The POO-Caso Painting

After having had Roxy for a few weeks, and the grace period for her pissing and shitting all over my brand new house had worn off, my girlfriend at the time and I figured it was time to start housebreaking the pup. We did what most dog owners did, we read books about the breed (rottweiler), started watching terrible shows about animals, thinking that they were good, and of course, the ever wonderful crate training. Both of us have full time jobs with the same company and with me traveling quite a bit then, and her pretending to work while she slept at her desk at the corporate office, we didn’t have time to properly crate train Roxy. The results one day when we came home from work were disastrous.

At night, the dog hated to go to sleep. Like any kid trying to stress their independence, Roxy would walk around the bedroom, chewing on my socks, barking her little puppy bark and getting her ass kicked by our bitch ass cat, Mischief. Once the lights went off, she would freak the fuck out and howl and whimper like she was next in line at Auschwitz or something. After trying to ignore it for close to an hour, I ultimately got up, picked up the annoying little bitch and turned on some music. Pink Floyd’s “The Great Gig In The Sky,” was on. Almost instantly, Roxy was out cold. Mouth open, tongue out and snoring. I walked her over to our spare bathroom that was doubling as her crate for now, plopped her down and rushed off to bed.

The song ended and the station switched to a song by Poison. Roxy rose like a zombie during the apocalypse and voiced her displeasure for all things Bret Michaels. As I jumped out of bed again, wondering how she could possibly be awake after practically dropping dead in my arms a moment sooner, I ran upstairs, ripped open a box of CD’s and found  The Dark Side of the Moon album that Pink Floyd’s sandman-esque song was from. I hit play and the dog was unconscious again.

“How cool is that?” I said. “The fucking dog chills out to Pink Floyd and hates Poison? I like her more than most people!”

This went on for about a week. The lights would go off, the dog would sound off, and Pink Floyd would go on, giving us all a good night’s sleep. One morning, while running somewhat late for work, we realized that the dog hadn’t pissed or shit on her puppy pads in the middle of the night. Knowing full well that neither of us had time take her out and wait on her slow dump-taking ass, we threw down some extra floor diapers, promised to get home early and get her outside for an extra long evening walk. Besides, we had the soothing sounds of Roger Waters and David Gilmour on our side. With them blasting on repeat all day, the dog would be sleeping and nary a problem should arise, right?

Wrong.

In our haste to get to work on time, we forgot to press play on the CD. We shut the door, went about our daily lives and I kept my promise to knock off work early and get home to rescue her. As I walked through the front door, I immediately knew I was in for a world of shit.

tired from a long day of shitting

Literally. The entire house smelled like the rotting asshole of Anna Nicole Smith and stink lines were damn near visible, much like a heat wave, in the hallway. As I swatted at the air and dry heaved while walking towards the bathroom, it hadn’t even dawned on me that the music wasn’t playing. At this point, most of my senses had been rendered meaningless due to the toxic cloud of puppy shit that was permeating the house.

And then I saw it.

I turned the corner, craned my head to the right and down to look into the bathroom. Over the puppy gate theat blocked the little poo demon in and saw the aftermath of what can only be described as, a shit cannon. Dog crap was everywhere. And I mean everywhere. hard shit, liquidy shit, yellow shit, brown shit, it was all there. It was all there and all over the bathroom. On the floor, in her water bowl, on the toilet, in the toilet, on the sink and of course, the pooping pup even rolled around on it and painted some cave markings on the wall.

It took every fiber of my being not to add to her masterpiece with a touch of human vomit. I had no idea where to start to clean up this hazardous spill. Do I get gloves? Do I spray the dog with a hose? Do I light the bathroom on fire…

…do I leave it for the girlfriend to deal with?

Hindsight being what it was, I probably should have just left it. Instead, I decided to do what any person from my generation would do. I took pictures of it and sent it to my friends, as well as the girl. The responses of disgust, remorse and horror were matched only by growing fit of laughter as I washed the dog, scrubbed and de-loused the bathroom and ultimately declared my dog, for the first time, a Wunder Dog, and artiste.

/Tigerclaw

Losing Weight: Between being a single guy who lives by himself, having a job that forces me to travel, and of course the booze, it can be a struggle to watch my weight. It can be. But it isn’t. And that is because it has become grossly visible to watch my weight go up and up and up while the rich food, hard alcohol and metabolism goes down, down down. But all of that is a thing of the past. No, I am not giving up good tasting food, and I will be dead and buried before you separate me from my whiskey, but my plan to lose weight relies on a full-proof plan that is often overlooked.

Smoking. That’s right, smoking. I figure if I start replacing on meal a day with a cigarette or two, my caloric intake will drop considerably. That combined with the hardened arteries that make my blood work harder to push through to my heart will generate a spike in my metabolism and my path to a leaner, meaner me will be here. If I am lucky, I will be up to three packs a day as meal replacements by July which is perfect for the swimsuit season.

swimsuit season is almost here!

No Sex with Friends: This one seems like a no brainer, right? For all of the reasons that most of you already know, it is never a good idea to boff your friends. Boffing leads to someone, eventually having more feelings than the other, which leads to someone eventually resenting the other and ultimately results in no sex, and no friend. And what are we without friends? We are MySpace, that’s what (because no one has friends on Myspace…get it? Oh fuck you, it was funny).

So I propose that I put the kibosh on friendly sexcapades and instead focus my sexual efforts on complete and utter strangers. People I meet once at a bar, or in a dark alley that share the same carnal pleasures I do is the ticket to preserving lifelong, healthy friendships, in my opinion. Plus, as an added bonus, if you pickup a homeless person and bring them back to your place for relations, you don’t even have to drive them home in the morning!

Being Tactfully Honest: Now…being honest has never really been an issue for me. At least not as an adult. If you don’t believe me, go ask my cunt ex-girlfriend. But my cunt ex-girlfriend will also tell you that my honestly (especially once she became my ex) was never delivered in a manner to help soften the blow. When I told someone they were fat, I didn’t pussy foot around calling them fat. I would simply come right out and say something like, “so are we all just going to ignore the elephant in the room?” Or perhaps a friend did something that I considered wrong. Chances are, they are going to get an honest earful of criticism from me, which will in turn, lead to me no longer getting to have sex with them.

So here in 2012, I finally resolve to continue telling the truth, but in a tactful, and classy manner. Which means when I tell you that your shit stinks like shit, I will do so with a smile on my face.

me, evolved

/Tigerclaw 

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