18-1

18-1
It is a month later and I still think the Pats can pull out a victory. I’m in denial on one level and in total mourning in reality. I feel violated and sad. How did that happen? Never mind, I don’t even want to talk about the game. Or think about it. Or ever see another replay of that fucking shitty cunty fucking pig sucker motherfucking cocksucking, third down, piss drinking ass eating, fucking catch. I may never watch football again. I haven’t been this shook by a loss since Aaron Fucking Boone beat the Sox in 2003, but at least I saw that shit coming. The Super Bowl loss was the equivalent suddenly finding out Shal is a serial killer and all our closets are full of the bodies of dead Kinko’s employees. (I assume that’s how she would roll as a serial killer, and who would object? See, even when I fantasize about her being awful, I still try and justify her. Such a sweet girl, nice person, and perfect enabler!) At the end of the game, I was just puzzled. It did not add up. We lost? I just assumed I was hallucinating from the massive amount of booze, weed, and cocaine I’d ingested. I attempted to re-orient myself to reality by huffing a couple huge rails and drinking a large glass of rum. Still 17-14, so I tried again. And again. Turns out I wasn’t having some kind of horrible delusion. The mighty Pats had blown the perfect season and I had a serious substance abuse problem. Never one to let reality or extreme intoxication get me down, I decided to hit the casino. As an aside to those who didn’t read previous blog, I was at Mohegan Sun with my childhood friend Glenn. We met there around 11:00am and he brought a $220 party package, which was high quality and massive. Frightfully massive. I’m talking, “Hey dude, you have blood all over the front of your Patriots jersey!” massive. Glenn is a funny guy. He is currently a responsible adult and a father of four boys…but, he’s a life long stoner and occasional gakker. Hard core. He sold weed in High School and used to drive us there every morning. Smoked two joints every day on the way. Every fucking day for four years. He gave me the sound advice that if you have to meet new people, you should get high first so they will always think that is just who you are. People won’t know you are high if you are always high! Needless to say, this theory doesn’t apply to me. I’m an extremely obvious mess when I start the train rolling. Glenn also had the noble and expensive idea that we had to get a room at the casino ($333) so we could, you know, run up whenever we want. Well, that quickly evolved into us barricading ourselves in our room and jabbering at each other like a couple of speed freaks. Wait, scratch “like” from that sentence, we were a couple of speed freaks. Pretty sure we covered every topic in the universe, which is fun when you are just trying to kill time until the game starts, though he didn’t appreciate my finely tuned pedophile jokes aimed at his sons. “Shut the fuck up Mills, not about my boys!” “Come on Glenn, I’m not being gross, I’m just saying a pinkie! Only one knuckle deep, like a gentleman!” I thought it was comedic genius. We watched the game in the room and might as well have been in a Motel 8 in hell. The first half was torture. We would have been better off watching sumo wrestling. Nothing is more frustrating than being wired and wanting fireworks but getting 7-3 at the half. We both assumed the Pats would win, and of course that was the way it was going until that fucking final drive. Whatever, I don’t want to re-hash that nonsense and will never mention or discuss it again. I headed down to hit the blackjack table and promptly went into a blackout. Next thing I know I’m sitting at a table and it is 2:30am. I got about $70 in chips and realize they are not serving alcohol. I hit the room to freshen up a touch and try to get the blood out of my shirt from some crazy nose bleed I’d suffered. Most likely from the dry air I’m guessing. So I freshen up with a bump or two and a couple of nice stiff rum and cokes. I try to bring my drink back downstairs with me, but apparently my overall appearance tipped off security that I may have an alcoholic beverage and it’s now 3:00am, which is a no-no. Mohegan ain’t Vegas, where you can carry a drink and a dead hooker with you anywhere at any time. After a brief discussion with security, which ended with me laughing and chugging the drink. The security can best be described as the Freshman Team. Nothing makes me happier than when I realize I’m dealing with the backups. The primetime security would have beat me down and sent me back to my room. Luckily, it was the wee hours of Monday morning and no one really gave a fuck. They certainly didn’t want any kind of trouble with me, and I don’t blame them. I’d been drinking and gacking for 15 hours and my blood splattered shirt and Pat’s hat indicated my team had just blown the Super Bowl and a perfect season. I proceed to find a smoking table for a little $10 blackjack. Two hours and at least two trips to the ATM later, the realization hits me that I am a fucking disaster area and I’m playing with real money. I kept a nice green chip with me ($25) out of God only knows how much, and headed up to the room. After another bumper and a beer, I realize that the room is empty. I say to myself, “Isn’t someone else with me?” I no sooner think this then the door comes flying open and Glenn comes marching in like a man possessed. “Mills, your still doing that shit!?!” I was. This isn’t something you should be doing before bedtime, but I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly or planning for the future. I’m very Zen like that, I live in the moment. Poorly. I innocently ask what Glenn had been up to. He’d been playing video poker like a coked up monkey pressing the button until it’s paw bleeds. He’d lost all of his money plus the breakfast fund he had put aside in the safe. Luckily, we’d put down a cash deposit on the room, so we’d have walking around money once we checked out. Against all the laws of nature and chemistry, I catch a solid four hours of sleep. As I’m waking up, Glenn is screaming at me about his inability to sleep. I snore, the next door guests were making too much noise, and upstairs folks were apparently building an arc. This is nothing new to me, Glenn can never sleep and blames everything but the massive amount of blow he did. I equate it to drinking 60 beers and vomiting, and then you blame it on food poisoning. I awake to an angry Glenn, which I was totally expecting. I recite the full version of “There is no Joy in Mudville: The Mighty Casey has Struck Out.” It seemed fitting given the Patriots loss. Went right over Glenn’s head and only seemed to irritate him more. “Shut the fuck up Mills, you’re smart. I get it. Let’s get some fucking breakfast, I haven’t eaten in 20 hours.” “Well, I was referring to the Pat’s loss with a famo…”
“Shut the fuck up. You hungry?”
“Yeah, starving…literally.”
We roll down stairs and hit the buffet. I eat my plate and Glenn’s, cause he starts having stomach issues. He tries to blame me for this, which is met by loud guffaws from me.
“You can accuse me of snoring and keeping you up, though if I had to guess, other factors were involved.”
We are in public so I have to modify my terminology,
“Maybe it was all that caffeine you had?”
“Fuck you Mills”.
“Noted. You gonna eat that ham?”
“Fuck…I feel like shit….Help yourself.”
We both ended up finishing the meal with yogurt, blueberries, and strawberries.
Perfect ending to steak, sausage, bacon, and ham with 37 eggs. We go back up to the room and let the food coma take over for an hour. I slowly emerge back to reality and start shouting at Glenn that it is time to get out of Dodge. He concurs and gives me a couple joints to make up for spending the breakfast fund. We start heading for the exit and exchanging our usual parting shots,
“Great time, this will take weeks to recover from..”
“Yeah, nice job, you were really fucked up Jay”.
“ I slept and ate breakfast motherfucker…”
“Fucking A, I think I left my keys in the room!”
“Of course you did Glenn, peace be with you. I’m out.”
I hit the road and haven’t spoken with Glenn since. I assume he is fine and back to normal. I’m working on it but doubt I will ever get over the tragedy that is Super Bowl XXLL. I drove back to NY/NJ that afternoon. It was like voluntarily walking into Hell, only worse. I don’t have to explain this part, NY won against Boston in the most improbable manner. It sucks. I gpt a lot of funny phone messages and even more emails. Fuck you all. The winner of rubbing it in goes to Aaron T., who sent me a "In Sympathy and Friendship" card in the mail. Motherfucker actually took the time to go out and get a funeral card and mail it to me. The icing on the cake was his quote inside "18-1 is something to be very proud of. Only 3 teams in the history of the NFL can say they have recorded 18 wins. It is true the other two teams won Superbowls, but hey..." Very funny. I have made a shank out of my Patriot's pennant and plan on sticking him in the eye next time I see him.
Cheers Motherfuckers!

Extra's

Obama is the greatest thing that ever happened to this country. That being said, he is not going to win. Despite the Bush blowback, the Republicans will take it again because the Democrats are fucking idiots. “Let’s nominate a woman or a black man with a terrorist’s name!” Nice! It’s almost as good as running a liberal senator from Massachusetts and having the convention in Boston, ala 2004. Are they aware that there are voters outside of the coasts? Obviously not. Whatever, get ready for President McCain. Back to Obama, the fact that the black community turned against him because he is not “black” enough makes me so happy I’m drooling. Apparently Flavor Flav would be their preferred candidate. My theory is that the black community doesn’t want him to win. The “struggle” would be over, the excuses of institutional racism would be out the window, and “whitey” would be on the warpath. They are right. I’d be screaming at blacks wherever I went, “YOU WON, STOP HATING ME!” I am referring to “urban” blacks, of course. Hip hop boos, not Bill Cosby or Colin Powell types, I can’t picture them yelling in movie theaters or trying to be tough with me on the subway. It is so great that everyone is jumping on the Obama bandwagon, but it makes me wonder what everyone will do in the privacy of the voting booth. Fucking Guilliani won’t win because outside of the Northeast and California, Italian isn’t white! Let me name the one president who wasn’t a male WASP: JFK. John Fitzpatrick Kennedy. An Irish Catholic from the greatest city in the world, Boston! Oh? How did that end? That red-neck son of a bitch LBJ had him killed in Dallas! I’m spitting mad right now and ready to go punch the first Texan I see! Okay, sorry about that, I took a smoke/drink break and poured a quarter of my bourbon and coke out in honor of JFK. My current hero, Ted “I killed a chick and got away with it” Kennedy, endorsed Obama. Kiss of death. “Errraa, I’m for the nig…the ehhh black guy. I hate that cu..err… I’m opposed to Hillary.” Yeah, that is sincere. Getting the Ted nod is the equivalent of having Jeffery Dahlmer give you cooking tips. The big BO is done, congrats on South Carolina, and please step back from the curb while the Clinton juggernaut is coming by. I fucking love the Clintons, and nothing would make me happier than to see Big Bill back in the White House.

Queer Factor

Against popular opinion, I am not a guy that has problems with homosexuality. I always get along with gay people, as long as they can take a joke. Shal and I drove home one of those disease ridden monkeys last summer. Loved him, we laughed the whole way home and he was the most honest person I’d talked to in ages. He was one of Richie’s friends, but I can’t remember his name. We made all kinds of plans to keep in touch and get together. Of course we were drinking and I’ve never spoke to him again and probably couldn’t pick him out of a lineup. Ask Dolly and Justin about this aspect of my personality, I love making plans and hate following through with them. I kept demanding to know when he “chose” to be homosexual, and he kept putting me in my place. “When did you choose to be tall? Outrageous drunk was a lifestyle choice you made?” Good fun, great guy. That being said, one of my lesbo co-workers told me about a gay party she went to where they played “Queer Factor”. The theory behind this game is to ask questions that gay people wouldn’t get. What is the tractor most popular among farmers? Which is the most powerful gun? What is the best perfume for women? You get the idea. Can we be this original amongst ourselves? I don’t really have any ideas, more just a general sense of figuring out a question game that would expose our weaknesses. It would be a cool day in the backyard.

Blog 2008: The Kite Runner

I’d like to thank the two or three people who responded to the return of the blog, thanks I appreciate the feed back. Here is my review of “The Kite Runner”, a book handed around by the females down at the beach house, to the point I had to make the leap and read it. There is even a movie being made about this book. Piece of shit. Horrifying clichés all over the place with a convoluted storyline and a sappy ending. I would give specifics but I have blocked most of the read out of my mind. I believe the theme of the story was boy rape, and who doesn’t love boy rape! Oh yeah, everyone. And redemption. Who doesn’t love redemption? Me. If everyone and every act was redeemable, Charlie Manson would have been paroled by now. The world doesn’t work that way. Wish it did, I truly do, but it doesn’t. Good people do bad things, bad people do good things, we are all flawed and we all die in the end. Boy rape will never be cool, but I think I understand why the chicks identified with it. I strongly believe that I won’t ever be raped by a man, unlucky guy that I am. Yet, there is no doubt I could force myself onto any woman I want, in a criminal fashion. It is simple genetics, men are stronger than women, and I am a large fucker with a drinking problem. I don’t rape because I know it’s wrong, not because I couldn’t. I may even be capable of raping some of you men out there reading this! Watch your backs guys, literally, I have some odd moods. That being said, I have no idea what it must be like to be a woman and have the knowledge that someone like me could get all heated up and suddenly demand to perform oral sex upon them. The poor woman would probably have to barricade herself in the bungalow with her dog Zoey. It’s just ridiculous! My friend Tom once described me as having “The Rape Look” in my eyes, and I couldn’t really disagree. I was hung over with a light saber in my pants and he was fooling around with his future wife in the bed next to mine. I was ready to pull a John Wayne Gacey. I was all ready picturing myself at the hardware store purchasing a shovel to hide their bodies under the house. Luckily for them, Tom gave me a “Jay…you okay?” I was “far from okay,” but I popped back into reality and realized they were just cuddling and waking up. Crime averted, though Shal did suffer my wrath (I think, may have had to engage in a little bit of the of ‘bating, can’t remember.) Personally, I would never force myself on anyone (Shallon excluded), because I’m afraid of going to jail. Joking. I don’t fear jail, I welcome it, as my hard drive will attest. Rape is just not something I’ve ever even considered. Okay, call me a liar, sure I’ve considered it. Have you seen the babes I associate with? They’re all hot! It’s torture! None the less, I kind of understand how women must feel. At any given point some psychopath could force them to have sex against their will. That can’t lead to peace of mind. It explains why they are attracted to men who can protect them. Beautiful and vulnerable is what we love about them. Their book recommendations?…not so much. The moral of my book review is that The Kite runner, much like life, sucks. Women are silly creatures with poor taste in literature, yet I would lick every centimeter of their bodies.

2008 Blog: Patriots

It’s been about a year and a half since I wrote almost anything or posted. No real good excuse, just waning interest. The whole idea of the blog was just to practice writing but evolved into something else that I wasn’t really comfortable with or interested in. It was a little too gossipy, a little too inside about my group of friends and the beach house. Well, I’m going to try and start posting again and let it go wherever it goes. It’s my fucking blog so lets get the focus on me. I pretty much went into hiding following the summer. More so than usual as pretty much no one wants to talk to me in light of the amazing year Boston sports was having. Sure, there are lots of other reasons people won’t talk to me, but I’ll blame it on the Bosox, Pats, and Celts. “Um, hey what’s up, it’s Jay. Want to watch the game? You have to root against me? I understand, maybe some other time…Go Sox, Pats, and Celts!” Click. With so much on the line with so many of these games, I couldn’t handle people rooting against my teams. The Sox won the World Series and there were some very tense moments, but they could afford to lose a game here and there. Now come the Patriots and everyone is talking undefeated season. Yeah, sure, I’m down with that but never really believed it. Fuck, whenever the Sox win opening day I immediately send out an email predicting a 182-0 season. Well, as I write this, it’s the bye week before the Super Bowl, and the Patriots are 18-0. It’s fucking unbelievable and great, but it has grown more and more stressful with every win. My body is literally breaking down, I’ve been breaking out in hives this week (no joke, first time in my life), my complexion can best be described as "red and blotchy", and if you know me I don’t even have to mention the pounding my liver and lungs have sustained. If the Pats had lost a regular season game, this would just be another Super Bowl run. Now, it’s the difference between the team that went undefeated and choked in the playoffs or Super Bowl, and the greatest team in the history of football. Fuck! I just sprouted a new hive writing that. Bragging rights forever are on the line. By the way, I’ll be going to Mohegan Sun for the game with a friend coming down from Beantown with hard drugs, it’s the only right thing to do in light of the fact we are playing the NY Giants. (Should be fun having a blackjack dealer trying to figure out why I haven't blinked or stopped talking for the past three hours.) If we win, Giant’s fans will be firebombing my apartment. If we lose, I’ll be doing 25 to life for multiple homicides. I’d plead insanity of course, and it would be true. Go Pats, GO FUCKING PATS!
Cheers Motherfuckers.
P.S. I’ll deal with the Celtics at a later date.

Levels of Drinking

I'm clearly stealing this concept from others, but I don't give a shit. I'll try and include examples of each level, naming names, just to be an attention whore and get people to read this. I figure it's kind of like photos, no one gives a shit unless they are in it.
LEVEL ONE: Sobriety. Not much to be said about this, it involves not drinking. Usually you work and be a real human being, warts and all. This is my least favorite level. I hit the gym, get a little moody, and think way too much. Mostly thinking about the next time I get to drink. On the plus side, I'm generally nice enough to maintain a relationship and a career. A couple Friday's ago, I was walking out of the gym around 8:30pm and ran into Richie G. and Darren (fuck, I still can't remember his last name. Jen Coop's boyfriend. We'll refer to him as Darren C. for lack of a better idea and we'll all know who I'm talking about. Sorry dude.) Anyway, I run into these two getting cash at an ATM while they are out to dinner with their hot babes. Unfortunately, I didn't get to see the babes, they were having cocktails in a bar across the street. Damn shame, I was all pumped up and sweaty, probably could have wooed them into coming back to my place for a Jay sandwich! At least that's what I jerked off thinking about when I got home. Wow, got a little side-tracked there! Back to my point, Richie and Darren would have been more surprised to see Al Sharpton blowing a leprechaun than to see a sober Jay walking out of the gym and being civil to them at 8:30 on a Friday night. I got a chuckle out of it and I'm sure they still think it was a shared hallucination.
LEVEL TWO: A drink or two after work. Not my strong suit, Shal is much better at this than I am. She will have a glass of wine or a Corona almost everyday after work. Chills her out and makes her able to deal with me. I mostly skip this level, it just doesn't work for me. I buy beer by the 12-pack and booze by the gallon. I never intend for there to be any left over for the next day. I consider a 6-pack to be one drink. Moving on!
LEVEL THREE: Going out for drinks. This is always fun for me. Usually involves a meal or nachos. I meet up with at least one or two people, have a few beers and see what happens. Good conversation, good friends, and good times. I consider this the T. Finn/ Dan Mc. level, with the absolute danger of it turning into a higher level. This only stays at this level if there are our significant others with us. Allie, K-Finn and Shal serve as the "Voices of Reason". No Jamesons, no Jaeger, and don't start discussing fist-fights you had when you were 16. Keep it cordial and lady-friendly. If we start discussing terrorism or foreign policy, the ladies light their hair on fire and have the bar evacuated. Everyone goes home, hopefully for hot, steamy sex. DISCLAIMER: This level does not include watching sporting events, Friday or Saturday nights, or having more than four men show up (Jag doesn't count until he gets his balls back). This is more of a Monday through Thursday level. Fun but harmless.
LEVEL FOUR: Home drinking. One of my personal favorites! Simply putting on a strong load, maybe smoking a little pot, and having free rein to smoke cigarettes until my lungs bleed. Watching bad TV or movies while sitting around in my underwear or nude (tantalizing touch for my lady readers!). Shal enjoys this cause I'm in a great mood and very open to any conversation. "You wouldn't believe what happened at work today...", tell me all about it. I'm knocking back rum and cokes and just glad to be alive. When I'm in a bad mood, I drink and feel better. When I'm in a good mood, I drink and feel great. She usually goes to bed around ten and I stay up until around two in the morning watching Comedy Central. She's content and I'm hammered watching South Park until I pass out. A great example would be this last Friday, I caught up with the entire season of Contender from 11:00-2:00am. I was drunk but coherent and can actually tell you what is going on with that show. Smoked roughly a pack of smokes in that three hour period. Luckily, I was able to keep my throat cool by downing thirteen vodka and Sprites. Good clean fun.
LEVEL FIVE: Going out for drinks then coming home and getting stoned with more cocktails. Dangerous combination here. I've been out drinking and having a great time, Shallon somehow lures me home, and I'm convinced the night is just getting started. It's much like Level Four, only I wake up on the couch/bathroom floor. Plus, I don't remember shit of what I was watching on TV. I often try and get people back to my place for this level. Mr. Martinez often falls for this gag. He's always up for a little extra partying. Got to watch his hands around Shal though, she's easy and he's got that smooth Cuban charm. Fucker. I'm joking, he's always a complete gentleman, often turning down my offers of gay sex. Speaking of gay sex, Rico. He is the only person I consider capable of trumping me on this level. I've woken up with this bad boy in some strange situations. "Oh, the bars are closing? Well, I got 30 beers and a bunch of Puerto Rican rum. And weed. I'm not ready for bed!" Yeah, woken up on his floor more than my fair share of times. Only kidding about the gay thing, as far as you know. This is an extremely bad level for a work night.
LEVEL SIX: Partying! Oh yeah, this is the shit! Nothing social about this, though I'm often in social situations during this level. Drinking for the pure joy of getting drunk. This includes parties, football games, and any kind of event in which someone was stupid enough to invite me. In my own defense, I'd like to point out that my bad habits are rather Kennedy-like. I like to get drunk and flirt with hot women. The list of female friends I hit on is endless. Every Summer I have a new victim. We'll start from most recent: Lauren, can't even begin to tell you the stories she and I have shared. No holds barred conversation. Only girl I know that can make ME blush. I'll play a goof on her and she always one-ups me. Plus, she likes to watch horrible TV and doesn't give me shit about smoking in the house. Of course, that is because she is also smoking and stoned out of her tree. I think my favorite moment with her had to be watching local Public Broadcasting religious programming and rolling on the floor laughing. I'm not talking the exaggerated "ROFL" laughing, I mean literally, we both fell off our seats and were fucking laughing. On like a Monday night. Huge props. The summer before that was Laura, of Staten Island fame. The girl treated me like a science project: Ignored my sinister leering and tried to convince me I was sober enough to go out. "Dr. Frankenstein, Jay is ready!" The year before that one was Tony. Tight Hungarian buns, sunglasses, and he could surf! The shit of my dreams! Can't believe I never laid that pipe. Or did I? Prior to this was what I like to call "The Johnson Sister Years". I guess the most recent was Christina. Didn't get to spend much down time with her (eg. Monday-Wednesday), but still was shamelessly hitting on her every chance I got. I guess I got to go with the pot brownies from K's party when I was not allowed to look at Shal. Christina was winning some kind of gambling game and pronounced herself Queen. Trust me on this one, if it's not Freddy Mercury, and someone is proclaiming themselves Queen, just go with it. Wish I had a beach house story to tell here, but I like having my balls attached to my body. You simply don't fuck with someone who is not afraid to refer to herself as "The Queen". Then there was Denise. Holds a special place in my heart. I feel like I watched her grow up. Party girl to married and responsible. Best laugh in the group: loud, uninhibited, and always ready. Never failed to make me feel good, laughing at my stupid jokes and never giving me shit about being a drunken disaster. The list is so long. I know I'm forgetting Karen, Amy, Jen C. and T., Kelly,...Love all you ladies. Especially when you are in bikinis. Yummy!
I don't see how this makes me a bad person. I have no rape convictions, I try not to drive drunk, and I've somehow managed to maintain a ten year relationship. Fuck, I'm married! Granted I'm married to Shal, who can only be described as a "Drunkard's Dream", an enabler, or a saint, depending on who you ask. Luckiest man in the world? You betcha!
LEVEL SEVEN: Special event drinking. This entails bachelor parties, Super Bowls, and weddings. Oddly enough, this level may not be quite as reckless as level six, but definitely is better than level eight. There is a purpose to this partying, so I usually don't black out too early. If I'm looking forward to something, I tend to maintain my head while drinking at an out-of-control rate. I'm not saying I'm not going to make a jackass of myself, I assure you that I will. It's just more of an entertaining, "I want the spotlight on ME!" kind of jackass. I generally get a better review for this level than level six. More memorable, more photos. Side note: This level often involves illegal stimulants, doesn't make me a bad person. More of a multiple substance abuser. I just wish I was more subtle about that aspect.
LEVEL EIGHT: Shore house drinking. Truelly an ugly level. I won't say this level is restricted to the beach, but it manifests itself more often there than anywhere else. It is characterized by starting early. By early, I mean as soon as I wake up. It ends with me falling down and sleeping wherever the fuck I landed. I always feel regret and shame about this level, but I get over it quickly and start again. I tend to carry on and make ridiculous statements at this level, constantly going for a laugh. Of course I often violate all social etiquette and insult many. Most recently and famously, I began referring to a stranger as "Stiffler's mom" and then telling her boyfriend, "That's disgusting" about the idea of sleeping with her. Not something to put on my resume, but it seemed to please the masses. I keep having Chris Brown yell at me, "That's disgusting" in his best imitation of my slurred Boston accent. (This pleases me in a secret kind of way.) Followed by much laughter and cheers. Apperently I just said what everyone was thinking. Good for me, bad for my conscious. I can't look Stiffler's Mom in the eye anymore, but she annoys the shit out of me anyway. Fuck it and her. Wait, I just remembered I kept calling her boyfriend "Jonny Drama" the entire night as well. I'm laughing my ass off right now and feeling terrible about it at the same time. I guess that is the best way to describe myself. Drunken asshole who occasionally fucks up in the right way. I should have been born a Kennedy.
Cheers motherfuckers!

U.N. At Bradley Beach

In a shocking development, the United Nations has decided to attempt to mediate the many disputes occurring at 103 Newark St. First on the agenda was the tiny nation of Columbia. While a newcomer to the UN, Columbia proved to be one the most volatile and unstable nations to join this austere body in recent history. She immediately went on the offensive against the established members and even attempted to bring in outside rogue nations (covered in tattoos). Her attacks on Ireland were early and often, but largely ignored as Ireland was hammered and notoriously thick-skinned after a long history of such insults. Lacking the desired retaliatory strike from Ireland, Columbia set her sights on Little Italy. As the Italians are notoriously hot tempered, the game was on. Columbia proved to be too unstable, however, to mount a successful attack. She repeatedly requested that Italy attack her using ground troops, which Italy refused to do, sticking purely with strategic air strikes to the heart of Columbia. Columbia grew so incensed by this strategy that she requested the assistance of outside inspectors. Oddly, these inspectors responded to Columbia's unfounded accusations and invaded the UN. While this caused much consternation, the inspectors searched the UN. While the UN smelled strongly of banned substances, the inspectors found no evidence to support Columbia's wild claims and departed. Alas, Columbia was forced into a full retreat from the UN grounds, much to the delight of the UN. Despite her departure, Columbia continues to badger the notoriously neutral England for redress of the situation. England grew weary of Columbia's ongoing complaints and threats, and enlisted the assistance of Ireland and Isreal. Isreal approached the situation with great diplomacy and attempted to negotiate a settlement. A vote by the security council of the UN indicated that South Korea, Staten Island, and Isreal felt that Columbia should receive a negotiated settlement. However, in true Irish fashion, and with Little Italy's full support, Ireland used it's veto power and informed Columbia she could go fuck herself. The matter remains under review.
Next on the agenda: Ireland is drafting a resolution to address the recent conflict between Germany and Isreal. Resolution remains in limbo as Ireland fears getting it's ass kicked.
Cheers multi-national motherfuckers.

Learn to Swim 6/20/06

I have been neglecting this little forum, so I'm just posting some random shit. First up is Volleyball. Darren, Jen C's boyfriend, is trying to start up a league in Hoboken for the summer. It's on Wednesday nights and I'm working, which is a bummer. However, I may try to switch shifts if this thing gets off the ground. I am fully supporting his efforts but am not going to post his # here out of discretion. (Read discretion as, "I get the sense he may be wanted by the law.") More importantly, I really find it funny he has to still identify himself as "Jen C's boyfriend." I'm sure I would know his last name if I saw it, but if he showed up here today and put a gun to my head, not sure I could come up with it. I'd probably just start sobbing and screaming that he looks like Chris Cornell and praising his work with AudioSlave. Darren is somewhat famous in this space as he is responsible for the photo of me homeless trying to trade my writing for beer. So Darren, if it's safe, post another comment where aspiring volleyballers can contact you.
We've all had to identify ourselves in terms of someone else before. "I'm John's Friend", "I'm Mary's son", and "we met at the gay bar". Or even by your title, "The dentist", "your lawyer", "The tran-sexual", and "the rapist". Interesting side note, I've always watched Law and Order, and they are always talking about the Emergency Room doing a "rape kit". I learned today that a "rape kit" is a test to see if someone has been raped. All this time I thought it was odd an Emergency Room would have a kit containing a bottle of choloroform, a ski mask, and duct tape. Cha-cha-cha!
Second thing I'd like to mention is that they opened a Dave & Buster's on 42nd St. Shal and I went there last evening and had a good time. It's like $19 for an entree and a $10 game card. I'd recommend the Blackened Chicken, though Shal's burger was good, too. Cool games if you are into that kind of thing, plus Happy Hour is 4:30-7:30 with half-price girly drinks. I highly recommend it if you work in the city and looking for a little fun on way to Port Authority. I'd suggest we all get together for this, but I don't really like most of you, so fuck off. Joking, I'm sure most of you see more than enough me at shore that midweek stuff would be overkill.
The final thing that has been going on involves a crazy bitch that we are trying to get out of the shore house. I can't even get into it, but it looks like we'll be buying her out. I'd like to write more, but I think I'll wait to see how this all turns out. Plus I got to check with Shal and make sure she doesn't have a link to this. Oh, I just re-read that and it sounds like Crazy Bitch could be anyone. It's not, her name is Fanny, she's new of HobokenI or something. Shal interviewed her...Shal is an extremely nice, wonderful woman. Judge of character? Not so much, but you all know that already if you've ever met me.
Cheers Motherfuckers!

Earth Day

Yesterday was Earth Day, so as always I spent the day burning tires and pouring used motor oil down storm drains. Earth Day is just one of those days that has always bugged me. I went to college at UNH (New Hampshire) and it was simply filthy with hippies. It was so bad they almost converted me. There was even a guy we called Freedom John, I think, I just remember the Freedom part from the old "Freedom Rock" ablum they used to advertise constantly on late night TV. Anyway, this freak once yelled at me for flicking a cigarette butt on the ground. "Dude, that's not cool! I always put mine out and carry an empty container to put them in, you know?"
I was high and drinking, "That's great, pick up mine for me too, DUDE!" Needless to say he nor any of his group liked me. Fuck 'em, I didn't like them either. I was just trying to fuck the chicks they hung out with. Something about hippy chicks, free love...you get the idea.
I don't really like most holidays, except for the fact I don't have to work. Earth day is the worst to me because it has a politically correct theme with no historical precedent. I'd research the history of the holiday but I don't really give a fuck. Maybe the UN started it? I used to know back at UNH because it was force fed to us, luckily I've blocked all that out now. Or maybe it's because a solid 10% of my life is spent in an alcoholic black out. Either way, I'm happier not remembering.
I'll close with the shortest joke I know, "A baby seal walks into a club..."
Cheers Motherfuckers!