Posts Tagged ‘Bits’
February 15th, 2010
Key Word Search Time! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP-CLAP-CLAP!
Time to review what brings people to my little corner of the world. All eight of you. Hello there.
thea what have you done - Other than, “Yeah, really, what the hell have I done?.” This person clicked on the public zit lancing post after googling this. (Warning: Don’t. Don’t watch the video. Just don’t.) Which leads me to ask myself the same question with different emphasis: What have I done? Why did I feel the urge to publicize one man’s attempt at personal cottage cheese production? Why why why on Earth is this something that you want someone you care about to see? I’m not so much the social activist. Mother Theresa never picked her scabs in public to teach a lesson, who the hell do I think I am? This video needs to be buried.
But apparently acne is plaguing America and people don’t know how to confront and deal with these pustules on their epidermississippis. So they seek help from The Google and more people find me:
lancing zits – The video The Internet brought to us will either help youth succeed in dermatological cleanliness or be a successful forehead/back/buttock dairy farmer. If you have to lance more than one zit, or any for that matter–”lance” should not be the verb you use in the same sentence as acne–you should just see if you can get part-time work as bubble wrap.
giant zit videos as of january 28, 2010 - I do not want to see this person’s cache. It’s probably as filthy as his pores.
snowking mandolins – Best band at Pitchfork this year.
butt hoe artist – They must be a fan of his work, or, it’s the artist googling himself to see if people are talking about his tags around the city. Yeah, Butt Hoe Artist, you’re that good.
butt hoe - Well shit, the motherfucker’s listed in the Urban Dictionary.
bday messages for departed - I know this is probably a sad sentiment, but all I could think of was, “Zombies don’t need birthday cards, silly.”
norms of a gym - If you are like the Norms in my gym, you “Look Better Naked” because the lighting design of the gym resembles that of Pilgrim times when 1 footcandle of illumination made any frumpy Puritan look like a slutty Lutheran.
Fran Drescher fart - This search came up for a second time the other day. It’s sparked my curiosity enough to make me search for it as well. Is there a Fran Drescher fart video that I’m not aware of that I need to be aware of immediately? Please, give me something to spout off about at the water cooler other than the weather and the YouTubes. If you’re just talking about her farty voice tone I will be disappointed.
sheer panic at the thought of turning 30 - Don’t come to me with this one. If you’re not happy by 30 you’re not going to be happy ever. Wait, are we ever really happy, Pooh Bear? You’re asking someone who’s trying to succeed as an actor. Don’t go to the internet to tell you how awesome your life was in high school. Do something with your life, schlubbo!
BIRTHDAY WISHES FOR A DEAR WIFE – I feel sorry for the poor soul who was looking for some poetic love-phrasings but came across Charles’s brand of affection instead.
Happy birthday my dear wife, love you so much – Whoops. In the same aisle as that other guy.
how to rip a fart – Really? You need to look this up? And you come to this site to guide you? Uh… Okay, well, it’s like “Put your lips together and blow,” except it’s more like “Clench your colon and bear down until your sphincter squawks or shits.” Does that help? I’d suggest googling this again because I’m sure there’s a better site for this. Maybe Puddingfarts.com can help. And if you haven’t heard of that site, be forewarned: They clench and bear down. And it’s exactly what you’d expect from a site
“real talk” coffee mug - If there was any merchandise associated with R. Kelly’s “Real Talk” song–no, not song, not masterpiece… EXPERIENCE–I would buy them for myself. If you haven’t listened to the Andy Kaufman of hip hop, which is what I tell myself so I can sleep at night, please do so, or just read the lyrics first, and then immerse yourself the brilliance and madness that curls up in a cozy little place in America’s hearts.
Cue stand up bit for when I’m standing up as a stand up and I do stand up with my own “Real Talk” phone conversation with my significant other:
Hey, I’m not calling for any reason. I’m on my lunch break.
I think I’ll be home around six or six-thirty, ’cause I work til six, but we got real slammed today at work.
And I’m going to the gym, so let’s make it eight-thirty. I said I’m going to go to the gym. I’m going to the gym! Goddamn, AT&T–Real Talk.
How’s your day? Nothing exciting? What time are you off? I said, what time are you off work?
Don’t say, ‘”the same time every week,”
‘Cause sometimes you’re going over to Stu’s house for D&D and you’re home past ten-thirty sometimes
I can’t keep track–Real Talk.
Maybe tonight we can go to a movie, or rent a movie, or Dexter will be here early from Netflix, I’m just thinkin’ out loud–Real Talk.
Are you busy? Or do you just need to eat? Speaking of which we really need to go grocery shopping, I’m just thinking out loud once again–Real Talk.
Did you get the picture I texted you this morning? Yeah, I sent you of the picture of the cat. The cat was being real cute and then she got bite-y–Real Talk.
Okay, well I don’t why I called, I’ll talk to you later when I get out of work or after the gym, I love you bye!
[A fight breaks out randomly in the background, and a "To Be Continued..." subtitle star-wipes onto the screen.]
And my favorite:
stupid women – You found me!
January 9th, 2010
To My Darling Wife,
What a New Years, Maria! I know I apologized earlier while I was revisiting my alcoholic choices in the loo, but I’m truly sorry I dropped that bottle of vodka as we were on our way to your sister’s house. You were so excited, at least I’m assuming that’s what that foreign expression on your face meant, but what good is New Years without a drink or two in your system–especially when family is involved, right? Don’t be upset about missing the gathering. That’s the great thing about New Years, it happens every year, whether or not you’re alive to enjoy it. Things go on, such is life. I’m not saying that to discourage any hope you have regarding your sister’s treatments.
Now, on to more important matters.
I awoke with a start tonight as we were trying to sleep. I was trying to clear my mind of all thoughts but was unable to do so since being medically diagnosed with my large cerebellum. And you, with your heavy breaths that would convince anyone in the world to get over the awkwardness of a CPAP Mask–I’m sorry to digress, darling, but you don’t look like an elephant with that mask. Would you rather be a dead elephant or an elephant that sleeps soundly? And even if you did pass in your sleep with the mask on, I promise I would not participate in any making-fun-ofs when the coroner arrived. I would not mention the floating pink pachyderm I drunkenly imagined only to find your cold body lying next to me in the morning still in that pink fleece sack of a nightgown you insist on wearing. I believe I read somewhere that elephants are cold blooded due to their skin being so thick so that’s probably why I would be fine with a cold, dead elephant next to me in bed… Wait, that doesn’t completely prove my point, but well… I said it was a digression.
Anyway, my love, as you were blissfully comatose with your mixture of pretty blue pills, my mind was racing and I had to get up and pace a bit. I thought to myself, we’ve just entered a new decade, it’s been a whole year since the episode of your “episode,” and 2009′s resolutions have remained untouched. I’m not as rich as you would like me to be, and you haven’t attempted that diet you insisted on putting in air quotes. I thought I should make a new list, and since you never really seem to care much about things of worth other than e-cards these days, I made your resolution list as well. It’s just easier, darling.
1. Join a Gym - It’s important to take care of ourselves, because we don’t want to die young and leave the other to have to pay off extraordinary credit card debt. And if you need it to be, the phrase “joining a gym” can be a malleable definition. It could mean fine-tuning an already well-oiled muscle machine, to which I’m referring to my own frame. It could mean just exercising your tear ducts to control the awful amount of liquid that seeps out when too much boxed wine has entered your system. Or, just finding the strength to remove your legs from beneath the bed covers. Either way, it’s for the best. I don’t want to be married to a fatty. Again, I know it’s a digression, but you had slightly more big to your bones when we were courting, being a size 6 and all, and I thought secretly buying your dress two sizes smaller would inspire you to fit in it. Now I claim “my bad” because, as we all know, instead you just looked like a glowing sausage wrapped in rice paper. I do feel bad for keeping that secret during those three years of our engagement. I thought your own self-deprecation would eventually evolve into motivation. So, yes, back to joining a gym. I’m sure you know of a YMCA or something with all those fruits you hang around with, right? They look fit. Most gays do. Get on that. Not the gays. Don’t get on the gays. They won’t like that.
2. Raise a small dog — Since I don’t like children, I’m sure you can get over those psychosomatic allergies of yours. Here’s what I figure: a small dog is easier to remember than that hopeless charity box coin purse you bring around. It’s easier to run to Pet-Co than to mail pennies in an envelope to a child with a click in its unpronounceable name . Besides, if I don’t spend my extra change on a sugary snack, I come home unbearably cranky. Low blood sugar alone may jeopardize our marriage. I can’t bear to think of such things. And I mean really, what is 25 cents going to do for a family in need? Will they buy their own sugary snacks to help them be less cranky about being starving or having a case of AIDS? Ring up a Zebra Cake and take it home to the family to compliment their dusty bag of rice some hippy brought them? They have Zebras in their front yard so why would I want to confuse them? We’re getting a terrier dog puppy and we’re naming it Chumpo. Or you can name it that clicky name after your charity case. I don’t know why we’re still on this topic, darling. These are resolutions to improve OUR lives, not others.
Well, it seems you’ve woken up, so I’ll have to complete my list another time. God, why did I let you keep that nightgown from your sister’s closet? You look like a pathetic mascot for a breast cancer walk. People see you wearing that and they want to get cancer.
I love you darling, Happy New Year!
Yours,
Charles
P.S. Would you mind taking the trash out in the morning? My resolution is to get more beauty sleep.
January 2nd, 2010
A belated holiday post.
Last year around Xmas, I went to a good friend’s holiday gathering as I do every year. There was a holiday graffiti artist that was out in full force using snow and unsuspecting windshields as his canvas.
This year, I was pleased to see the return of the snow artist. For those who worried his work would become stagnant and rely heavily on repetitive fecal references, luckily he’s branched out to images of dicks and balls.
What’s made this art even better for me was Photobucket’s suggestion of all the things I could put this artwork onto:
December 27th, 2009
I joined a new gym.
Having felt a little meat and potato-y since a hairdresser decided to frame my face with a cut rivaling Ramona Quimby’s, I joined the gym downstairs in my company’s building. I decided that I wanted to forgo the feeling of relief that you gain when a new better paying job provides a financial breath of freash air. I believe that my natural state is one of flailing. This gym causes weight loss by removing the extra pounds from the wallet. You no longer spend money on food because you have convinced yourself that the convenience of an expensive gym downstairs justifies the price and outweighs rational thought.
I’m used to going to a gym with Norms. The Norms wear old T-shirts and Umbros, they sport a pooch of a belly that never quite leaves because they have to leave the gym to feed their dogs at home. They grunt, they sweat, they understand that they’ll never be models, their frame is what it is, god bless us, everyone. I’m used to this.
This new gym is for Superheroes. Superheroes who work in sales and power up with Miller Lite. Superheroes that have tight butts in tight butt pants and shoot from work to the gym in pneumatic tubes. They spend three hours in classes that have puns in their titles. “Fant-ASS-tic Workout!” “Be More BUTT-iful!” ”ASS! ASS! ASS! ASS!! ASS!!!” After the classes, they emerge glowing (not sweating), maybe even twinkling like Twighlight Vampires, and hover towards the dressing room. There, they proceed to pose and flex without shirts. In the women’s locker room, a staff photographer captures their perfect frames as they do 20 push-ups with their perky breasts before continuing to vogue topless. They drop their towels and mousse up their already magazine-tousled locks as the photographer captures their god-like figures, shamelessly displaying a half-boner beneath his jeans. Now, I know I live under a rock, but I was quite surprised at how many naked people there are in the locker room.
Of course there are a few other Norms at the gym that can be seen doing leg lifts under a heavy blanket in a dark corner, or are straining to keep up with the über-race in the “Save America from Burning Buildings with Your ASS” class. They’re there. We’re there. And you may even see us buying some tight workout pants some day because they’re like, totes supes cute. In fact, we gain confidence walking amongst the Superheroes. We know that we are protected and we are not really threatened by this race of Übers. They go about their business, and we go about ours. Them with their lightening tree legs, us with our excess packaging. It’s focused and calm in the gym since there is no sexual tension or possibility of mating betwixt the two species. You don’t see humans lusting after cheetahs. The Norms and the Superheroes are two different breeds. In the bedroom they would cancel each other out and there would be some sort of, I don’t know, sparky explosion as their piston-like genitals attempted to climax in a vat of sex dough. Capes would get caught in ceiling fans and Norms would have heart-attacks, breathlessly attempting to rescue the spinning lover just out of reach above them.
So in the gym, we feel safe, at ease even. The Superheroes are there as eye-candy, as inspiration, and as protection in case there is ever an Evil Villain lurking, waiting… plotting… Ready to attack at a moment’s notice–
“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!” scream the Norms, struggling to sit up with their medicine balls.
The Superheroes’ ears perk to the sound of the gym walls crashing, the building’s innards shoveled forward. The smell of cedar overtakes the room as the sauna crumbles and is pushed into the main machine room. A steely tank-like machine now sits breathing smoke and steam in the middle of the workout room blasting Ted Nugent ominously from a tinny boombox strapped to the roof. The Norms stare in horror as they see a now half-toweled Norm, startled at this repositioning, scramble to safety away from this geared creature.
The metal beast begins to move forward, and The Norms now look to the Superheroes gazing calmly at this impending danger. Just then, the top of the tank opens and a leathery Norm dressed in an ill-fitting track suit emerges from the tank. He delivers his manifesto. A lot of evil plan blah-blah-blahs similar to the ones at the end of movies, grandiose statements and gesticulations, those snap-poppers you throw on the ground during the 4th of July… But still, it’s not something The Norms see every day, so it’s pretty scary. Then, a giant laser death gun rises out of the tank and sheer panic erupts in the gym. The leathery Norm unleashes his fury and workout equipment explodes with a push of a button. Yoga mats rocket across the room, slicing and mauling any slow-moving victim in its path. The Norms desperately cry to the Superheroes for help. Surely this is the time when Good and Super-Good unite against Evil! The Norms begin to psych themselves out for this great battle. They have taken enough step-aerobic classes to help throw at least one punch at the side of their muscled comrades! They look around to sound the battle cry, but the Superheroes are no longer found. Realizing they are now alone, the slack-jawed Norms are left to be es’ploded by lasers.
If you were to check the surveillance video you would see a flash of spandexed individuals bolt out of the gym as the Evil Norm struggled to deliver his lengthy evil plans in iambic pentameter. In perfect form, they speed off in their Audis and laugh about it later on leather couches over a Miller Lite and an episode of “America’s Got Talent.” Tomorrow’s just another day at the ‘ol office.
November 3rd, 2009
To my darling wife, Maria,
I know they say that age is a relative thing, like, our relatives are aged and grow old and die, and that’s exactly what crossed my mind earlier this evening.
This, your 30th birthday, is something to celebrate. And not just at TGI Fridays.
I don’t want you to expect gifts or songs or cheer, because think if I did not give you those things. What if I instead gave you one word: “Life.” Now, some would throw a fit and lock themselves in their room and eat the last of the Raisin Bran claiming it was the only thing she was going to have for her birthday dinner. And that someone would be guilty of two things: Not finding the $10 Borders gift card under her pillow, and not understanding that I just gave her the best gift ever. Technically the gift of life can only be given to a child from a parent. And technically that may have some truth behind it, but I am the one who will remind you of your alived-ness.
So this, on your birthday, seize it like you seize those sour cream potato chips. Stop saying the word “old” to describe yourself. You’re not old. You’re just “alive.” You’re at the age where people stop themselves when you tell them how alive you are. When you say, “I’m turning 30,” people say, “You don’t look that–you don’t look like you’ve…reached that milestone.”
You’re at the age where previously mothers would hang themselves with their newly born baby’s umbilical cord once she realized the gestation period and birth alone nearly killed her and she had two more years before a dog with teeth ate her in a cave. You have not been eaten by a dog with teeth! That’s really living!
Thirty is the new twenty! Plus, you apparently don’t look thirty, I mean, a haggard thirty. And how are we supposed to act when we’re of age, really? I wouldn’t know since I’m not thirty, but these are all phrases that popped into my head while I was looking at birthday cards. Being thirty means that you don’t have to finish that bottle of wine. Now, there’s wine in a box now that’s perfectly acceptable for you to purchase, AND that has at least 2-4 bottles in it! Who’s going to gossip about you if you drink 2-4 wine in a box bottles? It’s not like you go out with friends or anything because they all have babies, probably.
What to do when you’re another year alive-r? Are you supposed to sit and check your messages on your phone as the young people joyously play Catch Phrase? Are you proud of your ability to spend more money on alcohol because of your discerning taste? You should boast of your many credit cards. Young people have to spend two dollars on swill to have a good time. Young people, or should I say, dead people.
(Okay, I know they’re not really dead, but they’re more dead than you in this metaphor, even though you’re like, way closer to actual death. So maybe they’re more like comatose vegetable people. Or the walking dead. Vegetable people might be less creepy.)
So you’re thirty and looking at these zombie vegetable people and still feeling sorry for yourself because you didn’t get a cake or phone call or other meaningless expressions of good will? That shit doesn’t matter. ALIVE is what matters. You know you’re alive and you know who you are. You have to go to bed at night because you have responsibilities. Young people don’t have that. They are doing things like lolly-gagging that require frivolous double letters. Your responsibilities are mono syllabic: Work. Home. Drink. Sleep. You know what’s important. You are not lost in the complications of whose bed you’re going to end up in, or what adventure you will find yourself in next. Your path is mapped.
I hope you read this birthday card. I’m sure you remember, but last year’s was nearly unintelligible after your tears smeared the ink so much, so hopefully this birthday’s message will last for years to come, unless you die within the year.
So happy birthday, my love. I know you like marble cake, but they didn’t have any, so I just got us toilet paper, which we needed anyway and you said you were going to buy but apparently didn’t get around to it.
Yours, as always,
Charles
August 3rd, 2009
Dear Maria, My Love, My Darling,
This is a marriage proposal. I’ll say that outright so you know what your answer should be at the end of this letter and my reasons behind writing it. So, here it goes. I guess I’m at a point in my life where I tolerate your presence enough to share in a tradition that will cost us fortunes while people who consider us their friends celebrate our camaraderie and more importantly, give us things of value. I hope that we’ll be able to stand each other and will have enough spark in our friendship–our sexual friendship–to put aside any differences that might come our way. I say let’s test the waters because I’m a good swimmer. I have more to lose than you do anyway, really.
As I’ve mulled over this this possibility of a life with you specifically, I’ve asked myself many questions. Do we cohabitate because that’s what we’re supposed to do? Are we as humans, like the penguin, supposed to get only one partner, or is that something we just say when we’re lonely and watching the Discovery Channel? Now, I like penguins. And I think about monogamous penguins in love and how romantic that is. Then I think of penguins doing it and can’t quite imagine penguins humping, so I assume that with marriage comes a life without sexual contact, or if it does exist, it looks funny or results in flipper babies. These are the conclusions I draw and why I think that you should agree with me.
I love you. I know before I’ve used air quotes to say that, but I think I’m willing to remove them now, or at least only use them in the privacy of our own home. I do not understand marriage or myself, or the idea of bringing another life into the world. That terrifies me more than being alone. It seems too easy, and dare I say tempting to ruin someone else. Just absolutely ruin. Mentally, financially…Not physically, because I’m not a vicious or particularly strong individual. But there are so many ways to damage someone just by doing the slightest of things. I’m not saying I would, but I’m just saying I’m human for thinking about it. So no, I do not want children.
I hope to not get in the way of your dreams, and I hope you will support me and my wishes so that I might get my way–at least a good majority of the time–so that I may not resent you for compromising my goals which may or may not involve you. Not that I think that you have any of your own, or foresee this being a problem.
I hope that underneath the surface of our love there is no animosity that will lie dormant until the other grows tired of the other’s presence. Then I assume we’d part, hopefully amicably. Or maybe dramatically with me riding a motorcycle away from the scene, you throwing my clothes out the window, a goat mysteriously walking through the yard, me, smoking a cigarette and throwing it behind me, the goat mysteriously bursting into flames. I’d take up smoking in our relationship so that this might occur.
Though I do not promise to be civil after the separation (because you know how I am with ways of jealousy and well, I’m just being honest, which is something you adamantly claimed I was not), I hope you will not hold my straying heart against me after I gave you so many years of complacency and filled the role you were looking for financially. I did hold a steady job for, well, a few years at least and you seemed to like being out of the house more than me. And you were the most charming crossing guard on the block until you started to fill out that vest. (Again, I’m working on my honesty.)
And even after I manage to completely skew the facts in the divorce hearings, I hope that you will appreciate my talent for the lost art of storytelling. Let us remember that these things, like money or a house that was once ours, these are just things. And you don’t need them. You don’t need these possessions that weigh you down. I need them. And I’m glad I can help you by lifting that burden.
I want you to have memories that include us. Now with that, I will await your return from work. I’ll apologize in advance because admittedly I could not control myself with a pint of chocolate-chip cookie dough ice cream in the freezer that did have your name on it, but I figured that was in the metaphorical sense, and I just renamed it after myself.
As a reminder, this is a marriage proposal, and I look forward to hearing you say yes.
Yours,
Charles
