The Butterfly Effect

Acrophobia: A fear of heights.

Glossophobia: A fear of public speaking.

Coulrophobia: A fear of clowns.

All very irrational, but very real fears for large amounts of the human population. When I was about four years old, I developed Lepidopterophobia. In other words, I am fucking terrified of butterflies and moths. And when I say terrified, I mean, piss my pants terrified. Running out of the room, screaming like a little girl terrified. Perez Hilton trapped in a women’s locker room terrified. And I have no one to blame but myself…

…And my mom…and my sister…and butterflies.

Growing up with older siblings, you tend to have to scratch and claw and fight for anything you can get to call your own. Toys, furniture, and sometimes clothes are handed down in an effort to save money and extend the life of said items beyond their normal, single life cycle. So when the opportunity arises to separate yourself from them, you take it. In this case, the prize of the day was sitting in the front seat with my mom. A small prize in the grand scheme of things, but one worth fighting for, if for no other reason than to repeatedly roll the window up and down, move the seat back and forth and describe everything I could see through the windshield while my sister sat in the backseat annoyed as all get out.

“Operation: Swoop The Front Seat,” was a success. At least initially it was. Stacy was annoyed, my mom was just happy to get both kids in the car and on the road, and I was now master of the front seat domain, all of the gadgets, levers and buttons were there for me to meddle with. We breezed through town without much of an incident, the sun was out, so I decided to take it easy on the window shenanigans, and left it down. Life was grand. And then it happened. As my mom accelerated to get onto the freeway, I had foolishly left the window down. 35 MPH came and went. A split second later we raced pass 45 MPH and as my mom looked over her shoulder to merge, we whipped passed 55 MPH. All with the window down, creating a pseudo vacuum to occur through the front passenger side. Without notice, and with clear malicious intent, my beautiful, smiling, young face that was embraced by the sun, was enveloped into the shadows.

The shadows of a horrid, wretched creature that sought to take the innocence of a young boy, and succeeded. Before I could even react, the window vacuum had summoned the largest butterfly known to man and sucked it right onto my face. It’s wings wrapped around my head, squeezing tightly like a boa constrictor killing it’s prey. The butterfly’s thorax was undulating on my face like Ron Jeremy In his first porno movie, as my screams of terror and fright were muffled by the hideous insect’s abdomen which covered up my mouth. As I struggled to figure out what devil spawn was attacking me, the only sounds I could hear were the howling laughs emanating from the driver’s seat as well as the back of the car. My mother and sister were in the midst of an unmatched laughing fit. My safety, which was clearly in question, was not even a secondary concern, as these two hyenas got their rocks off watching their supposed “loved one” flail around like an epileptic hippie trying to free himself from the clutches of this stupid fucking bug.

This is my nightmare

Eventually, the butterfly showed mercy and flew into the backseat of the car. As I wiped the mixture of snot and tears off that had accumulated on my face (along with the butterfly jizz) and tried to calm myself down, I was viciously attacked again. The same butterfly that tried to eat my face was now back in the front seat, fluttering furiously in front of me. It’s wings peppering my face like a bantam weight boxer going up against a heavyweight foe. As I let out another earthquake inducing shriek, the butterfly laughed at me before escaping back through the very same window that it had entered.

And in the span of about a minute, a phobia was developed.

As well as a disdain for freeways, windows being down, family members, and cars in general.

/Tigerclaw

7:28-8:12 P.M.-Facebook trolling, Pandora Radio is turned on. After three songs, an advertisement for Trader Joe’s interrupts the music. I’m fucking starving.

8:15 P.M.- Sifting through my fridge looking for something quick to eat, I realize that I spent close to $200 at the store earlier this week, only to have nothing but ingredients. I string together an impressive amount of swear words together without being redundant and settle on making a quesadilla.

8:18P.M.- While eating my nuked quesadilla dinner, an overwhelming desire for a margarita hits me.

8:20P.M.- I pour myself a glass of milk. This would taste way better if tequila is in it. Actually…I have had milk and tequila before and it was disgusting…I take it back.

8:25P.M.-10:00P.M. I stumble around the internet, mainly refreshing a Lakersground.net to see if that fucking twat David Stern has realized his mistake and possibly changed his mind on Chris Paul being traded to the Lakers. I come across an awesomely swell .gif file that someone more creative than I put together.

You can't stop him, you can only hope to contain him

 

Undisputed Champion of 4 A.M.

The Impromptu Waterbed Part 2

As  I came to the realization the my threesome was now deader than JFK in Texas, I turned my attention to being a drunken voyeur. Meaning that the girl that was now sucking down beers like they were Otter Pops on a hot day and the two idiot guy friends that cockblocked me were now my entertainment. It wasn’t how I envisioned my night, but it would have to do, all things considered.

So as the girl got more drunk, and the guys realized what they had done, the night started to wind down. Eventually the two guys took off, leaving me and “Drunky Brewster,” to polish off the 60 beers that made their way into my apartment that night. Once that was done, my old man genes kicked in and I informed the girl that I was going to bed and that if she was too drunk to drive home, that there was a perfectly comfortable couch with her name on it (this is a total lie as the couch was anything but comfortable and was inherited when another girl said I could have it if I had sex with her on it…which is a different story for a different time). I gave the girl a pair of my pants to change into, wished her a good nights sleep, and went to bed. Not more than ten minutes went by before my bedroom was flooded with the familiar yellow light of my living room, and a small, drunken voice pierced the silence.

“Can’t I just sleep in the bed with you,” she asked.

“Fine,” I said. “But I am putting pillows in between us and you better stay on your side.”

And with that, I passed out in a drunken haze, waiting for my Sunday morning hangover that would be sure to kick me in the nuts shortly. The sexy time may have failed, but the night wasn’t a total waste as I saw old friends, drank tons of beer and would be able to wake tomorrow with a nice headache to remember everything by.  Life wasn’t so bad afterall.

And then it happened.

By it, of course I mean my worst nightmare. A few hours after setting up my bed to accommodate two friends who drunkenly passed out next to each other, I was awakened out of a deep sleep suddenly to find that my bed was wet. Very wet. In fact, it was hella wet. Way to wet for a fucking bed. I immediately realized that I had pissed the bed. I start to panic as I become aware that there is a female friend right next to me who will eventually wake up, and discover that she is drowning in my urine.  Until I touch my own junk and figure out that I am dry. Needless to say, I am confused and confounded by this. How can this be? I am dry as a 78 year old woman, yet the bed is flooded and reeks of tinkle. The only other way this could be is if…no.

Impossible.

Can it be?

I move my hand into a huge puddle of pee and start to track the piss trail with my hands. I work my hands, one over the other until I am literally gripping my friend;s vagina like a bowling ball. A bowling ball that was dropped into a swimming pool.

As the realization of her pissing into my bed starts to set in, my flight response kicks in and I immediately jump out of the bed, flip on the light and stare at the disaster scene in front of me. As I stare at my friend who has soiled my comfy bed, I realize that she is also drooling all over the pillows that segregated us.

She is leaking out of every hole.

Before too long, I rip all of the sheets and blankets off of the bed, throw them in the wash, along with the clothes I was wearing and hop in the shower. I rocked back in forth, fighting off the stages of denial like a rape victim before finally getting out, toweling off and assessing the situation at hand.

I progress from the denial stage of grief to anger. I cuss my friend out, calling her a pig that deserves to wallow in her own pig filth. This doesn’t last long though as I remember that not only is this my bed, but it is fucking comfortable as all hell, and is worth being salvaged. Since everything else was in the wash, and I was pretty sure that no more bodily fluids were able to escape this girl’s body, I decided to be a nice guy and wash my own pants that I had given her to sleep in.

Now, I should point out that I tried MULTIPLE times to wake this bitch up. I tried yelling at her, shaking her violently and even throwing a couple of pairs of socks at her head. All to no avail. So as I pull my pants off of her, when does she decide to wake up? You guessed it, right when the pants are around her ankles.

“What are you doing to me?”, she asked.

Thinking quickly, I responded with, “Don’t worry about it.”

She shrugged her shoulders, fell back into a state of unconsciousness and I moved her to my couch.

Now, having suffered through this chick pissing in my bed, I was now forced to not only shower and do a load of laundry at three in the morning, but to wet vac my mattress as well. Needless to say, my neighbors must have though I was some sort of uber speed freak. all of this, while also keeping a watchful eye on Piss Queen, in hopes that she didn’t ruin another piece of furniture.

As I sat there, watching my urine friend sleeping as if she had done nothing wrong, depriving myself of sleep, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was some sort of cosmic karma for some of the shit I had done in my life. But before I could fully come to grips of what this event really meant to me, she woke up. Confused as to why she was now back on the couch and having no recollection of what had happened the night before, I didnt’t have the heart to tell her what she had done to my amazing bed.

Like a real man, I kept this secret to myself. At least until later that day when she left and I went to her work and told all of her co-workers…like a real man.

/Tigerclaw

Not My Proudest Moment: The Impromptu Waterbed part 1

A while back, I was living in San Ramon, CA. Freshly single and finally having fun with it. I had carved out a nice little niche of befriending, and ultimately sexing with various waitresses, bartenders and other women in the service industry. As an admittedly, not great looking guy with a pretty fantastic personality, I found that sitting at a restaurant table, or bellying up to a bar worked to my advantage more than flailing around like some spastic cokehead at a nightclub where girl’s were forced to simply judge me on looks as opposed to how I could make them laugh.  But just like everything else in life, being successful at something, typically leads to you trying to garner more success. Sometimes unattainable successes.

One waitress in particular was never my type. She was younger than me, had big boobs (I have never been a boob guy) and was blonde (despite my dating history, I swear I am more attracted to girls with darker features as opposed to Hitler’s youth). Despite her obvious flaws, I couldn’t shake the sensation that, well…I really wanted to have sex with her. I also wanted to have sex with one of her co-workers. And having sex with one, would negate me having sex with the other. Did I forget to mention that they were best friends? Because they were. So even though I really, really wanted to, I figured it wouldn’t happen with either one, swiftly placed both into the “friend” category and moved on with my life.

Then something odd happened.

One night, out of the blue, the two girls approached me about having a “slumber party” at my place one weekend. Once they got off of work, they wanted to come over, drink at my place and sleep over. Before they could finish their plan, I was already grinning a diabolical grin like The Grinch hatching his plan to steal Christmas while simultaneously evicting them from the “friend” category, right smack dab into the middle of Bang City, USA.

this was, in fact, the marquee at my apartment that night

That entire Saturday was glorious. I vacuumed the carpet, I vacuumed the couches, hell, I am pretty sure I vacuumed myself. I went to the store and bought the finest 30 pack of Coors Light I could find, purchased replacement Glade Plug-Ins to make my apartment smell less like a bachelor was living there, and even sprung for the fancy condoms that actually do what they say they are going to do. Needless to say, I was prepared. I was like a sexual boy scout who was about to earn his menage a trois badge. Life was great. Nothing could knock me off of the ninth cloud I was riding.

Or so I thought.

There was a knock at the door in the mid-evening. This was odd for two reasons. First off, it was way too early for the girls to be off work, and secondly, they never knocked. I would leave the door unlocked and people would simply walk in, hang out and leave at their leisure. It was a system. A system that was working nicely. And out of no where, this jarring knocking sound was throwing me off of my life equilibrium. Putting that thought aside however, I stupidly figured that the girls were too excited to get our sex party started, got their shifts covered and came straight over to my place.

No.

In fact, the two people staring at me when I opened the door were not the girls. They weren’t girls at all. They were guys. Guys I haven’t seen in years, possibly even a decade. I must have had a look on my face like someone had farted in church because both apologized for stopping by unexpectedly, but saw on my Facebook that I was staying in for the night, and figured they would come over and hang out with me. While a nice gesture, and one I would normally embrace. This simply could not happen on my big not. I refuse to let these two assholes screw up my sexy time. But when they flashed a 30 pack of Coors Light that they brought with them as well, I stepped aside and let them come on in.

“You guys can’t stay long,” I said.

“Why not?” They asked.

“Because I sort of have a couple of girls coming over later and it might be weird that two unannounced dudes happen to be here as well.”

“Oh okay, well just tell us when we need to go.”

“How about now?”

We all laugh at my funny (but totally serious) joke and crack open a beer. One beer leads to three, which leads to five and before I know it, the front door is opening with the familiar feminine sounds of the girls talking and getting ready to make a stupid joke about me that I would have to laugh at (as a general rule, women aren’t funny…sorry, you aren’t). Their joke was cut off as soon as they see that there are other dudes in the room. They try their best to be polite, but you could barely take a breath before they wer eon their phones, scrambling ot make other plans.

Snake eyes.

The threesome was busted. The girls soon left, admitting on their way out that they were not expecting other people to be there and that maybe some other time we would have our party (we never did, for the record). I stormed back up my stairs to my second story dwelling, fully prepared to kick the shit out of my friends. As I reached the threshold, I was perplexed to see yet another girl sitting in my place, making friends with the boys.

I knew who this girl was. I had history with this girl. And when she drank, she got insanely drunk. She took one look around the room, decided that she needed to play catch up with us guys, and immediately started pounding beers, taking shots of vodka and stumbling around my place like, well… a drunken girl.

“This cannot end well,” I thought…

to be continued…

/Tigerclaw

“You’ll find boredom where there is
the absence of a good idea.” – Earl Nightingale

Now, I have no clue just who in the hell Earl Nightingale is, or what
significance he brought to this world. For all I know, he could be a serial killer
who masturbated with a cheese grater. But self inflicted pervertry aside, his
quote about boredom is spot on. When a hobby, such as writing, starts to become
a task, it then becomes tedious. And tedium leads to boredom, apathy and flat
out resentment towards the hobby that was once so rewarding.

We are the people we are, not because of some sort of cosmic wizardry
that defines us. No, we are who we are because of the feedback we receive from
the people we interact with in life. Yes, there are some personality traits
that some people inherently have over others, but by and large, we mold our
behavior around the positive and negative reactions we get from others.

Think about it, if you constantly told jokes that others greeted with
confusion, disappointment and anything other than the appropriate reaction to a
joke, you would be labeled as unfunny, and eventually, you would probably stop

telling jokes (at least bad jokes that people don’t laugh at).

Of course, being labeled unfunny and written off as such is actually a
blessing in disguise. I don’t know of anything worse than someone introducing
you to someone else and saying, “this is Sam, he is HELL OF funny.” I
immediately wish to rip that persons nipples off and shove them up their own
asshole for putting me on stage like that. At that point, you now have to give,
whoever you are meeting, your best material in order to prove the claims of
your (former) friend.

The same theory applies to writing. I am only a “good writer,” because
everyone who reads my shit, tells me I am. And then constantly badgers me to
write more, which I try to do, which in turn, causes me to burn through
material, embellish stories for the sake of keeping up with my own Joneses, and
satisfying a small, but dedicated readership across multiple websites, all with
different genres and categories, which demand original content, separate from
my other interests.

Eventually, the whole process becomes boring, uninspired and pretty
fucking hard to do. I literally woke up one day, sat in front of the computer,
opened my word processor and thought to myself, “Well fuck me, I don’t know
what to write about.”

“Writer’s block is the greatest side
effect of boredom.” – Jason Zebehazy

And once I realized that I didn’t know what to write about, I also
realized that I didn’t care that I didn’t know. I had planned on writing a
long, multiple part story about my dead dog, Roxy.

But I didn’t.

And I had plenty of “Not my Proudest Moment,” Stories that I could have
written about.

But I didn’t.

Oh, and there was always sports. Sports is easy to write about,
expectations aren’t very high from the average sports column reader and I could
have dug into a nice little niche segment with a couple of sports related
sites, possibly even grab greater attention nationally if I decided to put any
sort of effort into it.

But I didn’t.

The mere thought of sitting down and writing about anything became
fucking sickening to me. The whole process was like a bad marriage that I was
willing to let dissolve in front of me, perfectly content to let the bitch suffer
while I ignored her, until she finally got fed up, packed her shit, and left
me.

Fuck her anyways, right? The whole writing process had vindictively taken
control of me, making me feel guilty as shit for not stroking her keys, making
her cum, over and over again as my fingers worked her buttons, causing her to
moan and scream, turning letters into words, and eventually into funny little
stories for people to enjoy, slap me on the back, and ask me when the next
article would be up.

This is my life. This was my life. This is no way to live.

“To do the same thing over and over
again is not only boredom: it is to be controlled by rather than to control
what you do.” – Heraclitus

I wake up early every morning. I stumble into the bathroom, take a piss,
wash my hands, brush my teeth, let out a fart, giggle, then take a shower.

After my shower, I make coffee, fire up my work laptop to look at
e-mails, listen to voicemails to see which customer has wadded up their panties
the most since last night, then jump in my work truck and talk to the very same
customers about the very same topics that I talked to them the day before.

Often times these same customers ask me the exact same questions that
they have asked for years. So much so, that I don’t even bother reminding them
that we had the EXACT SAME CONVERSATION 13 TIMES BEFORE. I simply endure it,
answer their questions, and then repeat the same process with my bosses,
co-workers and friends who, even after working for the same company for 10
years, still have no idea just what the hell it is I do, or who I work for.

I simply endure it all. And I do this because A: Work pays me to endure
it all and B: Okay, so I don’t really have a “B,” I simply endure it because I
get paid money to do so. And yes, that sounds somewhat hypocritical and like
someone that sells out their morals and principles for the sake of the almighty
dollar. And you would be right. But it is that carrot at the end of the stick,
the paycheck, commissions check and bonus dollars that I receive for my time
that keeps it interesting. It justifies the means for the ending. The human
soul can only take so much…until you pay it, then it asks for more with a grin
on its face. Sad reality, but reality, nonetheless.

“It is only a step from boredom to
disillusionment, which leads naturally to self-pity, which in turn ends in
chaos.” – Manly Hall

And its that prize at the end of the rat race we call work that keeps us all
from going bat shit and securing a reservation in hell by spraying bullets all
over the place. When it come to a hobby that transforms itself into,
essentially volunteer work, the reward just isn’t there. And eventually, you
start to question just why in the fuck you are sitting in front of a computer
screen at 12:30 at night, trying to figure out a 45^th synonym for
poop, so that someone somewhere can laugh at how you clogged a toilet.

And once that story is told, and you have no follow up to satiate the
readership, or even more importantly, yourself, you simply have to walk away.
Walk away from writing anything, walk away from interacting with those that
demand you write something (even if it means lowering your own standards as to
what is story worthy) and understanding that, at some point, the net results of
what you are typing up, simply don’t justify the gross amount of time it is
taking you to fight through the apathy, boredom and tediousness of
conceptualizing a story, formulating the structure of the story and ultimately
executing the message you intend to send out to the world, as opposed to
someone reading too much, or too little into what you wrote and taking it in a
completely different direction.

I hate those assholes. You always end up having to explain to them in
person what you actually meant, and then, once they “get it,” they give you the
same look that you get when someone introduces you as being “HELL OF funny,”
and then having your initial joke that you tried too hard in a short amount of
time to throw out there, fall short. The disappointment permeates throughout the
writer and the reader at that point. A symbiotic relationship of negativity.

“I’ve got a great ambition to die of
exhaustion rather than boredom.” – Thomas Carlyle

So ultimately, instead of melting into my couch, struggling to find a way
to make a story about a pygmy goat knocking me on my ass while on vacation,
trying to figure out how to make a funny picture of Reggie Bush playing for the
Dolphins, or whatever the fuck else project I happen to be working on at the
time, I decided to take Mr. Carlyle up on his quote. The irony of course, is that
my sabbatical from writing has given me the opportunity to do more things,
drink more booze, see new places, kiss new women and basically re-load my story
telling gun with brand new bullets, and an itchy trigger finger.

I guess it turns out that the bitch did pack her bags and leave, but she
is just sitting in the car with the engine running, waiting (and knowing) that
I am going to eventually come out of the house in my boxers, beg her to come
back inside and to endure through it all. Much like Earl Nightingale did when he
survived the attack on the USS Arizona on December 7^th, 1941.

/Tigerclaw

Recently a lot of small, unimportant things have popped up,
rendering them large, super important things in my world. These things, and the
reasons for them bothering me are as follows:

I feel that babies, up until the age of three, should be
allowed in bars. With adult supervision of course. I mean, we don’t want babies
running amok without their parents present. That would be wrong. No bartender
is going to mistake a three year old for an adult and thus, there is no real
harm in getting a baby drunk. Also, I think it is bullshit that babies can’t go
to the place where their parents met and made them in the first place. And an
added benefit, the kids running around the bar probably act as a built in birth
control for all the 17 year old girls who go in on fake ID’s and a push up bra.

When someone cuts you off in traffic, you should be allowed
15 seconds to act on the immense rage you are feeling. Beyond 15 seconds and
you are most likely a deranged lunatic who simply likes to hurt people.
Anything that happens within that quarter minute, however, is fair game.
Swearing, horn honking, firing off a couple of rounds…all legal within that
time frame.

This is how I wake up in the morning

Guys (and girls I suppose) shouldn’t wear Affliction.
Nothing good can come of it other than making it super easy for me to know that
you are a complete and utter douche-tard. I suppose I can make an exception if,
at the time of purchase, the purchaser of said terrible clothing items, is
willing to get punch directly in the larynx by a real MMA fighter. And by real
fighter I don’t mean these pussies who lift weights at an “MMA” gym and then go
on to tell girls that they are an MMA fighter. I mean like a certified UFC
fighter, standing by the register, mollywhopping the idiots that buy Affliciton
(and probably lift weights at an MMA gym).

People should always return a text. Even if it is to say
that they aren’t returning texts. Is there any bigger “fuck you,” move than
simply ignoring texts? Don’t get me wrong, I ignore 86.9% of all texts I
receive, but that doesn’t give anyone the right to ignore MY texts. That is
just rude. I think an app should be created that detects when someone is
ignoring a text, and simply melts the phone. Melts it dead. That would teach
people!

I hate that we call black people African-American.
Afro-American is way more cool sounding and actually, probably less insulting.
Nonetheless, if we are going to remain PC when talking about Afro’d Americans,
I demand the same satisfaction. From here on out, when people are describing
what I look like, I am going to have to request that my skin complexion be
described as “European-American,” or “Euro-American,” if you are into the whole
brevity thing. It is only fair. For far too long, the black community has
cornered the market on cool nicknames for their race while we get stuck with crap.
And this Euro-American has had enough of it.

Dating websites are the worst. When you approach a girl at a
bar and she rejects you, you can at least chalk it up to her probably already
having a boyfriend/husband, or most likely, that she is gay. But when a girl
who is “seeking a man,” denies you online, there is no justification. And what’s
worse is that you have to PAY for this type of abuse. Dating sites like
Match.com or Eharmony.com should really have to guarantee at least two dates
per month for the fees they charge. And by guarantee I mean send over a hooker
twice a month as a thank you for my hard earned dollars. It is only fair.
Besides, paying for a girl to pretend to like me is a lot better than paying
for girls to for reals hate me.

/Tigerclaw

The Unnamed Monster

It was Mid-December and I was on a plane to Seattle, Washington to meet up with my co-worker James. After James picked me up, we were to drive east to Spokane for the night and on to Kalispell, Montana the next morning. My company actually was only prepared to send me to Montana to take care of our business, but realized at the last minute that I was only 22 years old at the time and renting a car would be an impossibility. Hence why James was tasked with chauffeurring me from the metropolis of Seattle, to the buttfucking middle of nowhere of Kalispell. I had never been to Montana though, and was somewhat looking forward to knocking both Montana and Idaho off my lists that I have been to, so despite the harsh weather (screw off, I am from California, rain and sub 30 temperatures are harsh), I agreed to go.

My girlfriend at the time, was less than enthused by my travel plans however. Her birthday had just passed and having blown the doors off of Vegas for her 21st birthday the year prior, I did the only thing I could think of to top it for an otherwise meaningless 22nd birthday. I decided to get us a puppy. The problem was, I hadn’t actually secured said puppy for her birthday. I knew she wanted a rottweiler, but all leads turned out to be bunk, or the asking price was too high. And plus, I was lazy and figured she should just pick the puppy herself if I waited long enough. The frustration of the puppy search, combined with getting ready for our first Christmas in our new place, was simmering to a boil.

“How come you are leaving again?”

“Because work needs me to go to Montana and fix something.”

“What needs to be fixed?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t pay attention to what Dave told me.”

“How come James can’t do it?”

“Because, ugh…well shit why can’t James do it? Good question. And why are they always flying me in to these cold ass places in the winter? I hate this company.”

So while I flew to Seattle, drove to Spokane and went 80 miles the wrong way into Montana, and back, the girlfriend was trying to find her birthday present. Having not heard anything from her while trying to save my asshole from being cornholed in northern Idaho, I assumed that she had struck out finding our neweset four-legged member (we had two cats already. One big fat cat that we called Big Fat Sayde, and this asshole bitch of a cat named Mischief).

I called Michelle to see how close she was to the airport.

“Hey, I’ve got to get my bag, how close are you?”

“I’m circling now…I brought a friend with me.”

“Ugh, fuck I don’t want to talk to Deena right now. Tell her to shut up when I get in the car, ok?”

“…ok…”

I go outside and see Michelle pulling up in my truck, but don’t see her stupid friend sitting in the passenger seat. Naturally, I am confused. I open the door and get ready to throw my shit in, when I look down and see a black and brown pile of fluff looking back at me. She had just woken up from a nap, blinked her eyes to try and clear the cobwebs, squinted them as if to figure out who the hell I was, yawned, and plopped her head back down on the car seat to resume her nap.

“Meet your daughter, daddy,” Michelle said while flashing her gorgeous smile.

I put my crap in the backseat of my truck, picked up this 12 week old, unnamed rotty pup, and held her up in front of my face. I leaned in to kissmy new dog on the nose, only to have been beaten to the punch. As she would often do throughout our time together over the years, Roxy was

And as I was overcome with a sense of warmth I hadn’t had in a long time, I realize that A: I was in love with this dog, and B: She was pissing directly onto my shirt and pants. Which obviously explained the warmth I was feeling seconds prior. This little nameless beast then proceeded to fart little puppy farts all the way back to our house in Discovery Bay, causing us to dry heave as the lingering stench of dried dog piss clashed with the invisible gas bombs she was dropping on her newfound owners. By the time we got home, the entire car smelled like death and Michelle was running inside as if she was being chased by Freddy Kruger (if only…).

“Michelle, come get your puppy!”

“Uh-uh, that is YOUR dog now!”

I looked down on the now, wide awake puppy, who was staring back at me, and I smiled.

“Yes, you are.”

Dear Toilet,

I wanted to take the time to express my undying love and affection for you. It isn’t often that you are told how truly wonderful you really are, and I apologize deeply for neglecting to tell you as such. Chalk it up to familiarity, or simply taking you for granted, either way, that is no excuse and I plan on fixing that right now.

As I think back to all of the years we have been together, I can’t help but smile, and laugh at all that you have done for me. Hell, at times I even let my friends borrow you for their own personal endeavors, but in the end, I always knew that you were mine, and I was yours. You see, I have had a lot of friends, family members and acquaintances come and go throughout my life, but no one has been better to me than you. It’s true.

Who else would continue to stay around me after constantly being pissed on? Only a true friend would. And no one has had to put up with more of my shit than you, and not only have you put up with it, but you seem to embrace it openly. I can’t thank you enough for that. And every morning after a night of fornicating with my mistress, Alcohol, you were there to offer up a cold hug and a place to spill my guts, both figuratively and literally, about how bad she treats me. And the best part is, you didn’t even think to give advice back. You simply knew I needed a friend, and you lent me an ear. And no matter how much I dumped on you, you simply flush it all away and never let it affect you.

I would also like to apologize for the physical abuse I have. There were a few times that I thought I may have tarnished your natural glow. And still other times where part of you cracked under the immense pressure I put you under. But you still held it together.

when Toilet cries, we all cry

And it wasn’t all one sided. I distinctly remember performing a sort of Heimlich maneuver on you to prevent you from choking on processed foods that I gave you. Come to think of it, I am not sure if you ever thanked me for that or all those other times that I spent cleaning you and bathing you. But let us not fight over such matters. After all, this is about you and what you have been able to do for me. So once again, thank you Toilet. You are truly one of a kind, a wonderful friend, and I know we will see each other today, tomorrow and hopefully every day after for a very long time.

Sincerely,

Sam

So, a couple of weeks ago, I was bored (and sober…and broke) and was trying to decide what letter of the alphabet I liked best. While sifting through the crap to find the real nuggets of gold amongst our letters, I suddenly realized that a greater, far more daunting task was in front of me.

You see, while our letters are pretty damn cool and fun to read, write and type out…it has come to my attention that the order in which we typically write out these letters is grossly outdated, and furthermore, wrong. Sure, the “traditional” layout of A, followed by B, which precedes C, etc. makes for a permanent (and easy) place in our memories. And yes, it also made for a catchy little tune, but it is high time someone (read: me) sat down, and took the time to not only study the letters of the alphabet, but rank them in a new order.

An order of importance. An order that, while at first, may seem odd, ultimately makes infinitely more sense. So that is my mission, to re-rank the 26 letters of the alphabet in an order that we can ALL be proud of. And more importantly, in an order that shows everyone the true value of each letter and the importance (or lack thereof) each one has on society. So let us begin, shall we?

S- No real surprise here. It is widely used throughout many a word. It is, without a shadow of a doubt, the most important letter in the alphabet

A-No real shame for the A to drop from number one to number two. Hell, even Muhammed Ali had to lose eventually, right? The letter A had a great reign as the top dog and still holds the crown as the most beloved vowel.

M-Another very versatile letter. The M moving up in stature DOES breakup everyone’s favorite part of the old version of the alphabet (don’t lie you know you love to sing “ellemenohpee,” as much as I do) but is necessary.

E-It is still the second best vowel. That has not changed. What HAS changed is that it is now the fourth most important letter, superseding its previous standing as the fifth.

R-Another very important letter. Many a fine word starts with an R. Rice, rampage, and radiation. Words that start with this letter are insta-fun and worth repeating…repeating.

J-This may come as somewhat of a shock to people, but hear me out. If letters were furniture, the letter J might be the most comfortable letter to sit/lay/lounge in. Especially a lower case j which comes with a free pillow!

T-Probably the most masculine sounding letter. When pronounced with its usual hard sound, it strikes fear and demands respect out of its brethren. Yet it has a sensitive, almost soothing side to it when paired with the next letter.

H-On its own merits, this letter may fall further down on the importance scale. But its dogged pursuit to pair up with other letters to create new and interesting sounds, is why H is ranked as high as it is. I mean how many other letters can pair up with a P and make it sound like an F? That is straight ninja shit right there!

C-Another letter that enjoys the spice of variety. Hard and soft pronunciations alike make this letter that used to represent my GPA so accurately, worthy of its new spot.

O-Lets be honest, there is no way the vowel I is more important than the vowel O. For far too long I have sat by and looked on in disgust as people on Wheel Of Fortune choose to purchase an I more often than an O. Honestly, what the fuck do you think that word is? Biibies? The O is also the most feminine of letters. It can be used to represent mouths, boobs, wedding rings (which are super girly) and other feminine type things. Notice how the most feminine letter is still below the most masculine letter ( T ) on the importance scale.

L-Simple to write in both its uppercase form (L) and its lower case (l), this letter is not only used a ton, but is simply a pleasure to write or type. Its only drawback is that sometimes, in its lowered state, it can be mistaken for an uppercase I, depending on who is writing.

U-Shoved to the lower crevices of the old alphabet, this underappreciated and underrated letter has gone virtually unnoticed until recently. Its popularity has risen with the advancement of technologies such as instant messaging, texts and websites like this one. That, coupled with the laziness of all of us, has seen basic phonetic English skyrocket. YOU has become U to save both time and space. It is the Beyonce to the Y and O’s Michelle and Kelly.

B-What was once only overshadowed by the mighty A, is now mired in mediocrity. It is still a good letter…it just isn’t great. The lower case version is too similar to not only the lower case D, and P, but the lower case Q as well. And why would you want to associate with losers like that, unless you were kind of one yourself, no?

Z-Kicking off our bottom 13 letters, is the letter that used to be the caboose. Though not utilized too often, the letter is still fun to write and makes it easy for the dumb kids by being exactly the same letter in its lower case form. Plus, you can kick some serious ass in scrabble if you happen to pick the letter.

D-Despite its rampant use throughout our lexicon, this letter has always felt out of place to me being so high up on the list. First off, it seems to me that it copies a lot of its principles from both the B and the C. Second off…it’s fat. It is the fattest letter in the alphabet after the O. But at least the O has a butt. The D is fat, and flat. It is the Al Bundy of letters.

X-Another letter that isn’t used too often, but when it is, it maximizes its potential. Think about it, can you think of a word that has X in it that ISN’T cool? Sex, XXX, Maximum, Maximus, Sex…See! Impossible. Its only drawback is not being used enough.

I-This letter is simply not a team player. It doesn’t know the concept of playing well with others and is pompous enough to make you, the writer, have to use two separate parts to put together the lower case version of it (i). What an a-hole.

K-And never too far from I is K. The letter K to me has always been a poser. It likes to make itself feel more important but supplanting the letter C in some kases, but all it really is doing is making itself look stupid to all the other letters. K is a wigger.

N-Furthermore, N isn’t much better. N is M’s little brother. The less athletic, uglier, slightly more stupid little brother. He tries to act just like his big brother at all costs, and M’s friends tolerate the little punk ass, but in the end, even N knows he will never be as cool, successful or handsome as his big bro.

G-If you can’t sense a theme yet, perhaps now you will. In a shocking development, G is related to C. G is C’s first cousin from Georgia (C is from California) and they look almost alike if it weren’t for G’s ugly mullet. Go ahead and look at the G and tell me it isn’t inbred. I’ll wait.

F-While not a direct rip-off of E, it is quite obvious that this letter is at least inspired by it, which makes it suspect in nature. While possibly being the letter that starts off the best word in our language (F-U…-D-G-E), it also is responsible for a bunch of shitty words as well (fag, fungus, fluffer, etc.)

Y-This letter is in the running for most improved, but it is still poor overall. This is like the project letter you would draft in later rounds if there was such a thing as a letter draft. He is the interior lineman that seems to have some talent, but is most likely never going to pan out, despite its versatility (it can sometimes be a vowel!)

P-This letter loses major cool points. It is neither masculine nor feminine. It is, in essence, a hermaphrodite. Need further proof? It starts off both penis AND pussy. Make up your mind, flip-flopper!

Q- Complete rip-off of O. The only difference is that this is the male version of the O. Honestly; this letter has very little redeeming qualities. And it is way too possessive. It won’t go anywhere without holding its girlfriend’s (U) hand. Just a jealous, overbearing prick of a letter.

V-Another uber feminine letter. While feminine, it is not as strong as some of her other sister letters. If you were to try to stand this letter upright, she would tip over every time. If you filled up her chalice with any type of liquid, she wouldn’t be able to hold it for you as, again, Tipsy McGee of a letter would simply stumble to the side and vo

Not My Proudest Moment: Attack of the Zombie Bum

Back when I was a teenager, there were roughly three options for you as a teenager looking to have some fun. You could get high and drunk, find a fuck buddy, or smash the ever loving shit out of stuff. Considering that my dad would literally kill me if I even thought about consuming his beer or…pharmeceuticals, and I didn’t really learn to talk to girls until they were legally drunk at a bar and I was blurry enough to be seen with, I chose to spend my free time breaking shit.

I started out like every other mischievous youth. TP’ing friends houses, egging random cars (and people) and knocking over the occasional port-a-potty. On Halloween we would collect pumpkins, hang out the passenger side of the moving car and smash them into people’s mailboxes, typically sending the box spinning on its axis before finding its final resting place on the lawn. Hell, I think even one time we lifted a couple of toilets from the back of a plumbing house and left them on the front porch of a couple of girls’ house that we knew (complete with TP and reading material). But where most boys got their fill of trouble there, me and my friends were simply dining on the appetizers in preparation of the main course.

We tended to take things a little too far at times. From finding The Tool (more on that some other time), to doing donuts on freshly laid grass of model homes, we quickly escalated our harmless misdemeanors into glorious felonies. We were young, stupid, and unhumbled by what could possibly happen to us. We figured that the authorities would most likely turn us over to our parents, and after serving a brief grounding sentence, we would be reunited for more “smashing,” and other related hijinks.

That is of course, until we met the zombie bum.

Every time the four of us went out (Brian, Tim, Eric and I), we knew we wouldn’t get in trouble. We had been doing this sort of shit for years, and we knew how to hide, where to hide and what to say to any authority figure that may impede our path of destruction temporarily. The problems occurred, once we extended our reach beyond the four. Every now and then our friend Mike would tag along, drop a car battery through a rear car window and the cops would be all over us like flies on shit. Or we would force Chip to throw one rock at a window and a madmen with a god damned shotgun would be chasing us down the hill. In short, bad things happened when others came along.

One night, we found ourselves hanging out with a guy named Steve Roe. Steve was a fun guy, but rarely hung out with us on Friday nights (he chose the “fuck a bunch of girls” option, typically). But he had heard of what did and after successfully stealing two Christmas trees for his house the last time we all hung out, he was game to head out and stir it up.

With no real plan in place, we decided to start the night off by going to the store and picking up some potatoes to throw at cars. There was nothing I liked more than connecting with a side mirror of a Beamer and watching as the potato kersploded into a million pieces…along with the mirror. After a couple of round of potato ball, we figured it was time to grab some crowbars and other assorted melee weapons and hit the new homes that were being built. It was late, we were sober and windows were hung, and soon to be broken.

As we made our way up the hillside, Steve happened to look down and saw something slumped over on the other side of the hill. He stopped and squinted. “Hey, what the hell is that?”

We trekked over to where Steve was, and after a brief discussion, we realized that we were staring at a body.

A dead deer body.

Now, having never really been exposed to dead bodies of any kind out in the wilderness (other than Stand By Me), we weren’t really sure what to do. Well, at least most of us didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t long before Eric picked up a rock and chucked it at the dead animal. And after about 10 seconds of contemplating what the hell he was doing, we all found ourselves doing the exact same thing. The medium size rocks were raining down on this poor innocent deer’s carcass, when all of a sudden, Steve picked up, what can only be described as a mini boulder and waddled to the top of the hill, prepared to heave the mountain at the creature.

“Dude, you are going to destroy that thing.”

Steve responded, “who cares? it is just a dead deer.”

And with that, Steve chucked the rock with all of his might and we watched as the thing tumbled down the hill, chewing up the ground in front of it, and headed straight for the deer. With a loud thud, the rock crashed right into the top of the heap. The only thing that interrupted our laughter was a loud, painful groan that came from the bottom of the hill. We looked down and saw that the dead deer wasn’t exactly dead.

And it also wasn’t exactly a deer.

“Holy shit, it’s a bum! It’s a fucking zombie bum! Run!”

We turned around, and hauled ass back to Eric’s car, the sound of a cursing, angry, drunken bum making his way up the hill after us seemed to make us run faster. It also made us forget that we were on a construction site, filled with all sorts of fun obstacles. Before too long, Steve tripped over a piece of rebar and fell down, Tim turned to laugh at him and ended up in the same predicament. Brian stopped to try to help his twin brother up, but ended up on the ground himself as I pushed him down to get him the fuck out of my way.

Zombie Hobo staking his claim on the park bench

Hey screw them, if the zombie bum was gonna eat us, I figured having at least three of my friends behind me for him to feast on would save my ass. We all made it back to the car, jumped in, and got the hell out of Dodge. Once we were a safe distance away, and had finally started to catch our breath, the silence was broken.

Steve: “Holy shit what the hell just happened?”

Brian: “You just killed someone.”

Me: “Nah, if anything he made him come back to life.”

Eric: “It was so funny when you guys fell.”

Brian: “Sam, did you push me down on the way to the car? Dick.”

Sam: “THERE WAS A ZOMBIE CHASING ME! SORRY I WASN’T CONSIDERATE TO YOUR NEEDS.”

Steve: “Fuck this, why am I hanging out with you guys again? I could be getting laid right now.”

Tim: “I’m pretty sure that bum would F you in the A if you really want to go back…”

Steve: “Screw that shit, take me home.”

we never did find out what happened to the zombie bum. We assume he was fine.

Either that or I just admitted to Manslaughter II and brought four of my friends down with me…

/Tigerclaw