Food is awesome. But some foods are not awesome. The following is a list of the less than stellar bags of chips I have had the displeasure of trying.

5: Lay’s Original BBQ

Toolays much flavoring and way too greasy. Grabbing a handful of chips out of the bag shouldn’t feel like you shoved your hand up a pig’s ass and parading it around like a puppet. It is impossible to eat an entire bag without writing yourself an apology letter for the damage you just created to your own person. The only use for these is to pour them into a bowl at a picnic or outdoor eating venue, and hope the ants and birds take them. Essentially, these are just ‘looking at” chips.



4: Kettle Brand Krinkle Cut Dill Pickle

kettleFirst of all, pickles are nothing more than a rotten cucumber. The only reason to ever eat a pickle is if you are homeless and the rest of the food in the dumpster is rancid. So unless you are a diseased hobo, you have no business succumbing to the nastiness of eating garbage. Secondarily, the fact that they then took this flavor of corroded vegetable and sprinkled it on top of a crinkle cut potato chip makes this a health hazard, two times over. Wait, you mean to tell me that I can eat something that tastes like gorilla shit AND slice the roof of my mouth open? Sign me up! I always wanted a sun roof in my MOUTH.


3: Pringles Grilled Shrimp

pringlesThere is a special place in hell for the creator of this monstrosity. Grilled shrimp, ACTUAL grilled shrimp, is delicious. Regular flavored Pringles, are delicious. But a potato chip that TASTES like grilled shrimp? Kill me. Chips are crunchy and hard, shrimp is not. Combining these two sense into one thing is a mind fuck that even Jenna Jameson wants no part of. It is the taste bud equivalent of watching a lion stalk a zebra but instead of eating it, it has sex with it, instead. It is jarring and unnatural…just like this chip. Also, fuck Pringles for making the cans too small for their fatty customers to adequately reach in and grab from the middle down. You know who is eating your product, you stupid assholes. Give us a fat hand can!


2: Cheetos

Icheetos am pretty sure if you have ever even OPENED one of these bags, you should probably get a full body biopsy done. That is not a natural color of orange. You “food” should never glow. And I am pretty sure if you listen intently, you can actually hear these things humming due to all the nuclear bullshit pumped into this piece of shit. Speaking of which, the design looks like a literal piece of dried up cat shit. Just staring at the bag gives me diarrhea. AND SINCE WHEN IS A CHEETAH FUCKING ORANGE?!?!?! Fuck everything about this fuckery.



1: Fritos


The person that invented these should be arrested, imprisoned and ultimately shot in the face for unleashing this evil on the world. Let’s start with opening this sack of crap, shall we? You open it and are immediately greeted with a stunning blast of egregious “air” that smells like Bigfoot’s dick. Honestly, what marketing/R&D person thought it would be a good idea for the chips to actually fart directly into your face upon consumption? Then, if you are able to make it past that, you pull out, what can only be described as, the most disgusting looking thing you will ever lay eyes on. What is a Frito, anyway? I am not entirely sure, but it wouldn’t surprise me if they weren’t just the leftover toe nails from people who have died. Oh, and if you are somehow not able to smell OR see, you have the pleasure of actually popping these into your mouth and get to experience what it is like if you ate wet sand. You just keep chewing forever like a fucking dairy cow shewing on grass and never actually eat any of it. You just chomp it down into a fine paste before I sort of just fucks off and absorbs into your body.  This entire product should be banned unilaterally across all nations.

I would like to point out that I am deathly allergic to Cheetos, which is number two on this list, and not allergic to Fritos.





Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about it. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which, far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.

Not My Proudest Moment: Dog Penis Red

More than half a decade ago, a friend decided to ruin his life and marry a woman he was madly in love with. As his friend, and someone who was coming off of yet, another, failed relationship, I felt it was my duty to inform him of the colossal mistake he was about to make. But then he invited me to go to his bachelor party in Las Vegas, and all I could do was wish the happy couple all the best with their lovely nuptials and humbly accept this invitation to participate in what can only be described as, a lecherous shit show.

A few weeks prior to the actual party, the invitees that accepted, met up to discuss the logistics of the entire trip. You know, important stuff like:

Should we fly? Where should we stay? Would there be strippers? Would there be midgets? Would there be midget strippers? And if so, how come those are twice the price of regular strippers…and regular midgets, for that matter?

67 Midget Stripper
Twice As Much As Regular Strippers.

Decisions were made (terrible, regretful decisions), plans were finalized and within a short matter of time, we were driving two car loads of 20-something year olds through the Mojave Desert, ready to drink beer, smoke cigarettes and rage long and hard enough to hopefully never remember it. After a fairly uneventful car ride from Northern California to Vegas, the crew settled into their respective adjoining rooms, cracked open our first bottles of booze, lit some cigarettes and started our descent into a dark, hazy mess of a weekend.

Now, having been a seasoned veteran of Las Vegas, even at the ripe old age of 27, I had come to realize that there are many strategies while drinking in Vegas. It is very much like how one approaches a cold swimming pool on a hot day. You can ease your way into a drunken stupor, tip-toeing your way through it while your body acclimates to the surrounding conditions and ultimately floating around, carefree like a baby deer on ice.

Or you can run full force towards it, bellowing out a battle cry that would make William Wallace cower in the corner and jump right in, getting to your final destination as quickly as possible. Both are perfectly acceptable practices, and ones that we have all employed from time to time, in various situations.

The problem is, of course, is that when applying this to an environment of 12 young males, all with their own ideas and strategies, it quickly devolves into a war zone inside the hotel room. Within hours, half of the guys were passed out on couches, balconies and beds. Piles of empty beer cans, liquor bottles and random food garbage became more and more prominent.It had looked like we had been there for days, not hours. And the worst part about it, was that this was only half of us. The ones that stayed behind to “relax” in the room after a long desert drive.

The other half? They were in the casino, winning mini-fortunes and losing 401Ks. By the time they burned off their collective energies out on the strip and ready for a break, the aforementioned hotel dwellers were ready to saddle up and ride out. This pattern of behavior continued for about two more cycles of 12 hour shifts before the entire house of party cards came crashing down on all of us. Two days later, it was Friday morning, and everyone was unconscious.

Everyone, of course, except me.

Having strategically passed out on the balcony the night before, I was easily awakened by the clear stench of Vegas failure that permeates the pathetic day time atmosphere in Sin City. Having slept through a wine and vodka hangover, and feeling refreshed from my telephone book pillow, I went inside to survey the damage and check to make sure that everyone was accounted for, and more importantly…breathing.

With those responsibilities out of the way, I joyfully asked who wanted to go down to the MGM Grand’s pool with me to drink beer, look at girls and revel in our depravity. Once the cussing, and bottle throwing ended, I decided that I would just go by myself. After all, it was early, so I understood their drunken reluctance to join. And besides, if I got down there now, I could reserve a nice spot by the pool for when the rest decided to come down. It was a brilliant plan. A genius plan. A “nothing can go wrong with this” type of plan.

Except it went wrong. It went very, very wrong.

Having underestimated the tax I had levied on my own system from the two days prior, and combining that with an over estimation as to what I could realistically consume into my body going forward, I ended up with results more disastrous than Charlie Sheen’s latest blood work. I ordered a dozen beers (which I think equated to about $549 for the poor bastard whose room number I used), grabbed a towel and a beach chair and plopped my drunken, pasty self, smack dab in the middle of Satan’s asshole, also known as the Las Vegas sun.

I popped open my first beer, piggishly ogled women and thought to myself as I laid back in the chair, “this…is perfect.”

The next thing I remember was hearing my name over and over again and waking up and not being able to move. My friend Josh was hovering over me, genuine concern dripping off of his face.

“Sam, are you ok?”, he asked.

“I am fine, why?”, I replied

Josh continued, “You don’t look too good. How long have you been out here?”

“Not too long, Pool opened at 9 A.M. so maybe what…30 minutes? How come I can’t move?”, I asked.

Josh’s face contorted into a horrendous grimace as he got ready to break the news.

“Dude…it is two in the afternoon. You have been sitting in this spot, directly in the sun since nine? Your skin is TOAST”

Having started to come back to reality, I look around and see that there are now 10 closed beers, floating in boiling water that used to be ice, next to chair I was laying in and the reason I couldn’t move was due to my skin being baked like the top layer of cheese on a lasagna dish and stuck to the plastic of the chair.

I responded, “Two in the afternoon? Are you sure? Ouch, fuck…help me up.”

“Shit Sam, I think we have to take you to the hospital. I am serious.”

“Fuck you, Josh. No hospital. This is your fault. If you could handle your liquor better, you would have come down with me this morning instead of being passed out like a little girl and all of this would have been avoided.”

Josh immediately decides to open hand slap my chest and give his best Ric Flair impression by shouting “Woooooo!” while he does it.


Some douche bags at the pool respond back with the same chant (side note: fuck pro wrestling fans and their retarded chants that they insist on responding to at any and all venues and times), and I am officially alarmed for my health.

At this point, I can feel my skin cracking on my chest.I packed up my sweltering hot beer, gently placed a towel over my shoulders, and shamefully, and painfully, shuffled back to the room to try and salvaged whatever parts of my epidermis that I could.

Thankfully when I finally arrived back at the suite, most of the guys were out doing their thing, with only one person in the room.

“Holy shit!” James said, “I have never seen that color red before!”

“Shut up,” was all I could muster up in response.

“The only other time I have ever seen that color red was my dog’s penis. Dude, you are dog penis red!” exclaimed James.

“I am surprised you were able to see your dog’s penis color with it constantly in your mouth, you piece of shit. Now shut up and give me a cold beer. I refuse to be sober for the rest of this trip. I don;t want to feel any of this,” I replied.

“Whatever you say…dog penis red. Now smile for the camera.”

And thus…a picture was taken and a nickname was born.




/Dog Penis Red




As the creator, editor, producer and host of the popular podcast, “Predictably Drunk”, I often get requests from people looking to start their own podcast, on how to get started. What equipment do they need, how do they upload it to iTunes and how long until they can retire from their day jobs do to the sheer amount of revenue your podcast will undoubtedly bring in. The answers, of course, are broad, varied and perhaps not exactly what you want to hear. But given that I have had no less than a dozen requests from fellow Stand-Up Comedians, and a handful from normal folks (I call them “normies”), I figured I would at least lend my under qualified expertise to getting someone started. In this installment, we will focus on the actual equipment. The hardware and software needed to record your sexy, sexy voice into a machine. In addition, I will attempt to give some advice that I wish someone gave me before starting my own death march to obscurity. Whoops, I meant to say podcast (damn Autocorrect).


It seems pretty obvious, right? But you would be surprised at how many times people ask me if they need a computer in order to do a podcast. Technically, the answer is no, you do not. But I promise you that your podcast will be awful and un-listenable if you do not have one. Technically speaking, of course. Personally, it doesn’t really matter what type of computer you use. Laptop, desktop, or tablet will all work. What does matter is that you:

A: Have enough memory to store all of your awesome podcasts that you will record and make a bajillion dollars off of

B: Know what operating system you are running (Apple IOS, Microsoft, etc.)

C: Have a compatible sound editing software that you are comfortable using (more on this later. What? You want to know more now? Too bad, you pushy, impatient prick. You have to wait).

Dude, I got a Dell
Dude, I got a Dell

Personally, I rely on my Dell Latitude E7440. Multiple USB inputs, HDMI cable, audio jack for headphone, and enough memory to let an Alzheimer’s patient borrow some. Since it is a Dell, I run a Microsoft operating system, and as such, I use a compatible audio editing software (see? I told you there would be more later) in Audacity. Audacity is a free program (you hear that? F-R-E-E) that allows you to manipulate your recordings in a seemingly, never ending amount of ways. From cleaning up sound artifacts from your original recordings, to laying down music tracks underneath your spoken words, and distorting your voice to make you sound better than you actually do (I use this feature A LOT). Audacity also allows you to record directly into the program and export it as an .mp3 file (AKA the file needed to publish to the interwebz) or import existing media and edit to your heart’s desire. There are other software’s out there that you can use, and I am sure they are way cooler and kick-assier than Audacity, but for the vast majority of all of us, Audacity will get the job done. Plus, did I mention it was F-R-E-E?

User Interface for Audacity
User Interface for Audacity

If you are running an Apple based operating system, you are screwed. Sorry.

Just kidding. I recommend Garage Band. Occasionally, I will record a podcast through my iPad, and as such, I need the ability to edit and upload through that app. I believe the price point is reasonable. As an app on a mobile device (iPhone, iPad, etc.) it is is $4.99 and for Mac laptops, it is a F-R-E-E-mium app. Meaning the base package is a free download with in-app purchases (which I doubt you would need for a verbal podcast, but feel free to buy those synth drum kits, if you so desire).

The other reason for having a laptop/desktop/tablet is for uploading your filed to your dedicated website that you should get for your podcast. But that is a topic for another blog. That blog isn’t written yet, but trust me, if you are reading this, you have plenty to do ahead of that one.


Along with the computer where you can edit, manipulate and record your voice, you will need a device to actually speak into. In other words, you need a microphone. Can you record your voice using your computer’s built-in microphone? Can you record your voice into your smart phone’s recording mechanism? Sure. But much like not having a computer, not having a dedicated microphone to speak into, your recordings will suffer and your listenership’s ears will bleed. Unless you are in a Death Metal band, bleeding ears by your fans is typically frowned upon.

There are two basic types of microphones. USB and XLR. I have both types and cannot really recommend one type over another. When I am podcasting by myself (i.e. my guest canceled on me), and am in my home studio (garage) I tend to use my Audio-Technica AT-2020.


This is a USB condenser microphone that plugs directly into my computer, and I can record right into Audacity and edit whatever I need to edit, immediately after. This is also my set up when interviewing guest via Skype, Zoom, or whatever popular audio social media program you prefer. This microphone is extremely popular for podcasts and music recordings and as such, is priced at around $100, per. I bought two of these when I was setting up my podcasting space. They are good microphones, but honestly, you can get by with cheaper equipment than this. USB microphones also tend to have more of a “hissing” sound when listening to the raw recording, which means you tend to have to do a lot of clean up in post production, which can be a pain in the ass if you don’t like editing (no one likes editing, for the record). The other issue I have found is that if you use multiple USB microphones (i.e. a live co-host or interview), and record into Audacity, it lumps everything into a single track, which sucks…a lot. Multiple tracks allow you to individually edit each recording and make for a better finish product for your podcast. Additionally, I have experienced latency issues with these microphones (basically, your voice gets picked up on both microphones and fucks up your recording).

If you go this route, I recommend getting a mixing board. It will split the tracks and give you more immediate control over all aspects of your recording (again, more on this later)

If I am interviewing someone in the green room of a comedy club, at a festival, or in a car while traveling to a gig (I recommend not podcasting and driving, for the record), I go to my “travel” microphones Audio_Technica ATR-2100.


You can find these at most electronics stores and are infinitely cheaper than the above mentioned AT-2020s. I bought a couple of these at Fry’s Electronics and have been extremely impressed. These are an XLR based plug in, which means they will not plug into most computers directly. So going this route means that you are most likely going to need an external recorder or a mixing board. The upside to these mics is that the dreaded “hissing” sound I mentioned about USB microphones is virtually non-existent. Many times I have recorded a podcast with these mics and have been able to put some basic finishing touches on the raw audio (intro music, sound effects, etc.) and release to my adoring fans without having to mess with the audio at all. They can be a tad cumbersome to lug around versus some smaller, lighter options, but the sound quality is crucial. I liken it to a woman cramming her fat feet into a pair of high heels for a night on the town. Sure, she could wear slippers or tennis shoes and be more comfortable, but the quality of the presentation takes a hit (Was that sexist? That felt sexist. Oh well, get over it, bitches).


Pop Filters

You need these. Make sure you buy these. They make your lack of articulation on your P’s and B’s be silky smooth. These are cheap, effective and worth it.

Dirty, dirty, dirty POP
Dirty, dirty, dirty POP


Shock Mounts

This is one of those pieces of hardware that you can technically live without, but life is much better with them. Basically, if you can afford to add these, do it. Essentially, these act as a shock absorber for your microphone. Your mics slide into the mount, the mount is threaded into your microphone stand and all the normal bumps, bangs, and vibrations that a microphone is


exposed to during the recording process, are removed. At least in theory, anyway. If you decide to use your microphone as a boxing speed bag, no shock mount in the world will prevent the sound from being picked up. But most reasonable people elect NOT to physically abuse their microphones (rock stars aren’t reasonable people, they are animals and degenerates, so save me that argument), so you should be fine picking a couple of these up (one per microphone)




Sound Softening Squares

Again, a small, cheap, and simple addition to your studio/recording space that can make a large difference in sound quality. You have seen these in music and radio studios and can be purchased for cheap. Basically, what you are doing with these is preventing your own stupid voice from bouncing off the walls and coming right back at you and creating an echo chamber for your recordings. Listen, we all love the sound of our own voice, we just don’t need to hear it twice, split about a nano second a part. It will drive you nucking futs. Depending on the size of your recording area, you may have to purchase a bunch of these, but again, well worth it. And no, you don’t have to do the entire room.

The Sound (softening squares) of Silence
The Sound (softening squares) of Silence

And yes, you can do whatever crazy pattern you like. The total net area of coverage is what is important here, not what it looks like. As for what that area is, there are different schools of thought. Personally, I noticed a major uptick in sound quality once I covered roughly 25% of the wall. But I record in my garage that has a concrete floor. If you are recording where carpet is cushioning your feet, you may need less as your rug may act as a sound softener as well.


Microphone Stands

If you are going to record in the same spot each time, microphone stands are your friends. Dialing in where the mics should be in relation to you and your guests, etc., can be a bitch. And having to do it every single time is even bitchier. Mic stands allow you to lock in those mics at their ideal locations.


External Recorder/Mixing Board

This is an area that I learned I needed via experience. Basically, unless you want to lug your computer around everywhere when recording a podcast in a different location, an external audio recorder is crucial. I am not sure if I would be doing podcasts still without my Zoom H4N. This thing is my best friend. First off, it allows for multiple channel recordings, utilizes a standard SD memory card that easily pops into your laptop for post production work and has more inputs ready for use than Jenna Jameson in her prime. My XLR microphones plug into the bottom of this and the two tracks are automatically split during the recording. Which, as stated earlier, is a dream for post production. It also allows for a boom mic through an audio jack, micro USB plugs and an on board microphone for recording in a pinch. This is an expensive piece of equipment, but one that is essential if you take your podcast seriously.

Let me tell you about my BEST FRIEND
Let me tell you about my BEST FRIEND

As for mixing boards, I currently do not use one as I typically am fine with a single guest joining me. But if you want to have the Golden State Warriors starting line up on your show at the same time, then a mixing board that controls multiple microphones independently, is the way to go. Much like the recorder above, the advantage to a mixing board is that you have the ability to control mic levels, pre-load sounds, phone calls, etc. It is what most radio shows and music producers use (although theirs are extremely more sophisticated than what you will need) and allows you to record more stuff live, as opposed to dropping things in, in post production (can you tell I hate post production?)  Lots of options for mixing boards out there. I would defer you to other folks who you can Google (fuck promotimg other people, right?). But the one I am currently focused on getting is the Behringer XENYX Q1212USB. Good reviews and allows me to record up to four people in stereo at the same time. Pretty much fits all of my needs.


And that concludes the hardware/software portion of starting a podcast. There are other options, brands, and ways to podcast, but those ways are incorrect, and you are stupid to take their advice over mine. In forthcoming posts, I will discuss how to get your finished blog up onto the internet, iTunes, Stitcher and podcast sites, in general, as well as recommendations on what to podcast about, what your schedule should be and how to find guests. If you have any questions, feel free to e-mail me at


You can listen to my podcast, Predictably Drunk on my website or on iTunes.

Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about it. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which, far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.

Not My Proudest Moment: The First Date Fart

They say you don’t get a second chance to make a first impression. Which, if true, really sucks when your first impression is literally a shitty one. A few years back, I met a girl at a bar, bought her a few drinks, and mustered up enough liquid courage to ask for her number AND ask her on a date. To my drunken surprise, she agreed to both. To my hung over surprise the next morning, the number she gave me turned out to be real and better yet, she responded to my texts.

A week or so of texting, flirting and awful jokes (hers not mine. My jokes are brilliant), and our first date was upon us. I dressed up in my best ripped jeans and slightly wrinkled shirt and sped off to buy some beer and condoms (I am a gentlemen, after all). Strangely enough, she had me pick her up at her friend’s house. Which signaled to me that either she was afraid I might be an ax murdering psycho but needed a second opinion, or that her friend did. Either way, I was charming enough to her stupid friend and got her out of the house and into the car. And the beginning of the first date fart seeds were planted.

Normally, when a man asks a women out on a date, it is assumed that he will pick the night’s festivities with little to no input from the woman (because after all, she is a girl and everyone knows that girls make stupid decisions, right?). And I assumed that this would be the case here, as well. Except that the lady in question was former military with combat experience, and as such, was extremely upfront and outspoken about what she wanted to do, eat and drink.

“Great,” I thought. “Less shit for me to worry about.”

Or so I thought.

Now, when on a first date, or in any situation where appearances and impressions mean a great deal, you have to tactfully weave yourself around the obstacles of your personality. If you are racist, for example, you don’t start the night blurting out the N-word and flipping off the Mexican cooks at the restaurant. You have to ease into your horrific personality with light-hearted humor jabs about Asians and the poor driving or how quip about how white man’s syphilis decimated the Native American population. You know, to test the waters with your first date mate and to see if she is of like mind.

Now, that is an extreme example, but I think you catch my drift. You have to try to highlight the better parts of your person, in an effort to impress the other participant in the date, essentially. Which means that if you know spicy food gives you gas, then you should probably avoid spicy foods like a Jewish person avoids Germany. And if you know that spicy food gives you gas, and your date requests you take her to Mexican food for your dinner, you should swallow your pride, turn around, and admit to you, and her, that this relationship will never, ever, work and drop her back off at her friend’s house. Except, of course, I didn’t take my own advice, and we went to eat the Hispanic devil food, and disaster started to rear it’s ugly head. Or at least gurgle it’s ugly stomach.

After pounding down an approximate four pound burrito that was covered in hot sauce, and washing it down with a tequila shot and a beer, my date left the dinner table impressed and ready for more. So I, like a gentlemen, walked us to my car, opened the car door and escorted her into the vehicle. I figured that this lent me the perfect opportunity to blow some ass while walking back to my side of the car. Except my body failed me at that moment in time and the fart that I held in through dinner, was now no where to be found.

“I’m doomed, ” I thought.

The night progressed to a bar where we proceeded to drink more than we should have and I proceeded to clench my ass cheeks together for longer than I should have. Last call came and went and I was now working on a personal best record for oppressing my natural bodily functions. But the night was close to done, and soon, once I dropped her off at her suspicious friend’s house, I could finally relieve myself of the 10 pound toxic bubble that was festering in my gut. Unfortunately for me, however, the night was just getting started.

“So I want to see your place now, ” she said, as we entered the vehicle once again. “My friend is asleep by now so I need to crash at your place anyway. But don’t expect sex. I am not that kind of girl.”

30 minutes later we had sex.

And during sex, I could do nothing but mentally tell myself to not fart while thrusting. It was so overwhelming this thought, that I almost forgot that I was in the middle of having sex with a woman on the first date. I mean seriously, I consider it an achievement worthy of putting on my work resume whenever I can trick a girl into boinking me, but typically, it takes longer than a first date, and considerably more booze. But here I was, boffing the hell out of this girl after a burrito and some beers, and instead of mentally high-fiving myself for such a stellar performance, I was riddled with guilt that my asshole might start whistling at any moment and destroy everything that ever was built by humanity.

Nonetheless, I finished my duty without any leakage of doody, and went to sleep immediately after, as did she. The next morning my stomach was bloated beyond belief and I decided to make the executive decision to wake her up and shovel her off my bed and into my car for an early morning walk of shame up her friend’s driveway. By this point, I was pretty much doubled over in pain and had tunnel vision. I ran through red lights, swerved in and out of lanes like a mad man and was generally concerned for my rotted intestines at this point. The poor girl must have thought she had done something wrong to be whisked away so quickly and recklessly like that, but I didn’t give a shit…which was literally the problem at the time, too.

I pulled up to her friend’s house, unlocked the door from the driver’s side (God bless power locks) and hastily gave her a kiss before thanking her for a lovely (pain filled) evening.

Confused and possibly a little hurt, she gathered her things and got out of the car. Looking like she wanted to ask what went wrong so quickly, but knowing that I wouldn’t answer, she reluctantly closed the car door behind her.


It happened. It finally happened. A 13 hour built up fart. Clothes have been put on lay away at TJ Maxx for less time than I held onto that man-queef. With each passing rumble that dropped out of my ass, I couldn’t help the growing grin on my face. It slowly spread across my face like when scene in Dr. Seuss’s book where The Grinch devised his evil plan to steal Christmas. It was satisfying, evil and I couldn’t be happier for myself. The only thing that echoed the sound, was the stench that followed.

Thunder and lightning.

If only I had this sign in the car at the time...
If only I had this sign in the car at the time…

It was awful. Dogs were howling at the moon, during the day. Children wept and my car’s interior wrinkled and stretched. It was the fart to end all farts. And I didn’t care. I could no longer hold it in and the beauty of it was that I got away with it. No one would be the wiser to the atomic bomb that I just dropped.

For about seven seconds.

And that is when I heard the passenger door swing open followed by a female voice saying, “I forgot my purse.” She had returned to the car in the midst of the crescendo of the fart. I literally jumped to my left, crashing into my own car door, shrieked like a little girl who just had a spider jump on her and looked on in horror as my gassy, shit-trombone musical was now playing for an audience. With an interactive, immersive element to it as well, I might add. I watch as her face played out the entire range of human emotions in about two seconds as her brain began to process what the sounds and smells were that were now flooding her nostrils and ears. And I watched in dismay as she realized I had done everything short of shit my pants. And I realized, in this moment, that I would need to muster up the funniest comeback I could possibly think of, in order to salvage a second date. Something so amazing that she would have no choice but to overlook this episode and accept an invitation to another dating activity. So I rolled with my instincts and blurted out the first thing that popped into my head.

“Wow…was that you?”

The sound of the car door slamming and the sight of her running towards her friend’s front door were the last things I remember.

There was no second date.



To most, the image in this post is instantly recognizable as the symbol for the Wu-Tang Clan. The popular rap group from the 90’s. The image may make you think of Method Man, Ol’ Dirty Bastard, RZA, or any of the seemingly endless members of of the group. But if you grew up in Dublin, California in the mid-to-late 90’s, that image makes you think of one person.

Sheldon Salamanca.

Sheldon was in love with The Wu-Tang Clan. Obsessed. So much so that in high school, he would go days where he would only respond to teacher’s questions with Wu-Tang lyrics. In English class one year, he literally drew that symbol daily, on the white board. Our teacher, Ms. Neely would walk to the front of the classroom, shake her head and erase the hastily made mural and request that Sheldon stop his artistic stylings from appearing in the classroom.

Sheldon would just push his ski goggles up a little higher on his head, smile that big smile of his, and say “ok.”

Then the very next day, like clockwork, the symbol of the Wu would be back on the whiteboard, even bigger than the day before. And Sheldon would be smiling, even bigger than the day before. And Ms. Neely would erase it before teaching her lesson, and request that Sheldon refrain from doing it anymore, knowing full well that he would not. I asked Ms. Neely one day, why she never actually punished Sheldon for blatantly disregarding her requests. She simply said, while smiling, “Look at him. He is having too much fun.”

Sheldon and I weren’t particularly close. We had a lot of mutual friends, so by proxy, we would find ourselves around one another in social situations. Whether it be after a our high school football team would lose (which he could care less about because he was busy entertaining himself), or climbing on top of us in the back of another friend’s car because there weren’t anymore seats and he demanded to come along to wherever it was we were going, Sheldon made sure to make his presence known. No matter what was going on, he made sure that he was going to have fun.

Too much fun.

Like most of us do, Sheldon and I lost contact with one another after school ended. We would talk to each other occasionally on Facebook, but we led different lives and had different interests that rarely, if ever, intersected. Until one day I was sitting in the bar, at a restaurant in Fremont, CA and was growing more and more irritated at the loud mouth sitting in the booth behind me. I turned around to confront the man, only to find that is was Sheldon. He was with his friends, laughing, smiling and having fun.

Too much fun.

My mood immediately switched gears and I walked over to say hello. Without missing a beat, Sheldon got up, gave me a humongous hug, and invited me to sit with he and his friends. I was on my way out, so I declined, but we promised to get together soon and do something. I took it as an empty promise. One that people make while trying to be pleasant towards one another and keep the peace. Sheldon did not. He saw it as a promise that was to be honored, and before I knew it, I was hanging out with Sheldon at a nightclub/bar a few Saturdays after our encounter.

Now, it should probably be noted that Sheldon was not a small man. He was rather stalky in high school and like most of us, had managed to find some extra pounds in the years that followed. With that said, I was stunned at how smooth the man was at dancing. As soon as his feet hit the dance floor, it was like watching an Asian Soul Train. Every song that came on, he knew. Every song that came on, he danced to. And as the night wore on, I found myself just staring in awe at how much fun he was having. I was jealous. I am not sure I have ever seen someone have that much fun for that sustained amount of time.

Too much fun.

I only saw Sheldon one other time after that night. It was about a year later at the same restaurant in Fremont. In almost the exact scenario as years before, I was getting ready to leave, turned, and saw Sheldon sitting at a booth with three friends. Laughing and smiling and be annoyingly loud to the people around him who never had the pleasure of knowing him. I thought about going over and saying high, but he was in the middle of telling a story and his audience was 100% engulfed in his words, so I decided to just let him shine. He was having fun.

Too much fun.

Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about it. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which, far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.

Not My Proudest Moment: The Night I Shomited

Pleasanton, CA has a street fair every first Wednesday of the month during the summer. If you have never been, it consists of Main Street being shut down for anything other than foot traffic, a random chiropractor booth where your free assessment diagnoses you as The Elephant Man, food trucks, young adults looking to give each other various STD’s and of course, booze. Beer gardens, full sidewalk liquor kiosks and traditional bars and restaurants cater to the insane influx of foot traffic like a mini-French Quarter, employing temporary carnival barkers to shout at the pedestrians strolling by about their drink specials in hopes of luring them, and their wallets, into their respective establishments.

A few years back, I decided to partake. I parked my car a few blocks away and weaved my way through the crowd of scantily clad girls, over-served douche-bags and others, to meet my friends (also scantily clad and douchey). After a brief tour of the kiosks, booths and other temporary structures that sold useless goods and services, we ducked into one of the Mexican Restaurants and made our way to the back patio where all of the cool kids hung out. We lucked out and were able to secure a table for our ever growing social circle. At some point, it swelled to a point where it made sense for us to purchase group drinks, and the decision to drink our weight in margaritas was made.

The pitchers started piling up and while they weren’t particularly strong, they were good. And since the street fair was quickly coming to a close, it was time for us to finish one last pitcher before moseying off to other establishments. As I was pouring my last cup of neon green goodness, my friend handed me a cup of water and told me to “drink this.” Being a good friend, and an even better order taker, I snatch the glass of water from her hands and threw back the plastic chalice of water quickly.

The horror in my friend’s eyes told me I had fucked up.

As it turned out, the glass of water I had just chugged, was in fact, tequila, and my friend’s instructions of “drink this,” was mis-heard by my had actually person as she had actually told me to “take this.” As in hold on to it. The table had purchased extra tequila to “spice up” the relatively tame libations, and I had just taken the entire group’s worth of extra shots, directly to the face. For a brief second, I thought I was going to be okay. The liquid had gone down surprisingly smooth and I wasn’t feeling any ill effects at the moment. Regardless of my seemingly invincible state, no one allowed me to drink another drop. So naturally, I left those buzz kills in search of new drinks, and new friends.

I found neither.

The moment I left the Mexican restaurant, the tequila entered my blood stream. with every step I took, my blood-alcohol content ticked upwards until I was spitting fire at people like a drunken, human Godzilla meandering through Downtown Pleasanton. By the time I the reached the block where my carwas parked, my legs were no longer cooperating with the rest of my body. I felt that continuing my search for further drinks and further friends was probably best to abort, while simultaneously developing a new plan to hastily retreat to my car for a quick 35 hour nap or so. I stumbled to my car, threw my keys on the passenger seat, crawled into the back, and traveled to dream land.

Undie bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down...
Undie bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down…

I woke up hours later to a stunning silence and a morbidly dark sky. I was now DEEP into the early morning, a disheveled mess, and still in the merry little town of Pleasanton-fucking-California. I sat there for an extra 30 minutes or so, until I was absolutely sure I was good to drive. Once I was, I made the long, awful trek to my house on the other side of the bay, in Burlingame. In order to get to Burlingame, you have to cross a bridge. About five minutes from crossing said bridge, I realized that I had no money on me. I had no money because it was in my wallet. Which was still in Pleasanton…somewhere. My 45 minute drive home turned into a 90 minute drive home as I drove down to San Jose and up the peninsula to my home.

I parked the car, I ripped off my clothes, and crawled into my bed that was being occupied by my ex-girlfriend who was still living there at the time.

“You smell awful,” she said.

“Fuck you,” I replied (tequila does wonders for my attitude, I should point out).

“Wonderful, Sam. What the fuck did you drink? Everything? It is Wednesday, you genius. Don’t you have to work in the morning?”

“Don’t YOU have to move out of my apartment?” I retorted (again, tequila). “I don’t need this, I am gonna go puke.”

And with that, I rolled my bloated carcass out of the bed on a quest to relieve my stomach contents in my bathroom toilet. Except along the way to the bathroom, I realized that I really had to shit. Bad. So much so that I completely forgot about me needing to vomit. I stomped into the bathroom, ripped my undies down, and plopped my ass down (literally) to do my business. While I was evacuating my bowels, the stench escaped the confines of the toilet and rolled northward towards my nose. The deadly combination of tequila shits and ball fog proved too much for me and I was violently reminded of my body’s desire to hurl.

The problem of course, was that I was  glued to the seat due to my aforementioned shitting. Seeing as how that was not ending anytime soon, I was left with no choice but to spew directly on the floor in front of me while shitting at the same time. Anyone who has ever puked knows that it strains your stomach muscles like no other. But what most people don’t know is that those same muscles also control your poo distribution. So you can the imagine the velocity and power that my tequila shits hit the bowl, once aided by the overworked stomach muscles from puking. My insides were headed outside through both ends with no difference in color, consistency or smell. The entire scene was horrific enough to give even the most hardened war veteran, PTSD.

I had shomited, ladies and gentlemen. Shit and vomited at the same time. A feat so rare that a word had to be made up about it.

I finished leaking out of both ends, cleaned myself up and pulled my underwear back on. Immediately I knew something was wrong, my entire crotch was now wet. And just then, I realized what had happened. In my haste to get to the can and take a dump, I pulled my underwear down, but not off. This faux pas led to me creating a sort of, underwear bridge between my legs. More accurately, I had created an underwear net. A net that could catch, say…a crotch full of stomach butter that I had just upchucked for the past twenty minutes.

I shomited into my undies. And then pulled them up and smeared it into my privates. At this point, I was officially the worst human being on the planet. I was also exhausted so I shrugged my shoulders, accidentally stepped in the pile of puke on the ground, and crawled back into the bed.

The ex-girlfriend pushed up her expected move out date to that morning.



Me Doing Comedy. July 29th
Me Doing Comedy. July 29th

My daughter rarely throws up. She leaks snot like crazy and drools like a St. Bernard, but puking? Not really her thing. So it came with a tad bit of concern that she had thrown up twice in one week, a few days a part, while battling what appeared to be, a common cold. And I stress the word, tad. At least on my end. Her mother, on the other hand, was starting to resemble guano with how batshit she was getting about it.

A sick child is terrible, especially mine. She acts like a tiny, angry drunk with her tantrums, throwing of bottles and all around dick-headery. Add in some piping hot stomach butter that she laid out on the carpet, in her crib and you have yourself a classic parental battle on what is best to do with your mutual loved one. In this case, it was whether or not to take kiddo to the emergency room or not. I was content on waiting it out at home, but her mother wanted to take her in.


So we compromised and we took her in…


Truth be told, I almost put my foot down and refused to go with. I guess, on our nation’s 238th birthday, I wanted to have an act of defiance as well. But then I had that moment that every parent has where you just know that if you do it that A: your co-parent will lord that over you forever and more importantly B: your kid will be diagnosed with the Hantavirus or some shit and you will forever be an asshole for not being there for her in her time of dire need. And the last thing I need is for her to end up with more stuff to discuss with a therapist in 20 years. So I did what good dad’s do, and I drove to the hospital while cussing everyone and everything out inside my head.

Did I mention that we were on our way to an emergency room…on a Friday night…on the 4th of July…in San Jose, CA? If you are unfamiliar with an emergency room in San Jose on a normal day, picture the movie Outbreak. You know, the one where the monkey bites a dude and half of the population gets infected and subsequently dies from disease, while the survivors are left to riot, rape and murder their way to safety. Pretty horrific, right? Now add a nuclear bomb to that scenario and you start to get an idea of what a Friday night ER visit is like on Independence Day.

The minute we get there, we see the seemingly mandatory Asian people in surgical face masks who take one look at my coughing, runny-nosed kid and immediately turn into round eyes as the scurry off like Godzilla just came storming after them. While we are checking the kid in, I can hear a woman complaining about her UTI. She has been in the waiting room since before 7:00 P.M. and it is now going on 11:30 P.M.

“What a slut,” I say to myself.

“Excuse me sir, what is that?”

Oops. Apparently I didn’t say that to myself.

After getting checked in, the slow and painful realization sets in that we may, in fact, be here a while. Even worse, we may end up leaving here with more diseases than when we showed up. But just when I think I may have convinced baby mama to punt on this whole ER thing, I hear the voice of the UTI slut, sitting behind me. I turn around to check her out and see a heavy set, elderly women staring back at me

“Geez,” I say to myself. “That slut is OLD.”

Just then, my attention is pulled in the other direction where a youngish latin woman is checking in at the ER and is clearly there to visit someone. The details are fuzzy, but the first round of eavesdropping reveals that the patient is a tattoo artist and a Catholic-athiest (don’t ask. I can’t fucking comprehend it, either) who arrived shortly before her. As she turns around, I notice a large chest piece that I am guessing is his handiwork and I believe was Honduran for “I don’t want a real job of any sort.” In addition to that wonderful life decision, she also had hoop earrings that were hanging from the big gauges she had too. Classy broad, no matter how you slice it.

The Right Hand's Connected To The...Left Foot.
The Right Hand’s Connected To The…Left Foot.

Nevertheless, I am now infatuated with this barrio beauty and simply must know every detail of how she got here and why. As it turns out, her tattoo artist boyfriend lost his entire hand in some sort of knife fight fiasco, but this isn’t “nearly as bad,” as last time (last time?!?!?!) when he almost bled out in her car after getting stabbed in the stomach and throat. She is hoping they can re-attach “his” hand and not have to get him a “new one, ” since that is his “tat hand.” It was around this time that I realized that I was in over my head with her and decided to find another group to spy on.

Right on cue, a trio of people come into the ER with one guy with his right hand wrapped. Clearly he had bled and given the holiday, I was betting on a firecracker incident of some sort. Which is exactly what it was, except it wasn’t that he held the firecracker too long. Instead, he lit the firecracker, put it in a tin can, and was holding the can went it went off and shredding his hand into flesh origami. I felt like introducing him to the tatted up home girl on the other side of me on the off chance that I could see family resemblances among them, but just then, “Klo MarKo,” (fuckers) was called in.

I scooped up my bewildered child, drowned out the octogenarian whore with the UTI complaining about her being ignored, and ducked out of the war that is the waiting room and into the friendly confines of the doctor’s office. This whole ordeal took roughly 90 minutes to sift through and I just noticed that my kid had not coughed once, had no fever and was cuddling up to go to sleep. Wonderful. So when the doctor finally worked through his gun shot wounds, severed hands and assorted victims of violence, he has to deal with a kid that has the sniffles…with no symptoms of any kind. The kid gets a dose of Motrin, I blow up a medical glove, attach it to my stomach and start mooing like a cow (much to the chagrin of everyone except my kid who finds it hilarious) and we are sent on our way.

As we weave through the crowd of injuries and illness, I see my old slutty friend with the urinary tract infection explaining to the admins that she doesn’t have insurance because she is on welfare. I turn into a Republican for two brief seconds as I joke to myself that I will be paying for her pee pills. Then I look at my phone and see that it is now firmly into July 5th. I have never felt more patriotic in my entire life.


Happy Birthday, America.




Come Enjoy Me. Because Someone Has To
Come Enjoy Me. Because Someone Has To


Doing stand-up comedy is relatively new for me. For the most part, it has been an extremely fun experience. After all, who wouldn’t like to hang out with other funny people, suck down adult beverages and get paid to tell fart jokes? And while the process of writing and performing jokes for other people’s entertainment is fun, it also leads to some of the most annoying and awkward encounters with people.

Once people find out that I do stand-up comedy, it is like they assume it is totally fine to no longer use the logic part of their brain when interacting with me. It is an interesting phenomena that probably warrants a few monetary grants to study and ultimately, treat this disease which I have labeled, “Comeditardism.”

But until said study becomes a real thing, I will share some preventive measures with everyone. Remember, I share this because I care. Sharing is caring, and I care very much to never have to deal with the next five questions/comments/remarks again. You are welcome, and I thank you,  in advance.


5: “You are a comedian? Make me laugh/Tell me a joke.”

No. No, I will not. Unless I happen to be onstage at the very moment you ask this question/make this statement, I will not do this. This is a job. Albeit a fun job, it is still a job. Which means I get paid to make people laugh.

So unless you are willing to pay me to tell you jokes or funny stories, it isn’t going to happen. At least not on your schedule. Now, if I happen to be in a conversation with you and I say something that makes you laugh, congratulations. But I am not a trained monkey, free to dance at your leisure.

To put it into perspective, let’s just assume you are a janitor, or perhaps you work in retail (either way, you put up with a lot of shit). And while you are out at a restaurant, or drinking coffee at Starbucks, I happen to figure out your profession. Would it be okay with you for me to ask you show me how you clean a urinal or fold a shirt?

The answer is no. Only a maniac would answer that in the affirmative. A maniac or a twat. And you aren’t a maniac or a twat, are you? I didn’t think so.


4: “Have you heard of/My favorite comedian is…”

Unless the end of that question/statement is me, then I don’t fucking care. I really don’t. My profession is to stand in front of everyone and make them instantly happy. To say that I, or any comedian, doesn’t have issues with insecurity and self-esteem, is a lie. We are tremendously fucked up people who live and die on whether some anonymous person enjoyed the last thing we just said. It is not healthy, and even less fun (unless, of course, you laugh).

We don’t need, or appreciate, you letting us know that you happen to find someone else, funnier than us.  Good for you for liking a comedian. Now go away. Go far, far away and never mention that name or person to me again. I do not wish to engage further in conversation with you. In fact, the next person to encroach this topic with me, will find out who my favorite person to discuss comedy with is (hint: it isn’t you).

When in doubt, don't
When in doubt, don’t

And asking if I have heard of some other  unknown comedian is the comic equivalent of that music hipster douche we all hate. Quit testing me to see how large my underground comedian network is. Chances are, I have heard of the person in question. Even if I haven’t, I will say that I have and discreetly Google them later so that I won’t feel guilty about not knowing someone who does the same thing I do. That is a lot of stress and pressure that you are putting on me. Why do that to me? Why?!?!


3: “What is your act about?”

I don’t know how to answer this. I really don’t. Typically, when I get hit with this question, it is followed up with extremely long moments of silence and uneasy squirming. Once done, I simply just make some shit up for my entertainment because I want you to experience the same awkward silence and squeamishness too.

“My act is about Nazi sympathizing chickens that have entered into a sexual relationship with Jewish goats and the hilariousness of their encounters as they discover that they both are having an affair with a Canadian cow.”

Perhaps instead, you should just come to the show and find out for yourself if you are intrigued enough to ask. And as a warning, if you tell me you are coming to a show, PLEASE show up. At the very least, send a stunt double in your place. You telling me that you are coming, and then not showing up, is a great way to get me fired from that club. I can get fired all by myself, thank you. I do not need your help.


2: “What time do you go on?”

The level of stupidity of this question astounds me. Every time I get asked this, I question your parents’ decision to not practice safe sex. It is printed ON THE GOD DAMNED TICKET! And if you don’t have a ticket, then it is okay to ask me what time the show starts, but under no circumstances, should you follow that up with “but what time do you go on?” The answer is “FuckYou:45 P.M.”

“But we just want to know so we don’t miss your performance.” Then show up on time for the event and you won’t have to worry about that. Trust me, we are comedians. We never start early and we rarely start on time. It is a minor miracle that we were even able to put on pants, let alone put together an entire show. Don’t ask us to pinpoint EXACTLY when we are going on stage. That is impossible. You would have better luck trying to get Bill O’Reilly to say something nice about Barack Obama than that.

The whole premise of the question itself is fucked, if you think about it. Would you buy tickets to see a movie and then ask what time Brad Pitt makes an appearance? Would it be acceptable to show up to your stupid kid’s recital only when it is your kid’s turn to dance badly and shout the song instead of sing it? Of course not. You show up at the beginning of the event and suffer through the crappy parts like A NORMAL PERSON would.


1: “Feel free to use that”

Oh can I? Can I feel free to use your lame joke that you just told? Listen, I know that you are trying to help, and I appreciate the sentiment, but I will not be using whatever it is you are allowing me to use. Quite frankly, it probably isn’t that funny or even mildly entertaining, so while I appreciate your generosity, feel free to not let me use that. I have my own jokes, and my own stories that I have already spent too much time thinking about and crafting (and probably cutting, changing and editing at the last minute) to have to worry about carving out time for your shitty quips.

And if I say I will use it, I am lying. Flat out, 100% lying. I do this to make you leave me alone, and for the added bonus of seeing you disappointed when I don’t use it during my set later. These are the things that bring me pleasure. Like I said, comedians are fucked up. So spare yourself and your feelings, and don’t offer me your material. Most likely it won’t be funny and I will look like and asshole who can’t write or tell funny jokes. I don’t want that as a performer, you don’t want that as a patron and they don’t want that as a club/promoter. In other words, much like the Chicago Cubs, no one wants any part of being around that much failure.

Besides, if I am going to take anyone’s material, it will probably be from that unknown comic you quizzed me about earlier, that no one has else has ever heard of. Thanks for that tip, by the way.



10. Coffee is infinitely better than tea. People who say otherwise are either British, or liars. Either way, they are assholes.

9. Midwest people can shut the fuck up about how Californians don’t know “real,” cold weather. Yes we do. 50 degrees is plenty cold. Don’t swing your frozen dick at us just because that very degree is your summer high. It isn’t our fault you live in a shitty, frostbitten flyover state, you hillbillies.

Suck it, Lion!

8. A lion would beat a bear in a wrestling contest, but I am fairly certain that a bear would own that same lion in a bicycle race.

7. Packing peanuts and Lucky Charms marshmallows are the same exact material. One has the benefit of food coloring

6. I spend entirely too much time wondering if The Easter Bunny gives out candy for Halloween.

5. Rural is the hardest word in the English language for me to say. I end up almost stroking out and drooling on everything. At least one “R” needs to be placed elsewhere within that word.

4. Four is my least favorite number in the top 10. It’s an ugly assed number

3. If you name your son Brodie, you have only yourself to blame if and when he is constantly being punched in the face.

2. Midol > Excedrin > Aleve > Tylenol > Advil > Generic Ibuprofen

1. Top 10 lists are dumb.

Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about it. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which, far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.


Not My Proudest Moment: Bombs Away


It happened early.

Less than a minute into my routine, and my worst fear was realized.

I was bombing. Badly

Sweat started to bead on my brow and as I looked out into the crowd, where roughly half of them were there to see me do this, the level of dread grew exponentially in my gut. The genuine smiles and laughter that was shared as I got onto the stage and stepped up to the mic, had quickly switched to forced chuckles and pained smiles from the crowd that was now beginning to see what I was already feeling. I was tanking and everyone in the room knew it. And as the fat girl dressed in multiple shades of pink, walked by the stage and offered her pearls of wisdom (“you better tell funny fucking jokes”), I was officially a flushed turd.

The bartenders knew it, the crowd knew it, and I am pretty sure the microphone even knew it as it started to cut out on my punch lines like some sort of mercy killing. It was that bad. Think about that, the equipment killed itself rather then let me continue. I am not sure how often that happens, but I am willing to bet its less than the Cubs winning the World Series.

And I still had seven minutes left. Seven-fucking-minutes. The first three felt like an eternity and I still had more than twice that time to slog through. Who the fuck decided I could do 10 minutes? What the hell was I thinking? And who is this stupid girl in the front row that has decided that she needs to have a conversation with me while I try to salvage what is left of my dignity?

So I did, what I told myself I wasn’t going to do. I abandoned the routine that I had hastily thrown together earlier in the day in my garage while trying to entertain my daughter. A routine that, upon my limited audience I practiced in front of (i.e. me) seemed like it would work tremendously well with this room of people. At one point, I even caught myself daydreaming of a standing ovation as I dropped the mic and walked off stage, victoriously.

But that fantasy flash was gone now, and so was the aforementioned routine. Def Con Red had been reached and I swiftly slammed my hand down on the panic button. I told the hefty girl in pink, “to die in a fire.” The chit-chattin’ girl in the front row was called ugly by me, twice. And not even in a creative way, I simply looked at her, and told her that, in no uncertain terms, that she was a bucket of yuck. I decided to kick the chair over that accompanied me on stage in hopes of grabbing the audience’s attention back upon the thunderous crash it would generate when it hit the floor. Except it never did. It tipped over, sure. Buy and  it stayed upright, leaning comfortably against the wall.

Perfect. I can’t even kick a chair over now.

I started insulting my friends that were in the audience next. I ripped on my buddy James’s hair and Bo’s lousy football jersey felt my awful venom next. And once that didn’t work I decided to dump the rest of my payload into doing dick and vagina jokes. Dick and vagina jokes. It was hacky, awful and morbidly fucked. It was the real life version of Gigli, and I was the retarded kid that J-lo and Affleck tried to protect (yes, I watched that movie and remember the major plot points, so what?).

Not even a bomb could make that chair fall all the way over
Not even a bomb could make that chair fall all the way over

And as all of this mayhem was playing out on stage, a quiet whistling sound had grown into a screeching howl in my head and culminated into an explosion as I saw the show’s promoter waving me off stage. The bomb hand landed, and it was nuclear. Hiroshima and Nagasaki rolled into one, smack dab in the middle of a dumpy sports bar in the East Bay of San Francisco.

I thanked the audience (even though I didn’t mean it. Seriously, they couldn’t laugh at ONE joke? Not even the one about my sweaty asshole? Fuckers), chugged my beer and got the fuck off the stage. As I went to the green room (smoking area outside), I noticed that the rest of the comics from the night were scarce. No one congratulated me, no one said a word to me. In fact, there was no one there. They left. Or maybe they were in the bathroom, I’m not sure. What I do know was that I was alone. Alone and able to flash reflect on the verbal car wreck I just created. And all I could think was, “Christ I need a cigarette.”

I don’t smoke. Every time I have ever had one, I always wake up feeling like I licked a dead cat’s asshole. My mouth becomes devoid of saliva and the scratchiness makes me wonder if I had gargled with rocks the night before. But for some reason, a cancer stick seemed absolutely glorious right about then.

Out of no where, my friend Drew appeared, heater in hand and a lighter on his thumb. Sweet Drew. Beautiful Drew. My hero. My bald, angry, smoking, hero. I lit it up and stood there in silence, enjoying the years I was taking off my life in that moment. As I did this, my friends and family started trickling out to try and console me under the guise of congratulations. It was hard to take them seriously though, or even hear them over the devastating laughter coming from the room for the other comics. Oh now you laugh at the dick jokes?


And my group of people meant well. They tried to cheer me up, telling me that it “took guts to get up there,” and “it isn’t easy.” Well, sure, but it also wasn’t funny and not being a complete dolt, I was able to sift through their well-intentioned bullshit and dine on the red meat of what they were trying to say. They weren’t impressed, and quite frankly, were somewhat dismayed at my performance. Sort of like how my first time having sex was for that girl I did that with, I imagine (kidding of course, I was brilliant that night).

Fake praise and prop-up speech aside, I still didn’t feel better. Why was this affecting me like this? Usually if I fail at something, I shrug my shoulders at it, and move on. Not this time, however. I could tell that this was going to stick in my craw for awhile.  I would wake up the next day and fumble through work in a daze.

Texts poured in from people who went, thanking me for inviting them (another work around of the real issue of me shitting up the stage). A message from the guy who promoted the night, telling me that I wouldn’t be able to work The Improv in San Jose that night (due to time constraints…or  due to my fucktardery on stage the night before). I understood, I wasn’t mad. In a way, it was sort of a relief. I went back to working, and life went back to normal. Beautiful, boring, normal. Welcome back, normal. I missed you.

Work went into the evening and I found myself at dinner with co-workers and clients. As we drank our beers and shot the shit about a myriad of topics, laughter began to dominate the conversation. I told stories about how I was attacked by a pygmy goat in The Bahamas, how my daughter, Chloe, sticks her tongue out while she twerks (she is seven months old and every time she “Miley’s,” she becomes grounded for another year), and poked fun at each other. With each barb and joke, the laughter grew. Genuine laughter from a captive audience.

And as we said our goodbyes for the night, one of my customers came and gave me the business bro hug (that awkward half handshake combined with that arm barrier hug thingy, while wearing slacks) and said, “Hey man, you are pretty freaking funny. Ever think about doing stand-up?”



As a man, there are certain life moments that occur that graduate you from a boy, to a man. Learning how to shave, earning your driver’s license, graduating high school/college and of course the big one, convincing a girl to let you boink her.

But a startling omission from the aforementioned list, is the ability to use a public urinal correctly. Up until now, I would have argued that this was second nature and thus, not worthy of being on the man-ladder. But after countless experiences recently, in which I am literally left standing in amazement while holding my dick (and not for the right reasons), I move that the  time is now to add this seemingly basic skill to the list. So without further adieu…

Five Lessons For Using A Public Urinal

1. DO NOT talk to me…ever

Yes, this is a public urinal, but no, this is not a public forum. Whether I know you or not, doesn’t change this. Listen to me, I have a child at home that yells at me for no reason. And when that is over, I get to go to work where my customers yell at me. And when those two parts of my life aren’t yelling at me, it is usually because my boss is asking me about how my kids and customers are doing, which causes me to yell at him.

The point being, the few minutes of quiet time I get is the two minutes it takes me to piss or the 45 minutes it takes to crap. And even then I am usually on my phone or iPAD, trying to get something done. The last thing I want to do is listen to you drone on about…whatever the fuck you are droning on about while we both hold our respective dicks and make yellow. You are there to piss, not piss and moan. So please, for the love of God, shut up and let me only listen to the soothing sounds of my tinkle splashing against the porcelain.

2. Unless its a last resort, the middle stall you must abort

This lesson is not a new revelation. In fact, I would be hard pressed to find a male adult that doesn’t know this rule and hasn’t complained about it. Which is why I can’t understand why all of you mother fuckers continue to ignore and violate it. There is absolutely no excuse for any of you to move in right next door to me when there are plenty of open lots available for you to rent and drop a deposit into.

 In fact, to ensure that you only make this faux pas one more time around me, I will be sure to piss all over your shoes throughout the entire potty session until A: I am out of pee or B: you learn your lesson and pop over to a different urinal. I am pretty sure I am well within my civil rights to do this as this falls under the statutes of me being able to defend myself and perhaps even covered by the second amendment. Stop buddying up to me in the bathroom. You have been warned.

3. Stand appropriately

If there is a sign, it means someone did it
If there is a sign, it means someone did it

This isn’t rocket surgery guys. Walk up to the urinal, stand with your feet about shoulder width apart and roughly eight to 12 inches away from the urinal. Some of you guys are trying too hard to get other guys to notice you while your dick is out. There is no reason, for example, for you to take such a wide stance that you end up kicking my foot with yours. If your equilibrium is THAT bad that you can’t just stand there and pee, then do us all a favor and lean forward and rest your head against the wall. Don’t kick me with your urine soaked foot.

And what the hell is this new trend of standing about a yard back and firing from there? Listen, its questionable if I want to see your Larry Bird impression on the basketball court, but I know for damn sure that I don’t want to see it in the restroom, and neither does anyone else.  And on the opposite end of that spectrum, for you weirdos that saddle up to the urinal like you are dancing with a chick at a club, need to stop that too. I am not quite sure what the hell you are doing, but you are way too close and I don’t like it. Chances are, your entire privates are now sprayed with your own liquid waste, as are your hands, which brings me to my next point.

4. Wash your disgusting hands

You are a guy, which means by default, your hands are made up of 25% sweat, 13% boogers, 34% blood and everything is caked in semen. Given that knowledge, we should all bathing our hands at all times. Or at the very least, wearing gloves and never touching another human being again. But seeing as how us guys can’t seem to go more than five minutes before we stick our fingers and hands into something we aren’t supposed to, I at least insist that you scrub up after going number one. It is literally the least you can do to prevent the spread of a disease that will eventually be named after you.

Now,  I used to be of the mindset that this wasn’t a huge deal and that folks in general, were turning into humongous pussies when it came to germs. But after going cross-eyed and losing count of you sick fucks plucking your pubes, picking your assholes and reaching into the receptacle that you are currently pissing into because a penny is in there (true story), I have now changed my stance. Wash your filthy, germ infested hands…twice. And don’t shake my hand or high five me for a minimum of 10 minutes upon leaving the facilities. I don’t care if our team just won the Super World Series Cup Championship. We can celebrate appropriately at the next commercial break. Until then, keep your mitts to yourself and out of the chips.

5. The urinal is for pissing and pissing only

It says it right in the name, boys. I am not sure why this is so difficult. But since this issue is now chronic, I guess I am going to have to actually say it. You are only supposed to piss in the urinal. You are not to puke in the urinal. You are not to spit in the urinal. You are not to dispose of your gum in the urinal and you are absolutely not allowed, any under circumstances, to shit in the urinal. There is a garbage can for the gum, the sink for you to spit in, a toilet for you to shit in and your girlfriend’s purse in case you have to vomit.  In other words, unless it comes out of the hole in your pecker, it doesn’t belong in the urinal.

Now I know what you are thinking. “Sam, semen comes out of my pecker, is that okay for the urinal?”

My answer to that is yes. Because since you aren’t talking to me, I won’t know about it, and since you are at least two stalls down and standing correctly, it won’t be anywhere near me. Plus since you will be washing your hands afterwards and not touching me for a good long while afterwards, I will be in the clear of any urine, semen, blood or syphilis that will be dribbling out of your tally-whacker.


I know. I get it. No really, I do. Hell, up until about a month ago, I was one of you.

But the kid squirted out, your friend doesn’t respond to you as quickly as they used to and you are left with more time on your hands and a serious case of the “you’ve changed,” blues. And the cold hard truth is, they have changed. They now have a kid  (or kids) and everyone (including you) has now been knocked down a peg on the  ol’ Importance-O-Meter.

How can this be? After all you have done for them? How can they ignore your texts, blow off adult play dates and seemingly be a prick to someone who, at one time, called you your bestie and made a drunken hand heart with you for a picture taken with your phone by your favorite bartender, before you both stumbled back to a house and passed out on the couch, using each other’s heads as pillows? It happens because, quite frankly, they love their child more than you. Sorry, but its the truth. It doesn’t mean they love you any less, they just love the new person more.

But that doesn’t mean we don’t need you in our lives. In fact, we would love to see you. To speak to someone who can speak back, and deal with a person whose ass we don’t have to wipe every three hours. And if you follow the lessons below, you may even find yourself with official “uncle,” or “auntie,” status. So without further adieu, read on and work your way back up the ladder.

Five Lessons For Friends of Friends Who Have Kids


1: Schedule any and all events with us ahead of time…way ahead of time.

Gone are the days of you calling us to go on an impromptu road trip. No more last minute concerts, sporting events or even to go shopping with you. If you want to see us, you are going to have to give us at least a few days to prepare. We need time to figure out what we are going to do with the kid if they aren’t coming with us. Oh, and I need to know what time this event of yours is ending too so I can figure out how much food, diapers, wipes, clothes, books and other bullshit the little one will need while I am gone. And don’t expect me to look too great either because I probably haven’t done my own laundry in a few weeks. In fact, you should consider yourself lucky if I get to your place without some sort of baby bodily fluid being visible to the public eye. And even if you plan everything ahead of time and my laundry is done and the baby bags are all packed with everything possible, chances are I am canceling on you at about a 25% rate. Don’t hate me for that, just realize that this is the new reality of us parents.


2. We will be late to everything, every time.

Don’t you hate when people make plans for say, 5:30 P.M. and they still aren’t there at a quarter to six? Yeah, that’s us now. When you make plans for 5:30 P.M. with a kid, that means you finally get a chance to start getting ready by 5:30 P.M. We will never see the first ten minutes of the movie we said we would meet you for. The chips and salsa will be close to gone when we meet you for dinner at the new Mexican restaurant for dinner and you are just going to have to tell us how the opening act was at the concert because we aren’t going to see or hear more than half of a song from them. In fact, unless you scheduled a nap time for the baby, just feel free to lie to us about the start times of everything. It doesn’t really matter since I am now on baby time (just like Hawaii Time but with a shrieking, miniature version of myself, shitting in her pants, constantly).


3. Don’t Ring the Fucking Doorbell!

Seriously, who the hell do you think you are? I don’t give a shit how many people tell you that getting the kid used to noise is a must and thus, ringing the doorbell is a good thing. Fuck you, no it isn’t. I just got this, self-created monster, to close her eyes and go to sleep, and you go and fuck her entire day up because you can’t help yourself but you touch the lit up button that makes noise, with your finger. Listen, I know when you are coming over. This is clearly planned, discussed and confirmed about ten times over.

Don't. You. Fucking. Dare.
Don’t. You. Fucking. Dare.

I know what time you are going to be here and have made arrangements for the door to be unlocked (most likely). Just come in. And if it isn’t locked? Send a text or call. My phone is on silent or vibrate so there is no fear of you awakening the baby beast. Whatever you do, do not ring that god damned doorbell.

4. The house is a mess, I am aware and don’t really care.

Even if I was a perfectionist (which I am not), the house after having a kid roommate for a few weeks, is going to look more like New Orleans post-Katrina than pre-Katrina. Baby clothes are going to be strewn about, dishes may or may not be in the sink, assuming I haven’t completely resorted to paper everything. Depending on when you come by, you may even find yourself handling a dirty diaper or two to the genie while I change my third one in the last five minutes. Yes, it is probably gross, but I doubt it is any worse than whatever it is you woke up in that morning, and at least I have a cute kid to blame everything on. You just have a bloated liver and a broken bottle of Absolut. Which reminds me…


5. Everything my kid does is cute, hilarious or advanced.

If you learn nothing else from this piece, learn this. Everything my kid does is super cute, fucking funny as hell and/or the most incredibly ingenious thing in the history of ever. If she lifts her leg when she shits, then it is all three of the above. And while it is super annoying when any other parent boasts about y? Because their average offspring’s mediocre achievements, it is different with me. Why? Because it is me, your bestie. The one who did the hand heart with you, remember? Check your phone if you don’t. That was a great night. Remember when we left and you made that weird face because you didn’t like that last shot of tequila? It was almost as funny as the face my kid made right before you got here and woke her up when you rang the doorbell…






“You are having a kid? Man, your life is never going to be the same again!”

All new parents get told this. The problem is, we all know that our lives are going to change but no one tells us how it will change. It’s as if veteran mothers and fathers like to haze us rookies by telling us what we already know while keeping the actual useful tips to themselves so they can laugh maniacally when we get hit with a shit shower, or why in the bloody hell can’t we find the chips we put away (check the fridge, trust me).

As a freshly minted first time father myself, I have learned quickly just how your life changes, and how these beautiful, wonderful little demons we call our children can make everything in life make sense while at the same time leaving you wondering just what in the fuck just happened.


1. You will never sleep the same again…ever

From the moment you, or your loved on, goes into labor, a switch is flipped. Your veins open as wide as they can and your body seemingly gushes an ungodly amount of adrenaline into your system that makes you feel like you can run a marathon barefoot on the surface of the sun without even sweating. It’s instinctual and it pushes your through the entire labor, delivery, recovery room and right through the first night with your brand new,sleep depriving toy. You will start to think that you will never need to sleep again, which is a great mindset to have…since you will never truly sleep again.

By day three, that adrenaline rush is gone and you are left with raccoon eyes, a shirt you are wearing that you most likely were wearing when your child was born and an awful case of delusional visuals which, would be great back in college and on mushrooms, but concerning now that you are legally responsible for another human.

And that’s just the beginning.

By the time you get your family home, you will have the revelation that no matter how prepared you thought you were, that your house is one humongous baby booby-trap that needs to be cleaned, remodeled and/or possibly completely bulldozed over to start from scratch. So you will bypass sleep to make it right. And once that is good to go, you will remember that you haven’t exactly eaten much for the last week and thus, sleep will wait in order to treat yourself to a big fat burrito, slice of pizza and anything else that happens to be in, or around the house.

Ad after all of that, when everything is cleaned, your belly stuffed and the baby is asleep…you still won’t sleep. You will watch your baby sleep, and your partner sleep. You will poke them both just to make sure that they are, in fact, breathing. And by the time you snap out of it and climb into your bed, the little shit will stir and make an odd squeak, causing you to jump out of bed like an enraged bull to run over and check on them. They will be fine, but you will do this anyway.

Why? Because fuck sleep, your baby just squeezed and that shit takes precedence.

2. Your hands will be permanently dried and cracked for the next year

This may be more of an issue for the mothers as opposed to the fathers, but it is an issue nonetheless. I knew I would be washing my hands more often with the newborn, but it is flat out ridiculous how often you actually end up soaping, sanitizing and drying your mitts. Having a kid really makes you check yourself about how disgusting you actually are as a human. As a guy we pick our nose, scratch our balls and just end up touching a bunch of things that we probably shouldn’t be touching. Normally, this isn’t a big deal as boogers and sweat don’t get us sick and, unless you are a completely dysfunctional human being, you wash your hands before contacting other people if it gets really gross.

With infants, you can’t pull that crap. You wash your hands for everything and anything. Bringing in groceries and want to kiss your baby and hold her little hand? Wash your hands first, asshole. Those vegetables have pesticides all over them and the canned goods were fondled by a kid with jam-hands five minutes before you tossed it into your cart. Hard day at work and hoping that holding and carrying your son when you get home will cure your ills? Wash your hands first, asshole. How many people’s hands did you shake, papers did you handle and surfaces were touched? Your paws might as well just have the word “germs” tattooed on them. Wash your fucking hands. And if you can’t remember if you just washed them or not (and you won’t due to lack of sleep), wash them again.

After about a week, your palms will resemble sandpaper to the touch and cracked concrete to the sight. No sense it trying to lotion them or figure out how to avoid it. You can’t. This is your life now, Raggedy Handy.

3. You will never sleep the same again…seriously

I can’t stress this enough. You have been warned…twice.

What's in your pocket, Dad? Sleep? You don't need that, I will take it
What’s in your pocket, Dad? Sleep? You don’t need that, I will take it

4. Your memory and listening skills will erode immediately

Whether you had a great memory before, or if you rivaled a goldfish, your bank vault has now been robbed by a tiny robber that you created. Way to go, shithead, nine months ago you fucked your brains out…literally. Six days after my daughter was born, I was at home, hanging out with my lifelong best friend and he stopped me after an hour to tell me that I had told him the same story three times already. I went on to tell him five more times that day.

I went to the store on day four and could have sworn I bought cranberry juice but damned if I could find it. On day eight I realized it was still in my car. On day nine I was completely surprised to find a mystery bottle of cranberry juice in my SUV that seemingly appeared out of no where. And the same will happen to you, too.

You will put the milk in the pantry and the cereal in the fridge. You will re-do a load of laundry twice because you forgot it was already clean and you thought they were just wet and sitting in there for some reason. Words will start to sound like other words and you will have full on conversations with people and have no damn clue how or why you are talking about what you are lacking about 10 minutes into it. Hell, I had to re-read this very article I wrote twice to this point, just to remind myself what I was writing about and why.

5. You are no longer the most important person in your life

Out of these five lessons, this is the hardest to explain but easiest to understand once your child is finally here and in your arms. My sister asked me when we were still in the hospital if I felt different at all. Without hesitation, I answered in the affirmative. She was surprised by this and asked how I felt different, for which, I was at a loss in how to explain. I struggle with it now too, to be honest.

I guess the best way to describe it, is that this person, your child, that you made, is loved by you on such a level that you don’t care about basic life operations you need, like sleep. You don’t mind physically degrading your body by constantly scrubbing your hands raw in order to protect them. And asking the same questions over and over again and having no clue whether you locked a door behind you or not, isn’t that big of a deal when you realize that everything you have lost since the birth, pales in comparison to everything you have gained from simply meeting your son or daughter. Every dirty diaper, every sleepless night and every missed opportunity to hang out with your friends doesn’t mean more than kissing your baby’s feet, watching them open their eyes and visually explore their surroundings or charting how the grow both physically and mentally right in front of you.

And that is what I know. That is how I know your life will change. And now that you know what to expect, go get some sleep before they get here. Trust me.


I went to a funeral this week for a man I have known for 25 years or so. A man who fathered four daughters that I consider to be family and who consider me the same. As I sat at the service and listened to a song that will now forever be sad, with my mother crying on my right shoulder, the mother of my child crying on the left and dozens upon dozens of others doing the same, I couldn’t help but take a proverbial step back and just soak it all in.  Every tear, every sound and sad face was logged and filed away into my memory bank. A feat that on the surface, sounds like it would lead one to a horrible depressed attitude. But not me, it actually filled me with a sense of pride, amazement and joy.

Don’t get me wrong, Bob passing away was (and is) still incredibly painful. And  I was somewhat surprised at how sharp the blow landed when I found out that he was gone. So sudden and seemingly unexpected. Just like that, Bob was gone leaving heartache for his girls and his two grandsons, as well as his extended family and friends. A heartache that was now literally pouring out of everyone around me as I looked on in amazement at how much this man meant to everyone around him, especially his children.

You see, Bob and I were opposites in many ways. He liked the San Jose Sharks, I like their rival Los Angeles Kings. I am a huge Dodgers fan, a team he detested as an Oakland A’s fan. He was a military veteran who held down a blue collar job. I pretty much avoid even speaking about our armed forces while I go to my white collar daily existence. I am loud, he was quiet.  I am 30, he was pushing 60. He was thin, I am as thick as he was wide. Physically, emotionally and personality wise, we were simply on opposite sides of the spectrum.

But despite our differences, we always made it a point to talk to each other when our paths would intertwine. Whether it was about sports, our families, work, or my personal favorite topic when discussing Bob, his propensity for wearing denim pants with matching denim shirts (affectionately known as “Bobbing Out”).  And whenever our time came to an end, he sought me out, shook my hand or gave me a hug, looked me in the eye and smiled. That always struck me as odd for the simple reason that I constantly ribbed Bob about the topics previously mentioned. I always tried to get a rise out of the man for no other reason than I thought it would be fun to get into some sort of debate with him. He obliged each and every time, and no matter how hard I tried to make him mad, he shook my hand, gave me a hug, looked me in the eye and smiled and told me it was great to see me.

And you know what? I believed him. Not because Bob said so or because it makes for a nice story. Bob was assuredly a nice guy and while it does make for a great story, it isn’t why I believe him. I believe him because I witnessed it. I witnessed Bob enjoy his time on this planet. I witnessed Bob purposely take a step back at family functions and take it all in. I watched him watch others in silence, with a look of amazement and contentment on his face as if he was thinking, “look how damned lucky I am to be here with these people.” As if he was grateful to be invited to the cool kids party while never giving himself props for literally creating the cool kids. I sat back and watched Bob while he sat back and watched all of us, taking in the people laughing on the left of him, while others danced on the right. Holding his grandsons, making baby noises, goofy faces and staring down at Jason and Zander with a sense of amazement that is typically reserved for the one being held, staring out at the world, rather than for the man with a life’s worth of experiences already under his belt.

And in the end, as I realized that at Bob’s funeral, that I was doing exactly what he did in life. Stepping back, taking it all in, treating each instance with the respect of a new experience and opportunity that it truly is and realizing how damned lucky I was to be surrounded with the people I was surrounded with, even in a moment of extreme sadness and raw emotion, I couldn’t help but think about “how damned lucky I am to be here with these people.” We should all be so lucky to be as aware as Bob was in life and I was in his death. And in a matter of weeks, I will be meeting my daughter and can only hope that she turns out like Janelle, Valerie, Robyn and Natalie. And that people are as sad to see me go when it is my time as we all are for Bob. Perhaps Bob and I aren’t as different as I thought.


Bob and his girls in the middle of a Bob out
Bob and his girls in the middle of a Bob out



Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about it. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which, far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.

Not My Proudest Moment: Horsing Around with Pokey

Every once in a blue moon, a special thing happens. And this special thing is me getting the sex from a real female type person. I don’t know how or why this happens, but it does. Maybe it’s my stunning good looks (shut up), or perhaps my amazing wit and vocabu…uhm vocab…way with words. Or maybe it is the copious amounts of booze that the girl drinks that allows me to boff her. Frankly, I am not sure and also not sure that I care.

While “making like” with a girl on more than one occasion does happen, I try to avoid repeat customers since it ultimately leads to having to talk to one another which tends to ruin things. You see, once you get to know the other person involved, you then develop feelings for them. These feelings can be good, or they can be bad. Either way, you now know more about the person than you probably should and this, can only be trouble for one or both parties. I made this mistake, and it cost me. It cost me big time.

After flushing this lady’s toilet parts and feeling quite proud of myself, I opted for a glass of water. So I rolled out of bed leaving my female pleasure person to lay in bed with our pile of clothes, sweat and other fluids while I skipped my happy, naked ass to the kitchen to grab a cup of nature’s milk. While downing two glasses of the cold H2O, I strolled back to the bedroom, still naked, and still sweaty from my amazing performance.

And then inspiration hit me. Knowing that this poor lass was probably disgusted with herself for now having had bedded me on multiple occasions, I decided to completely stamp her with my grossness. As I got back into bed, I straddled her to climb to the other side while still naked, letting my sweaty balls rub and smear across her stomach. My face contorted into a odd, satisfying grin, waiting for the moment in which she would be fully skeeved out and give me the reaction I was looking for.

But the moment never came.

As I continued to sway my naked body across the top of her, she simply stared back with a look of “Oh really? This is your master plan?” on her face. And before I could even figure out my own bewilderment as to what had happened, it hit me. It hit me right in the butthole.

My grin was gone, replaced by puzzlement. My swagger was gone, replaced by confusion. And my butt virginity was gone, replaced by…something. Something cold and oddly shaped. And as I continued to look at this broad, I realized that the grin that was gone, was now found wiped across her face. The swagger that went missing, was located in her eyes and my butt virginity that disappeared, was now part of her soul. I reached back, dislodged the foreign object from my nether regions and brought it to the forefront. I simply had to confront my assaulter. And what I saw left me speechless.

Pokey has fucked me in the bum. Yes, THAT Pokey. Gumby’s friend. The little orange horse that kicked the shit out of Blockheads, partook in stop motion and high fived his green, slope headed friend with his hooves, clip clopped into my butt and he didn’t look too happy about it. Image

Apparently when I left to go freshen up with some water and plot out my evil plan, this gal had hatched an evil little ploy, herself. Springing out of bed, she snatched my rubbery, bendable Pokey doll, ninja’d back into bed and waited for me to do my worse so that she could counter with her devious sexual witchery.

Okay so the object didn’t actually penetrate my naughty hole, but it came damn close. Too close for comfort. And what was worse then the violation (okay not worse, but a very close second) was the fact that I lost. I was bested by a girl who knew me well enough to know that trying to stick a little toy horse up my arse would thwart my plan and cause me to never sleep through a night again, or prance around naked. I now shower with my clothes on at all times. I am just glad she didn’t have to to grab the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles that were on the shelf below…


Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about it. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which, far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.

Not My Proudest Moment: The Subtle Mugging Skills of a City Hobo

Back when I was in high school, I was admittedly a certified asshole. My senior year, I was voted most sarcastic. The yearbook committee ended up spending an entire role of film trying to capture a picture where I wasn’t flipping them off. I, along with my friends, would go out at night and steal street signs, break windows (both in cars and houses alike), tear up people’s lawns and other asshole-ish behavior that middle class white kids partake in. I was better than everyone else, and I knew it.

One day, I took BART into the city with some friends to go get ourselves into some trouble across the bridge. After emerging from the underground platforms, I was immediately accosted by a bum. A dirty, stinky, bum.

“Gimme a sandwich,” the bum said.

“What?” I replied.

“I said gimme a sandwich, I’m hungry

“Fuck you hobo. Give ME a sandwich. I’m hungry too.”

After our brief encounter, the bum, having lived this way for a very long time, realized he had nothing coming out of me and turned around, muttering to himself as he sought out another mark. As for me, having NOT loved my life for a long time, wasn’t ready to let it go. So I did what most teenaged assholes would do. I bought a sandwich.

For me.

I walked right back up to this homeless person and proceeded to eat the sandwich in front of him. I made a show of it too. Mouth open, food falling out and letting out moans of pleasure like I was Jenna Jameson at an all boys school. The hobo stood there the entire time, not saying a word with his mouth, but telling me a novel with his eyes.

He hated everything about me, and I loved it.

After finishing about half of my sandwich, I simply announced that I was no long hungry, looked at this poor guy, and threw the leftovers into the gutter, stepping on it with my boots as I walked away to catch up to my friends. Apparently this move was so dickish that my own, equally shitty friends were disgusted and weren’t shy in telling me how they felt. It got to a point where I felt the need to prove how un-dickheaded I truly was, in order to satisfy the criticisms of these fellow, penile craniumed chums of mine.

Later that night, on our walk back to BART, we happened to stumble across more homeless people. Figuring that this was my chance to redeem myself, I quickly scanned the area to find the coldest, sickliest bum I could find. Once I spotted him, I crossed the street, took off my jacket, and offered it to the dirty gentlemen. He accepted with a confirming grunt and I hastily hiked back to my friends to bask in the glory of doing my good deed for the month. We got back to BART and I reached in my back pocket for my wallet to get my ticket. Except it wasn’t there. Or in the other back pocket. Then is dawned on me. My wallet was in my jacket pocket that I had given to the shit bum.

“Guys, I gotta go back and find that bum. My wallet is in the jacket I gave him.”

We ran back to the street where the homeless guy was, and thankfully (since he had no home to go to), he was still there. He had already put my old jacket on and was looking quite warm in my garb.

“Hey man. Remember me? I just gave you that jacket about 10 minutes ago.”

I miss my old jacket. It tied any outfit together, including the shitty butthole hanging out look

“I’ve had this jacket for years!” He said.

Uhm, sure. Listen, I need it back.”

“It’s mine! You can’t have it!

“I don’t want the jacket back to keep. I just need to get my wallet out of the pocket that I forgot was in there.”

“It’s my wallet!” he said as he reached into the pocket, clearly unaware that the wallet existed up until this point.

“Dude, just give me my wallet. Keep the jacket. I just want to go home.”

And with that, the shit bum opened my wallet, rifled through everything and took out all of the cash. All without breaking eye contact. And when he was done, he stood up and walked away. Dumping my wallet, sans the cash, into the gutter as he left. Now, I am not sure that this guy saw what I did to his fellow street neighbor earlier in the day with the sandwich, but if he had, he played this hand of human poker perfectly. I grabbed my wallet and walked back to my friends, muttering to myself at what had just happened.

“Did that guy just take all of your money?”


“How much did you have in there?”

“I don’t know, about 60 bucks?”

“Damn. You just got mugged by a diseased, elderly bum and didn’t even know it.”

“I suppose I did. This sucks, lets get back home and smash some mailboxes in. It is the only thing that will make me feel better.”




The following conversation took place on Monday, July 27th at roughly 9:45 P.M. It took place at a restaurant/bar in Discovery Bay, California between myself and someone I consider family. You may not find it hilarious, but I thought the whole scene was a riot. We pick it up halfway through the topic of my inablity to treat women like objects…

SM: I am just mad that you were right. More than anything else, that is what cheeses my dick the most.

SC: Yep. See, I know what I am talking about on this subject. You can’t expect to marry every girl you talk too. Ugh, why would you want to?

SM: I know. I’m just a relationship guy I guess. Always have been, always will be. Fucking sucks sometimes.

SC: You know what your problem is? You are too nice to these girls. You’ve got to be more like me. Be mean to them. Play hard to get, just don’t give a fuck about them for awhile. You shouldn’t be pursuing relationships right now anyways, you retard.

SM: I suppose so…our waitress is pretty cute.

SC: Perfect, you should have sex with her

SM: But…we’re not even married (sarcastically)

SC: …this is why I hate you sometimes.

SM: When she comes around I’ll talk her up.

SC: If you don’t, I will.

SM: Screw you cocksnot, let me have one for once.

Waitress: Anything else I can do for you? Want me to turn your empty into a full again (winks and smiles at me)

SM: Sure. Hey, who wins in a fight? Superman or Batman?

Waitress (looking confused): Uhm…I don’t know…Superman?

SC: Uh oh

SM (barely containing his rage): See, this is what I am talking about. You know absolutely nothing do you? It is impossible to be your age knowing so little. Why on earth would you possibly pick Superman? Did someone throw a bucket of stupid over your head or something?

Waitress (looking shocked): Well, since I obviously know nothing, I think I am done here. I will go get your check.

SM: I wonder if she brings me my beer…

SC: Okay, so that was TOO mean. We can’t come back here now. They will spit in our food.

SM: Really? I thought it went well, I was just about to ask her for her number. The food sucks here anyway.

SC: I’ll be outside.

As I sit here on my couch, realizing that we are all on the cusp of joining the last day of the first month of the supposed last year of our planet, I can’t help but think that I might have to forget about sticking to my 2011 resolutions, and perhaps update and upgrade to the 2012 model. While, for the most part, I continue to be great, and amazing (without ever really trying, mind you), I am not obnoxious enough to think that there isn’t room for improvement. Afterall, knowledge is power and if I ever wish to fulfill my childhood dream of being Batman when I grow up, I am going to need plenty more of both. And much like the majority of the American population, I aim to resolve a lot of the same issues that plague us in our personal lives.


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














Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about it. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which, far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.

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.


7:28 P.M.-I am awoken from my hour long nap on my couch by a text from my best friend. The text consists of pictures of cigarettes, guns, alcohol and naked girls with a simple one word question…”Vegas?”

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 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
10:02P.M.- My desire for margaritas has dissipated, replaced for an unwavering desire for ice cream. Ice cream that I do not have in my condo. I immediately go on Facebook to publicly announce my desire for said ice cream and plead with my 406 friends to bring me some, knowing full well no one will. Assholes.
10:15-11:00 I log into Twitter for the first time in forever. Realize that I haven’t missed anything important since Twitter is quite possibly the worst waste of time of anything on the internet ever. I look at the clock and am mildly shocked that I am still tweeting 45 minutes after coming to the conclusion that I won’t.
11:12 P.M.- I return my friend’s text about Vegas. It appears next week we will be taking a few decades off of our lives in one night. Neat.
11:15-11:56 P.M.- I search unsuccessfully for a trippy video I saw on Thursday night at the bar  where these guys are getting ready for a night out, but their junk is replaced with an extra head. I can’t find it and wonder how the internet could fail me so badly and give up.
12:01 A.M.- Video is found. This band Duck Sauce also did that oddly hypnotic “Barbra Streisand,” song prior to this masterpiece. I watch the video twice before posting it to Facebook.
12:30 A.M.- The previous video has snowballed itself into me finding other, more disturbing videos. Capped off by dyE’s “Fantasy,” which might give me physical nightmares and turn me off from sex and swimming pools forever.
12:46 A.M.- I exhale deeply and see my own breath. It is fucking cold. I decide to pour myself a cup of instant coffee. As I am drinking it, I realize what I have just done. Oh well, fuck it. I wasn’t going to sleep anyway.
12:50-1:02 A.M.- I play “In A Gada Da Vida” with my drumsticks on various pieces of furniture. My coffee cup makes for a surprisingly effective cymbal.
1:05-1:11 A.M.- It is still freezing in my place despite the epic drum solo workout, so I finally change out of my work clothes and into a pair of sweats, a hoodie and gloves. While changing, I rip a glorious fart.
1:11-1:30 A.M.- I laugh over my glorious fart.
1:30-2:30 A.M.- Rumors are starting to break about Chris Paul possibly being traded to the Lakers AGAIN. I check all major sporting news sources and decide that @IncarceratedBob on Twitter is the one I trust most since he is telling me what I want to hear. Once Paul is officially traded to the Lakers, they can go get Dwight Howard and a jumbo sized tub of lube for the rest of the NBA’s asshole because they are going to get buggered with this super team. Fuck you Dan Gilbert.
2:30-3:00 A.M.- I listen to a bunch of old Kid Cudi songs. Most are pretty much crap which is disappointing.
3:00-4:12 A.M.- Time to go to bed. I am exhausted but not tired. I pop my music back on and go to lay down. I close my eyes. I need sleep.
4:13 A.M– I am still awake. Fucking coffee. Fucking NBA. Fucking cold weather. I get out of bed, put my gloves back on and start looking for a beanie to put on my head. Turns out that I left both of my beanies in my car, so I improvise and put my luchadore mask on. Total. Face. Warmth. I run into my bathroom to look at myself at 4:30 in the morning, wearing a wrestling mask and a hoodie, like some weird character from a Stanley Kubrick film.
Undisputed Champion of 4 A.M.


4:30 A.M.- I am motivated for the first time in months to write something, even if it is shit.

Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about it. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which, far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.

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.


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.



Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about it. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which, far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.

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.


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…


Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about it. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which, far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.

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.”


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…



Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about it. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which, far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.

The Inadvertent Invasion of the Women’s Room Story

I went to The Bahamas one July in the mid-2000’s on vacation. It should probably go without saying that it was a blast. How could it not be? Hanging on the beach in Paradise, plenty of fruity cocktails to consume and potentially give me diabetes, and of course…Fantasia Barrino playing at the very resort I was staying at!

About halfway through my vacation, I decide, along with my girlfriend at the time, to go to Senor Frogs in town. Along the way, we would walk through the markets and negotiate deals for these piece of crap trinkets that the locals has seemingly spent a ton of time making. While doing so, we turn the corner and are greeted by the biggest black dude I have ever seen. This guy could have picked up Shaq and tossed him in the hoop if he wanted to. That is how big he was.

He greets us with a big smile and gives me a huge hug and asks me how my vacation was going. It was at this point that I remembered that black people love me, so I was in no real danger. After chatting it up with the guy for a couple  of minutes, he whips out this necklace, drapes it around my girl’s neck and asks for a “donation.” Seeing a show the thing was clearly a piece of shit, I really didn’t feel like paying anything for it, but considering how nice (and huge) he was, I decided to give him five dollars.

“More,” he said.

“I’m sorry, what?”, I responded.

“More, give me more.”

The smile was gone at this point. Having been replaced with his best impression of a pimp getting ready to slap his whore for shorting him his money. But not wanting to get my ass kicked, and on the verge of shitting my pants in front of my girlfriend, I ponied up and gave the guy a $20.

He then takes out another necklace and forces it around my neck and sticks his hand out again for money. Having just about enough of this gigantic man’s attitude, I did what any self respecting guy would do in that situation…I gave him another $20 and left with my dignity and self respect abused, but my life intact.

“I think you just got mugged, Sam.”

“I know Michelle.”


“I KNOW! Shut the fuck up about it. We tell no one,” I responded.

After processing what had happened, we decided to forego the rest of the shopping part of our excursion and hastily made our way to the bar in an effort to drink ourselves back into vacation mode. After perhaps, one too many rum shots and beer, the house DJ grabbed a microphone and decided that tonight they were going to have a white boy dancing contest. And considering I was one of about five total honkys in the place, I knew that I wasn’t going to have a choice in the matter. The spotlight landed on me, and with one more shot thrown down, I made my way on top of the bar to dance my competition off the stage.

As you can see from the video, I handled my business to the tune of second place. I should have gotten first, but the guy who won was about 65, fat, bald and took off all his clothes. And really, when you have all of those odds stacked against you…you settle for second. But I did so well that the owner of the bar came over, congratulated me on being awesome and told me that all the drinks on the front of the bar were taken care of for me.

Now, as generous as that was, my mind immediately wanted to know why the fuck I wasn’t getting free drinks at the back bar as well. And instead of just hanging out and getting snookered in the front, I stormed off to the back to investigate. I was met with a musical trivia challenge that netted me four free drinks before they cut me off from answering anymore.

After pitching a fit, I was offered a challenge of doing a 20 second shot of rum. Not being one to back down from a challenge (unless, you know, a giant black man is robbing me), I threw my head back swallowed the 20 seconds of rum and strutted back to my seat as everyone looked on in amazement. The bartender then threw down the gauntlet and asked if anyone could do a 30 second shot. I immediately raise my hand and am denied.

“Nah man, we know you can do a 30 second shot. If you are gonna come back up here, you have to drink the entire bottle of rum.”

My response? “Fucking fine by me!”

So I stumbled my way back on stage, propped my head into position, and proceeded to drink about a half a handle of rum. Every last drop of it went down the hatch and into the distillery that my stomach had become. People in attendance were equal parts mortified, but undeniably impressed by my alcoholic adventures. I took a small bow, turned left, and walked immediately into the men’s room to throw up.

I opened the door just as the vomit was exiting my mouth. It landed on the mirror, the wall, the garbage can and of course…the floor. And it didn’t stop. My stomach cramped up as I continued chucking rum bombs out of my mouth. Before I was done, just about every square inch of the bathroom was covered, I was bent over, head down and hands on my knees and sweating profusely.

I looked up, now dehydrated as hell, drunker than just about any time in my life and noticed a lady standing in shock by the bathroom stall. Another was pinned up against the adjacent wall, mouth agape and apparently in shock. Needless to say, I was confused.

“Hey ladies, why are you in the men’s room?”

” We aren’t,” said one of them. “You are in the ladies room…throwing up on us.”

I stood upright, straightened up as best I could and then as polite as I could, tipped my imaginary cap to both of them and said, “ladies.” I then turned around, stumbled out of the ladies room, grabbed my girlfriend and told her we had to leave immediately. Naturally confused, she wondered what was going on, and as we waited for our taxi, she finally figured it out.

“You fucking puked all over the women’s room didn’t you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh God Sam, what the hell?!?!?!”


“I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about that.”

“…shut up and get in the cab, I am pretty sure the owner just found out I mouth-shitted everywhere and is headed this way.”

“Shit, I left my necklace on the table,” she said.

“What necklace? The one I just bought for you? Damn it, that was expensive! Cost me 20 bucks”

“Yeah well you just vomited about $120 worth of alcohol back there, so I think we are coming out ahead.”

“God point Michelle…yay vacation! Now can you get this cabbie to pull over? I gotta puke.”


Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about the aftermath. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which far outweigh the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.

The Propane Tank Fight (or the most drunk I have ever been)

I was never a big drinker as a teenager. I would have a few beers every now and then, and I seem to recall forcing my older sister to by me some fruity wine coolers and hard lemonades on occasion, but for the most part, my teenage years were spent breaking into construction trucks, unscrewing fire hydrants onto people’s front yards and throwing potatoes through car windows while driving (go ahead and tell the cops, the statute of limitations is up).

But by the time I was 18, I was afraid of going to big boy prison over my tomfoolery so my “boys will be boys,” phase ended abruptly. Stifled by federal and local laws, with no other real outlet in which to express myself until I was 21, I attacked my last coming of age time when it was upon me and compensated for my lack of troublemaking with a ferocity and tenacity for binge drinking that the world has rarely seen. And at my sister’s 25th birthday party, the perfect storm struck, drenching me in a proverbial downpour of an alcoholic monsoon.

The night started innocently enough. Family and friends arrived at my sister’s house. Jokes, appetizers and casual drinks were consumed. More people showed up, more drinks were drank. Jokes became funnier, people became louder and the music, well the music still sucked, but it was Stacy’s birthday so we had to tolerate it. My best friend Justin had come with me, and like the fucking devil on my shoulder that he has always been, kept the beer drinking at an ungodly pace.

At this point, the booze I had bought and brought to the shindig had been devoured, but I was no where near done. Justin and I started pilfering from the house stash. Poaching shots from other friends who were eager to share, and eventually resorting to drinking whatever was left in the cups that others had long since abandoned. Sensing that we were about to enter the land of no return, Justin wisely stopped drinking and evolved back into a functioning human. I however, was trapped inside my own game, much like Jeff Bridges in Tron, with zero chance of returning anytime soon.

I soon forced someone to drive my truck to the nearest liquor store to buy some rum, was promptly kicked out of the store for trying to piss on the potato chip display and forced to wait outside while my friend completed my transaction for me. Once back to my sister’s, Justin informed me that there was another party that he had to go to, but I could tag along if I felt like it. I quickly downed a couple of shots of rum, hastily said goodbye and threw my keys to a now, sober Justin. As we left my sister’s I realized suddenly that I had to piss the Nile River, right then and there.

So I jumped out of the moving vehicle, hauled two truckloads of ass back to my sister’s and walked in like I had never left. After urinating for seemingly three hours, I walked out, grabbed a beer and tried to leave to go back to my truck. My friend Kris stopped me and told me I could only drink the beer if I could down it in three second or less. Knowing full well that it is impossible to chug 12 ounces of beer in three seconds, her face twisted into equal parts horror and impressed as I did it in less than two. I stumbled back to the truck and yelled at Justin for taking so long to piss (even though it was me…) and told him that we were now late for my party (even though that was his…).

Now, I am not going to lie, the remainder of this story is not from my own memory, but was told to me by several eye witnesses as I was entirely too drunk to remember at this point. Facts are hazy the further removed I get from this story, but the following events are true as far as I know, and I have the scars to corroborate.

We arrive at the party, where I know absolutely no one. People are in the back smoking, others are in the living room playing some sort of faggy card game involving alcohol (for the record, I hate booze games. Just give me the bottle and get out of my damn way). and still others are dancing to the music in the back room. Justin does his best to introduce me to his friends, but I side step all of them, walk right up to the drunken card game, where a giant beer stine full of a horrible smelling concoction is brewing inside of it. I grab it off the table, chug the entire thing, slam the stine down and let out a belch that could have caused a tsunami in Japan.

Everyone at the table looked on in amazement until finally someone said, “Uh, that guy just drank 25 ounces of tequila, vodka, rum, and beer. How the fuck is he still alive, let alone standing?” I took a small bow and excused myself outside in search of more goodies that I could scavenge up. Justin is now in full on babysitter mode and follows me out back to make sure I don’t destroy anything or anyone in the process.

He props me up against the side of the house and goes over to talk to his friends and give himself some relief from my drunken shenanigans. About five minutes goes by and he hears me bellowing at someone to, “shut the fuck up, bitch.” After looking around and finding no one that I could possibly be talking to, he comes over and asks who I am talking to. I point in front of me and say, “that piece of shit right there who keeps saying crap about me.” Justin follows my finger until he sets his sights on my nemesis.

Justin: “Uhm, are you talking about the propane tank by the barbecue?”

Me: “I don’t give a fuck what his name is or who he knows, I am knocking his ass out.”

Justin: ” …it’s a propane tank…”

Me: “And he is talking shit.”

I push Justin off to the side and haphazardly try to take a swing at the propane tank. As you can imagine, my less than sober state left me terribly uncoordinated and unbalanced and before I anyone could realize what was happening, I was falling face first, hands at my side and nothing to break my fall…

…except the propane tank, of course.

My forehead connected squarely with the top lip of the tank, splitting my melon and leaving me face down in a gravel pile, surrounded by a substantial (and growing) puddle of my own, alcohol thinned blood. I was carried inside, cleaned up, and passed out sitting upright on the couch.

Propane Tank 1, Sam 0

Two hours later, Justin woke me up and told me that we had to leave so that he could get to his family’s Easter celebration. Having completely forgotten that I was supposed to drive two hours north to my Grandmother’s to hang with family myself, I sprang up off the couch, realized I had no fucking clue where I was and immediately became dizzy to the point where I threw up on the carpet, splashing the poor folks who had decided to sleep there.

I somehow managed to get home, shower and be ready in time for my sister and her boyfriend to pick me up. On the way up to Santa Rosa, I asked them to pull over many times on account of having to puke, but to no avail. Not even a dry heave. It appeared that I was to suffer, much like Jesus had to, when all I wanted to do was be re-born by puking up gallons of booze. Ana alas, in Petaluma, on the side of 101 North, I was treated to seeing a bottle of tequila, half drunken with a cigarette butt floating in it, laying next to a dirty diaper that had been tossed from a car window and the purification process began.

Piles of puke poured out of me. My mouth looked like the levees breaking in New Orleans and there was nothing FEMA could do about it. I spent the next 25 minutes setting a new world record for the most volume of vomit to exit one human being in one breath before returning to the car and declaring for the very first time (but certainly not the last) that I was, “never drinking again.”


Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about the aftermath. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.

The Time I accidentally Dated a Dude

When you have been in a relationship for a very long time, you tend to lose touch with the dating game (or at least you should). So when the relationship kersplodes into the pile of crap it inevitably is doomed to be and one is thrust back into the dating scene, it can be quite daunting. Afterall, what the fuck are the rules? Can you simply walk up and grab a girl’s boobs (the answer is no)? Can you buy them drinks until you are blurry enough to go home with (sometimes)? And how do you know when someone is coming on to you, into you or simply just being nice?

All of this and more can lead to some pretty confusing and embarrassing situations if and when you read a situation the wrong way. Luckily for me, I am way too shallow to worry for too long, and typically way to drunk to even remember most dating mishaps.  But every now and then, a misstep is so great, so…momentous, that no booze in the world can erase the brain of it. This is one of those times.

When I lived in San Ramon, California, I would frequent a sports bar in Dublin call “Buffalo Wild Wings,” quite a bit. The beer was cold, the sports were always on and, well, the women were fairly easy. Or at least dressed as such. Over time, I got used to eating and drinking by myself and was actually quite comfortable sitting at the bar and making new friends that I loved by the end of the night (on account of being a happy drunk), and couldn’t give two shits about in the morning (on account of being an angry sober). Life, at that moment, was pretty fun.

Then, one night, I happened to be seated at the bar watching an NBA game, when a guy about my age asked if the seat next to me was taken. Knowing that there were a few other places available at the bar that weren’t practically on my lap, I decided to take the high road and not tell him to fuck off. As he sat there and ordered whatever drink he ordered, he started to ask me about the game. I let him know the score as well as the overall flow of it and he was surprisingly up to speed with his sports knowledge.

NOT actual footage of my man dates

Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about the aftermath. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.

The Time I Broke My Ass

As a long time Miami Dolphins fan, and a child from the internet age, it was only a matter of time before my angst as a football fan spilled out to the world wide web. Right around the turn of the century, I stumbled upon a small internet fansite where fellow “Dol-phans,” (yes this is what we are called, no, not all of us are fanny bandits) got together to discuss our favorite franchise.

Over time, the constant bitching, bellyaching and mutual admiration of fart jokes developed into bona fide friendships between a few members. The only problem of course, was that most of us were spread out across the country and had certainly never met in person. This all changed about five years ago when I got on a plane and started meeting the weirdos on the other side of the computer monitor. Much to my surprise (and relief) none of them tried to “F me in the A,” and the trips turned into annual affairs. IT was on one of these trips when I broke my ass.


We were in East Hanover, New Jersey having drinks at a Miami Dolphins themed bar, conveniently named Miami Mike’s. As the hours rolled by and the pitchers of beers were drank, the owner decided that our merry band of idiots had had enough and told us to leave. On our way out, I struck a deal with him and was able to finagle a pitcher of Blue Moon to take back to my hotel room. Maybe I was supposed to share it with the rest of the group, but if so, I didn’t get that memo because I tossed the pint glass in the garbage and started drinking the nectar straight from the source.

After briefly going back my hotel room to grab a jacket, I found myself in my friend’s hotel room, guarding my pitcher of beer like I was Frodo and it was the ring. As the night turned into the morning, and I had exhausted sexting every person in my phone, I turned my attention to the window. I had, at this point, drunk my weight in beer and was starting to burn up. And hyper focusing on the window wasn’t helping any. It was like when people tell you not to think about sex so in response, you immediately have to masturbate…

What? Is that just me?

Anyhow, I mosied over to the window and opened it as wide as I could. Once I realized that the window could be opened like an actual window with no safety stop like most hotel windows have, the drunken light went off in my head. While still holding my pitcher of Blue Moon in my hand, I climbed up into the sill and crouched. My friends were so wrapped up in whatever bullshit drunken conversation they were having at the time, that they hadn’t even noticed that I was now, pretty much not even in the room anymore.

And it was at this time that I decided that the mood needed a little bot of dark humor. I spoke loudly, calling for everyone’s attention, and when all eyes were on me, I stated that I couldn’t take it anymore and promptly leapt from the window out into the cold, New Jersey air. Now the humor of course, was that I was pretending to off myself in a drunken fit by jumping out of a first story hotel window, where, at best, I would be three feet off the ground.

Moments before I cracked my crack

Except it wasn’t a three foot drop.

It was closer to 15.

What I had failed to account for was that directly outside of this hotel room, despite being on the first floor, was a parking lot that dropped down about 10 feet in the back of the hotel as opposed to the front. Naturally, this room happened to be right where that drop took place.

The whole process took less than two seconds, but I remember vividly realizing that I had made a mistake and that my legs are now completely straight and extended with no bend to help absorb the shock. My feet hit the pavement, they shot out in front of me, and I landed with full force directly on my ass where, as I hit, a very loud and very audible “crack.” was heard.

I looked down and was amazed that not only had I successfully broken my tailbone, but did so with a half  a pitcher of Blue Moon in my hand and nary a drop spilled. Luckily I was so sloshed by this point that the pain receptors in my ass weren’t firing on all cylinders. Nonetheless, I knew I was going to be in for a world of hurt once the buzz wore off. So I picked myself up, took one last swig of beer before tossing the pitcher, and dragged my busted ass back to my room.

It was at this moment that my broken drunk ass turned into the greatest cock block as well. I was sharing a room with my buddy White Snake and, unbeknownst to me, he had met a girl in the bar earlier and somehow convinced her to come back to the room with him. I guess he didn’t account on me breaking my ass and coming back to the room early because as I opened the door, all I saw was a woman, old enough to be his mom, go streaking past me into the bathroom to put her clothes back on. By this point, I was not in a pleasant mood and I muttered, “nice bush,” as she went by. After calling me an asshole, she got dressed took off and was never heard from again.

White Snake was clearly pissed but the subject was tabled once he found out I busted my anal hymen jumping out of essentially, a second story window. After suffering through a myriad of poor puns and lame jokes, I finally got fed up and broached the subject of his lady friend’s grooming habits and that, if you were to describe her in terms of a baseball field, she would have been Wrigley. But seeing as how every time I laughed now made my ass hurt to the point where I was afraid I was gonna poo blood, we decided to call it a night.

The next morning, we said our goodbyes, I took a bumpiest cab ride ever back to the airport, and proceeded to take the most turbulent flight of my life all the way back to California. A flight which, by the way, forced me to have to ask for a hemorrhoid pillow to sit on since my rectum bone was on fire.

I didn’t shit right for a month.


Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about the aftermath. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which far outweigh the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.

The Hotel Toilet Affair

A few years ago I had to take a day trip up to Fort Bragg, California. Not wanting to wake up at the ass crack of dawn to drive four hours there, work all day and drive four hours back, I decided to split the difference and leave the night before, spending the night in Santa Rosa. This was actually quite convenient since I had business to tend to the day before in Santa Rosa anyway, and my good friend and co-worker Mike happened to live there as well.

So I made my way up to wine country, worked until I got bored and made plans with Mike and his wife to grab dinner and drinks that night. I told them to swing by my hotel and pick me up after work. The plan was to get an early meal, maybe a drink or two and get to bed since I still had a decent little drive in front of me in the morning.

Now, I have a weird check in procedure when I am on the road for work. I always check in, get my room key, and immediately go into the room to check everything out before I even go to the car to get my luggage. I don’t know why I do this, I just do. Maybe I have OCD or really want to make sure there aren’t any zombies, vampires or mothmen in the room. The point is, this trip was no different. I got my key. I went to the room. And checked for boogeymen.

Except this time it dropped. And by it, I mean the 15 pounds of dump that gravity pulled from my intestine, directly into my colon. The insta-shits were here, and they were not going to leave me alone until I allowed them the proper attention. I immediately booked it to the bathroom, plopped my ass on the toilet and let ‘er rip.

The recoil was fierce. Without going into too much detail, I have seen modern day battlefields that looked less frightening than the inside of this commode once I was through. I am not sure what I ate for lunch in July of 1994, but it was finally coming out close to 15 years later. That is how bad it was.

Anyhow, I finished, wiped my ass and cleaned myself up. All that was left to do was to flush and bask in the glory of losing 13 pounds instantly. I pulled on the handle and waited for the toilet to do its familiar routine of swirling and sucking. Except it didn’t swirl and suck.

In fact, it swirled and burped. Much to my chagrin, the toilet wouldn’t flush and as the poo water level rose, I started to panic. I tried flushing again, but no go. The poo stew was just sitting there. Mocking me. Refusing to hide my shame. It demanded that I tell someone with authority at this hotel what I had done. The Telltale Heart for modern times. The Telltale Shit, if you will.

In hindsight, the smart play would have been to walk right back to the front desk, acting all offended, and demand a new room since this one had a jumbo piece of hemp rope sticking out of the crapper. Afterall, I had been in the room for a grand total of 10 minutes so it would have been completely plausible. But hindsight is exactly that, hindsight. And I wasn’t sharp enough to think of this.

Instead, I hastily slammed the lid on the toilet shut and left to meet Mike and his wife out front. The shit in question was still on my mind as we ate dinner, but I dare not speak its name. I simply brushed it aside as we sucked down a pitcher of Great White beer and moved our party on to the pool hall. We were feeling good and at this point, I decided to tell my good night’s sleep to fuck off. After three more pitchers of beer and an awful attempt at playing pool, Mike dropped me back off at my hotel. I bid them adieu and stumbled back to my room feeling about 75% numb.

My crowning achievement

I opened the door and immediately collapse on the bed. I slept until about three in the morning when I am awakened by my kidneys and bladder telling me how pissed off they are at me for being filled with piss. I hobbled into the bathroom, kick open the lid with my foot and am immediately met with, what can only be described as a murder scene that rivaled any Freddy Krueger movie with the stench of about 3,000 bums after a gang bang. After holding back vomit and tears simultaneously, I aimed, fired and added about 3 quarts of beer urine to the concoction. I immediately flushed upon finishing, thinking that the time spent in the bowl, would have softened the poo to a manageable sludge that the industrial type toilet could handle.

I was wrong.

I have never been more wrong my life about anything.


I watched in equal parts amazement and horror as the toxic soup rose and stopped right at the brim of overflowing. As it came to an unstable stop at the cusp, I slowly lowered the lid on my shame, washed up, and went to bed. Surely by morning this matter would be resolved. 

I was wrong.


When my alarm goes off at 6 in the morning, I realize that, not only do I have to take a massive dump, but that toilet has been sitting, clogged with my feces, urine and toilet paper, all night. Naturally it smelled like Baghdad and looked like death. and I couldn’t sit on the fucking thing because it was still too full and I didn’t want my ass touching the stuff that came out of it. So like a good child from the 1980’s, I took hold of my surroundings and MacGuyvered it.

I propped on leg up on the sink that was directly to the right of the toilet, and the other on the bathtub wall and popped a Spiderman squat above the cesspool I created. And as I concentrated on not falling into the abyss, while trying not laugh at the absurdity of the situation, I bellowed, “DEATH FROM ABOVE!” and dropped my payload.

The fallout was amazing. Truly a thing of beauty. After finishing my shameful deed. I showered, tiptoed out of what now was an overflowing pot of waste, and packed my stuff away. As I started to walk out of the hotel room, I stopped, looked at the bathroom and an awful thought creeped into my head. A evil, Mr. Grinch like smile sprawled out across my face as I walked back into the bathroom, kicked the lever with my shoe and hauled ass out of the room, leaving an overflowing river of Sam in my wake.

Feeling quite emboldened by my mischief. I sat in calm silence while I treated myself to their continental breakfast and free copy of the USA Today. As I walked to the front desk to check out, I happened to take a gander down the hall and caught my eye on the cleaning staff. The poor lady must have been in her 60’s and appeared to be working hard. She had no idea what was in store for her in approximately 10 minutes when she got to my room.

I checked out, told them that I did, in fact, enjoy my stay and might even fill out the online survey they would send to me. And as they wished me a happy friday on my way out, I couldn’t resist. I turned, and told the lady, “Oh by the way, I took a MASSIVE dump in the toilet. Clogged that thing until it flatlined. You may want to call for backup. Have a great friday yourself!”

I never got sent the online survey.

Again, not my proudest moment.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I instantly grew a beard and got muscles while reaching for the nearest sports magazine to prove how manly I actually was while sitting two seats down from her. And as I pretended to care about whether or not Brett Favre was retiring/playing again, the Jiffy Lube guy decides, at this moment, to go ahead and stomp all over my dick and announce that my car is ready to go.

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

Not this time.

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


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

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

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

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

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

Enter Mr. Tigerclaw.

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

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

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

Then it happened.

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


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


Sameul Tigerclaw.

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

The epitome of suck

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

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

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

And thus, a blog was born.