You may have heard this rant before, but I hate the term "Bucket List". Maybe it's because it's too kitschy for my taste, or more likely because taking the term from a Hollywood buddy movie rubs me the wrong way. But whatever you call it, it's always good to have goals.
Not too long ago I wrote a (mostly) joking list of Nerd-things to do before I die. And I have made lists like this in the past. One of my big goals was to jump off of a waterfall. In truth, I didn't exactly do that one, but I did climb 40 feet up a cliff of solid lava rock in Hawaii and then jump off of it into the Pacific Ocean. I am never doing that again, so I'm crossing the waterfall one off my list. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Monday, June 27, 2011
I Want to Poll Your Twitter
I have sort of a love/ hate relationship with twitter.
I love it, but I think it's completely moronic.
Frankly the idea that everyone needs to know every little thought we have is stupid. None of us are that wise or that interesting. When I decided to give twitter a try, I didn't know what to do with it. Why would anyone want to follow me? I subscribe to the Groucho Marx theory of connectivity. I wouldn't belong to any club that would have me as a member.
And that's when it hit me. I decided to make a point of how ridiculous twitter was. Most people try to be as "insightful" and interesting as possible in order to gain followers. My goal then became to be as offensive and unloved as possible to lose followers. It was an experiment. I'm fascinated by people's reactions. I wanted to know what I had to do to get someone to drop me.
Unfortunately it's had an adverse reaction. The worse I got, the more followers I gained.
The problem is I use twitter for business, personal and hedonistic reasons. And honestly, even my actual friends have admitted to wanting to or in some case choosing to delete me. It amuses me when random followers delete me. Not so with the people I actually talk to.
So now I'm thinking of having two accounts. One private, one for all my nonsense.
Should I do it? Or should I just say fuck 'em if they can't take a joke?
I love it, but I think it's completely moronic.
Frankly the idea that everyone needs to know every little thought we have is stupid. None of us are that wise or that interesting. When I decided to give twitter a try, I didn't know what to do with it. Why would anyone want to follow me? I subscribe to the Groucho Marx theory of connectivity. I wouldn't belong to any club that would have me as a member.
And that's when it hit me. I decided to make a point of how ridiculous twitter was. Most people try to be as "insightful" and interesting as possible in order to gain followers. My goal then became to be as offensive and unloved as possible to lose followers. It was an experiment. I'm fascinated by people's reactions. I wanted to know what I had to do to get someone to drop me.
Unfortunately it's had an adverse reaction. The worse I got, the more followers I gained.
The problem is I use twitter for business, personal and hedonistic reasons. And honestly, even my actual friends have admitted to wanting to or in some case choosing to delete me. It amuses me when random followers delete me. Not so with the people I actually talk to.
So now I'm thinking of having two accounts. One private, one for all my nonsense.
Should I do it? Or should I just say fuck 'em if they can't take a joke?
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Prelude
This story contains some graphic, possibly offensive imagery. I'm warning you beforehand. Proceed with caution.
Sully was having a bad day.
It started when the vending machine at the motel ran out of cigarettes. If there was ever a day when he needed a smoke, this was it. But that was Sully’s life in a nutshell; never a smoke when he needed one.
And then there was the rampant sense of paranoia. Maybe it was the lack of nicotine, or maybe it was the all day Judge Judy marathon that he was forced to watch because the receiver was busted on the TV. Something about that old bitch made him nervous. It was her forehead, Sully supposed. Something about her sweaty brow.
Sweaty was an operative word with him that day, because of course the AC was busted. It was a cheap “no tell mo-tel”, so the inconvenience was almost to be expected. But it was necessity. Sully like he privacy that such places of ill repute provided. You could literally sign your name Janet Jackson on the register so long as you paid cash. And the toothless hick behind the counter would just smile and say “Thank you Ms Jackson.” But honestly the main reason he was there was because it was cheap. The sedatives had cost quite a bit thanks to the rising costs of healthcare, and he was low on cash this week. It was literally a choice between eating and air conditioning.
So yeah, being cooped up in the motel with no smokes, no AC and only Judge Forehead to occupy him was making Sully a might squirrely. Of course there was always the girl. Damn she was hot. But he’d already had a few go’s on her. And while Sully was, he supposed, quite a Man... in the end he was still a man, and needed some time to recharge. And anyway, the mid-day heat would have made the act unbearable. She was dirty enough as it is.
It was about the time a man kicked in the door that Sully realized he wasn’t all that paranoid. He was smart. And a smart man knows when he’s about to lose.
Of course someone found him. Sully had known it would happen for weeks, as much as he tired to convince himself otherwise. He’d made a mess of the last one. He’d broken the rules. “When you break the rules, you have to pay.”; his mother always told him. And so Sully always lived by the rules... well, the ones he’d set for himself. But that day he couldn’t help himself. She was so damned pretty. She was a cute little tomboy with over-alls, pigtails and light-blonde hair. The pig tails had done it for him. He got overly excited, and when he was choking her.. well. Her blue eyes ran bloodshot as the life choked out of her. When he was done, Sully wondered if she’d enjoyed it as much as he had.
Unfortunately, Sully wasn’t used to killing. She was his first; a fact of which, Sully thought the little bitch should feel honored in whatever pit of Hell she found herself in. Unprepared as she was, all he could think to do was pour some bleach on her and dump the body in the river.
He should have laid low and let things cool down for a while. And he’d planned to. That is, until he saw this one. She was even prettier than the last one, and he knew he had to have her. Red hair and a soccer uniform. Red hair! The rarest of beasts! What man could resist? None, he knew. A few drugs and a room later, and the bitch was raring to go. And this time, he would take special care to control himself. No more breaking the rules, no matter how hot the piece. Not that it mattered now.
It might have even been worth it to kill her.
The door damn near exploded when the man kicked it in. In fact he’d kicked it in half, the top barely hanging by it’s hinges. Sully had expected cops, but he clearly wasn’t. Cops don’t wear black Armani and red silk ties. If it weren’t for the fact he was built like a professional wrestler, Sully might have assumed he was a business man. He didn’t even have a gun. But honestly, he clearly didn’t need one.
“Don’t. Move.” And Sully didn’t.
The Suit looked over at the girl, unconscious but breathing. See? He wasn’t all that bad! He didn’t kill this one. And the last one was an accident. They would all see. But he just kept staring silently at the girl for a long time. The silence was painful. But when the Suit finally turned his eyes to Sully, it was worse.
Sully could tell from the look in his eyes that he didn’t understand. Fucking puritanical fascist. The Suit couldn’t see the beauty of what Sully was doing. He was just showing them the Truth. They were all whores, even when they’re young. He was just giving them what they wanted. So he’d killed one... so what? In the end it’s just another dead whore. What’s one more?
He’d tried to explain to the brute what he was doing. Sully had even offered him a turn on the girl, which he felt was more than fair. What kind of man turns down a red head? Probably gay, Sully figured. The offer only seemed to enrage the Suit even more. He’d had it right the first time... clearly a fascist.
“Mother FUCKER.” Sully thought that was uncalled for. Only a simpleton resorted to name calling. And anyway, he’d never fucked an old one.
The Suit grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall. The force of Sully’s body hitting it knocked a painting of a sail boat onto the floor, glass shattering everywhere. His hands were massive and strong as steel, but clean and manicured. His grip was steel as he choked the life out of Sully. He struggled. Kicked and swatted with all of his might, but to no avail. For all his effort, he hadn’t even managed to rip the Armani. Sully’s face was flushed red as the man slowly crushed his windpipe. Blooded flowed from his nose as if it were toothpaste being squeezed out of a tube. He tried to scream, but nothing came out. There were police sirens in the background, but they wouldn’t arrive in time. It seemed to him there truly was no such thing as justice. Finally after much struggle and a world of pain, Sully stopped moving. The last thing he’d seen was the look in the man’s eyes. It wasn’t satisfaction; it was pure, unfiltered hate. And that, Sully supposed, is what a monster looked like.
The man let his body fall to the floor like dead weight. The girl was unconscious, but still breathing. Perhaps she wouldn’t even remember what the bastard had done to her. He’d thanked God for small favors, if God could even be said to be involved in such affairs. He went to the bathroom to wash his hands and splash some water on his face.
The boys in blue were about a minute away from busting in on him and the dead body. So he sat away from the girl in a chair by the window. He lit his last cigarette and took a long, slow puff; blowing it into the air. Vincent was having a bad day.
The story is called Monster. It may or may not be a the prelude to a larger story starring Vincent. I apologize as to the graphic nature of it, but that is essentially the point. Obviously I did not intend to glorify child molestation, which I personally believe deserves the death penalty. I would appreciate any feedback as to how you reacted and how far I went.
Sully was having a bad day.
It started when the vending machine at the motel ran out of cigarettes. If there was ever a day when he needed a smoke, this was it. But that was Sully’s life in a nutshell; never a smoke when he needed one.
And then there was the rampant sense of paranoia. Maybe it was the lack of nicotine, or maybe it was the all day Judge Judy marathon that he was forced to watch because the receiver was busted on the TV. Something about that old bitch made him nervous. It was her forehead, Sully supposed. Something about her sweaty brow.
Sweaty was an operative word with him that day, because of course the AC was busted. It was a cheap “no tell mo-tel”, so the inconvenience was almost to be expected. But it was necessity. Sully like he privacy that such places of ill repute provided. You could literally sign your name Janet Jackson on the register so long as you paid cash. And the toothless hick behind the counter would just smile and say “Thank you Ms Jackson.” But honestly the main reason he was there was because it was cheap. The sedatives had cost quite a bit thanks to the rising costs of healthcare, and he was low on cash this week. It was literally a choice between eating and air conditioning.
So yeah, being cooped up in the motel with no smokes, no AC and only Judge Forehead to occupy him was making Sully a might squirrely. Of course there was always the girl. Damn she was hot. But he’d already had a few go’s on her. And while Sully was, he supposed, quite a Man... in the end he was still a man, and needed some time to recharge. And anyway, the mid-day heat would have made the act unbearable. She was dirty enough as it is.
It was about the time a man kicked in the door that Sully realized he wasn’t all that paranoid. He was smart. And a smart man knows when he’s about to lose.
Of course someone found him. Sully had known it would happen for weeks, as much as he tired to convince himself otherwise. He’d made a mess of the last one. He’d broken the rules. “When you break the rules, you have to pay.”; his mother always told him. And so Sully always lived by the rules... well, the ones he’d set for himself. But that day he couldn’t help himself. She was so damned pretty. She was a cute little tomboy with over-alls, pigtails and light-blonde hair. The pig tails had done it for him. He got overly excited, and when he was choking her.. well. Her blue eyes ran bloodshot as the life choked out of her. When he was done, Sully wondered if she’d enjoyed it as much as he had.
Unfortunately, Sully wasn’t used to killing. She was his first; a fact of which, Sully thought the little bitch should feel honored in whatever pit of Hell she found herself in. Unprepared as she was, all he could think to do was pour some bleach on her and dump the body in the river.
He should have laid low and let things cool down for a while. And he’d planned to. That is, until he saw this one. She was even prettier than the last one, and he knew he had to have her. Red hair and a soccer uniform. Red hair! The rarest of beasts! What man could resist? None, he knew. A few drugs and a room later, and the bitch was raring to go. And this time, he would take special care to control himself. No more breaking the rules, no matter how hot the piece. Not that it mattered now.
It might have even been worth it to kill her.
The door damn near exploded when the man kicked it in. In fact he’d kicked it in half, the top barely hanging by it’s hinges. Sully had expected cops, but he clearly wasn’t. Cops don’t wear black Armani and red silk ties. If it weren’t for the fact he was built like a professional wrestler, Sully might have assumed he was a business man. He didn’t even have a gun. But honestly, he clearly didn’t need one.
“Don’t. Move.” And Sully didn’t.
The Suit looked over at the girl, unconscious but breathing. See? He wasn’t all that bad! He didn’t kill this one. And the last one was an accident. They would all see. But he just kept staring silently at the girl for a long time. The silence was painful. But when the Suit finally turned his eyes to Sully, it was worse.
Sully could tell from the look in his eyes that he didn’t understand. Fucking puritanical fascist. The Suit couldn’t see the beauty of what Sully was doing. He was just showing them the Truth. They were all whores, even when they’re young. He was just giving them what they wanted. So he’d killed one... so what? In the end it’s just another dead whore. What’s one more?
He’d tried to explain to the brute what he was doing. Sully had even offered him a turn on the girl, which he felt was more than fair. What kind of man turns down a red head? Probably gay, Sully figured. The offer only seemed to enrage the Suit even more. He’d had it right the first time... clearly a fascist.
“Mother FUCKER.” Sully thought that was uncalled for. Only a simpleton resorted to name calling. And anyway, he’d never fucked an old one.
The Suit grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall. The force of Sully’s body hitting it knocked a painting of a sail boat onto the floor, glass shattering everywhere. His hands were massive and strong as steel, but clean and manicured. His grip was steel as he choked the life out of Sully. He struggled. Kicked and swatted with all of his might, but to no avail. For all his effort, he hadn’t even managed to rip the Armani. Sully’s face was flushed red as the man slowly crushed his windpipe. Blooded flowed from his nose as if it were toothpaste being squeezed out of a tube. He tried to scream, but nothing came out. There were police sirens in the background, but they wouldn’t arrive in time. It seemed to him there truly was no such thing as justice. Finally after much struggle and a world of pain, Sully stopped moving. The last thing he’d seen was the look in the man’s eyes. It wasn’t satisfaction; it was pure, unfiltered hate. And that, Sully supposed, is what a monster looked like.
The man let his body fall to the floor like dead weight. The girl was unconscious, but still breathing. Perhaps she wouldn’t even remember what the bastard had done to her. He’d thanked God for small favors, if God could even be said to be involved in such affairs. He went to the bathroom to wash his hands and splash some water on his face.
The boys in blue were about a minute away from busting in on him and the dead body. So he sat away from the girl in a chair by the window. He lit his last cigarette and took a long, slow puff; blowing it into the air. Vincent was having a bad day.
The story is called Monster. It may or may not be a the prelude to a larger story starring Vincent. I apologize as to the graphic nature of it, but that is essentially the point. Obviously I did not intend to glorify child molestation, which I personally believe deserves the death penalty. I would appreciate any feedback as to how you reacted and how far I went.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Riding Motorcycles with My Old Man
My earliest memories of my father is of him putting me on the back of his motorcycle and taking me for rides. I was probably 4 or 5. Yes, people really do that. Though to be honest, I can't imagine why my Mother let him put me on there. But he did, and I loved it.
Bikes get in your blood. It's the closest thing I have to a heritage. And when it comes right down to it, bikes are the only thing I have in common with my Father. You see, my Dad really only loves two things: fishing and riding. To tell you the truth, the fishing is probably his one true love.
Like motorcycles, he tried to instill that love of fishing in me as well. It didn't take. He tried. But I hate Louisiana. I hate the humidity. And though I love boats I cannot stand sitting quietly on the water in the Louisiana heat for hours waiting for something to volunteer to be eaten. (Though I will damn sure eat it when it does.)
When I was still too young to have clear memories, he made one last attempt to make his son a fisherman. He told me if I caught the biggest fish, he'd give me 5 whole dollars. (Look, it was the 80's and I was six.) It wasn't much of a bet, as I'd never actually caught anything. Maybe it was a miracle, or maybe my father pulled a fast one on me, but on that day I caught a huge redfish. In my mind's eye it was the size of a barracuda, though it was probably just a decent sized redfish. When we got home I declared that I caught my fish, I got my five dollars and I was officially retired from fishing.
I'm certain that disappointed him. It's natural for a man to want to connect with his son on the things he loves. I think it was very evident from a young age that he wouldn't be able to have that with me.
Except there's motorcycles.
Yesterday, for Father's Day I took my Dad to lunch. We don't go to restaurants much. He likes take out. But for whatever reason he went along with it. And we got on our bikes and hit the road.
It may seem like nothing to you. Just two guys on bikes; you see it all the time. But for me... it's me and my Dad spending the closest we have to quality time. I don't like football or drinking or fishing. But I love riding.
He lead out and stayed slow. My bike has been having constant problems and I think he wanted to be sure I could keep up. And of course I can't keep up with him. He's the real deal. But it's nice to pretend. On the way back home, I decided to take a different route and left him behind. I got about a mile out when I remembered the whole point was to spend time with my Dad and I should have just followed behind him. It was about 3 miles later when I looked in my rear view mirror to see him smiling right behind me.
And when I forgot to shift gears and killed the bike, he was coaching me. Watching over me. We haven't had a whole lot of moments like that. But every once in a while I get to feel like I'm six years old, catching a redfish and I just won five dollars.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Must Love Dicks
I've decided I need a girlfriend, internet. So get to searching.
I believe in honesty, so ladies, allow me to put all my cards on the table.
First, I probably won't be a great boyfriend. But I won't beat you unless you're into it. And if I decide to fuck other chicks, you will absolutely be consulted. At that point you can either leave me or join in. I'd probably be down for either.
I put the toilet seat down after I pee, but I leave my underwear on the floor 10 seconds after I get home. I DO push the undies off to the side though, so you won't step on them.
Cuddling and spooning are absolutely in, but if I give you the thermometer test in the middle of the night (possibly followed by the nipple test if I still can't tell if you're asleep), I don't think you should be mad at me.
If you make out with your dog in front of me, I'm having it put to sleep.
I love tits. And I don't believe in plastic surgery. So if we're together and you have small tits, that's cool. You're perfect (or at least acceptable) just the way you are. But I'm gonna look at other girls' tits. Not my fault; it's in my DNA. So shut the fuck up.
I do not expect sex every time after giving you a massage. If I try to touch your cooter and you're not into it, just say so. However, if I suck your toes, expect to have my cock in your mouth.
Speaking of which... I have an average size penis. If you tell your friends it's small, I reserve the right to kick you in the pussy.
If you talk bad about country music, I will throw you out of a moving vehicle.
I will cook for you. You will not ask me questions when I'm watching Dr Who.
Don't bother asking questions like which one of your friends I would sleep with. The answer is all of them. Even the dumpy one. Because that clown has been in the rodeo a few times.
No, you cannot drive my car. Ever.
I'm sure your father IS a better man that I'll ever be. Or he was before I stole his viagra prescription.
Sometimes a guy just wants to wear high heels and pretty dresses. Leave me be, woman.
I'm fine with watching The Notebook with you. Good movie. But if you try to put that Twilight shit on, I'm making you watch every Schwarzenegger film ever made. Even the one where he's pregnant.
If Robert Redford offers me money, it's going down.
I know where I'm going. If I wanted a navigator, I'd be in the fucking Navy.
I won't be jealous if you want to go party with your friends every once in a while. But if you cheat on me, I'm sending the pictures to your grandmother.
Sometimes I'll forget to open doors for you. It's not a big deal.
Engagements rings are fine. Pre-engagament/ promise rings are horseshit.
Yes you look fat in those jeans. But I still think you're beautiful. You'll know it's true because I haven't left you for your younger sister.
Sometimes I cry at the end of Where the Heart Is. You are not allowed to video tape it and show my friends.
I'm probably not going to like your family. And I expect you to hate mine. So let's change our names and move to New Guinea.
Any intentions of sticking a finger in my ass must be announced beforehand. Don't just shove it in and yell SURPRISE.
Treehuggers need not apply.
SO what do you think ladies? Wanna be my girlfriend? Accepting applications NOW!
Oh, and a little gift to sweeten the deal:
That's right girls. You've just been Big Time Rush'd. Are you in love yet?
I believe in honesty, so ladies, allow me to put all my cards on the table.
First, I probably won't be a great boyfriend. But I won't beat you unless you're into it. And if I decide to fuck other chicks, you will absolutely be consulted. At that point you can either leave me or join in. I'd probably be down for either.
I put the toilet seat down after I pee, but I leave my underwear on the floor 10 seconds after I get home. I DO push the undies off to the side though, so you won't step on them.
Cuddling and spooning are absolutely in, but if I give you the thermometer test in the middle of the night (possibly followed by the nipple test if I still can't tell if you're asleep), I don't think you should be mad at me.
If you make out with your dog in front of me, I'm having it put to sleep.
I love tits. And I don't believe in plastic surgery. So if we're together and you have small tits, that's cool. You're perfect (or at least acceptable) just the way you are. But I'm gonna look at other girls' tits. Not my fault; it's in my DNA. So shut the fuck up.
I do not expect sex every time after giving you a massage. If I try to touch your cooter and you're not into it, just say so. However, if I suck your toes, expect to have my cock in your mouth.
Speaking of which... I have an average size penis. If you tell your friends it's small, I reserve the right to kick you in the pussy.
If you talk bad about country music, I will throw you out of a moving vehicle.
I will cook for you. You will not ask me questions when I'm watching Dr Who.
Don't bother asking questions like which one of your friends I would sleep with. The answer is all of them. Even the dumpy one. Because that clown has been in the rodeo a few times.
No, you cannot drive my car. Ever.
I'm sure your father IS a better man that I'll ever be. Or he was before I stole his viagra prescription.
Sometimes a guy just wants to wear high heels and pretty dresses. Leave me be, woman.
I'm fine with watching The Notebook with you. Good movie. But if you try to put that Twilight shit on, I'm making you watch every Schwarzenegger film ever made. Even the one where he's pregnant.
If Robert Redford offers me money, it's going down.
I know where I'm going. If I wanted a navigator, I'd be in the fucking Navy.
I won't be jealous if you want to go party with your friends every once in a while. But if you cheat on me, I'm sending the pictures to your grandmother.
Sometimes I'll forget to open doors for you. It's not a big deal.
Engagements rings are fine. Pre-engagament/ promise rings are horseshit.
Yes you look fat in those jeans. But I still think you're beautiful. You'll know it's true because I haven't left you for your younger sister.
Sometimes I cry at the end of Where the Heart Is. You are not allowed to video tape it and show my friends.
I'm probably not going to like your family. And I expect you to hate mine. So let's change our names and move to New Guinea.
Any intentions of sticking a finger in my ass must be announced beforehand. Don't just shove it in and yell SURPRISE.
Treehuggers need not apply.
SO what do you think ladies? Wanna be my girlfriend? Accepting applications NOW!
Oh, and a little gift to sweeten the deal:
That's right girls. You've just been Big Time Rush'd. Are you in love yet?
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