Friday, August 26, 2016

US Election 2016

You go to the polls to vote for US president in November.

You hold back vomit as you prepare to color in the dot next to Trump or Clinton.

Suddenly, a guy with a mic pops out and says, "You've been pranked! Here are some real candidates to pick from!"

You jump for joy.

The next moment, you wake up in bed.

The woman sleeping next to you is Hillary Clinton.

Horrified, you run to the bathroom and look in the mirror.

You are Donald Trump.

As you weep, Gary Johnson walks into the room, hands you a bong, and says, "Welcome to the Twilight Zone."

Friday, September 05, 2008

The Random Dialogs: Part Three

Guy 1: Dude, you don’t look so good.
Guy 2: I know. I just got my hair cut.
Guy 1: No, not your hair. I mean you look physically ill.
Guy 2: Yeah, well, the broad that cut my hair had the worst breath on the planet—worse than anyone currently alive or dead.
Guy 1: You mean her breath was worse than a corpse’s breath.
Guy 2: Presumably, yes.
Guy 1: But we’re scumbags, bro. The smell of that black sludge I puked up that one time I drank a bunch of the blue-label Smirnoff vodka didn’t bother you at all. How could some lady’s breath have been terrible enough to make you sick? I mean, you look as if you just ate a bag of abortions from a leper colony dumpster.
Guy 2: Urgh … my lungs feel like the walls of an outhouse resting atop a tallow vat.
Guy 1: Don’t tell me you’re turning into a big girl, and foul odors are suddenly too much for your dainty lady nose.
Guy 2: I can’t even begin to describe the horror, dude. This stench transcends foul odor. Those Lovecraftian tentacle whisps of mephitic breath assaulted more than my nose. Those noxious, invisible stink tendrils hurt my soul … my soul.
Guy 1: Holy shit. What did this breath smell like?
Guy 2: What did it smell like? You can’t compare this breath to anything currently extant in this realm, dude. Inhaling that filth was like gazing into the abyss. It was gazing back into me, man. The abyss was fucking gazing into me!
Guy 1: Calm down, dipshit.
Guy 2: You just can’t understand.
Guy 1: I’ll try, though, because I’m beyond intrigued. What did this lady look like?
Guy 2: Well, physically she was a petit Vietnamese lady. That, I’m convinced, was only a disguise—a three-dimensional skin tarp, duplicitously masking the unspeakable horrors undulating endlessly into the depths beyond the boundaries of human understanding.
Guy 1: Enough of that metaphysical shit, dude, seriously.
Guy 2: Sorry. But, like I said, my soul has been wounded.
Guy 1: By bad breath? Heh. Pansy.
Guy 2: Take it easy, dick. I’m coming out of shock.
Guy 1: She probably just had some fucked up shit for lunch. You know, like cists scraped from cod cloacae, boiled in garlic broth or something.
Guy 2: I’m telling you, man: smells like that can’t be created. They have to be conjured … summoned or something.
Guy 1: Try to give me some kind of smell to compare it to.
Guy 2: I can’t. I mean, it didn’t smell like anything else. The best I can do is formulate some kind of comparison based on the severity of the odor as opposed to its similarities to common scents with which you’d be familiar.
Guy 1: Wait … what?
Guy 2: Okay, here’s an example: Although it didn’t smell anything like a syphilitic skunk ejaculating liquid Limburger cheese onto a pubic hair fire, I can safely—with a significant amount of presumption, of course—say that it was a far worse smell than that. Again, I must stress that it stank like nothing else I have ever smelled before.
Guy 1: Dude, truffle oil!
Guy 2: What?
Guy 1: My truffle oil precedent. Someone might ask, “What does truffle oil taste and smell like?” And my answer would be, as always, “It tastes and smells like truffle oil.” Truffle oil is a unique experience and can’t be compared to anything else.
Guy 2: Truffle oil sucks and is terrible.
Guy 1: Fuck you. You just have a pedestrian palette.
Guy 2: If by pedestrian you mean averse to the flavors one might find while probing the underside of a Parisian bus seat with his tongue, then, yes, I have a pedestrian palette.
Guy 1: Whatever.
Guy 2: Anyway, her breath was worse than if an aged Russian circus bear puked white pepper into her mouth, and that really obese cat that was on the news recently used her mouth as a litter box for, like, a month.
Guy 1: It was worse than that?
Guy 2: Based on my a posteriori understanding of the component odors present in that description, yeah, it was far gnarlier than that shit.
Guy 1: I’m noticing a recurring theme here. You seem to draw frequently from the animal kingdom when compiling gross smells.
Guy 2: Of course. This smell was entirely inhuman, so it makes perfect sense.
Guy 1: Did it burn your eyes?
Guy 2: It was suffocating my soul, dude. It went far beyond eye-burning. I don’t know if her hair dryer wasn’t working or something, but instead of using it to blow the loose hair from my shoulders, she blew on me with her heinous breath. It was like inhaling glass shards through the tubular offal from a mad cow while a proctologist ham-fistedly jammed a nine-volt battery into my sinuses.
Guy 1: A nine-volt battery?
Guy 2: You know how if you put a nine-volt battery to your tongue it sort of zaps you a little?
Guy 1: Oh yeah. I get it.
Guy 2: This sucks. My scent memory is like some kind of fucked up crime scene now.
Guy 1: Why the hell didn’t you just offer her a breath mint or something?
Guy 2: Yeah, because dropping a urinal mint into the Gangese River is going to make it smell like a Listerine spring on the shores of Lake Arrowhead.
Guy 1: Hey, at least it would have been something.
Guy 2: You’re familiar with the concept of the hopelessly futile, right? Because an Altoid wouldn’t make a shit volcano smell like toothpaste. That’s the definition of futility, homeslice.
Guy 1: And besides that, if you insulted the woman’s breath, she probably would have jammed scissors in your ear or forced you to play Russian Roulette with her refugee uncles in the alley behind the store. I saw The Deer Hunter. I know what’s up.
Guy 2: I’d be more concerned she’d fuck up my haircut.
Guy 1: Where’d you get your hair cut again?
Guy 2: Supercuts.
Guy1: And you wonder why you had a shitty experience? Way to go, tightwad. Why don’t you drop an extra five bucks and get a proper haircut instead of going to So-So Cuts all the goddamned time.
Guy 2: I seriously doubt that five dollars is all that separates a face full of freshly milked elephant seal flatus from a quality haircut.
Guy 1: Whatever, dude. Why don’t you go take a shower or something—wash some of the shame off of yourself. You’ve got the facial expression of a rape victim.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

The Random Dialogs: Part Two

Guy 1: What is it with women?
Guy 2: You mean, like, in general?
Guy 1: No. I mean like how they always refer to a boner as a hard-on when they’re trying to sound all sexy right before they blow you. You know?
Guy 2: No, actually. I’ve never found myself in that situation.
Guy 1: Heh. Fag.
Guy 2: Shut up, asshole. I am not.
Guy 1: Anyway, yeah, it’s like when they’re trying to sound all sexy they call your woody a hard-on, as if that’s somehow the inherently erotic term for your erect penis.
Guy 2: This has happened to you a lot?
Guy 1: Oh yeah, totally. Pretty much, like, every single time. And, of course, in the thousands of pornos I’ve seen.
Guy 2: Maybe all of those pornos were written by the same guy.
Guy 1: That’s a valid hypothesis; however, as I just said, it always happens in real life, too.
Guy 2: Pardon me if I find it difficult to believe you’ve been raking in blowjobs these last few months.
Guy 1: Hey, you don’t know. Alright, pal?
Guy 2: Please, continue. Because, seriously, I have no idea where you’re going with this—never mind what triggered this bizarre conversation.
Guy 1: Well, I was watching the Food Network just now, when I suddenly remembered how much I love it when chicks blow me, yet, at the same time, I was thinking how much I hate women because they’re stupid.
Guy 2: And that triggered your memory of their unusually consistent way of referring to boners just before they put them in their mouths.
Guy 1: Yeah, basically. Come to think of it, maybe I—hell, all men—like BJs so much because it’s the one time women stop saying stupid shit for, like, five seconds without having their jaws wired shut.
Guy 2: From when they fell down all of those stairs and then ran into the door?
Guy 1: Exactly. Anyway, I don’t know what they have against words like boner, but they always seem to use hard-on instead. Or cock. Sometimes they use the word cock, but then they sound all medical. Seriously, what’s wrong with boner?
Guy 1: I don’t know. It’s not a very graceful word. Like, I suppose no matter how breathy a woman says that word it still sounds like she’s referencing a mistake her drunk uncle made at the last family reunion.
Guy 2: So? A boner isn’t supposed to be graceful. It’s just a stupid piece of engorged meat. It doesn’t even do anything. I mean, maybe if it fucked the ladies for you—had some moving parts, a piston, a dimmer switch—then they could church it up a little. It’s like an idiot memo got sent out in sound waves only women can hear.
Guy 1: I suppose such a thoughtless redundancy can really spoil the mood.
Guy 2: Yeah! It’s like, for once, I wish a woman would say something like, “Just lay back while I try to wrap my head around your boner.” Or maybe even, “Hold still while I spread my face on your stiffy.”
Guy 1: That’s all class.
Guy 2: Women are just unimaginative, I guess.
Guy 1: Well, at least they don’t seem to mind blowing you.
Guy 2: Dude, you know what it’s called when you split a chicken open to prepare it for cooking? Spatchcock!
Guy 1: Really?
Guy 2: Hell yeah! How awesome is that shit?
Guy 1: That is pretty funny.

Sunday, August 03, 2008

The Random Dialogs: Part One

Guy 1: So, did you watch the Star Wars trilogy I let you borrow?
Guy 2: Dude, you didn’t LET me borrow them, you essentially forced me to take them home and watch them over the weekend. Seriously, it was like the crappiest homework assignment I’ve ever had.
Guy 1: I guess you didn’t like the movies, then?
Guy 2: Of course not. They were goddamned terrible.
Guy 1: Oh, why? Because the effects were crappy? It was the 70s, man. You can’t dismiss the greatness of the classics just because the special effects are archaic.
Guy 2: The effects had nothing to do with it. It’s actually kind of refreshing to see cheesy old-school effects from time to time. Unfortunately, you had to buy the remastered trilogy. Really, dude? I know next to nothing about the Star Wars universe, yet even I felt like I was getting kicked in the dick by a sniggering George Lucas when in the end of the third movie Hayden Christensen’s ghost was standing there instead of the original guy.
Guy 1: Just what did you hate so much?
Guy 2: It was just the whole thing. It was … it was fucking terrible.
Guy 1: No way! Give me one example.
Guy 2: Okay, right from the very beginning: “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.” Of course the galaxy is far, far away—it’s another galaxy. The closest galaxy to us is literally millions of light years away, for fuck’s sake! It’s like George Lucas thinks we’re all a bunch of assholes or something.
Guy 1: You’re saying Lucas purposely insulted his audience with a redundancy he thought they were too stupid to catch? What if it was just an accident?
Guy 2: If it was an accidental redundancy, then Lucas is the asshole. What kind of moron writes an entire movie about space without realizing the blatant, brain-fuckingly stupid redundancy in the opening line of the film? If he’s not being insulting, he’s just being lazy.
Guy 1: Dude, you’re thinking about this way too much.
Guy 2: You wanted an example, so I gave you one. It’s a big pile of fucking stupid from the beginning all the way to the end. And how can you say I’m putting too much thought into this? When you Star Wars fags obsess about the movie, blowing nerd loads all over each other’s Boba Fett avatars on the message boards, it’s all accolades and cheetos dust-coated ass-patting.
Guy 1: That’s totally different.
Guy 2: Sure it is. Urg. I feel like a mouth-breathing ultra-virgin just for discussing this shit right now.
Guy 1: Well, at least admit that Darth Vader was a total badass.
Guy 2: He was a pussy. A big, gay pussy smothered in sissy sauce.
Guy 1: How can you even say that? He strangled people without even touching them!

Guy 2: He probably didn't want to break a nail.
Guy 1: Well, what about …
Guy 2: Jedi—pussies. Dark side—pussies. Boba Fett, a guy who died because he fell into a hole even though he was wearing a goddamned jetpack—pussy. The Force, Jabba, ewoks—gay, gay, gay. What the fuck ever.
Guy 1: Come on now!
Guy 2: Seriously. What’s up with those movies? Like, if there were a special feature on the DVDs where you could watch Lucas directing as the movies were being filmed, it’d just be him sitting on a barstool with a bullhorn, screaming “Gayer!” after every take.
Guy 1: I’m going to ignore all of that. Is there nothing you liked at all about the trilogy?
Guy 2: Yeah, I liked it when Darth Vader was swashbuckling with Gandalf, and Gandalf was all, “If you leave me now, you take away the biggest part of me.” Then he teleported into space, went all Super Saiyan, and destroyed the Death Star and a whole bunch of those bad-guy space ships that look like photovoltaic ping-pong balls with a giant hadoken.
Guy 1: What the fuck are you talking about?

Guy 2: It’s adorable how you Star Wars fags get more worked up about inaccuracy than downright shit-talking.

Tuesday, April 01, 2008

Interesting MM Quotes from His Editor

Morb has been very occupied with work as of late, and, in order to create the illusion of activity on this blog, asked me to post something. I asked him what, exactly, he’d like me to post, and I believe his exact words were, “I don’t know. Fuckin’ something, stupid.”

Since none of you, his readers, will ever get to meet him personally (be grateful, very grateful), I thought it might be kind of interesting to post some things that I’ve heard him say while interacting with people on a day-to-day basis. Yes, he really hates having to deal with people, but he’s accepted the fact that, short of growing a beard and living in a cave, he’s never going to escape the human interaction modern life demands. Also, because anything he’s written but decided not to post on this blog is utterly useless and unreadable, posting a few of his more coherent quotes was an easy way for me to fulfill my contractual duties with minimal effort.

Because Morb has resigned himself to the fact that he can’t escape dealing with people, he’s completely stopped censoring himself in any way. I mean, honestly, he just doesn’t care what he says to people; it’s like he has no indecency filter. While nearly everything he says is terribly hurtful, much of it is also very funny—or at least he thinks it is (as his editor, I sometimes agree). I was present for many of the following gems, some of them he text-messaged to me right after they happened (often prefaced by, “Hey, you’ll never guess what I just said to this retard who was bugging me”), and other phrases I learned of indirectly from the offended people at whom he initially spat them. The parenthetical italicizations are my simple situational explanations for the quotes. Enjoy … or don’t. I don’t really care as long as Morb agrees that I’ve done my job and lets my kitten, Mr. Camew (Get it? Camus + mew [kitten sound] = Camew. Adorable, no?), live one more day.

(To an annoyingly festive coworker on Saint Patrick’s Day)
“One, I’m not Irish; two, I can’t drink alcohol; and three, if you pinch me I’ll kill you.”

(To a coworker he had to ask for directions)
“Other than my personality, my only flaw is my terrible sense of direction.”

(To me during a discussion regarding something he was writing)
“Of course the crux of my humor is self-deprecation. If I went around deprecating everyone else all the time, people would think I was a total dick. By the way, that shirt looks crappy on you, tubby.”

(To a fellow metal musician at a record store)
“Anyone who tells you being a musician is only about getting chicks is a fucking asshole … he’s probably up to his lungs in pussy, but he’s still a fucking asshole.”

(To the pretentious, faux-intellectual lady clerk/artist at the book store who used the wrong words to say something really stupid)
“There’s a painfully obvious difference between ascetic and aesthetic, Miss, and if you don’t understand that, you ought to abstain from talking and just occupy yourself looking at pretty pictures in the dipshit aisle.”

(To a hoard of environmental activists protesting in the town square)
“When you hippy bastards immolate yourselves in protest of America’s use of fossil fuels, try not to use any gasoline. You wouldn’t want to look foolish or anything.”

(To annoyingly religious coworker reading about a conjoined twins operation in the newspaper)
“Don’t feel too bad about that twin not surviving the operation: she’s the one that didn’t love Jesus.”

(To me during a discussion regarding something he was writing)
“If you can think of a better non-scientific name for cystic fibrosis than cumlung, I’d certainly like to hear it … Are you seriously offended by that? Faggot.”

(To an old lady in the Marie Callender’s parking lot making loud coughing noises in response to Morb’s smoking)
“Oh, fuck off already. Look, if the fifth piece of banana cream pie you swallowed whole tonight didn’t stop the ramshackle hunk of baboon meat and chewing gum you call a heart, I seriously doubt a whiff of quality tobacco is going to free you of the mortal-fucking-coil.”

(To an old man at the supermarket checkout who was jamming his cart into Morb’s calves)
“I’m going to have to point out what a bad idea it is to fuck with a person who places absolutely no value on human life when you’re old enough to die from getting pushed down a stair.”

(This is an e-mail Morb got from someone asking him a stupid question and his response, which was sent but never posted here before)

Dear Morb,

I recently took a new job. Everything has been going great, but now I think I am falling for my manager. She’s really pretty—although I think cute is a better word to use to describe her—and I think she really understands me. We have the same sense of humor and she gets all my jokes. Maybe I fall in love too easily. I really am a hopeless romantic. Should I tell her how I feel about her? I’m worried it would cause problems at work, or, even worse, she wouldn’t have the same feelings for me that I have for her. What should I do?

Sincerely,

Anonymous Reader

Dear Anonymous Reader:

Dude, if you had ever read this blog before, you’d know better than to ask me a gay question like that.

Seriously, you have the spine of a washcloth. “Maybe I fall in love too easily.” How can you even say something so utterly epicene? Were you raised by a single mother or something? Did a little too much of mommy’s stray estrogen find its way into your undoubtedly pointy head? You’re probably the kind of priss that likes buying tampons for his heavy-flow girlfriend when she’s too crampy to budge ass off the couch and go to the store her own goddamned self.

Fuck, dude, I seriously don’t even know where to start making fun of you. “A hopeless romantic.” You’re like the Holy Grail of spineless, potpourri-scented, emasculated modern males. Just how much of your chemical makeup is low-fat, sugar-free Jell-O, anyway? Give me a close estimate, because I want to know how easily I’ll be able to put my foot through your torso when I try to kick the lisp demon out of you during what could only be compared to a hilariously violent blunt-force exorcism performed by a meth-spun Viking covered in rabid raccoons.

I could go on. Seriously. I could tear into your powder-puff emotional state like a 500-pound Cajun attacking a turducken after an especially long and fat-free Lent. But, because I’m feeling especially nice today, I’m going to let this pass. I’m not even going to post this crap. I’m going to spare your lady feelings and just ignore this chance to kick you around for a while.

I’m totally kidding. I’m not nice at all. The only reason you’re off the hook today, Sally, is because the 7-11 down the street just got a shipment of these coffee energy drinks that taste like they have vodka in them, and I’m going to buy them all so I can remember what alcohol tastes like. I do, however, suggest you try to grow some nads, though. Because if I ever see you and you’re still a little bitch, I’m going to kick you into traffic just so I can watch your ovaries get wrapped around some tires.

Cordially,

MM

Wednesday, March 05, 2008

Solving the Pube Enigma

Guy 1: Dude, I think there’s a pube in my chicken strips.
Guy 2: A what?
Guy 1: A fuckin’ pubic hair, dude. I think there’s a pube on my chicken.
Guy 2: Are you sure it isn’t just a chicken hair?
Guy 1: Chickens have feathers, bro.
Guy 2: Yeah, but, like, they have some hair, too.
Guy 1: What?
Guy 2: Like, haven’t you ever had a chicken wing with, like, sort of bristly hairs sticking off of it?
Guy 1: No.
Guy 2: Really?
Guy 1: Really.
Guy 2: Well, they do have hairs sometimes, I guess. Usually just a few here and there near the pointy part of the wing.
Guy 1: Fuckin’ weird.
Guy 2: Yeah, totally.
Guy 1: But, dude, this hair is curly and shit.
Guy 2: Let me see … ewww, dude, that’s a fuckin’ pube!
Guy 1: I knew it!
Guy 2: You should take it back to the counter and get another order.
Guy 1: Yeah, right! Then they’d probably spit on the chicken, too, this time.
Guy 2: True. Or put, like, five pubes in there, hidden at the bottom.
Guy 1: Those assholes.
Guy 2: Can you, like, eat around it or something?
Guy 1: I don’t even want to look at it, bro.
Guy 2: This reminds me of that time Ryan found a pube in his French fries.
Guy 1: Well, what did he do?
Guy 2: He stood up in the middle of the restaurant and yelled, “There’s a goddamn pube in my French fries!” and then the manager came out and told him to leave.
Guy 1: Why? It’s not like it was his own pube he put in there or something.
Guy 2: The manager said he was making a scene or something gay like that.
Guy 1: Dude, I think I’m just going to pick the pube off of my chicken.
Guy 2: Fuckin’ gross! You’re going to touch it?
Guy 1: I think I kind of have to.
Guy 2: Sick!
Guy 1: I’ll just, like, use my left hand that I don’t eat with.
Guy 2: What if that pube gets stuck under your fingernail or something?
Guy 1: This is so nasty, dude.
Guy 2: Wait! What are you going to do with it once it’s off your chicken?
Guy 1: Fuckin’ throw it on the floor or something.
Guy 2: What if it lands on your foot, dude? You’re wearing flip-flops, so that pube would probably, like, get on your toes and you’d be walking in someone’s pubes all day.
Guy 1: I didn’t think about that. I should just wipe it under the table like old gum.
Guy 2: Fuck that shit, dude! You’d probably touch some, like, old hooker’s gum or something. Then you’d have pube residue and herpes on your hand.
Guy 1: Goddamnit.
Guy 2: I mean, you could just wipe the pube into a napkin, but then you’d be sitting here eating with a pube napkin sitting next to you. Something about that just seems weird.
Guy 1: This sucks so much, dude.
Guy 2: Can you just blow the pube off the chicken?
Guy 1: I’m not blowing on some strange pube, dude.
Guy 2: It’s probably stuck to the chicken ‘cause of the sauce anyway.
Guy 1: This is getting ridiculous.
Guy 2: We shouldn’t have to deal with this kind of thing when we’re trying to eat lunch, man.
Guy 1: You know what? I’m done. Fuck this. I’m just going to fill up on free soda refills and eat a hot pocket when I get home.
Guy 2: Good thinking, bro. Abusin’ the free refills. We’re not coming back here, though, I’ll tell you that right now.
Guy 1: Well, at least not for a while.
Guy 2: Yeah, we’ll come back when the other cooks are in the kitchen or something—the ones that don’t wipe their helmets on the chicken.
Guy 1: Do you really think the guy wiped his dick on this chicken?
Guy 2: How else would he get a pube in there?
Guy 1: Ugh … Dude, I am drinking—seriously—a gallon of free Dr. Pepper before I leave here today.

Thursday, February 21, 2008

The Work Stress is Beginning to Show

The excessive use of exclamation points makes me want to crawl into a dictionary and hang myself from the word insufferable.

Monday, February 18, 2008

Morbid Misanthrope Gets a DVR: A True Story

MM: Hello?
Cable Guy: May I speak to Mr. Misanthrope, please?
MM: Speaking.
CG: (Impatiently) This is Jim from the Commercial Cable Company. I’m here to install your cable upgrade. Requesting access to your compound here.
MM: You want me to open the security door to the apartment complex, you mean?
CG: Yes, sir. That’s exactly what I just said.
MM: Okay. I’ll input the access codes, granting you entry through the external fortifications momentarily.
CG: Are you going to open the goddamn door or what?
MM: Yeah, dude. I’ll be right there. Shit.
CG: Uh-huh.
CLICK
MM:
What the fuck?

MM opens the security door to meet a tall, disheveled black guy with long dreadlocks and muddy, untied boots.

CG: What took you so long, sir?
MM: I’m on the third floor. I had to get down here.
CG: Well, I’m working according to a point system. I don’t get paid by the hour, so I hope in the future when I ask you for something you comply in a timelier fashion.

MM and CG enter the building’s elevator.

MM: (Surprised) A point system?
CG: (Sigh) Yes, sir. A point system. For example, installing basic cable is ten points. I have a certain number of job sites to visit in a day, and I get paid by however many points I earn by completing different jobs. In fact, I just received word that I got another job across town I have to add to my route after this one. So, like I said, I don’t have time for games and nonsense.
MM: That’s rather unorthodox, isn’t it?
CG: Sir, have you ever worked for a cable company?
MM: No.
CG: Then you would have no idea, would you?
MM: I suppose not. But in the past I’ve dealt with a number of other cable guys, and none of them ever mentioned a point system.
CG: Well, sir, they were probably just contractors the company paid to take care of a surplus of jobs. I’m an actual employee so my situation is different. I’m in a hurry, so let’s not waste any more time.
MM: In that case, let me just put this elevator into overdrive so we reach the third floor a lot quicker. If I had known time was of the essence, we could have taken my teleporter.
CG: (Sigh) You fucking white boys.
MM: Excuse me?

Elevator door opens and CG rushes out, stomping down the hall in the wrong direction.

MM: My apartment’s over this way, actually.
CG: You think you’re pretty funny, huh?
MM: My sense of humor isn’t really something I’m thinking about right now, no.

CG and MM enter MM’s room.

CG: So what is it that you want?
MM: I’m getting a DVR installed.
CG: This television doesn’t look high-definition to me.
MM: That’s because it’s not.
CG: Well then I can’t help you. You can only have a DVR with a high-definition television.
MM: That’s strange. My brother, who lives in this very building, has the same TV I have, and he got a DVR about nine months ago.
CG: Why are you trying to make my job difficult, sir?
MM: I’m not trying to do anything of the sort.
CG: Then why did you request a high-definition DVR when you don’t have a high-definition television.
MM: I never requested a high-definition anything.

CG looks around MM's studio apartment, noticing the Cannibal Corpse and Mayhem posters on the otherwise bare walls. (See pictures at the end of the post.)

CG: Well, I have to go check my van for a non-HD DVR. Come with me, though, because I don’t want to have to wait for you to open the door when I come back up.
MM: Okay.

CG and MM enter the elevator and stand in silence momentarily.

CG: You fucking crazy white boys, haha.
MM: Yeah, about that: what do you mean?
CG: You one of those serial killers, ain’t you?
MM: No.
CG: Riiiight … that’s what you say now, but just wait until you be on the news, getting hauled off by the cops for cutting up 20 hookers and keeping them in your freezer. You fucking crazy white boys, haha!
MM: I assure you, I’ve never killed anybody.
CG: Yet, you mean. You haven’t killed anybody yet. You white boys always do, though.
MM: Well, I’ll try not to let my whiteness overwhelm me and kill anybody while you’re here.
CG: Uh-huh. Haha, crazy white boys!

MM and CG walk to the van and CG looks for a non-HD DVR.

CG: Well, sir, unfortunately, I don’t have a non-HD device for you. I don’t know why you would request an HD box without owning an HD television, but you’re in luck because I have to go back to HQ anyway, so I’ll pick one up and come back.
MM: I never asked for an HD anything, but I appreciate the fact that you’re going to do your job.
CG: I hope you appreciate what I’m doing for you here, sir. This is setting me far, far off schedule.
MM: I’ll call your boss immediately to nominate you for the Cable Guy Medal of Honor.
CG: I appreciate that, but it wouldn’t help me that much. Be here in exactly 14 minutes to let me back into the building.

CG arrives 20 minutes later.

CG: I hope you’re happy, sir. Now I’m so far behind schedule I don’t know how I’m ever going to catch up.
MM: Don’t lose hope, dude. Miracles happen.

MM and CG enter elevator again.

CG: So how many people have you killed, exactly?
MM: Not nearly many as you have, I suspect.
CG: You white boys is fuckin’ crazy, man. I swear to god!
MM: Yeah, yeah. We sure are.
CG: Seriously, I seen all that evil shit you got on your walls.
MM: So which is more likely to make me a serial killer: the music I listen to or the fact that I was born white?
CG: One affects the other, sir. Ain’t you never heard of casuality? [Editor’s note: We can only assume the cable guy meant causality.]
MM: Isn’t calling one of your customers a serial killer bad for business?
CG: Haha!
MM: Actually, isn’t asking a serial killer if he’s a serial killer bad for your health? I mean, suppose I really were a serial killer like you seem to believe. Wouldn’t that put you in some kind of danger? As a serial killer, if I didn’t call you here just to butcher you and turn your skin and reeking viscera into furniture, wouldn’t your constant accusations be reason enough for me to kill you just to ensure your silence and my continued freedom? Just what kind of stupid, lead-dense motherfucker goes around pissing off serial killers in their own homes?
CG: Haha! You crazy, white motherfucker!
MM: Dude, you are so incredibly lucky I only kill syphilitic hookers that remind me of my mother.
CG: (Nervously) Hehe … ahem.

From that point on, CG installed the DVR in almost total, nervous silence, occasionally muttering to himself about how late he was.

CG: Well, that will do it, sir. Again, I’d like to mention how much trouble this all was for me.
MM: Uh-huh. Do you want a tip or something?
CG: After all the trouble I went through to hook you up here today, sir, and you have to ask me something like that? I mean, look here: I used the good cable to hook up your DVR. Technically, we’re not even required to use the good cables, but I did. You know, that shit ain’t free. That wire’s about 20 dollars per foot, and to make sure your reception was perfect I used about a foot and a half of it. I didn’t have to—in fact, the guy the installed your cable here initially used the cheap stuff. I fixed his sloppy job and hooked you up good, sir.
MM: So, what do you want? 30 bucks?
CG: (Smiling) I did use the good cable, sir. And I’m so far behind now things are going to be difficult for me the rest of the day. I’ll probably end up working late and everything.
MM: I see. Well, I got something better for you. Something infinitely better than money.
CG: What do you mean, sir?
MM: (Walking over to the freezer in the kitchen) I got something much, much better for you, pal. Hahahaha.
CG: Uh, well, you know, I better get going, actually.
MM: (Pulling out a freezer bag full of ground beef) You like white girls, don’t you?
CG: (Already in the hallway) The paperwork’s on the floor, sir. Have a nice day.


Sunday, February 03, 2008

Sunday, January 20, 2008

Answering a Letter

Dear Morb:

I read your blog a lot and have noticed a disturbing trend: You seem to hate Apple computers and all of their other products (iPods, iTunes, etc.). What gives, man? Apple is awesome! Apple computers are, like, hip and stuff—unlike those stuffy PCs and their lame-o grey cases. Dude, Apple computers come in different colors and stuff. Oh yeah, and the mouse only has one button! That’s amazing! Plus I’ve heard that Macs have better graphics or something, and when they break you just throw them away and buy a new one! Damn, that Steve Jobs is a genius. I wish he’s rub his hipster neck stubble on my naked balls. Anyway, PCs are for, like, conformist, unimaginative sheep. Macs are for all of us free-thinking nonconformists. You don’t seem like a conformist, Morb, so you should buy a Mac like the rest of us.

Anyway, with the recent Macworld came another mind-blowing announcement from the super-studly, turtleneck shirt-wearing man himself; and even you have to admit the new MacBook Air is incredible. Dude, it’s sooooooo small. It’s so small it can fit in a manila envelope. A manila envelope, man! That’s amazing! It’s so sexy I’d like to lube it up with my own saliva and cram it into my ass! It’s so sleek it would probably only hurt a little and make me bleed even less!

So, seriously, you’re going to convert and buy the new MacBook Air, right?

Sincerely,

Mac Fag # 1!



Dear Mac Fag:

No. No, I’m not going to buy a MacBook Air or any other piece of Apple trash, for that matter. I have Zippo lighters more technologically advanced than the MacBook Air. Call me a conformist, but I think I’ll stick with my custom-built PC that I can upgrade however I want whenever I feel like it.

The MacBook Air is just another inferior piece of computer technology with barely enough power to rival the broken Speak ‘n’ Spell the helmet-wearing retard down the street uses to induce the time-travel concussions he’s so fond of. But none of that really matters to you because the damned thing looks so cool and sexy and Steve Blowjobs is so hip. Why not save yourself a couple thousand bucks and slap an Apple sticker on a smooth river rock and cram that up yourself?

By the way, you know what else fits in a manila envelope? Love letters to Hitler. Just sayin’.

Cordially,

MM

Sunday, December 16, 2007

A Merry Christmas Miracle: A Christmas Story

From the desk of Morbid Misanthrope:

Because I’m very busy with work right now, I don’t have time to post much of anything new. Christmas is coming up, though, so I thought I would spread some holiday cheer with one of my favorite Christmas stories. I seem to recall my Grandmother reading me this story around the holidays as a child, when my mother got trashed swilling spiked eggnog and my meth-loving father started wailing on her with the cordless phone. Grandmother would read me this story and then hand me a sharpened Christmas tree branch, telling me to stab myself in the throat with it rather than burn to death in my locked room should the house catch on fire when dad’s meth lab exploded again. Or maybe I just made it up last Christmas shortly before getting rushed to the emergency room with a severe case of pancreatitis. Anyway, it’s a beautiful story, so please enjoy. Merry Christmas.

Cordially,

MM


Tim M. Throrpe stomped down the street as a cold winter wind blew through the bustling city of Settingsville, California. Though much smaller than urban metropolises like San Francisco or Los Angeles, Settingsville was a busy center of commerce in its own right, even being home to the state’s second- largest slaughterhouse and used plastic tarp emporium. Tim had recently relocated to Settingsville from another distant state to take an important job at the city’s premiere law firm. Tim was a very important person to be sure, but this important and high-paying job left him with little time for a personal life. His family all lived far away, he had no friends, and he spent more time at the office than he did in his fancy apartment.

As Tim stormed down the tree-lined streets, briefcase grasped firmly in his clenched fist, he screamed angrily into his cell phone.

“What do you mean the car needs a new goddamned engine?” he barked into his phone, a fine mist of angry spittle spraying from his gaping maw. “When was the oil changed last? How the fuck should I know that? I’m an important lawyer! I don’t have time for oil! I don’t even have time for Christmas!”

Tim was right about Christmas. In the few moments of free time he’d had in the last few weeks, he realized Christmas was quickly approaching. Whenever he mentioned taking a day off for Christmas, his bosses were fond of laughing and saying, “Tim, there’s no time for Christmas—not when you’re an important lawyer!”

Tim always shrugged and nodded in agreement, though he often thought to himself, “That’s easy for you to say, you all celebrate Hanukah!” And even though Tim was always very dedicated to his career, he couldn’t help but wish he would be able to take some time, just a day, to celebrate Christmas—his favorite holiday growing up.

“Listen, Pedro! You better get my car working immediately or I’ll have la migra kicking down your door and hauling your ass back to El Salvador before you can say Feliz Navidad!” Tim bellowed. “I don’t care if your name is Tony and you’re from New Jersey, just get my car working by tomorrow morning or you’ll be sorry. I’m an important lawyer!”

Tim hung up his phone in a huff and shoved it into his coat pocket. With his car in the shop and a flap of murders related to rogue cab drivers stalking the streets and picking up unsuspecting victims, Tim had no choice but to take the bus to work.

“How humiliating,” Tim thought, “to take the bus like some kind of commoner. I’m an important lawyer, goddamnit! The bus is for pregnant waitresses and video store clerks!”

Tim stomped along, muttering to himself and lighting an expensive cigarette. After all, regular cigarettes were for bus boys and unemployed musicians. He was an important lawyer, and even his cigarettes should reflect his high status.

Tim came to the first bus stop he saw and sat down angrily on the empty, graffiti-covered bench. There he sat alone for several minutes, smoking his fancy cigarette and grumbling to himself, until an old man hobbled up to the bench and sat down beside him.

“Oh, fantastic,” Tim thought. “This old guy will probably have cat-food breath. God, I hate old people.”

Tim took a long drag from his cigarette, threw the butt down, and exhaled the smoke in a long, audible sigh. Glancing over quickly to make sure the old man hadn’t died suddenly, Tim noticed the old man was smiling at him.

“Say there, sonny,” the smiling old man said, “those are some mighty fancy cigarettes. You must be a very important person to be able to afford cigarettes like those. You know, I smoke a pipe myself. Not so much these days, though. You might as well be a filthy Nazi the way people treat you if you smoke these days. Plus, my wife hates the smell.”

“Yes, well, I’m an important lawyer, you see, so I can smoke whatever I want,” Tim said coldly, hoping to discourage the old man from further conversation. Much to Tim’s dismay, however, the old man just continued smiling and making small talk.

“An important lawyer, you say? Well, young man, that’s mighty impressive. Hey now, why is someone so important taking the bus?”

“Well, old man, not that it’s any of your business, but my car is in the shop right now, so I can’t drive …”

“I see,” the old man interrupted, “and because of those rogue-cabbie murders going on right now, you’re too cautious to take a cab. Am I right?” the old man asked.

“Yes, of course,” Tim replied grumpily. “Normally I would never have to utilize public transportation, but this strange convergence of extenuating circumstances has really left me with no other option.”

The old man chuckled, his cheeks rosy with merriment. Although Tim usually hated old people, for some reason this pleasant old man seemed strangely familiar to him. Just making inane small talk with the jolly old fellow seemed comforting somehow.

A few moments of silence passed before the old man spoke again.

“So … what does a big, important lawyer do with his time off for Christmas, I wonder.”

“Well, if big, important lawyers are really as big and important as they’d like to believe they are, they wouldn’t have any time off for Christmas,” Tim snorted.

“Gee, sonny,” the old man said with a hint of regret in his voice, “you mean to tell me you don’t get any time off for Christmas?”

“Bah! There’s no time for Christmas—not when you’re an important lawyer,” Tim said, crossing his arms and turning up his nose in inflated self importance.

“My, my!” the old man exclaimed. “Do you really believe that, or have you just resigned yourself to it because you have no choice?”

Tim was surprised by the old man’s response. It was true. Tim really did wish he had more time to enjoy Christmas. He remembered all the Christmases of his youth, spent with family and friends: big dinners, blinking lights, and warm fires lighting the room as the family gathered around the festively decorated Christmas tree on Christmas morning.

“I … I …” Tim stuttered. “Hmmmph! Even if I wanted time off for Christmas and wasn’t so busy, all my family lives very far away and I have no friends in this city. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but I used to love Christmas. But with my new job as an important lawyer and being so alone here, it just doesn’t feel like Christmas, anyway.”

“There’s nothing that I hate more than someone losing the Christmas spirit,” the old man said, shaking his head.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Tim said sadly. “I just remember how much I loved Christmas as a kid—the family gatherings, huge holiday dinners, snow, and Christmas decorations—and think I’ll never feel that way again. But, you know, we all have to grow up some time.”

The old man patted Tim on the shoulder.

“Now, Tim, just because people grow up and become hotshot lawyers doesn’t mean they can’t have the Christmas Spirit.”

Tim was surprised. He looked at the old man in disbelief.

“Hey, I never told you my name! How did you know my name was Tim?” he said in amazement.

“Everyone should be able to enjoy Christmas, you know,” the old man said, stroking his long, white beard. “I know it’s been many years since you really felt the Christmas Spirit, and I know you have to work alone on Christmas, but maybe, just maybe, it will feel a bit more like Christmas to you this year.”

Tim stared at the old man, who was now laughing boisterously with both of his hands patting his jiggling belly. The whole scene seemed strange to Tim, yet oddly familiar. As the old man continued laughing, Tim felt a cold sensation on his nose. That singular cold sensation on his nose was soon joined by other icy droplets on the surface of Tim’s skin. Tim couldn’t believe what was happening.

“Oh my god!” Tim gasped. “It’s … it’s snowing. It’s snowing in Settingsville, California. It never snows here. This is incredible!”

“Ho, ho, ho!” the old man laughed. “This must be a Christmas miracle. A white Christmas is a white Christmas, even from behind an office window at a big law firm, Timmy.”

“Who are you?” Tim asked the old man in shock as snow began to fall more and more heavily.

“Ho, ho, ho! That’s not important, Timmy,” the old man said, his cheeks rosy from the laughter. “Just have a merry Christmas!”

The old man got up and started to walk away, but Tim grabbed his arm to stop him.

“Wait just a minute!” Tim said. “I know who you are! You’re Santa Claus, and you came all the way from the North Pole to make it snow for me, didn’t you?”

The old man smiled knowingly.

“You know, Tim, I have to work this Christmas, too. I always work on Christmas and Christmas Eve. I really must be going, so you have a merry Christmas and enjoy the snow.”

The old man tried to walk away, but again Tim grabbed his arm and stopped him.

“Did I not just get done telling you how I don’t have a car right now?” Tim asked.

“Well, yes …”

“Am I not sitting here at the bus stop, wearing nothing but an expensive suit, waiting for the bus to take me to work?”

“You are indeed, Tim, but I really need to get going …”

“Now you listen here!” Tim snarled angrily. “Thanks to you, now I have to wait for the goddamned bus in the goddamned snow! My suit is going to get ruined, you shithead!” Tim screamed at a surprised Santa Claus.

“Now, now, Timmy, it’s almost Christmas. Don’t you want to feel that Christmas spirit again, like you did when you were a kid?” Santa said nervously.

“All I’m going to feel,” Tim growled, “is cold and wet, you moron! I’m wearing an Armani suit and Berluti loafers, not a fucking Eskimo coat and fucking shiny, yellow galoshes! And what the hell is going to happen to the city? It never snows here. This snow is going to cause all sorts of problems! How am I supposed to get to the office if the bus is up to its axles in magic snow? This kind of climatological confusion will make that windbag Al Gore shit a polar bear! What then, prick? Another Inconvenient Truth? Nobody wants to sit through that crap!”

“How dare you talk to Santa Claus that way!” Santa gasped. “Such filthy language, too! I knew you were a naughty boy this year, but I wanted to do something nice for you since you’re so alone and pathetic. I give you a Christmas miracle and you just swear at me! You ought to be ashamed!”

“Just how the hell is a snow storm in California supposed to be a Christmas miracle or an accurate physical representation of an intangible concept like Christmas spirit? That’s just fucking stupid!” Tim yelled, lighting another cigarette.

“You ungrateful bastard! I don’t have to listen to this crap! I’m leaving. I hope those faggy cigarettes give you colon cancer, you prick!” Santa said, walking away angrily.

“Yeah, don’t stop the snow or anything, either. This day obviously isn’t going to get any better!” Tim shouted at Santa Claus. “And if I ever catch you coming down my chimney, I’m going to put so many bullets in your ass you’ll be shitting toxic paint that makes children retarded!”

“You don’t have a chimney, stupid! You live in an apartment. And I wouldn’t visit your place on Christmas Eve if a naked Jessica Alba with sugar cookie nipples and a gumdrop G-Spot was sitting on your sofa. You asshole!” Santa yelled back at the furious lawyer.

“Go fuck yourself with a reindeer antler, you creepy, antiquated holiday mascot!” Tim screamed, jumping up and down in the quickly accumulating snow on the ground.

And as the angry shouts filled the air, snow continued to fall from the heavens. A few days later it was still snowing, and everyone inside on Christmas morning, opening gifts with loved ones by their environmentally friendly space heaters, had a magical Christmas indeed. Everyone, that is, except Tim, who stole a dashiki and a bongo drum and celebrated Kwanzaa.
The End

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Egads, I've been tagged!

Much like the side of a building in the ghetto, where crack flows like screw-top wine, I’ve been tagged. (Whoooo! Three stereotypes in the first sentence—I’m off to a great start!) The whole concept of tagging on the blogosphere is interesting. Allow me to illustrate the abstract concept of the tagger–tagee relationship with the help of an Aristotelian dialog:

“Hey, pal! I’ve just tagged you!”
“Tits, bro. What do I get?”
“You get to answer all these questions!”
“You gave me a test, basically, is what you’re saying?”
“Yeah, when you look at it that way, I suppose I did.”
“Well, check this out. I’ve just pricked you, dude!”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means I just injected you with a syringe full of baboon malaria. Now we’re even.”
“Can I blog about this?”
“Well, I sort of assumed you would.”
“Neat!”

And so it goes, from person to person, like a more horrifying version of that stupid tape from those Ring movies. What’s with that shit, by the way? Japanese people are afraid of pale, attention-hungry teenage girls? If that’s the case, we could have just dropped a chain of Hot Topic stores on them during WWII instead of those nukes. But I digress.

Prunella Jones—or Pru, as all the cool kids refer to her—tagged me a while back. Since I’m a fan of her blog, and I’m such a classy bastard, I decided to complete the tag rather than just ignore it like I’ve been ignoring all those dead Mormons someone’s been leaving at my door.

Since everyone loves lists (just ask the dildos in charge of programming at VH1), here’s a list of seven random facts about me. [Editor’s note: The veracity of Morb’s claims cannot be guaranteed.]

1: I’ve been in a lot of bands.

One of the bands I was in was fronted, unbeknownst to me, by an escaped mental patient. I only found out later when he disappeared and authorities from his institution showed up asking about him. Apparently he was violent and escaped after breaking a table over some people.

I was in a band, for a short time, with a guy who drove a hearse and made extra money participating in underground fights. He disappeared.

One of the bands I was in had a sort of joke mythology based around their various bass players, claiming they were all, once they joined the band, the reincarnation of a Tibetan monk. When I joined, I assumed that role. At one point I even signed autographs in Chinese.

2: I was a model student.

I graduated from college with highest honors, meaning I had a gpa of 4.0 and perfect attendance. When I graduated I got to wear two golden ropes. At the time I thought they just gave me those ropes because they were too cheap to pony up some Chucky Cheese tokens for my grades, but I later realized the gold ropes were to hang myself with when my awesome grades wouldn’t get me a decent job.

3: I like books.

I read a lot. In fact, the majority of my free time is dedicated to reading. I’m really just a book nerd, to be completely honest. Were I a rich man, I would probably have all kinds of first editions like that old Satan worshiper from The Ninth Gate. While my collection is humble to say the least, I have an out-of-print edition of Musashi’s Go Rin No Sho from 1974 that’s pretty sweet, and I just got a first edition copy of The Interrupted Journey (yes, that’s the book about the Hill alien abduction case from the 1960s).

I do like classic literature—everything from David Copperfield to The Canterbury Tales—but right now I’m really into collecting old, obscure occult and UFO/lost civilization/cryptozoology–related books. By the way, if anyone has a copy of Keel’s The Eighth Tower (1975) they’d be willing to part with for less than twenty-five bucks, please send me an e-mail. I could just order it from amazon.com, but I don’t want to spend the amount they’re asking. I’m a smart shopper, goddamnit.

4: It’s not about me, but it’s a fact.

It is always better
to avenge dear ones than to indulge in mourning.
For every one of us, living in this world
means waiting for our end. Let whoever can
win glory before death. When a warrior is gone,
that will be his best and only bulwark.


5: I like alcohol.

I used to drink a gallon of whiskey every weekend.

6: I think this is funny for some reason.




7: I accidentally conjured some spooky shit one time.

I was minding my own business, reading a copy of the Necronomicon I found in the discount bin at the bookstore. Some of the incantations in the book are so ridiculous, I was reading them out loud and having a good laugh. I mean, “zi dingir enmeshir raa kanpa” sounds like a retarded hairlip trying to order Thai food or something. But, suddenly, to my surprise and irritation, someone was in the room with me. I was able to snap a picture with my camera phone.


Azag-Thoth: You conjured me, mortal?
Morbid Misanthrope: Excuse me?
AT: Oh, come on! Don’t tell me you’re just another loser dabbling in the occult in his mom’s basement. Because, seriously, I’ve seen more of that action than I’d care to admit.
MM: Who are you, and what are you doing in my apartment?
AT: Your own apartment? Thank the elder gods! Man, if I had to face one more overweight, cheetos-huffing Dungeons and Dragons jerk-off in a felt cloak his mother made for him, I … I just don’t know what I would do.
MM: You, uh, have an irrational fear of twenty-sided die, do you?
AT: Enough of this. You have conjured me, mortal. From the blackest depths of sleepless aeons I have heard your incantations and answered with my presence. Before I lose my temper and rip your tongue from your head, tell me what you want whith Azag-Thoth, the Blind Idiot God!
MM: I summoned you?
AT: Yes, with that ancient and powerful tome you hold in your hands.
MM: Dude, this is the Necronomicon.
AT: Verily, the key to unlocking the door that holds the hordes of unspeakable evil at bay.
MM: Right. It sort of says that on the back of the book, right under the discount price tag.
AT: Three dollars? Goddamn. Seekers of the book’s ancient power used to have to scour the darkest corners of the earth, search the blackest depths of their souls, and brave the dangers of the secret realms of the universe to lay hands upon it. Wow. Things have really changed in the last few thousand years.
MM: I suppose that helps to explain why so many basement-dwelling mouth-breathers were able to conjure you, doesn’t it?
AT: To be honest, it’s all a bit depressing.
MM: I guess the dark arts just aren’t what they used to be.
AT: You know, it’d make me feel a lot better if you had me rain some fire, pestilence, and madness on the earth. I’d settle for the neighborhood, though. Can I at least rain down fire, pestilence, and madness on your neighborhood?
MM: Be my guest, but there’s a meth lab next door and a creek full of homeless junkies talking to themselves and surviving on nothing but urine and toenails. I don’t think anyone would notice.
AT: Well, I’m here. You conjured me. I ought to do something.
MM: You can explain to me how a fictional book written by H.P. Lovecraft enthusiasts less than one hundred years ago is ancient or powerful.
AT: To make a long story short, it’s kind of like that Lovecraft story, “Pickman’s Model.”
MM: You mean how the subjects of the terrifying works of art Pickman painted came from reality rather than his own imagination?
AT: Essentially, yeah.
MM: That was a fucking cool story.
AT: Wasn’t it?
MM: Well, I suppose you are magic, otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to bypass all my dangerous ninja traps getting in here.
AT: You mean those empty soda cans tied together with dental floss hanging from your doorknob?
MM: Hey, if you’re real, does that mean all those other ancient gods are real too? Like, do you, Dagon, Cthulhu, and Shub-Niggurath have a poker night or something?
AT: Cthulhu's been a big-headed prick ever since Metallica wrote that song about him. You can’t even talk to that asshole without going through his publicist these days. Dagon, well, he’s a big, gay bitch—like Aquaman with tentacles and shit. And I haven’t seen Shub since the supreme court ruled she had to drop Niggurath from her name because it was offensive to black people. The last time anyone saw her, she was swilling gin and threatening to kick Jesse Jackson’s ass with Al Sharpton’s foot. She pretty much abandoned her thousand young—a fuckin’ tragedy, that’s what it is.
MM: Sounds like the realm of the ancient ones is a car crash away from being a shitty episode of VH1’s Behind the Music.
AT: Thanks, asshole. I’m not sensitive about it or anything. You wanna make fun of all the weight I’ve gained in the last thousand years, too? Hey, maybe you can call my wife and make fun of my limp dick with her. I bet she’d love that!
MM: Wow. Sorry, dude. I didn’t think a blind, mad god would be so tender-hearted.
AT: You know what? Fuck you, pal! Okay? Just fuck you! In fact: Barra Ante Malda! Bam! The milk in your fridge is now spoiled, and all your new batteries are dead. How’s that for evil, you prick?
MM: It’s more rude than evil, really.
AT: Whatever, ass. If my whore wife comes looking for me, tell her I’m at Boston Market, eating meatloaf that isn’t all dry and shitty for a change!

And then he disappeared and I haven’t heard from him since.

That completes my obligations as a tagee, and because I’m such a goddamned rebel, I’m not tagging anyone. How’s that for anti-social behavior? Random fact about me number eight: I'm a dick.

Sunday, November 04, 2007

Making the News

Crazed Man Terrifies Neighborhood
By Max Bojo
Associated Press (10-31-07)

Halloween is a magical day of the year, full of fun, harmless scares, and enough free candy to keep dentists in business for another year. When the sun goes down, costumed children hit the streets looking for nothing more than frightful fun and bagfuls of bite-sized candy treats. This year, however, in a small town about forty-five minutes away from San Francisco, one man bordering on deranged turned frightful fun into real scares.

At approximately 8:00 p.m. Halloween night, an as-yet-unidentified man verbally attacked and terrified tick-or-treaters prowling the neighborhoods just trying to enjoy the traditional Halloween festivities.

“He was screaming at my son like some kind of madman,” said Clara Padilla, mother of five trick-or-treaters present when the incident occurred. “He was flailing around and swearing like crazy. I haven’t seen anyone so enraged since my brother got deported when the police busted him shooting PCP into his groin.”

According to Padilla and other witnesses, as their group of trick-or-treaters crossed the street, someone in a car that had to stop for them began honking the horn repeatedly. Although it was too dark to tell what kind of car the man was driving, all the witnesses could clearly hear “blasting death metal” coming from the vehicle.

Suddenly, the man “leapt” from his vehicle “like some kind of demon” and started screaming at the group of costumed children. He was apparently impatient after having to wait for so many people crossing the street as he drove.

“The man was scary,” said little Jose Padilla, who was dressed like a vampire and was the first child the crazed man verbally assaulted. “He wasn’t wearing a costume, but he, like, looked all crazy. His eyes were all bug-eyed like my Uncle’s when he got arrested. He smelled like cigarettes.”

According to witnesses present, the madman screamed a string of obscenities and threats at the children, who were so terrified they could barely move.

“He said, um, ‘get out of my f—ing way, you stupid little candy beggars! Why don’t you buy candy like goddamned everybody else?’” said Lucinda Morales, another parent at the scene. “He was using such terrible language. I’ve asked everyone I know, and no one has any idea what a ‘twattergob-bobbing meat plunger’ is. I just can’t believe this guy was so mad at us for hanging around in the street. I mean, he could wait. We were just having fun, you know? It was Halloween and stuff.”

Witnesses say he also spent a good five minutes screaming about proper pedestrian-driver etiquette, including: “You a—holes look like you’ve never seen a car before. The concept is simple. I’m driving a two-ton death machine and you’re in front of me in the street. You pricks too good for the sidewalk, are you? It’s only by the f—ing grace of f—ing god that I even stopped. I could have plowed through you little DNA bubbles without feeling bad. In fact, I probably would have been laughing. I think that s—t’s funny as hell!”

He went on to insult the children’s costumes as well, reducing several of them to tears.

“He said I was the gayest power ranger he had ever seen,” said a nine-year-old present who wished to remain anonymous. “He told me I might as well just move to Vermont with my little homo vampire friend so my father can kill himself in shame sooner rather than later. He said they wouldn’t let gays into Clown College, so I had better keep it in the closet until the AIDS makes me look like a skeleton and everyone figures out what I’ve been up to. I don’t know what’s going on. I just wanted free candy!”

The unknown assailant also called a twelve-year-old girl dressed as a ballerina a “fat, sin-impregnated whore,” an eight-year-old dressed as a ninja a “f—ing poseur,” a ten-year-old in a wheelchair dressed as Frankenstein a “green gimp retard,” and a nine-year-old African-American child dressed as an NBA star a “racist joke too easy to make.”

Parents stood by in awe as the scene unfolded, all too shocked and afraid to move.

“I thought he was, like, on drugs or something,” said parent Charlie James. “It looked like his head was gonna pop.” In spite of his fear, however, Mr. James walked over to the screaming man and told him to shut up. At that point, the crazed man kicked Mr. James in the head, screaming “Look what he made me do? Anyone else want to get f—ed up? Huh? I’ve killed before and I’ll kill again!”

At this point, one brave child offered her bag of candy to the screaming, and now dangerous, man, hoping to pacify him. Surprisingly, this moving gesture only enraged the man further. He shrieked and kicked the bag out of the small girl’s hands, screaming “Trying to put me in a coma, huh? You’re not going to kill me that easily! I’ll kick you around like an organ-filled trash bag before I let you trick me! I’m a crafty diabetic with good eyesight!” [Editor’s Note: Sometimes diabetics lose eyesight due to the disease.]

He then hopped back into his car, tearing off at a high rate of speed, still screaming threats as he sped away.

“It was the worst Halloween ever,” said Clara Padilla, shaking her head. “What kind of person would threaten children like that? It’s just unimaginable.”

Crazed Man Strikes Again?
By Max Bojo
Associated Press (11-01-07)

After the neighborhood suffered a terrifying Halloween at the hands of a rabid madman, all anyone wanted was to try to forget about the horrible night and move on. Unfortunately, the scares weren’t over for the neighborhood just because Halloween was.

At approximately 12:30 p.m., lunchtime at the local middle school, a crazed madman—very likely the same man that terrorized children Halloween night—showed up and started attacking children as they ate lunch and played kickball.

School faculty was shocked to see a “grown man, wearing all black, and smoking cigarettes” hop over the playground fence and approach the playing children.

“Our first thought was that another pervert was after the kids, but soon it became apparent that he wasn’t a pervert—just a lunatic,” said Principal Blake.

The man was heard screaming obscenities and threats. School surveillance cameras caught audio of the incident even though the assailant was somehow able to avoid appearing on film. What follows is a partial transcript of that tape’s audio:

Crazed Man: (apparently grabbing the kickball) “Hey, you little bastards. It’s not so easy to play your little game with someone in the way, is it?”
Child: “What?”
Crazed Man: “Yeah, just like it’s not easy to drive home with a bunch of little retarded candy beggars in the middle of the street! How do you idiots like it?”
Child: “Leave us alone!”
Crazed Man: (apparently stabbing the kickball with a knife) “Suffer, fools!”

The crazed man then started kicking over lunch tables where kids were eating. He was heard laughing maniacally and saying, “Can’t enjoy your f—ing spaghetti without a table, can you? Well, I can’t f—ing drive with a bunch of imbeciles high on candy handouts blocking the way! This may be a public school, but you’ll learn something today, goddamnit! Even if you never learn to read! I’m talking to you, Jose Padilla!”

After breaking things, scaring children, and ranting for just under five minutes, the madman was gone as quickly as he appeared. The police are questioning witnesses, but so far have no leads.

Letter to the Editor
Anonymous (11-02-07)

This whole thing is just awful, really. Those poor kids. What a shame.

Anyway, I’m not excusing this "crazy" but undoubtedly handsome guy, but we can’t judge him until we understand his situation. Now, I wasn’t around when he was supposedly terrifying those kids Halloween night, but I was driving home from work at about that time. I did notice a lot of kids messing around in the streets. To be perfectly honest, it was infuriating.

Everywhere I drove I had to wait for caravans of people to cross the street. They were really taking their time, too. I mean, it wasn’t like they were just crossing and getting it over with. They were practically loitering in the street. (Loitering is a crime, so maybe this “crazed man” is really a kind of crimefighter—just a thought.) Some kids were even purposely walking in the street, blocking traffic because they think Halloween gives them a free pass to act like morons. It was maddening.

And the parents were no better. They weren’t watching their kids or anything. They were just walking around all slack-jawed and lackadaisical, letting Jr. do whatever he wanted. Man! How many kids did these people have? I counted seven or eight in some cases. That’s just irresponsible. (It’s like they bussed in a border town or something, but that’s beside the point.) Also, I doubt he called the black kid a “racist joke too easy to make.” He probably said something more like “Hey, try not to rape any psychotic girls out there tonight, Kobe.” I don’t know. Something clever like that. It seems like that would be more his style.

Anyway, perhaps this “crazed man” just had a rough day at the office and wanted to get home to watch TV. Let’s say, hypothetically, he wanted to catch the Ghost Hunters live investigation on the Sci-Fi network and enjoy a low-carb frozen dinner. These people, by rudely blocking the streets, were disrespecting him and ruining his schedule. I can understand being upset by that, I really can.

Who knows? Maybe he went a little overboard because he had just gotten a flu shot and was a little out of it, and maybe his blood sugar was low. We really just don’t know. He obviously had his reasons for doing what he did. And he didn’t hurt anyone. He did kick that one guy, but that guy started it really. It was self-defense.

And even though tearing up a school is an unorthodox way to do things, I’ll bet those kids never play in the street again. That’s worth something, right? If their fat, sweatsuit-wearing parents won’t teach them anything, someone should, right? And I don’t want to get going about the school system’s failures, but, come on, let’s be honest: those kids learned more in five minutes from the “crazed man” than they’ll learn at that school in the next five years.

Look, I’m not saying we should build this guy a statue or something, but when you really think about it, he probably did some good. And I really think we should all stop calling him “crazed,” “lunatic,” and “madman.” How does misunderstood genius sound? Revolutionary thinker? If it were up to me, the police would stop looking for the guy and just let the whole “incident” slide. It’s all over now. I’m sure he’s not going to do anything else (provided everyone respects pedestrian-driver etiquette). Let’s just all move on and let it go.

Saturday, October 13, 2007

Taxicab Conversations

CALL ONE

Phone Operator 1: Brand A Cab Company, how can I help you?
Morbid Misanthrope: Hello, I need a cab to pick me up again tomorrow at 9:30 am.
PO1: Uh-huh. What address?
MM: (home address)
PO1: And where are you going?
MM: Beefy Yakov’s Slaughterhouse and Used Plastic Tarp Emporium.
PO1: Are you, like, going to work or something?
MM: Yes, I’m going to work.
PO1: How will you be paying?
MM: With cash.
PO1: Well, we don’t take checks, so can you pay with cash or something?
MM: Yeah, I’ll pay with cash—just like I did this morning.
PO1: Yeah, well, actually, we don’t send cabs to your area, so you’ll have to call someone else.
MM: Excuse me?
PO1: We don’t send cabs to that area.
MM: Since when?
PO1: Since, like, forever.
MM: But a driver from your company picked me up this morning.
PO1: That’s impossible.
MM: It’s not impossible, because it happened—this morning.
PO1: Sir, again, we don’t—nor have we ever—sent cabs to that area. I can give you the number of a company that covers that area, though, I mean, if you really need me to or something.
MM: (Straining to avoid conflict) Ok, what’s the number?
PO1: (Impatient, drawn-out sigh) 555-0666 [Editor’s Note: On my advice, the actual number, and name of the company, has been changed to protect Morb from a lawsuit, even though he wants everyone to “call those donkey fuckers and hassle them with some prank-call bullshit.”]
CLICK

CALL TWO

Phone Operator 2: Brand B Cab Company, how can I help you?
Morbid Misanthrope: Hello, I need a cab to pick me up tomorrow at 9:30 am.
PO2: What address?
MM: (home address)
PO2: Sorry, sir. We don’t cover that area. Besides, it’s, like, pretty ghetto there.
MM: So I’ve heard. But I’m sure none of the criminals are up at that time of day.
PO2: That really depends on what they’ve been smoking.
MM: What?
PO2: Nothing. Anyway, you’ll have to call Brand A Cab Company.
MM: Are you kidding me? I just talked to them. They said to call you because they don’t cover my area, either.
PO2: Well, I don’t know what they’re talking about.
MM: So I have to call those assholes back?
PO2: Yeah, we aren’t licensed to cover your area. They should be, though.
MM: It’s just really weird. They sent a cab for me this morning.
PO2: Are you sure it was their cab?
MM: Yeah, I mean, unless a rogue cab driver just happened to be in front of my building at the exact time they were supposed to send someone over.
PO2: Do you think they’re just, I don’t know, playing a joke on you?
MM: Who? The phone operator?
PO2: Yeah. Was he snickering?
MM: What? Snickering when he told me they wouldn’t send a cab?
PO2: Yeah, snickering usually indicates something funny is happening.
MM: Do you people play jokes on potential customers very often?
PO2: Well, I never do. But some people are just weird.
MM: Yeah, I guess so. Thanks.
CLICK

CALL THREE

Phone Operator 1: Brand A Cab Company. How can I help you?
MM: I need a cab to …
PO1: Sir, did you just call here, like, five minutes ago?
MM: I did, yes, but …
PO1: I already told you, sir: we don’t send cabs to your area.
MM: Listen, I just spoke to someone at the company you told me to call, and she said they aren’t licensed in my area. She said you guys are, though.
PO1: Oh, like she would know where we send cabs better than I would?
MM: This wouldn’t even be an issue except someone from your company picked me up this morning.
PO1: I already told you, pal, that ain’t possible!
MM: Fuck you, it’s not possible! Who the hell picked me up, then?
PO1: I don’t know who it was; I just know it wasn’t one of our cabs!
MM: Really? Even though the goddamned cab was emblazoned with your logo and showed up the exact time your company said it would when I called you last fucking night!
PO1: It wasn’t our cab, you asshole!
MM: So I suppose someone is freelancing with one of your cabs, then?
PO1: That’s possible.
MM: Yeah? He listens to all your incoming calls from his secret hideout, and then he picks up your customers in one of your cabs that he must have stolen, right? After he murdered Ramesh, the cab’s legitimate driver?
PO1: It’s possible. There are some fucked up people out there.
MM: And after all that fucking trouble—slicing up poor Ramesh with a boxcutter to steal his cab—all he does is pick people up and drop them off?
PO1: Sure, why not?
MM: Because that’s motherfucking ridiculous, you dildo!
PO1: It’s still more likely than anyone from our company picking you up, because we don’t fucking service that area!
MM: Bullshit!
PO1: I’m going to hang up now, asshole.
MM: I’m going to kick your ass!
PO1: How are you going to get here? Do you want me to send a cab? ‘Cause we don’t send cabs to your area. Asshole.
MM: I’ll get the ghost of poor, murdered Ramesh to have his Hindu gods send me a laser-shooting Vimana, and I’ll divebomb your bullshit company and annihilate your cock-sucking ass! [Editor’s Note: Those unfamiliar with the Bhagavata-Purana, Mahabharata, and Ramayana and their significance to the field of Ufology should either, A.) Look it up online, or, B.) Be thankful they’re not nerdy enough to understand what Morb is ranting about.]
PO1: Keep on threatening me, prick, this call is being recorded! You’re on tape! You’re on tape, asshole!
MM: Fuck if I care! Are they going to arrest me for threatening you with a goddamned Hindu spaceship? You fucking cocksmoker!
PO1: I hope you like walking, asshole!
MM: I hope you like being a dildo, you dildo!
PO1: Fuck you, pal!
CLICK

Monday, September 24, 2007

When you make Latin food, which type of pan(dering) should you use?

When you’re in the food-service industry like I am (see: Beefy Yakov’s Slaughterhouse and Used Plastic Tarp Emporium) there are a lot of government-mandated safety and sanitation regulations you must follow. This requires taking classes on proper food handling, followed by tests to prove you’re competent enough to provide the public with edibles that won’t leave them shitbarfing for a month. This training process tends to be a little on the lengthy side, but, thankfully, Yakov isn’t one to jeopardize profit-earning potential to satisfy another paranoid government regulatory department.

Instead of making his employees take all the normal food-safety courses, Yakov requires all new employees to watch a bunch of Food Network shows he recorded on his nephew’s Tivo. The list of shows looks quite daunting at first, but Yakov says it’s ok to fast forward through all of Rachel Ray’s excessive gesturing—that alone knocks a couple of hours off the overall time it takes to finish.

After you watch all the Food Network shows on the Tivo, Yakov comes in and says something like, “Right. So, you promise not to stick pecker in cow parts, right? Of course you won’t. Yakov doesn’t hire goddamned perverts. That’s why his brother still unemployed.” Yes, sometimes Yakov speaks in the third person.

Anyway, while I was completing Yakov’s training course, I caught up with all the controversy surrounding the most recent season of The Next Food Network Star. This shit all went down a while ago when the show first aired (you probably didn’t hear about it because the show is retard-pissing-his-pants dumb, and the only people that watch it are the people that have to watch it as part of their food-handler’s training) and revolved around a precocious and doughy contestant named Joshua Adam Garcia, or JAG, as he called himself.

Eventually, he was dismissed from the show—or quit the show, depending on who you ask—even though he was one of the finalists. The reason: he was a dirty fuckin’ liar. He said he was a marine, and he actually was, but he exaggerated the hell out of his rank and claimed he served in Afghanistan, which he didn’t. In fact, he was discharged for what the press has called a “hazing incident.” I don’t know what that means, but, based on JAG’s behavior on the show, I’m just going to assume it involved a rectum full of military-issue soap bars and a barrack full of marines pissed off that they had to watch JAG cram them up himself with a sheathed bayonet. Another one of JAG’s lies was that he finished culinary school. He never did—some bullshit like that, anyway, I’m not going to research this inane folderol.

So, with his head drooped in epicene disgrace, JAG walked out of the Food Network studio, losing the reality show contest to a curly haired broad hopelessly and irritatingly obsessed with Paris and all things French. Meh [Editor’s Note: “meh” is a word used to represent the sound one makes when he doesn’t care enough to use words to form complete sentences]. Life goes on, and nobody except bored trophy wives likely to buy Rachel Ray’s cookbooks and fantasize about Tyler Florence even knows anything so scandalous took place.

However, while watching the drama unfold like an origami swan made by an arthritic factory worker with a total of seven fingers, I noticed another controversy. (To be fair, it’s hardly a controversy, but if I said it was as boring as the rest of this crap, would you even continue reading?)

In one of the episodes near the finale, the three remaining contestants—JAG, the curly haired Francophile, and a blonde Yakov refers to as horseface—went on some radio show to see how well they would maintain composure under the pressure of being grilled [Editor’s Note: this terrible food joke was completely unintentional] by two zany DJs on live radio.

During JAG’s interview, the following exchange took place:

JAG: “I’m the one that’s going to bring out Latino Caribe cuisine to the world. It’s not really, uh, represented, you know, as much as I would like it to be, so … it’s either for two reasons: You can’t do it, or, you know, you’re not interested.”

Radio Show Host: “So you think that’s misrepresented on the Food Network?”

JAG: “Uh, you know, I don’t think it’s represented as much as it could be. Uh, you know, and I’m here to try and bring that out.”

Sweet disappointed Jewish mother of Judas! If there’s one thing network executives don’t want to be accused of it’s racial insensitivity/exclusion/misrepresentation/stereotyping/exploiting. Needless to say, the show’s judges—Food Network executives—were none to pleased with JAG’s comments and spent a good amount of time explaining how wrong he was and just how ethnically diverse the Food Network on-air personalities are.

Executive 1: “Goddamnit, JAG! We do so represent Latinos with our programs!”
Executive 2: “Yeah, we’re totally into all that racial stuff.”
JAG: “Come on, vatos. You know that no es verdad. Show me La Raza, or you can kiss my culo!”
Executive 1: “Look here, JAG, there’s enough ethnic diversity here to choke a goddamned Rainbow Coalition.”
Executive 2: “Goddamned right.”
JAG: “Que pasa?”
Executive 1: “Well, shit, Giada’s a hook-nosed Roman, Emeril’s half Bridge Troll, Paula Dean is inbred …”
Executive 2: “She’s right out of The Hills Have Eyes, really.
JAG: “Ay caramba!”
Executive 1: “Robert Irvine is a Brit, Sandra Lee is a WASP …”
JAG: “How is that ethnic in any way, cabron?”
Evecutive 2: “She’s a WASP robot built as an inside joke between a few African-American scientists.”
Executive 1: “Tyler Florence—or TyFlo, as the cool kids refer to him—is a Nephilim …”
JAG: “A what?”
Executive 2: “A hybrid being created during the sticky, unholy pelvic union of a fallen angel and a human woman, JAG.”
Executive 1: “Hell, I myself am a gay Jew, Mario Batali is a fat nerd, Cat Cora’s a hermaphrodite, Guy Fieri’s a time-traveling alien, Morimoto is some kind of Asian, Duff Goldman has been a chipmunk man since he got bitten by that radioactive chipmunk that escaped from Alton Brown’s dressing room, and Rachael Ray is, well, it’s better that you didn’t know the truth about her terrifying origins.”
Executive 2: “I wish I didn’t know. Yeesh!”
JAG: “But where (pauses to salsa dance) are all the Latinos?”
Exexutive 1: “Well, Bobby Flay is a Latino. I mean, technically he’s Irish or something, but he uses blue corn like a Mexican.”
Executive 2: “He loooooves blue corn, JAG.”
JAG: “That is not bueno enough. Bobby Flay may be my hero and the object of my secret homosexual fantasies, but he is not a Latino.”
Executive 2: “We stand by our previous claim that Latinos are well represented on our fine network. We appreciate your concerns, though.”
Executive 1: “Yeah, and you’re not getting eliminated from the show this round, so just keep your mouth shut, capice?”
JAG: “Arrrrriba!”

Several months later:


Saturday, September 15, 2007

Settling In

I haven’t posted anything for a while. That’s really not uncommon for me, but this time I have a legitimate reason—a legitimate reason other than a diabetic coma, I should say.

As my last post explained, I got a new job in a new city and had to relocate. Part of this relocation involved me staying in a motel for several weeks. The only computer I had access to was an old laptop I found in a dumpster behind a suspicious-looking pet shop (any pet shop located next door to a restaurant reeking of wok-fried hamster meat is suspicious). This particular laptop was powered by static electricity. I had to rub stray cats wrapped in tinfoil on the motel shower curtain in order to keep the computer charged, and nothing I had to say was worth all that trouble. I should also mention that, for some of this time, apparently, I was off on a fantastic and violent adventure with Captain Smack.

Anyway, I’m finally moved into my apartment and have my trusty computer back. Since it runs on the tears and humiliation of people I berate for my own amusement, I no longer have to worry about running out of juice. (Hey! You over there: Your mother’s a faggot and you smell like a hamper full of syphilitic skunk diapers.) Here’s what I’ve been up to in my absence from the blogosphere.

New Job
The new job is the only reason I moved. It was a lot of trouble, but you can’t put a price on job satisfaction. I am now the number-three sledgehammer operator/viscera scooper at Beefy Yakov’s Slaughterhouse and Used Plastic Tarp Emporium. It’s one of the few slaughterhouses left in the country that dispatches the livestock with actual human-operated hammers; although, some of us just use big rocks or backpacks full of auto parts to kill the cows because it’s less trite than using a big hammer (it’s a decision we stand by as artists). The pay is excellent, and every second Friday, I get to take home all the jowl meat, tarp scrapings, and udder tips I can carry, no questions asked. Every now and then, Yakov, the owner, gets wasted and tells us jokes from the old country. Most of them involve Catherine the Great blowing a horse, but his delivery is spectacular. Plus, if you mention communism, he spits on the floor and punches his wife, who then gets up and counts the toilet paper rolls in the office bathroom.

New Apartment
I concede that the new apartment isn’t as nice as the cave I used to live in, but it’s close to work and not without its charms. The building rests on the banks of an old creek where Californian Stink Ape (Bigfoot’s less civilized cousin) sightings are common and covens often gather to perform inverted bunny crucifixions. Technically the neighborhood could be called a ghetto, but I feel pretty safe because I’m heavily armed and the police usually show up three or four times a day to clean up after the gang-related massacres.

One thing I’m not used to is having neighbors. I’ve managed to introduce myself to most of them already, though, and they all seem pretty nice. They were mostly rude at first, but I think they warmed up to me when I showed them how to clean a machete blade with the sterile stomach acids of the recently deceased. That’s the kind of helpful information they don’t teach in schools any more, which is just a goddamned shame. The guy who lives in the apartment below me, Fritz, gave me a hard time for making too much noise when I first moved in. The encounter went something like this:

Fritz: “What the hell are you doing up here, asshole? Assembling furniture?”
Me: (Holding a hammer and a mangled bookshelf from IKEA) “Um, yeah.”
Fritz: “Well can’t you do it quietly?”
Me: “You can hear me hammering these tacks into Swedish particle board over that German techno you’re blasting down there?”
Fritz: “That’s not techno, you heathen. It’s my art!”
Me: “It sounds like Hitler taking a screaming shit in a gay discotheque.”
Fritz: “I combine the speeches of the fuhrer with industrial music to convey a message. My art suffers because of all your noise! Now shut up or I’ll tell the landlord.”
Me: “How about you get the fuck out of my apartment and go back to burning books, or whatever it is you’re doing, so I don’t have to kick you in the stomach until your eyeballs pop?”
Fritz: (Screaming in German and flailing around, threatening to take a shit on my floor.)

And that was the second time I jammed a claw hammer in a Nazi’s eye and threw him off a balcony.

Speaking of the landlord, he’s a nice Middle-Eastern fellow. He runs the apartment with the help of his three wives. He has a satisfaction-guaranteed policy when it comes to the apartment.

“If for some reason you unhappy with room, you can camel-whip one of my wives for five minutes. Then you eat goat meat and drink tea with me while she wash your feet.”

There’s also this guy in the building who everyone calls Dr. Jim. He comes by my door every couple of days and trades me free oil change coupons for my old insulin syringes.

“We, uh, can’t let kids step on these things, you know, or, like, let the garbage men poke themselves. I’ll, like, um, take these things to the hospital … where I work … with other rich doctors.”

I don’t know why a rich doctor would live in such a crappy neighborhood. Come to think of it, I don’t know why a rich doctor would wear plastic bags for shoes and drink swimming pool water, but a lot of rich people are rather eccentric.

Someone stole the Toyota emblem off the trunk of my car, which is really the only problem I’ve had so far. Luckily for me, the gang of kids that stole it tried to sell it back to me the next day. Had they known I’m not above beating the shit out of little kids, they probably wouldn’t have taken it in the first place.

The City
The city is not unlike San Diego in many ways. There are stupid people everywhere, for example. The city is smaller than San Diego, however, and it seems like more people here ride bicycles. In fact, so many people ride bikes, they basically control the speed and flow of traffic. They don’t obey traffic laws, either, and they seem to get some kind of perverse joy out of cutting off anyone earth-hostile enough to drive a car (even though the majority of other cars on the road are hybrids with obnoxious yellow stickers making that fact even more apparent). I don’t know whether the locals are just used to it or afraid of the helmet-wearing douchebags on ten-speeds, but they seem to take this abuse like a fatalist takes a twelve-baboon gangrape: with slovenly indifference or mildly disappointed acceptance. It has also occurred to me that these bicyclists have forgotten that no matter how wimpy a car is, it’s still a goddamned wrecking ball on wheels compared to a huffy with “Kucinich ‘08” stickers all over it.

I have been reminding the cycling-hippy population of this simple fact by knocking as many of them off the road as possible. At first I would sort of just nudge the really rude cyclists with my car until they wobbled enough to hit a curb and flip over, but since none of the authorities seem to give a shit about injured hippies, my vehicular assaults have become less inconspicuous. I’ve taken to throwing bricks at them and hitting them with lead pipes as I drive by. Sometimes I’ll even pull over and help them up just to steal their helmets. It’s not like I need any bicycle helmets or anything, but I’ve always wanted to be a poacher and I’m working my way up to elephant feet for trashcans and rhinoceros horns for, well, whatever the fuck people want to use rhinoceros horns for (Hindu monkey god erection idols?).

There’s not all that much to do for fun around here, but thankfully I’ve never done much of anything anyway. Sometimes I’ll go downtown and throw rocks at the Asian transsexuals with the landlord’s uncle, Amir; kick people playing acoustic guitars, pan flutes, and bongo drums at anti-war protests; wear a “God hates queers” shirt to services at the gay Methodist church down the street (What? It’s performance art—like Johnny Knoxville from Jackass taking a fart machine to a yoga studio); and I often hang out at a supposedly haunted Toys ‘R’ Us in a nearby town, hoping to see some ghostly activity. The walls haven’t bled or anything, but I often get reports of the ghost—who was an apple farmer before he died—grabbing ass in the ladies’ room. It’s hardly the Amityville horror, but I take what I can get.

All in all I’m adjusting rather well to my new surroundings. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go bait some stink ape traps with kitten meat. It’s a well-known fact that creek-dwelling Californian Stink Apes can’t resist kitten meat.