what do you think he listens to?

I've been really hung up on this. Not so much the whole does the dude really exist thing. That's probably the least important thing going on here. Speaking utterly hypothetically, lets say dude does exist, what does he have on his iPod?

I certainly have some guesses. For one thing, he definitely has some Fleetwood Mac. Probably a little bit of Journey; probably everyone has one or two tracks. But what about the curve balls? Does god listen to death metal? Does he get down to hip hop? Does he tell angels he listens to everything but country? Does he, even despite being hung up on the homosexual thing, have some Elton John? Does he have a track by Kelly Clarkson that comes on his party shuffle that he gets all embarrassed and shit about but refuses to delete? Does he work out to Papa Roach?
I think god listens to mostly everything. Nothing is off limits. He sort of gets all the credit for it anyway. Just take a look inside about every album cover ever -- motherfuckers are always thanking him.

One thing I also think about a lot is whether or not god despises Christian music as much as regular non-evangelists do. Don't get me wrong, if someone wrote a song about me I'd feel pretty great. Especially if the whole song was about how I was so great at shit. I'd pretty much be in total agreement. But if singing about how awesome I was caught on and became an entire genre of the music, I don't think it would be the same. It'd be kind of like your best friend in middle school; you think he's the best for a long time but then he gets into wrestling or something and you go along with it for awhile but it's never the same. He likes wrestling now.