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

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:

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.

To Answer Stupid Questions and Bid a Fond Farewell

It’s a well-known fact that I have an encyclopedic knowledge of painfully useless crap (for example, SPAM is made from ground pork shoulder, not porcine rectal tumors and gelatinized chicken sperm as some people have suggested). My capacity for asinine information and brilliant problem-solving abilities are so well known that I sometimes get random e-mails from people, asking me stupid questions. Since I’m really busy preparing to move across the state for a job and have no time to write something new, I figured I would share a few stupid questions I’ve received, along with my cordial responses. One thing I don’t know, however, is why all these slack-jawed, mouth-breathing retards keep e-mailing me their questions when they could just as easily look this shit up for themselves online. I don’t want to enable people to continue being lazy, but it’s just my nature to help others.

Dude, what’s the deal with Chairman Kaga from Iron Chef? Is he, like, a real guy, or just acting and shit?

Jack M. Duly

Yes, Chairman Kaga is a real guy. He became a Japanese celebrity when his Elton John impersonation and lipsynced musical act was featured on the variety show Super Lucky Happy Fun Time Smiling Sparkling Go-Go Bonanza. This moderate amount of fame led Kaga to become the ultra-cool spokesperson for the “Bedazzler” in Japan. His amazing, sparkly outfits helped increase the Bedazzler’s sales in Tokyo by 3000%. Seeking further artistic freedom, he resigned as spokesperson and was replaced by an effeminate bulimic man in a raccoon costume. This gave Kaga the time to become Japan’s number one Liberace impersonator, which is how he made the bulk of his massive fortune.

At the height of his success, he was so wealthy he had a home custom built for him on the top of Mt. Fuji. This home is legendary for having its own bank (dubbed “Rotta Money Kaga Roomaru Bring-Bring Banku Desu” by the media in Japan). This life of solitude and insufficient flamboyance prompted Kaga to build Kitchen Stadium and start the magnificent television show, Iron Chef. The rest, as the cliché goes, is history.

Unfortunately, when Iron Chef ended in Japan, it was due to Kaga’s liver--rich and bloated after 300-plus episodes of eating fancy food on the show--being mistaken for the theme ingredient and cooked into a three-course French meal by Iron Chef Sakai on the final unaired episode of the show, not diminished ratings.

Kaga’s legacy has been carried on by his nephew on Iron Chef America. On this new version of the show, Kaga’s nephew (who is only one-sixteenth Japanese and previously stared in the big-budget Hollywood hit movie, Double Dragon) honors his uncle by eating a bunch of rich food and backflipping around like a ninja squirrel on amphetamines.

Mr. Mordread Lycanthrope,

Someone told me one time that alcohol played an important part of history. You seem to drink a lot, so is that true? The history thing I mean. Thanks.

Skippy Putnam

Well, first of all, alcohol has played an important role in my personal history. Ever since my dad got a sexy nurse to put Manischewitz wine on my freshly circumcised baby pecker, alcohol has been my guide on the road to badass. When I was teething, my mother put bourbon in my bottle to shut me up—that’s when I grew my first chest hair. I learned how to drink heavily in junior high, and by my first year of high school, I was guzzling American whiskey and beating up the football team. In fact, if it weren’t for alcohol, I never would have gotten drunk enough to kick my drunken father’s ass. (Editor’s Note: This happened shortly before Morb’s father burned the house down trying to sear his cheating wife’s lady lunchmeat [see: vagina] shut with a superheated machete blade.)

Secondly, people around the world have been drinking various kinds of booze for thousands of years. It goes without saying that the consumption of alcohol has changed history countless times. For example, the Great Pyramid was supposed to be a cube, but the architect got all messed up on Nile Bill’s Wild-Crocodile Brew and screwed up the blueprints; this led to the creation of one of mankind’s greatest architectural achievements.

Alcohol has always been at least partially responsible for men standing up, throwing caution to the wind, and accomplishing great things. I believe it was George Washington who, after polishing off his sixth mug of ale, said, “Buuuurrrrrpppp! Hey, guys! England’s being a dick, let’s kick his ass!” He then sketched out a crude drawing of his butt and sent it to the king of England, starting the American War of Independence.

If my neighbor Scooter hadn’t gotten so drunk on cigarette-butt-filtered Jacuzzi gin, he never would have tried to blow out the fire his meth lab started when it exploded (R.I.P. Scooter). And if it weren’t for alcohol, Bill Fool never would have attempted to take a piss on Lars Ulrich from Metallica at a bar in Houston. Anyway, that’s the short answer. If you want a more in-depth response, send a case of Evan Williams Kentucky Whiskey to my cave, and pray that I don’t get drunk and try to kick your ass for asking questions in a lispy, nancy-boy voice.

Hey asshole! I think ur the guy that fucked up my car. Was it you? What the hell u fuckin prick?

Name Withheld

It wasn’t me, dude. Why would I run around in the middle of the night, wearing a ninja costume with a superman cape, kicking in people’s windshields, and leaving animal carcasses piled up in the passenger seats? That’s just not something I would do. I also wouldn’t drop my lucky Hello Kitty cigarette lighter in your backseat when I wasn’t throwing up in one of your cup holders. Incidentally, I’d be willing to take any Hello Kitty cigarette lighters you may have found on your property.

Hiya Morb,

My parents are making me see a shrink because I keep teabagging the cat. I’m nervous about it. What happens to you when you see a shrink?

Love,
Timmy Sanchez VIII

Basically, you have to lay on a couch like a gay Roman while some jackass in a tweed vest draws pictures of you naked on his legal pad. I had a psychology class in college, and, yes, that’s all shrinks actually do.

Hey, Morb, tell him that psychologists and psychiatrists can help you face your problems. Tell him that they’re just there to help you in any way they can, without judging you.

Shut the fuck up, Magnanimous Misanthrope, you wuss.

But, Morb, Timmy has reached out to you. The least you could do is reassure him a little.

I’m not here to make timid little perverts feel better about getting brainraped by educated perverts because their parents are tired of paying to abort the housecat’s human/feline-hybrids. And what the hell are you even doing here? I thought Murderous Misanthrope cut your guts out with a butterfly knife.

He did, and it really hurt. But Miraculous Misanthrope brought me back.

That holier-than-thou douchebag brought you back again? Jeez, I will be so thrilled when I figure out a way to get rid of all you idiots.

Hi y’all

I done everything I could to get attention. I shaved my head, had some kids, did some stupid shit with those kids, flashed my vadge a few times, et al y’all. No one cares any more tho. What can I do to get people to pay attention to me forever y’all?

xxxooo
B.S.

I tell you the same goddamn thing every time you send me this question.

There you have it, folks. I may not be as wise as King Solomon or Al Bundy, but I think I did alright answering those questions anyway.

As I mentioned earlier, I’m in the process of relocating in order to take a sweet new job. Since I have to start the job before I'm able to find a place to live, I’ll be staying in a motel for a few weeks. It’s not the fanciest motel, but they’re giving me a really good deal because I’m the first person ever to stay there without paying by the hour. That reminds me, I better cover that room in, like, three layers of plastic tarp. I’ll probably be blogging even less than usual, but I’ll be back once I’m living in a place with an internet connection instead of a heart-shaped bed and matching Spanish Fly dispenser.

Also, since I’ve lived in San Diego all my life, moving 500 miles away makes me feel a little sentimental (until I remember how much I hate every person in this town). Throughout history, people have commemorated such journeys by breaking champagne bottles on ships and reciting poetry that someone else wrote. I don’t care much for poetry, and the boat I bought from a crackhead for three dollars caught on fire the other night. I will now end this, the final post from my hometown, with a completely unrelated, translated haiku by the totally awesome Japanese poet Basho.

O bush warblers!

Now you’ve shit all over

my rice cake on the porch

Best Hair Ever

Jayson: “Yo, guys, how fuckin’ sweet do we look for this photo shoot?”

Tiger: “Yo, dawg, we look totally slammin’. I feel like some kind of sexy cat.”

Randy: “I look hot in purple, yo. For real.”

Jesse: “Jesse loves the soft light glistening off of his highlighted hair.”

Tim: “I think the stylist went a little half-ass with my hair, you guys.”

Randy: “It looks fine, yo. It doesn’t look as good as mine, though.”

Jayson: “Yo, Randy, you know who you look like? You look like Rufio from that Peter Pan movie with Robin Williams.”

Randy: “Snap, Dawg! I totally do. Rufio was hardcore.”

Jesse: “Jesse concurs. Rufio was the man.”

Tiger: “I’m liking these braids. They’re crazy; like my hair got caught in a lawnmower. I’m pimp, yo. Ghetto fabulous all the way.”

Jesse: “If Jesse were a cab driver in New York, Jesse wouldn’t pick you up. Your look is the true epitome of street cred.”

Tim: “Wow, Jesse, that came off a little racist, didn’t it?”

Tiger: “No way, Tim. Your hair may not be as cool as ours, but don’t take that out on Jesse.”

Jesse: “Jesse does not like getting accused of bigotry when Jesse is merely paying one of his bandmates a sincere compliment.”

Tim: “Sorry, Jesse. I didn’t mean anything by it. I guess I’m just a little bummed out that my hair looks….”

Jayson: “Looks like you just rolled out from between two sticky mattresses after a three-day booze-and-pills blackout?”

Tim: “That’s a little harsh. I was just going to say….”

Randy: “That your hair looks like it was sculpted out of tree bark by a one-eyed geriatric with a case of bad medication shakes?”

Tim: “Ouch! I was going to say it looked a little plain, but I didn’t think it looked bad.”

Jesse: “Well, if there’s one thing Jesse knows for sure, it’s that Jesse’s hair is beyond trailer park chic. If Billy Ray Cyrus had his mullet created by homosexual German stylists in Milan, it still wouldn’t compare to Jesse’s current hairdo.”

Randy: “Yeah, it’s like a redneck’s meth lab exploded style all over your head.”

Tim: “I think you’re all going a little far with the compliments now.”

Tiger: “Jealousy is really unbecoming of you, dude. Seriously. If you’re upset that your hair looks like it was styled when you squoze your head out of the urethra of a bull elephant with gonorrhea, you should take it up with the stylist, not attack your bandmates.”

Tim: “Now I’m starting to get pretty upset.”

Jayson: “I’d just like to point out how hot my hair makes me look. I’m, like, ten times hotter than those rebellious punk rock-looking chicks they use in L.A. Looks hair gel magazine ads.”

Jesse: “If you were a woman, Jesse would not hesitate to pleasure you carnally. Jesse is also secure enough in his masculinity to admit the thought crossed his mind, even knowing full well you are a man.”

Randy: “Jayson is looking mad sexy, yo.”

Tiger: “I’m tempted to tap that ass myself, homie.”

Tim: “From the depths of narcissism to the heights of homoeroticism all in one photo shoot. Way to go, guys.”

Jayson: “That sounded a little like homophobia, Tim, and that’s not what this band is about.”

Tiger: “This band is not about blind hatred and intolerance, dawg.”

Jesse: “Word.”

Randy: “Double word.”

Tim: “I don’t need this shit. I’m a musician. I’m out of here.”

Jesse: “Jesse hopes your hairdo is not run over by any careless vehicles, because it is certainly pedestrian.”

Tim: “You’re guys are idiots.”

By the way, I did a guest post of divine significance on Neko’s blog. You can read that here. No pressure, but your souls hang in the balance.

From Recent Travels: This Market is teh 1337

An Expert's Take on MySpace.com

I hate MySpace. It’s stupid. Besides, what the fuck would a misanthrope want with a social networking site, anyway? At first I was just going to rant about how MySpace is nothing but a place for fat chicks with deceptively slimming high-angle photos to pick up internet boyfriends; a place for old perverts to prey on stupid preteens who believe every online profile they read; and a place where foreigners can meet American women desperate to get married, i.e., their ticket to American citizenship. But then I started thinking about how much productivity suffered at the magazine where I worked because all of the ditzy ad sales girls spent their entire working day fucking around on MySpace.

If MySpace could cripple a business in such a way, perhaps it isn’t just an innocent place for people to make friends/keep track of friends online. Perhaps it’s something more evil, more insidious. Whenever I have these kinds of paranoid thoughts, I start looking shit up on the internet—modern scholarly research, if you will. At any rate, I discovered quite a bit of information that blew my mind. Most of this enlightening information came from one source: a self-proclaimed genius and ancient civilizations/end of the world expert named Thadius H. J. Bandercatchum (AIM handle, XxCommander6669xX).

Since he knows more than I ever hope to know on the subject of MySpace (and something called “tentacle porn” that he offered to sell me a box of), I asked him to write a post for this blog, summarizing the major discoveries he’s made. So, anyone still reading this crap, please enjoy having your entire perception of reality altered by this great man.

Cordially,

Morbid Misanthrope

MySpace: Destroyer of Worlds
By Thadius H. J. Bandercatchum

In order for what I’m about to tell to make sense, I suggest all you plebeians just accept my immense genius and try to wrap your pin-shaped heads around the gobbets of information I’m going to drop before you. Judging by the intellect of Morbid Misanthrope (oh, how clever, alliteration—what a twat), you, his devoted readers, must be incredibly stupid. Who else but complete fools would consistently give a shit what someone calling himself Morbid Misanthrope has to say. That idiot writes like a 45-year-old ex-junkie working his way through Hooked on Phonics for the seventh or eighth time. That’s neither here nor there, however, because no matter how below me an audience is, it is an audience nonetheless. My message is what matters, so I don’t mind casting pearls before swine occasionally.

Before I “learn y’all something,” I think I’ll tell you a little about myself. The only thing equal to my genius is my awesomeness and ability to get hot ladies constantly. I’m so cool that I say things like, “My name’s Thadius, Thadius Bandercatchum. You’ve got big hooters. Now go over there and make out with that sexy nurse” and it actually works. I’m so pimp, as the kids like to say, that I’ve had sex with over 300 lesbians—the pretty ones, not those manly dyker bikers with plastic wieners sewn on. In fact, I once had three-hour-long sex with six lesbians on the back of a Harley Davidson while changing the bike's oil and rebuilding the engine. One super-hot lesbian actually called my boner “Thad’s third arm” because it’s got reach.

Anyway, aside from my poon-pounding prowess, I’m also a genius. I make over $200,000 a year just for being so goddamned smart. I don't even use my genius as a full-time job. I only freelance. Yes, I’m really that smart. So pay attention to what I have to say. I’m going to make this painfully quick so none of your heads explode.

Point 1: The End of the World Hexagram in the I Ching
There’s no way any of you can possibly comprehend the complexities of the I Ching, so allow me to just say this: The Hexagram in the I Ching that represents the end of the world can be translated to—if you also include its inner trigram—“ Mai Sczpace.”

Point 2: The Mayans and Their End of the World Predictions
These are the simple facts: The Mayans were very, very smart (even though their skin was a funny color and they didn’t speak proper English). Unfortunately for them, they were shit when it came to surviving, and they were all destroyed by Spaniards that came to the Americas by accident on their way to find the famous Chinese Opium Trade. However, before they were wiped out by lisping Europeans with silly pants and single-shot rifles, they managed to predict the end of the world. I’ll spare you their methods. For the sake of your fragile minds, we’ll just say they used magic.

According to their calendar, the end of the world will occur in December 2012. Pictured below is the Mayan Calendar Stone (sometimes called the Aztec Sun Stone—the Mayans stole it from the Aztecs as a revenge prank after some Aztec warriors greased the stairs of one of the Mayan pyramids and made a bunch of the human sacrifices fall down in a comical fashion). At the very top of the stone, where 12:00 would be on a clock, is a symbol that represents the end of the world. Look at the symbol the Mayans used to represent the destruction of the planet. If that’s not the Myspace logo, then I never banged Scarlett Johansson (I did bang Scarlett Johansson, by the way).

Point 3: Plato’s Pre-Atlantis Utopia
I have to assume that all of you have heard of Plato. If not Plato, surely you’ve all heard of his famous story about Atlantis. Disney made a cartoon movie about it, which I’m sure most of you have seen.

I have discovered a little-known story written by Plato that predates his Atlantis story by over three weeks. I shouldn’t have to tell you how significant this story is (although I’m sure some of you will miss out on its relevance entirely). Here is a copy of Plato’s pre-Atlantis story:

There once was a brilliant society, with technology like no other society on Zeus' flat earth. This society was called Mu-Nod, and was the envy of every other city on earth. While other societies reveled in goat sex and naked male-on-male wrestling, Mu-Nod shunned such nonsense and instead focused on progress.

They developed something called bathrooms, which were places where one, alone as opposed to a group setting, could bathe or drop a deuce on marble thrones. They also had flying chariots that could transport a person from place to place at an amazing speed. It was said that the very gods of Olympus vacationed there.

Then, one day, the scientists of this magnificent city created something called "ThyPlace." This system, which enabled citizens to communicate with each other through long cables suspended throughout the city, led to their very downfall.

Instead of working and inventing, the denizens of Mu-Nod sent each other vapid messages and manipulated photos of themselves. They updated their "ThyPlace" pages many times a day, virtually crippling their productivity. They spent all their time quoting ignorant celebrities and customizing their personal "ThyPlace" pages. Soon, however, the morally lacking invented fake personalities for themselves in order to "befriend" the youngest members of the society. Perversity ran rampant.

The less people worked and the more time they spent sending messages to each other led to severe economic decline. The city deteriorated and went to pot.

Soon, the gods themselves decided to punish the wicked, slovenly population of Mu-Nod. They called everyone on "ThyPlace" dorks, which is another word for whale dick, and destroyed the entire civilization for its wickedness. Thusly, this great city perished as it fell beneath the waves of the ocean, brought down by its inability to function because of a silly social-networking program.

This story is true; may the gods fornicate me with an olive branch if I tell a lie. Let this be a lesson to all of the other cities in the world—a warning, as it were. The entire world is at risk if they heed not these words. Thank you, and good night.

There you have it. MySpace is certainly a modern version of the “ThyPlace” that destroyed the magical kingdom of Mu-Nod. The same terrible fate could await us if we continue to use MySpace so recklessly. Also, Plato essentially called MySpace users dorks. So, unless you want to be a fucking dork, I suggest you quit screwing around with MySpace.

Point 4: Nostradamus’ Quatrains
Since most of you probably have no idea who Nostradamus is, I'll enlighten you. Even a genius like me can be charitable sometimes. Why, just the other day I bought a pencil from a deaf retard on the subway. This is the abridged version of Nostradamus’ history, written to make sense to cigarette-smoking chimps. I think you’ll all be able to understand it.

Nostradamus was born a long time ago in a land far away. He was a pissed off kid because his parents named him Michelle. That's why he started calling himself Butch. Since he lived in a salon, no one bought the "tough" name. That pissed him off even more, so he killed his wife and kid and blamed it on the plague.

Still desperate to look manly, he married a new lady named Anne. She was really stupid, but he only married her as a trophy wife so it didn't really matter. It was rumored that she spoke terrible French and couldn't cook for a damn, but she had huge tits and that was all ol' "Butch" needed to help his reputation.

He also grew a sweet beard and moved into a spooky-looking tower where he started writing poetry. Realizing a French poet would make people world wide question his masculinity for all time, he changed his name to Nostradamus and spread rumors that he was writing some spooky shit about the future, not fruity poems about wine and flowers.

Then, everyone was all mystified by Nostradamus and they read his terrifying poems, or quatrains as he called them. Quatrain is basically a word Nostradamus said the ghosts told him to use to describe his fortune-telling.

Anyway, he wrote a bunch of quatrains and people were afraid of the end of the world that he may or may not have predicted. You see, Nostradamus was a sneaky fellow, and many experts believe his quatrains weren't really predictions, but really bad jokes only he got.

Regardless, people have been scared of Nostradamus for hundreds of years now. They also call him a prophet and celebrate his birthday every year by wearing fake beards and silly hats.

I have found a few quatrains that predict the birth of MySpace and its terrible effects on humanity. It's pretty damned amazing, so hold on to your helmets and read on.

With a click and a blank stare
They speak to friends they've never met
Where the young are really old men

And the women are too

And another one:

Self-absorbed, empty-headed fools
Quote lines from bad plays and lyrics from mindless music at each other
Bright pink backgrounds blind the unprepared
Women much fatter than their pictures suggest

And, most ominously:

The system shall corrupt the world
Bringing mental-retardation and exaggerated self-importance
Name after name will be added to lists

Nyspice will bring social ruin

In the last line there, I interpret "Nyspice" to mean "MySpace"; much like other Nostradamus experts believe Nostradamus' "Hister" meant "Hitler." It couldn’t be more clear that Nostradamus predicated MySpace’s ability to bring about terrifying social ruin.

For any of you still reading along without understanding the big picture, I’ll spell it out for you: MySpace will bring about the end of the world. The proof is all there … in a condensed, blog-friendly kind of way. If any of you dare to learn more about MySpace ushering in the end of the planet as we know it, you can visit my website at ****************** and buy my books from **********. Also, if there are any especially sexy ladies who want to get nailed by a genius before the world comes to an end, you can call **********. That’s my cell. Hot ladies can also find saucy pictures of me on MySpace.

[Editor’s Note: All of Thad’s contact information has been blocked by the owner of this blog because Thad called him a twat.]

Independence Day

The Birth of the iPhone

The Summer Slaughter Tour: A Morbid Misanthrope's Humble Review

At last a concert came to town metal enough to lure me from the sweet seclusion of my cave. As the name so eloquently implies, the Summer Slaughter Tour is the “most extreme tour of the year.” And although the year is far from over, the veracity of that statement probably won’t be compromised unless a bunch of pro skaters pack up their halfpipe and tour the country themselves (those skaters are so fucking extreme, they’re actually X-treme). Regardless of the tour’s superfluous extremity, the show promised nine bands for the low, low price of only $17.00. With a price like that, I couldn’t afford not to go.

The Venue
Unlike many of the metal shows I’ve attended in the past, this concert took place at an all-ages venue. I’m used to seeing metal bands in filthy little dive bars where you spend most of your time trying to avoid stepping on potentially hazardous piles or puddles of sticky god-knows-what. At this all-ages show, however, I spent most of my time trying not to step on any kids. The fuckin’ place was crawling with the little bastards. Watching these annoying, sideways-hat-wearing, trying-to-look-tough thumbsuckers pour through the doors of the venue reminded me of maggots crawling out of a freshly kicked hole in the side of a rotting animal. I think I prefer the maggots. They have more personality.

Being an all-ages venue, there was no alcohol on the premises; unless you count all the cool kids trading sips from tallboys of warm Budweiser in the parking lot bushes. From the looks of these little wimps, they were more accustomed to Zima and wine coolers, but, you know, it’s a metal show and they have to look tough until their minivan-driving mommies pick them up.

I had never been to this venue before because it’s pretty much just a hangout for screamo kids, punks, and various types of hoodie-wearing hardcore dumbshits. The venue itself is fairly large and has decent sound; although, some of the bands sounded rather muffled—like someone blast-farting into a couch cushion. If there was a designated outdoor smoking area, I didn’t see it. This drove a few unfortunate guys with shaved heads and prison tattoos to start punching people until security threw them out. Come to think of it, they were probably just skinheads. Those guys love punching people … and nailing their cousins … often both at the same time.

Overall the venue was good: plenty of parking, decent sound, large merchandise area, large stage area, etc. What the venue lacks, at least when I was there, is some airflow. Being in that place was like cramming your head up a bee hive and jumping into a kiln. Would it kill their budget to invest in a fucking ceiling fan or two? Crack a goddamn window, guys, you’re starting to attract wayfaring Italian cooks looking for an oven big enough to cook pizzas shaped like Italy. (I was going to make a Nazi oven joke, but my conscience threatened to sue.)

Bands
Here is a quick rundown of the bands that played.

Beneath the Massacre:
A tech-death(ish) metal band from Canada. They sounded like a group of speed freaks jackhammer fighting behind a liquor store while a robot kicks over trashcans. Sweet!

Ion Dissonance:
I had never heard this band before. I guess you could call them a hardcore band with grindcore tendencies. Their bass player was bald and thrashed around a lot.

Arsis:
Melodic, blackened death metal. I would have paid $17.00 just to see these guys play. I bought their “United in Regret” t-shirt because it’s way necro. When they played “A Diamond for Disease,” it was so fucking badass that three people exploded.

The Faceless:
I had never heard of these guys, either. Their keyboard player looked like someone who would have gotten beaten up by Moby back in Junior High School.

As Blood Runs Black:
“We want you [their fans in the crowd] to fuckin’ go crazy and tear this shit up!” They probably would have, but they were all too busy writing notes about their feelings to put on LiveJournal when they got home.

Cattle Decapitation:
A local gore/grind band that has become somewhat well known. I saw them back in the day with Nile and Impaled. Their singer looks like a cracked-out Jim Breuer. He flailed around a lot, poured bottled water on himself, and spat in the air and caught it in his mouth. I wanted to drop kick him. The band itself is cool, though.

Cephalic Carnage:
These crazy bastards are an awesome mix of death metal, grindcore, and other random types of assorted musical madness. Since I know that drug-free is the way to be, I can’t say I approve of their calls to smoke weed. During “Endless Cycle of Violence,” I punched a kid so hard it knocked the Billabong logo off of his shirt.

Decapitated:
A tech-death metal band from Poland. I’ve been listening to these guys for years. Back in college “Spheres of Madness” was practically my theme song, and I finally got to see them play it live. They were an unstoppable wall of brutal death metal battery.

Necrophagist:
The final and headlining band of the Summer Slaughter Tour took the stage and beat the shit out of the audience with complex tech-death riffing, time signatures nearly impossible to headbang to, and an eight-minute-long drum solo.

Highlights of the Show
Beneath the Massacre, Arsis, Cephalic Carnage, Decapitated, and Necrophagist.
“GORE not CORE” shirts. Goddamn right!

Things that Pissed Me off at the Show
For the sake of brevity, I’ll try to keep the unhinged ranting to a minimum.

Because there were so many bands on the bill, every band leading up to Necrophagist only had a four-song set. I’ve seen soundchecks last longer than that. If I had sneezed, I would have completely missed Decapitated’s performance. The simple solution is to put fewer bands on the lineup. Even with dirty metalheads, quality trumps quantity—unless you’re talking about alcohol, in which case more is always better. I myself would choose a dusty metal bucket of Jim Beam runoff over a clean shot glass of Maker’s Mark any day.

In any case, the Summer Slaughter Tour would have been no less extreme had Ion Dissonance, The Faceless, and As Blood Runs Black not been involved. In fact, the exclusion of As Blood Runs Black probably would have added to the tour’s extreme cred, as their absence probably would have cut down on the number of fifteen-year-old emo kids sniveling up the joint, reeking of expensive hair conditioner.

Speaking of emo kids, just what the fuck happened to the metal scene since I’ve been gone? I’ve been to all-ages shows in the past, and there always were a bunch of annoying punker and hardcore kids around, but never have I been to a metal show so full of tragically hip, senselessly pouty, emo douchebags with stupid haircuts. It was as if Junior Prom at the school for the extraordinarily angsty let out after an especially moving performance by My Chemical Romance. I went to take a piss but couldn’t get in the bathroom because the raging torrent of mascara-laced tears was impossible to ford without three pack mules and one-hundred feet of rope. At one point, the mosh pit turned into a moping circle, and all the emo kids just sort of shuffled around, flipping their feathered hair out of their eyes in melancholy unison. I didn’t know people on suicide watch were allowed to go to concerts.

This unholy mixture of clashing subcultures—emo/screamo, hardcore, punker, and metal—led to an unusual pit experience. Hardcore kids performing the ever-popular and totally not lame pit dance “picking up change” were inevitably kicked in the head by safety-pin-covered idiots jumping around karate kicking the air like spastic, uncoordinated Ralph Macchios. Fragile screamo boys and girls bordered the pit and looked sad when anyone ran into them, and metalheads just ran around, plowing through anyone in their way. Some jackass was literally doing cartwheels in the pit—the kind of cartwheels effeminate guys wearing lederhosen do while picking flowers and singing show tunes in a field somewhere. The last time I saw him he was getting his shit totally ruined by a big guy in a Morbid Angel t-shirt. He got hit so hard mid-cartwheel that his shoe flew off.

It also occurred to me that many of the younger, emo people at the show didn’t “get” the death metal stylings of Decapitated and Necrophagist. If I had a nickel for every emo kid completely baffled by the death metal legends, I could have bought the Hot Topic store at the mall, invited a bunch of screamo fanboys (and girls) in for a studded belt sale, and burned the motherfucker down. The great majority of emo kids in the crowd looked like wild turkeys drowning in the rain, slack-jawed and glazed over, when Necrophagist was playing. The confusion finally became too great, and they fled the venue in droves, looking for a band full of mascara-wearing pretty boys in tight pants to play some tired-ass harmonies in 4/4 that they could wrap their heads around.

I even overheard a guy saying, “What the hell’s with this band? They have no stage presence. This is, like, boring.” Really? You try jumping around on stage like a flaming monkey during a seizure while playing this. I know image is really important to you hip kids, but some people value musical prowess more than eyebrow piercings and choreographed jumping. If I just wanted to see a bunch of adults jump around, I’d go to the loony bin down the street and light off some firecrackers during story hour.

All in all, it was a great show, well worth leaving my cave to attend. It doesn’t beat the Anal Blast concert I went to last year, though. At that show, the bar’s toilets overflowed and flooded the club with two inches of putrid, hepatitis-rich sewer water. Because of that, all the drinks that night were half price. Score!

Friday Night Metal Show

From the Desk of Morbid Misanthrope:

I'm actually leaving my house to go to this show tonight. It's the first metal show I've been to since I saw Anal Blast over a year ago. I'll probably write something about it when it's all over, so at least anyone reading this crap knows a legitimate post is forthcoming. Probably.

Staying totally necro as always,

Morbid Misanthrope

The iPhone Cometh

Funny Metal Video: "Porn Store Stiffi" by Blood Duster

Drummer playing kick drums wearing roller skates: best joke ever.

Helpful Hints for Diabetics

Several months ago I got a case of the diabetes. It was a simple mistake, really. I was tired of filling up on beer so quickly (and I certainly wasn’t going to start drinking chardonnay like some kind of fruitcup), so I decided I needed some more room in my guts for beer storage. After looking through some old Carcass CD booklets for anatomical diagrams of the human viscera, I felt confident enough to do some remodeling; sort of like This Old House with blood and a few kidneys.

So, with a scalpel I bought off of this guy that sells drugs out of a boat parked in his driveway, I did a nice job removing this large organ that looks like a retarded corn cob. I thought, “Fuck, anything that looks this stupid can’t be worth a damn, and it’s taking up space that could be used to hold Old English. Precious Old English.” Had I been in a better state of mind, a state of mind of someone who wasn’t drunk and in the middle of removing his own ugly organs with a scalpel probably crawling with hepatitis, I would have realized I was taking out my pancreas. And if I had been in that better state of mind and actually knew what the hell a pancreas was for, well, I probably would have left it alone. Nobody’s perfect, right?

The next thing I know, I’m waking up in the hospital to a team of doctors slapping me around like a newborn that owed them money. I was pretty groggy, but I remember the conversation going something like this:

Me: What the hell, dude?
Doc 1: You stupid, stupid ass!
Me: Stupid? Me? Fuck you! I’ve turned myself into the perfect beer-drinking machine God never had the stones to create Himself!
Doc 2: Cripes! More of this shit. Hit him again, doctor.
Doc 1: You dumbshit! I’ll slap that triumphant-mad-scientist complex right out of you!
Me: Quit slapping me, you quack!
Doc 1: I’ll slap you all I like, asshole!
Me: Can you at least punch me? I hate getting slapped!
Doc 2: Sorry. Doctors are only trained to slap. Punching, kicking, and Muay Thai elbows are out of the question. Besides, in your condition, any trauma could kill you.
Me: Then why is this fuckhead slapping me?
Doc 1: Because you’re a goddamned idiot! That’s why!
Me: What … what the fuck? Sweet mother of Buddha butt-fucked upside down! There’s a tube in my dick! There’s a tube in my….

Er … that’s enough of that. (Editor’s Note: Tube = catheter.) Anyway, after I was sedated and the doctors finished uploading the video of them kicking my ass to YouTube, they explained that the pancreas, no matter how silly it looks, is necessary to live. Further, they explained it took them several hours of intense surgery to put it back and save my life.

Doc 2: Congratulations, moron. You’re alive. And you’ve won the hospital’s “Stupidest Patient of the Month” contest.
Me: Really? Who came in second?
Doc 2: That would be Timbo. He cut off his own penis with a Sonic Blade.
Me: And I’m still the stupidest patient here?
Doc 2: Yes. Timbo’s crazy and thought the devil lived in his pants. That’s why he cut off his penis. You, on the other hand, are just a moron. Also, Timbo got bonus smart points for using the Sonic Blade. It doesn’t slice, it sonically separates, you know.
Me: Well how the fuck do you like that?

After nearly a month of painful recovery and physical therapy (I had to learn to walk in hospital socks), I was almost ready to get out of the hospital. Because of the damage done to my pancreas, I was now a diabetic and had to attend a class on taking care of myself before I could be released. The class consisted of a short, cross-eyed lady sticking syringes into a Nerf ball and talking about glucose.

I wasn’t paying a lot of attention, but as I understand it, the pancreas sends out magic waves that regulate the levels of sugar, or glucose, in your blood. If the pancreas stops functioning properly, blood-glucose levels get out of balance like a clubfooted tightrope walker with an ear infection. If glucose levels get too low, you get all shaky and pass out until you eat some raisins; if glucose levels get too high, you have to shoot some insulin before they cut off your foot. Something like that, anyway. It was hard to pay attention—I really, really wanted to play with that Nerf ball.

Now, I’m not a very nice guy. In fact, I’m a real prick. But, since I’m lucky to be alive, I figured I’d do something nice for a change. I’ve decided to post a few things I’ve learned while living with diabetes. Perhaps someone new to the disease will read it and benefit from it. It might help someone—or even save someone’s life. Besides, this creepy night nurse that looked like the girl from Audition said if I didn’t write this, she’d find me when I felt completely safe, stick needles in my eyes, and garrote-saw my arms and legs off.

Check Your Blood Often
You’ll need to check your blood several times a day to be sure your glucose levels are balanced. The life of a diabetic is a life of constant chemistry. Thankfully, for those of us who never got the hang of diagramming Bohr Models in science class, modern devices make the blood-testing process very simple if not completely idiot proof.

Pictured below is the blood-testing device I was given when I left the hospital.

This technologically advanced device is used to draw a blood sample, the blood sample is read into the device via the testing strip, and then the device gives you a number that indicates your blood-glucose level. Your doctor will give you a chart, or sliding scale, that tells you what numbers are indicative of normal, low, and high blood-glucose levels. For example, my chart reads:

90 and below: Eat something with sugar in it, stupid.
100-150: Right on target. You’re doing pretty well for an imbecile.
151-200: You need four units of insulin. Try to avoid poking yourself in the eye.
230-300: What? Did you eat candy for lunch or something? Six units of insulin, Willy Wonka.
301 and up: You are so losing a foot if you don’t take eight units of insulin.

Obviously, the importance of maintaining proper blood-glucose levels cannot be overstated. If the levels remain high for a number of successive tests, you might need to go to the hospital. I suggest you take some sort of weapon with you to discourage the doctors from sawing off your feet. I don’t know why the feet are in constant jeopardy when you have diabetes, but I suspect the doctors have some kind of bet going where the M.D. that saws off the most feet gets a helicopter ride through the Grand Canyon or something.

Maintain a Healthy Diet
I’m on a low-carb, low-sugar, low-fat diet. This makes eating foods I used to enjoy nearly impossible; however, your new diet is based on the severity of your case of diabetes and how sadistic your doctor feels that day. My daily diet consists of the following:

Breakfast: Three cornflakes, a teaspoon of soy milk, and a white watermelon seed.
Lunch: A quarter-sized ham cube, one boiled broccoli stem sprinkled with no more than five sesame seeds, and as much water as I can drink in seven seconds.
Dinner: One natural hotdog casing wrapped in a lettuce leaf, two un-popped popcorn kernels, and a cup of any Asian tea that looks like urine and smells like a dirty bong.
Pre-Bedtime Snack: As much low-fat cottage cheese as I can balance on a low-fat goldfish cracker.

As I mentioned before, diets vary from person to person. One example of a diabetes-friendly diet I was given in the diabetes class consisted of a bucket of yogurt for breakfast; a piece of beef, chicken, or pork the size of a deck of playing cards for lunch; a toddler-sized pile of fish bellies and apple cores for dinner; and a tofu brick shaped like a Toyota Scion for a pre-bedtime snack. Whatever diet the doctor assigns you, be sure to stick with it. I once ate a chicken strip for lunch and a dietician showed up and kicked me in the stomach until I threw up.

Exercise Every Day
Regular exercise helps distribute glucose evenly throughout your system. Tae Bo is for Nancy-Marys who wanted to be butch Broadway dancers, and jogging is for perverted old men that like to get away with wearing short-shorts in public. I suggest taking brisk walks and karate-kicking any neighborhood pets that look at you funny.

Be Smart with Your Syringes
The typical syringe used for insulin injections is very small and meant to be used only once. Even if health insurance helps cover the cost of all the needles you’ll need, using them once and throwing them away is a waste. I generally use my syringes until the needles are so warped they look like the peyos on a Chasidic Jew. One man’s money-saving tip is another man’s dangerous misuse of medical waste, I always say. If you’re too fancy to reuse your needles, you might as well sell them on the cheap to the local junkies. You may not get much for them, but every little bit helps these days. And, hey, at least you know the next time Pinchy the one-toothed smackhead shoots up, thanks to your moderately clean syringe, he won’t be getting AIDS.

Wear a Medical Necklace/Bracelet
These fashion accessories are not only perfect for any occasion, they also serve a very important purpose. They come with a wallet card you fill out with the specifics of your condition. If you’re ever in a really severe car accident or just pass out somewhere, the paramedics will know your health is fucked up and coddle your sorry ass accordingly.

Here is a typical medical alert necklace:

They’re usually perfect for engraving as well. Here is my engraved medical alert necklace: I learned my lesson, you lab coat-wearing bastards.

See Your Doctor Regularly
It’s important to see your doctor often when you’re a diabetic. Regular checkups and fancy blood tests are necessary to ensure you haven’t been fucking yourself up too severely. These checkups are usually quick and non-invasive (except for the blood test).

Some people, however, have what are called “floating veins” or, in my case, “ninja veins” (see picture of one of my veins below).

These veins move around a lot and are very difficult for the nurses to draw blood from. The first time I had blood drawn, the nurse had to work the needle back and forth like a coked-up caveman performing liposuction during an earthquake to finally spear the vein. My arm was so bruised from that shit, it looked like I had been trading shots of heroin with Courtney Love in a Seattle dumpster.

If you have this condition, many hospitals are very accommodating and will give you plenty of alternatives to the standard blood-drawing method. The hospital I go to even let me invent a new way to give blood for testing. We affectionately refer to it as the Oath Method: I slice the palm of my hand with a sweet knife (like Kevin Costner did in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves), and then, with clenched fist, I bleed into a bucket I pretend is the grave of my ruthlessly murdered father. I’m currently kicking around an idea that involves a room full of broken glass, a slip ‘n’ slide, and a running start.

There you have it, folks. Doctors often say that diabetes treatment isn’t a science, and the best results come from careful trial and error. Hopefully, my experiences will help other new diabetics out there achieve stability without nearly so many errors. If not, at least I did my part and don’t have to worry about that scary nurse anymore.

The Hallmark Discount Bin

Click to see inside of card

Click to see inside of card

Stupid Bumper Stickers

The only thing worse than a bad driver is a bad driver with an annoying bumper sticker. I always appreciate it when some minivan-driving, Jamba-Juice sucking soccer mom cuts me off and then teaches me a life lesson with her carefully selected bumper stickers; or when some douchebag balls-deep in a mid-life crisis driving a shiny new Jaguar lets me know how cool he is with his “I’d rather be golfing” sticker. Truly, nothing shows off an anonymous driver’s unabashed stupidity like a message on the back of his/her car.

It seems like everyone driving around these days has some trite shibboleth or earth-shattering dictum to share with everyone else on the road. Well, I’m sick of it. Here are a few that I find especially irritating.

So what? Everyone’s an honor student these days. If only the best students were given the title, all the paste-eating simpletons with the brain activity of a tree stump would feel bad and someone would get sued for discrimination. And I don’t even want to think about all the teachers, mostly female teachers these days, having sex with their students; however, parents should be concerned when Jr. comes home from grade school with a “My child is the best lay in class” bumper sticker.

Putting aside the nauseating politically correct reality for a moment, we can assume that honor students truly are sparkling gems of scholastic achievement. In this hypothetical situation, the “My beagle is smarter than your honor student” becomes, as scientists say, complete bullshit. Allow me to illustrate my point with a simple dialog.

Parent: “Smart dog, huh?”
Dog Owner: “Yes.”
Parent: “Can your beagle read?”
Dog Owner: “Well, no….”
Parent: “Fuck you, then.”

Honestly, I suspect people with this bumper sticker are just compensating for their inability to have children to be proud of with feigned enthusiasm aimed at their pets. They’re either
A. Physically incapable of producing human offspring
B. Too stupid/unattractive/annoying to trick someone into breeding with them C. Living an “alternative” lifestyle of which children are rarely a product
D. Puppy fuckers.
Either way, it’s a retarded thing to slap on the back of a car.

Researchers in a fancy laboratory somewhere have just released some interesting information about people who put 9/11 conspiracy bumper stickers on their cars. The following comes from a recent press release submitted to the associated press:

Our research, conducted in a totally awesome lab with all kinds of cool vials, beakers, and a really large computer with flashing red and yellow lights, shows that people with 9/11 conspiracy bumper stickers on their cars are, 95% of the time, anal babies. Anal baby is the scientific term for what laypeople know as ass children; i.e., humans incubated in and birthed from the ass as opposed to the womb. While we scientists aren’t certain how anal babies are conceived—Dr. Jim from the lab has a pretty neat theory involving bottle rockets, a Sir Mix-a-lot CD, a drug-addicted goat, and an electric fence—we do know that they all have unusually low IQs; bad breath; an inability to face even the most obvious of realities; an unhealthy, and often sexually compulsive, interest in all things ass-related; and a penchant for protesting in large numbers with comically idiotic and often misspelled signs.

However below average in every way these anal babies are, they generally only pose a threat to themselves. As for the other 5% of people with 9/11 conspiracy theory bumper stickers on their vehicles, well, they’re just fucking stupid.

Translation 1: “My stepfather bought me this expensive car so I wouldn’t tell my mother he’s been nailing me since I was fifteen.”
Translation 2: “I’m a spoiled, empty-headed, ditz, and I get whatever I want from my father. This will lead to selfish and immature behavior that only gets worse as I get older. I’ll pick boyfriends based on how much money they make, how much crap they buy me, and I’ll whine like an eight-year-old whenever I don’t get my way. I’ll probably end up destroying the lives of several decent men until one of them gets fed up with my nonsense and kills me with a shovel.”
Translation 3: “Pay attention to me.”

I’ve always hated this “daddy’s little princes” sentiment. Great, your father doesn’t hate you. Mothers often love their sons, too, yet the “Mommy’s little tit-nibbler” stickers are somehow less popular.

Thanks, sucker. Now, when I follow you home I’ll know how many people I have to murder in their sleep to rob your house in peace.

I expressed my hatred for this kind of sticker several years ago in a never-published letter to the editor. Here’s a snippet:

I saw this dumb bitch the other day who had all sorts of lame Wiccan bumper stickers all over her car. The stickers said stupid shit like, "Blessed be" and "Not all witches are bitches." This pissed me off. I hate bad bumper stickers and I hate Wicca, so you can imagine how angry this made me. So, in a fit of rage, I forced her car off the road and burned her at the stake. Staring at the dancing flames made me realize that the practice of burning witches at the stake was kick-ass and should be brought back as a common practice. Some people don't like the idea of burning witches at the stake, which leads me to believe that these people are witches too and should be burned at the stake immediately.

The whole thing (Wicca) is stupid. Cast all the spells you want, Sabrina, but my foot kicking your ass is the only result you can expect. And every time I see some stupid novelty Wiccan bumper sticker, I'm going to litter to fuck with Mother Earth, and I'm going to make several sexist comments just to piss off all the goddesses out there.

Why you’d want to tell the world you’re a superfan of computers so inferior they’re practically oversized Tamagotchi is beyond me. Hey, easy mark, try not to choke on your over-inflated sense of cool when you hop on the trend wagon.

Got an original thought in your head? Nope. I’d rather not be stuck in traffic learning what your hobbies are, Tiger Woods.

…at cooking and cleaning.

Come on, what did you expect me to say about a sticker so desperate to be taken seriously?

HIV Positive.

I believe in two-legged fish with DARWIN written on them.

Mentioning every bumper sticker that pisses me off is like trying to calculate infinity on an abacus. I’d try to mention a few more, but I think the pink mafia is here in regards to that HIV joke I just made. At least my cement shoes will look fabulous.