Fear the Tigerclaw

I am not sure if it is due to stress from work, El Nino related weather, or simply because I am just a miserable prick, but a lot of little things have been bothering me quite a bit recently. To be honest, things bother me on a daily basis, but typically not to the point where I find myself hoping to contract the Hantavirus just so that I can puke blood on other humans. 

I am no rocket surgeon, but something tells me that that level of irritation probably isn’t normal and may be borderline criminal. With that said, I figured if I at least write these stupid, trifling things down, that maybe it will help. Shit, who am I kidding? I am so shallow that I will most likely be over it before (over it) this sentence is done. Nonetheless, lets write them down too. 

BASEBALL SHIRTS THAT LOOK LIKE JERSEYS 

This whole phenomenon sort of snuck up on me, and I don’t fucking like it. When I go to a baseball game, I make sure that I either put on an actual jersey, or a T-shirt that has the teams logo on it. I do not combine the two accepted fashion styles into one incredulous bloodfart of apparel. 

The Bane of my existence

 Honestly, if you can’t afford to purchase a cheap imitation knockoff jersey for $10 that some korean kid was starved and beaten into submission to manufacture, then you really shouldn’t be allowed to attend baseball games or enjoy anything to do with sports. It is un-American to wear these things. 

PEOPLE WHO COUNT OUT LOUD AT THE GYM 

I am not sure if there is a greater annoyance at the gym than this. If you can’t lift weights and count to 10 without bellowing and slobbering all over the equipment, then please do us all a favor and go drown in a toilet. Honestly, you sound like a retarded cookie monster. Or maybe its a retarded Count. Either way, the point is, you sound retarded. 

The exception to this is, of course, if you are actually retarded. Then I will just look at you menacingly until I realize you can’t help yourself and bottle the anger until I can unleash it on something or someone else. 

NECKTIES 

I have been pondering he point of these things for awhile. For the life of me, I just don’t get it. Perhaps they served a purpose way back when, but today? In the modern era there is no reason for men to wear a cloth necklace that is folded in an impossible fashion in order to look “proper.” Its stupid and pointless. It sucks out loud, in fact. 

And what is worse is that we just accept it. Even I know that if I have to dress professionally for some reason, that I better strap on this glorified napkin and dent my trachea for hours on end, only to have some fuckstick inevitably tell me that I tied my tie wrong. Fuck that guy and fuck that tie. 

the pong one has my birthday on it!

 There are other things too, but honestly, writing all of these things down in one place is actually compounding my confoundedness. So I am just going list the rest of them in rapid fire succession and be done with it. 

MOVIES THAT TAKE PLACE IN ENGLAND 

MIDGETS 

MIDGETS OFFENDED BY THE WORD “MIDGETS” 

BIRDS 

CONNECT FOUR 

LEMONADE 

AND FINALLY…WRITING BLOGS

Pickup lines often get a bad reputation from women. Sure, there are plenty of corny and cheesy lines that are eye roll inducing. I think women have every right to kick a guy in the balls and shit in his mouth if he comes at her with a bad pickup line (unless his pickup line is to kick him in the balls and shit in his mouth…then you are just giving him what he wants.)

But let’s be honest, any opening line a guy uses on a girl is a pickup line. Whether he is asking to buy you a drink (which means his approach is probably to get you so drunk that your eyesight becomes blurry and thus, your standards lowered), or if he compliments your shoes (taking the sensitive metro approach…or simply just gay), they are all a line. Most of these lines are used and utilized to accomplish one thing and one thing only.

Getting some strange.

But don’t be too alarmed. There are some lines that, initially look like what I described above, they are actually on the contrary. They are sweet, loving statements that simply need to be translating from our man-speak. Which is exactly what I will do for some of the more “controversial” lines I have used, or seen.

Translating Man-speak

You are hot like my mom.

This shows that A: the gentlemen in front of you is a family man, and thus, is long-term marriage material. It also shows that he has good genetics, and that he feels you do too. I recommend taking him directly to your car and making a baby with him. Or at least trying to a whole bunch.

Nice ass, I would like to wear it as a hat.

If a young lad happens to pass this charming compliment on to you, you should feel very flattered. Clearly he feels that your workout and diet routine is working, and is encouraging you to keep up the good work. Also, it tells you that he is in the market for a new hat, and feels that you, or at least, part of you, is worthy of wearing. I suggest you allow him to try it on to see if it is a good fit or not. He can always return you back to the market if it is a no go. No harm no foul, right? Right.

I would like to tongue punch you in the fartbox.

This is much more of a direct approach and, at first glance, seems awfully crude and distasteful. But if you peel back the onion, you will find that it is actually quite sweet and loving. What the guy is actually saying here is that he wants to shower your body with kisses. And that even at your worst, he wants to be close to you. Your best bet is to grab on to this cunning linguist, and not let go. This is the one for you…at least for that night.

I want to kiss you where you pee

…He wants to kiss you where you pee…

You might as well give it to me because I am just going to take it.

If you like strong men, men who take charge of a situation, than this line may potentially make you fall head over heels in love. If you have any sort of brain, however, your best bet is to calmly reach into your purse for your phone, snap a picture of the square jawed male, and notify the authorities immediately.

Statistically, nine out of 10 people enjoy date rape.

Clearly, this seems alarming. But in reality, this just shows that the guy is very smart and excellent with numbers. He probably graduated Magna Cum Laude from Harvard and is most likely doing well for himself in the world of business. He can, and will take care of you and based on the statement above, probably has a bunch of close guy friends, so he won’t be overly clingy. I say bang him, and bang him hard.

My dick died last night, can I bury it in your ass?

Clearly this is a man who is grieving. Yet, he feels comfortable enough around you to confide in you and open up to you. I suggest that you open yourself up to him too.

Does this rag smell like chloroform to you?

This one can be an issue, but only if he doesn’t have a rag for you to smell. If he doesn’t have a rag, then you should ignore him and find someone else. But if he does have a rag, chances are he is on the up and up and values your opinion. He trusts your judgement and thought process and is putting that trust out there for you nurture. It would be rude to not do what he is kindly asking of you.

Besides, it’s not like you are going to remember what happened anyways.

I was told by a friend of mine while growing up, that all forms of music are to be respected. From rap, rock, classical, to jazz and everything in between. Except country. When I asked him why not country, his response was as follows: 

“Because country sucks.” 

A truer phrase may have never been spoken. 

Of course, when your life starts to resemble country music at its worst, you eventually begin to realize that your life blows as well. Within the last calendar year, I have lost my house, my childhood dog, my long-term girlfriend, my cats, my friend, my worldly possessions, my current dog, and my sanity. Once work finally shit-cans me later this year, Travis Tritt will have a bona-fide hit on his hands, simply by reading my diary (or this blog, as it were). 

So, since people love personal tragedy, almost as much as they love countdown lists, I figured why not combine the two into a sad, pathetic attempt to get people to laugh and/or heap praise and pearls of wisdom in my general direction (please do not do the latter, it was a joke and any responses to that joke will result in my clawing my own eyes out and walking into walls for the rest of my years). 

With that in mind, lets rank the losses I have had and rank them in order of importance! Fun right? No? Well, fuck you this is my blog so you will have to deal with it. First things first, we need to establish exactly what it is I lost, than rank them in order of importance, and then explain said list with sound logic, quality reasoning, and a plethora of poop jokes. 

Girlfriend, childhood dog, cats, house, worldly possessions, sanity, current dog, friend. Eight things, eight losses. Let’s see where they rank! 

My buddy

 1. My Friend- By far the worst and most tragic loss, by a long shot. Shamus was the brother of my best friend and always was a riot to be around. I knew that he and I would be friends for life as well when I tried to sneak up and hit him with a pillow one night while sleeping over, and he pulled a dart gun out and shot me point blank in the leg.  

Oh that and when he and his friend Brett tackled me and his brother Steve in the snow and proceeded to pack yellow snow into our snow jackets. 

Come to think of it, he could be an asshole…but who isn’t? I love the dude. 

2. My Childhood Dog- Rosie was a German Shepard/Golden Retriever mix. She protected the house admirably and loved to be around everyone. I will spare you the story of when she literally walked over to me as a teenager, popped a squat and farted directly in my face, fanned it with her tail and ran from the room. If there was any ever doubt that she was my dog, it ended with that moment. 

I got the last laugh though, when I did the same thing to her a year later. Revenge is sweet…and stinky. 

3. Current Dog- Roxy The Wonder Dog is still with us, but no longer living with me and very sick with lymphoma (wow my life really IS depressing!). She is my special girl and miss her greatly when she is gone. I still remember the first time she accidently head butted me in the junk. 

4. My House- I bought my house when I was 21 when the lot was still dirt. I was able to customize everything from the flooring to the countertops and everything in between. Many a sexual romp (mainly by my roommates, fucking sex fiends), parties, and good memories were made in that house. 

Of course, I also blame the house for not stopping the fucktards who stole all of my shit . I mean really, I pay to have my personal castle built and it can’t even shock the testicles of the guys who ripped me off? What kind of sanctuary is this? Lousy fucking house. Good riddance. 

5. My Cats- Not much to say here. They were my pets…but cats kind of suck out loud, therefore they are lower on the list than my dogs. I will not miss them ripping into the catnip, getting batshit high and running around my bedroom at two in the morning, clawing the shit out of my smooth, sexy, sultry skin. They are the reason I will never be an arm model (ask to see my scar) 

6. My Worldy Possessions- This falls lower, mainly because as it turns out, I really don’t give a shit about most of my old things. I no longer watch tv. I barely even look at porn these days, so I don’t really need the hard drive of my computer any longer. And lets face it, I am terrible at golf. Fuck these things and fuck being a slave to them (that reminds me, if anyone has the Lakers game on tonight, give me a call). 

7. My Sanity- Meh. This is like keys for normal people. Meaning I lose and find it all the time. I really could take or leave it at this point, and to be honest, I listen to better music when I am on the skids. 

The voices say I am sane

8. My Long-Term Girlfriend- While this may seem like it should be higher on the list, allow me to explain. It is impossible to wrap people up into one phrase, but if you held a gun to my head, I would say, “a tremendous cunt muscle.” 

But the reason she is so low on this list is because, in the grand scheme of things,  losing her was actually a good thing. To take it further, I wake up everyday and mentally do backflips, front flips and eat those shitty chocolate covered pretzels CALLED Flipz. I have never been to prison, but I imagine that if I had done hard time, that the day you get out, you drop to your knees, praise the heavens above you and thank your lucky stars that you are free. 

And I KNOW you are all waiting for a joke about my ex-girlfriend and “dropping to your knees,” but I refuse to do it (which, truth be told, is a joke in itself). 

So there you have it folks, my life as a country song. If only  I could figure out a way to get some of the stuff back. Does anyone  know what you get when you play a country song backwards? 

Tigerclaw

Sometimes you meet someone and instantly have a connection. Not necessarily a sexual connection (although those are fun too), but a sort of, cosmic melting of personalities that lets you know immediately that you are going to be friends/get into trouble/fall in love with the other person. 

I am not one of those people. My friendships take time to develop and generally shift, mutate and change shape more than a naked ballsack resting on a leather couch during a hot, humid day. Sometimes through no fault of my own. 

Okay so it is likely always due to a fault of my own, but that isn’t the point. What is the point is that throughout the course of my life, I have uncovered a pattern to my friendships with you all throughout the years. This pattern is so steadfast and accurate that I even developed a visual aide to help educate all of you. 

I present to you, Sam’s Friend-O-Graph 

Graph O' Doom

1-4 

See, when I first meet someone, typically they don’t care one way or another about me. They are typically a friend of a friend or someone I was eavesdropping on out in public and decided to butt in on their conversation. So even if I am at my funniest, smartest or nicest, they tend to be lukewarm at best about me. They don’t hate me, but they don’t not hate me either. 

5-20 

Obviously this is where you see the largest spike in the friendship level of awesomeness. This is mainly due to the “Chandler Effect.” Meaning that people tend to realize I am a great guy…once you get to know me. It is also within this spike that female friends tend to fall madly in love with me and have visions of babies, wedding bells and fooling themselves into thinking that I would never fart in front of them. 

My stories are hilarious and poignant, they get a kick out of seeing me hastily scribble the above graph on a cocktail napkin and then declare that they will never ever fall of the crest of the friendship wave. Life is good for them because I am in it. 

21-30 

Life is no longer good. In fact, the friend(s) in question start to avoid my calls, texts and Facebook correspondences. If they hang out with me, it reinforces their already growing doubts about me as a human being and ultimately, they are annoyed about my repetition of stories. Suddenly the Mangoo story is no longer “epic,” or “hilarious.” Instead it is just stupid and boring. 

The level of friendship awesomeness goes down quicker than Lindsay Lohan on a guy with a dime bag. We are talking into the negative numbers category. By the 30th meeting, the friends are simply done with me, done with the friendship and disgusted with themselves for even being my friend in the first place. 

31 and beyond 

The 31st visit tends to come after a long layoff from hanging out with one another. It usually happens in a large group setting like a party, dinner, or family reunion. While uncomfortable and awkward at first, usually enough time has passed that the remnants of the repetitive stories and the addition of new ones in their absence, leads to the level of friendship rising above the Mendoza Line of Sucktitude and slightly above where they were when they first met me. 

And this is typically where it stays. It might have an upwards or downwards tick on occasion, but for the most part, it holds steady at right about where you see it now. 

And thus concludes, the Friend-O-Graph and its accompanying explanation. 

P.S. I just got a text from a friend of mine who is/was right around the 20th meeting crescendo. I told her I was working on my blog and her text response was as follows. “Wow. You are so homo.” 

See? I told you the graph is accurate! 

Tigerclaw

If you are reading this, chances are you already know the reasoning behind the name “Tigerclaw.” If you don’t, I really don’t know why or how you found this site. Nonetheless, I figured it might be best to document the story that I tell in person, in written word. If for no other reason than to put something on this page.

As you all know, my last name is Marcoux, which is pronounced mar-koo. Yes, there is an “x” in my name, no it is not pronounced. Now, growing up with this name, I realize that I am going to have to take a certain amount of crap. Mar-cowx, Mar-coox, Mar-so and Mar-coh have all been said in or around my presence, many a time for many a year. For the most part, I shrug it off and chalk it up to either A: people being sub-par when it comes to pronouncing names and being too shy to actually ask how, or B: people are jerks and like to butcher names on purpose to get their jollies off. The truth is probably somewhere in the middle, but I digress.

Now, knowing that I have a difficult last name to pronounce, I never fully grasped just how shitty it was until a couple of years ago. That is when Safeway and Jiffy Lube bent my name over and refused to use a lubricant. Within a mere 72 hours, these two buisnesses combined to not only make me feel really bad about my name and myself, but also to seriously consider changing my name altogether.

It started on a weekend out in Discovery Bay, CA. I was late to a party in town and had to stop by the local supermarket o pick up some adult beverages for said shindig. As I punch in my club card number and prepare for them to call me by one of the aforementioned mutated variations of my last name, I was taken aback briefly.

The reason being, that when they pulled my receipt out, they took a look at my last name, contorted their face as if they smelled a sour fart, and let out, what can only be described as a flabbergasted groan. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the lady then proceeds to try to pronounce the obviously horrid name regardless. As I reach for the beer and grab my receipt and turn to leave, I hear the soft-spoken woman say, “Thank you Mr. Mangoo, have a good day.”

I froze. I literally stopped in my tracks, swiveled 180 degrees on my heels and walked back up to the lady, who was already well on her way to helping the next person in line with their groceries.

“Excuse me ma’am?” I said,  ”what did you call me?”

“Mr. Mangoo,” she responded but with less conviction this time around.

“Mr. Mang…okay ma’am? I don’t have an “N” in my name, and I sure as hell don’t have a “G. But the bigger issue is that you called me mangoo. That is the dirtiest thing you can call someone. You essentially just called me jizz, semen, sperm, etc.,” I continued. “Congratulations, you have butchered my last name beyond all recognition.”

I then walked out with my beer feeling very bad about myself.

By Monday morning, I had pretty much let it go and could, in some ways, see the humor in the faux pas. And as I walked into the Jiffy Lube in San Ramon, California, I realized that things were only going to get better. The reason, of course, is that there was an extremely attractive woman sitting all by herself in the waiting area.

I instantly grew a beard and got muscles while reaching for the nearest sports magazine to prove how manly I actually was while sitting two seats down from her (note to others, NEVER sit directly next to the girl unless no other seats are available. You come off as creepy, not interested).

As I pretended to care about whether or not Brett Favre was retiring/playing again, the Jiffy Lube guy decides that at this moment, he will go ahead and stomp all over my dick and announce that my car is ready to go.

Now typically, the Jiffy Lube people will announce the make and model of the car and wait for the owner to claim their property.

Not this time.

This time, they decide to pronounce my last name, in front of the pretty girl, who actually seemed like she wasn’t 100% disgusted by my presence.

“Mr. MANCOX? MANCOX? MANCOX? Is there a Mr. MANCOX? MANCOX? MANCOX?

And he wouldn’t stop. He was like a loud annoying Ben Stein saying “Bueller” over and over again. Each time reaffirming that there was no chance in hell that this girl would ever blow me now.  And as I sat there, two seats down from this lady, I could hear her stifle her laughter as this modern-day caveman continued to shit all over me and my name.

If you have ever seen those old cartoons where the character gets angry, and thus, his skin tone changes to a rage level of red, then you know exactly what I looked like at this moment. I tried to save it by turning to the woman and saying, “Is that your husband’s name or something?” Which led to her laughing her ass off and giving me a very direct, “No.”

So I sat up as quickly as I could, motioned to the guy to shut the fuck up, grabbed my keys from him and got the hell out of there as fast as I could. The next five minutes was essentially a blur since I am pretty sure I was stunned, cross-eyed and driving aimlessly around the East Bay contemplating just what in the fuck had happened over the course of three days, and if this was some sort of karma for bad deeds I had participated in earlier in my life.

And it was at this point, that I figured it out. I would simply go by a different last name. Anything was better than Marcoux, but I reasoned that this was my chance to not only end the humiliation of being called man-jizz and man-dick, but to have a name I choose. Which means it could be anything I wanted.

It had to be easy to say, easy to spell and as a bonus, I decided I would make it manly as all get out.

Enter Mr. Tigerclaw.

Easy to pronounce, easy to spell, and the name is so macho that women’s panties immediately drop when they see and/or hear it. It was perfect. All I needed now was to test it out in some sort of written form nd bask in the glow of awesomeness that was my new name.

I decide that I will try it out at the TGIFridays in Pleasanton. I am friendly with the staff there and they have me fill out some survey to get a “Stripes Reward Card.” Well, tigers have stripes, and with my new last name being what it was, I took it as a sign. I filled out the survey, provided the information needed to get my reward card and signed it “Samuel Tigerclaw.”

I smiled triumphantly as I handed the sheet of paper over. Knowing full well that in three to four weeks time, I would have a tangible piece of plastic sporting my new last name of kickassery.

Then it happened.

And by “it,” of course, I mean my life. I get my card, and look at the last name. “Tigerclaw.” For a brief second, I took it in and was happy. It felt right. Having been instantly inflated with a sense of pride, I almost failed to look at the first name. As my eyes shifted slightly to the left, my worst nightmare had come true.

“Sameul.”

 Not Samuel, but Sameul. Most likely pronounced Suh-mool. They had flip-flopped the e and the u in my name to come up with Sameul. Sameul Tigerclaw.

Really? Sameul Tigerclaw? Did this really just fucking happen? Sameul Tigerclaw? I feel like I am going to fight Frodo for the ring with that name. Sameul? What am I? A delicious camping treat?

The epitome of suck

I simply cannot fucking win. And to top it off, I tell a friend of mine about my new last name thinking that she would be impressed. Her response was the following, “Tigerclaw? That sounds like a doughnut.”

Much to my chagrin, the bitch was right. It did sound like a doughnut.

Needless to say, I have given up on developing my own, manly, easy to say name. Since regardless of what I come up with, it will inevitably lead to further ridicule, scorn and butcherings.

And thus, a blog was born.

Tigerclaw