Hitchhiker's Guide to New Zealand

So I’ve been hitch hiking my way around these little islands and I’ve taken it upon myself to write you all a guide. Yes, yes I know, how considerate of me.  Now there are a lot of ins and outs to the whole process so before you start your next trip why don’t you brew up a pot of coffee, pound some of that liquid caffeinated heaven and then when go to take a giant poo you can sit and read about my latest findings.  This shit is so crazy that no other dignified [or real] media outlet was willing to publish them.   As for the title of this piece I stole the idea from a book I never read and a movie I never saw.  I’m sure my article will be better if only because it’s shorter.

Sign: Yes, make a sign. Why the fuck not?  This gives you a perfect excuse to huff and then scribble with those markers that smell like licorice or cinnamon.  All you really need is cardboard and an ink of sort.  Road kill entrails or crushed berries or whatever Martha Stewart mentioned on last week’s segment “Simple Signs for those on House Arrest” will suffice.   A sign will definitely improve your chances of getting a lift.  It doesn’t even have to be germane to your cause; you just need to grab the driver’s attention.  You can scribe in another language or draw a picture of kittens eating cheese or paint some happy trees. The point is people will notice man + cardboard more than just man. The exception to this would be man sleeping in cardboard; somehow people can walk past that all day and not notice it. Now man + cardboard isn’t quite as effective as woman – shirt.  And of course Woman + sign – shirt = immediate [car] ride.  Just remember your sign should be brief.   Drivers will avoid you if you try and write a 4^th grade spool paper or if your sign resembles any actual road sign.  It’s funny how drivers can miss a 28 foot giant green sign for their turn but will notice and then slow down like some rubbernecking assholes to watch two pigeons fuck on a guardrail (thanks oatmeal). Seriously, if you’ve ever ridden along for a long distance car ride and you passed a sign with mileage for the upcoming cities I bet a big gulp of blood diamonds that your driver turned and said “uhhhh…how far did that say?”  Real road signs are useless so that’s why your sign needs only to grab their attention so that they see you, regardless of what the sign says.  And I guarantee you will get someone’s attention if you draw a double rainbow.

Display a beverage:  it’s a fact that people love to drink and drive.  Best thing about New Zealand is that no one gets MADD when you’re cruising the highways with a bunch of road ready oat sodas. What you need to do is stop by the nearest Kum and Go and grab a sixer of something.  It is imperative that it is also a beer that you like to drink since you’ll have to be openly sampling the goods on the side of the road to show everyone that it is in fact delicious beer.  Besides, you’re hitch hiking so you shouldn’t be expected to provide too much, and giving away an entire 6 pack would qualify as waaaaaay too generous.  You’re probably good if you offer them one and then maybe have a second for backup.  That means the other four are yours for the drinking.  And depending on your lack of creativity you may opt for the writing of the Sign until after drinking the first three beers.  

Now concerning procedure; as the driver slows down and opens the window to ask where you’re headed immediately answer, “I have beer”.  At this point destination will become irrelevant as the willing commuter quickly leans over to open your door.  Make sure you load your bags first and yourself and beer last.  Nothing worse than dropping a case of Bud heavy in the backseat and as you turn to grab your lesser belongings feel the spray of gravel on the back of your head as driver and beers disappear into the sunset.  Now you’re in the middle of fucking nowhere and you’ve got no beer.  Hopefully you packed your handgun.

Now, if beer is not your beverage of choice then perhaps you may consider wine, liquor or RTD’s. By the way, New Zealand is full of lemonheads slamming back heaps of RTD’s (it stands for ready to drink). The stores even all have a shelf dedicated to these things.  America had Mike’s Hard Lemonade and then put on its man pants and created a deathly concoction of malted energy drinks.  Then after drinking a pack of Four Loko’s America took off its man pants and ran around naked in the snow while puking on itself. Then America took its man pants off from its head and made that shit illegal. Meanwhile New Zealand seems determined to breast feed booze to their citizens with half-assed over sugared tiny cans of whiskey flavored cola.  Hey NZ, nut up and make a 24 oz can of liquefied crank or get off the pot.   RTD’s – you could have bought a bottle of Jack for the same price as 4 redbull sized cans of bourbon puff sauce.  Anyway, if on the rare occasion you are prepared to actually make your own mixed drinks and your mixed drink happens to be a white Russian; then, and only then, are you allowed to be dressed in a bathrobe and clear jellies.   And your sign must read “I’ve got a beverage here man”.  I promise some dude will stop for you.

Location:  There are some obvious dos and don’ts about hitchhiking.  One of them is DO put yourself in a location that will help your cause.  I can only shake my head at all the destitute travelers I’ve seen driven past with such haste merely because they chose the wrong spot to stand. Tut tut.  Places to avoid would include daycares and schools. Surprisingly very few parents are willing to let a complete stranger with a half drunk beer into their car after picking up their 4 year old from a day of finger painting and STOP DROP and ROLL practice.  And no, there exists no smile awesome enough to help you out next to a playground.  Now, we all know a good place would be gas stations and truck stops but those are obvious and there are plenty of hippies wearing Phish t-shirts and Birkenstocks and smoking kind-bud already standing there.  My suggestion would be outside of the local bar.  Your likelihood of getting a ride will increase 174 times if you ask for a lift between 8 pm and midnight outside of any bar. If you’re worried they’ll be a bad driver may I remind you that your life must not be worth that much if you’re hitchhiking in the first place.  If you can’t afford $13 a day from Hertz then you might as well risk it all with the guy who just stumbled out of John’s Tavern with a puke stain on his shirt and singing the words to Sweet Child of Mine.  Other surprisingly effective locations are bakeries and abortion clinics.  I know what you’re thinking and yes I was shocked about the bakeries as well.  I guess there’s something about picking up a box of a dozen Krispy Kreme dough balls that makes people momentarily lose function of the lobe in the brain that would otherwise distrust a stranger in a trench coat holding a duffle bag leaking with blood.  If you disagree then go to Krispy Kreme or Dunkin Donuts, walk inside, take a deep breath and then try and recite the alphabet.  You will fail. 

Whip it out: Yeah sure, go ahead and whip it out. Nothing will get you attention (and maybe a ride) faster than whipping out your pecker to oncoming traffic.  Remember, as with the thumb you must point your pecker in the intended destination that you would like to be traveling.  So if you’ve been spending your time on the side of the road fantasizing about Isabeli Fontana (even her name makes you boner yourself) then keep your wiener compass in your pocket since no car will be able to drive you that far North.  As a side note: if you are seen with your pocket rocket in your hand and you are either peeing or masturbating you will probably not be picked up.  Although we all know about the scientific requirements to empty penile liquids most drivers would rather not actually see it happening lest they fear you may recreate any ejaculation in their car.  If you must pee from all the beer you’ve been drinking then at least hide behind your sign or lay in the ditch.  Same goes for any emergency j-o sessions.  Yes, there are such things.

Presentation:   In order to secure a ride you must appear trustworthy.  Comb your hair, brush your teeth and hide all weapons.  An exception to this rule is the crossbow.  Crossbows are so cool that anyone and their grandma will immediately want you to ride with them.  I’ve seen a car full of people pullover and drop off two children to exchange them for an average man with a crossbow.  They are that effective.  Too bad they were one of the worst weapons of the Middle Ages.

“Oh hey Mr. Enemy, you must be terrified of me and my crossbow! Let me just try and aim this thing.  How the fuck do you aim it anyway?  It can’t be like a gun because those don’t exist yet.  Oh damn, I missed. Hold on for a half hour while I turn a crank to reload this useless weapon. Oh, shit. Ouch! While I was reloading my crossbow you used a normal bow and arrow and shot me 72 times before walking up to chop my head off with a sword.  I might be dead but I look damn good with this crossbow by my corpse”

But in the modern day they are not only the sexiest weapon (second only to Heidi Klum with numchukcs) but they are very, very difficult to effectively use in a car so drivers won’t be avoiding you. 

Now, a shower is not necessary since the smell test can’t be effectively enforced until you have already boarded your new vessel.  Yes, it is considerate to scrub one’s taint before getting into someone else’s car but it is not, I repeat, not a requirement.  More important is to ensure that you are wearing pants. Surprising as it maybe be, no pants, although comical, causes a hitchhiker to be quickly passed by most motorists.  Notable exception would once again be Heidi Klum without pants (numchucks now optional).  They say first impressions mean everything and that is definitely true when first impressions last 1.5 seconds as drivers fly by at 125 KPH (I have succumb to metric.  On the plus side everything sounds bigger in metric). 

Your best bet is that they have seen your sign from a distance and as they draw nearer they also have located the partially consumed sixer of tallboy PBR’s at your feet.  Your pants are on but your penis is out and pointing down the road towards Auckland so they know you’re going the same way as them.  If you’re located on the corner next to The Sheep Hole Pub you might as well start reaching for your bag because the next driver is definitely slowing down to pick you up.

In all seriousness though, be safe when hitch hiking.  Wear bright clothes, put the safety on the crossbow and never, ever, give your driver any beer before you put your bags in the back. 

The Night Before Christmas with F'd Up Santa

Twat the night before Santa and all through our shanty,
Not a creature was stirring after all of that brandy,

Some tube socks were hung by the chimney with class
Maybe Santa would bring me some hot piece of ass                                                       

The kids were all hammered, passed out in their beds

Pounding those beers had gone straight to their heads

And ma in her panties and I with the lotion

Had just settled down for some sexual motion

When outside it sounded like a hobo parade
I tried to ignore it in hopes I’d get laid

But the look on her face was no longer naughty,                                              
So I got my ass up and reached for my shotty

                                                     

It was darker than hell and I couldn’t see shit                                      

So I fired at random in hopes that I’d hit


When my mouth dropped open to say “what the f***”
It looked like 8 horses tied to a red monster truck


Fat, red and drinking – I figured it out

This was F'd Up Santa as he looked up to shout

Slower than hell and probably deaf
The beasts nearly fell from the smell on his breath

“Now Johnny, now Jim, pour me some Jack,
[I’m] On acid! On shroomers! On weed and on crack!”

“To the top of the roof, to the top of the moon
Shit! The mushrooms are turning, we need to leave soon”

And then it was me who thought he was high,
How the f*** did that Ford get up in the sky

He couldn’t land for shit as he crashed on the roof  
No surprise since his beverage was 180 Proof

The sounds from above – I couldn’t believe,
It sounded like the horses were starting to breed

As I ran back inside reloading the Remy
It sounded like an elephant raping our chimney

There he stood in a bathrobe with a dirty mustache

His clothes were all burnt as he stood smoking some hash

He should have been carrying a bundle of toys,
But all he had with him was a pack of tallboys,

His pupils were dilated, his smile was creepy
His nose was still bleeding, no way he was sleepy

His mouth was curled like he was in pain
And the white in his beard was probably cocaine

A ciggy half burnt hung from his grill
And in his left hand was a bottle of swill

His face was a wreck and his belly was worse
A disgusting big bif that would flop as he’d curse

He was stoned, drunk and high; not bad for an elf
But looking at him made me want to shoot myself

A twitch of his eye and a twist of his head,
This guy was higher than the fans of the Dead

He made a faint grunt and went right to his job,
He pulled down his pants revealing his shlong

And what he did next was so god damn shocking,
Taking his time he filled each of our stockings

And with a scratch at his nose as if jonesing for more
He pulled up his pants and ran for the door

He stumbled inside and turning the engine on
Skipping the driveway he drove straight through our lawn

And as he began to swerve out into the night

He stuck his head out the window and made such a sight

Puking up cookies, some milk and eggnog

He gave me the finger and ran over our dog

He gurgled and sputtered and finally said

“Merry Christmas you hosers, I’m headed to bed”

If Jesus were a backpacker…

Now despite the title of this article I want everyone to know that I am not purposefully excluding religions or believers on purpose.  I could have picked Muhammad or Shiva or Buddha but frankly not one them sound as much fun as my man Jesus here. The J-man is too legit to quit and so I’m going to spin a yarn on the chap.  Besides if I chose Muhammad my luck would have it getting reprinted in some Danish newspaper and we’d never hear the end of it. 

So instead I’m just going to stick with my homeboy Jesus.  It doesn’t matter really since just about everyone believes he existed anyway; the Muslims and the Jews just have him playing a different role than the Christians do.  I mean, they all wrote some thick ass books and all their books have J Diddles in them doing something.  His role is just a teeny weeny bit different in each.  No big deal.  Think of it as Batman.  In the Christian’s version, Jesus is Batman; a super awesome mixture of one Keaton and Bale played, not like that shitty version that Clooney did.  And by the way George, if you’re reading this, do us all a favor and quit being so damn irresistible and make another movie.  Alright, so according to the Christian’s book all we have to do is shine our Jesus light and he shows up, wearing a cape and acting super sick tight.   In the Muslim and Jewish Batman versions Jesus is more like Robin.  He’s definitely better than that wannabe acrobat that Chris McDonnell played, but he’s still only Robin nonetheless.   Jesus could never be Batman for them because in the Muslim’s version we would never see Batman’s face and in the Jewish version there would never be a Batman Returns.

               

OK, back to the backpacker Jesus.  First we must start by describing him, you know, who he is, what he wears and how he likes his eggs. He’s probably a sunny side up kind of a guy unless he wants to mess with God, then he just orders deviled eggs.  But for the sake of this essay let’s go with the Catholic trinity version about Jesus. I’m most familiar with that one and it will let us treat him like a man and give him human characteristics but let him keep all of his magic tricks too. But if you’re like me and passed 2^nd grade before you were 9 then you already learned how to tie your shoes, color in the lines and found out that 3 does not equal 1.   So to help our minds catapult over this distraction I recommend you think about the Trinity like a Swiss army knife.  The first one they made, not the recent versions that have foregone any semblance of pocket knife and make it look like you’ve got an 8 inch wooden dildo shoved down your pants.  I don’t need a corkscrew or a pencil or some fucking scissors.  I need a sharp blade and maybe a bottle opener (they really are interchangeable anyway) That’s it.  I’m going out into the woods to camp and drink beer.  I won’t be writing notes and cutting snowflakes out of coffee filters or drinking a bottle of wine in the woods.  If I need to write I’ll kill an animal and use their blood, snowflakes can be made with a knife and good camping wine will always come from a box.  I mean come on Switzerland, we ask so very little of you; keep our money safe from taxes and make simple pocket knives.  And for each I say FAIL and FAIL.

Although… I am a bit curious what it was like when that first Swiss Army knife was made.  I envision something like the following, as it was played out one morning sometime around WWII in the Swiss Alps between the twin brothers, Hansel and Grundle.  (read in a Swiss-German accent )

“Hey Grundle!  Grundle, look vut I have made”

“Oh hey Hansel.  Vut have you got today, maybe zum new muesli, yah?”

“Oh you’re such a silly Grundle. No, I’ve gotz something for our picnic next week at zee chalet”

“Yaa?”

“Zee, I took our muzzer’s butter knife and attached zum useful tools.  Here I have zanother little blade and on zis side I havz a bottle opener”

“Oh Hansel you are zo very imprezzive!  Finally we can drink wine and butter our bizcuts like real men.”  

“I owze it to you my dear Grundle.  You werz my inzapartion”

“But Hansel, vye did you havz to make za blade so sharp?”

“Because Grundle, in case zee Germans get us”

 Anyway, back to Jesus and the trinity and the general mindfuck that ensues any time we get drunk and think about it. Now can we, just for a moment, take a time out and ask why if there can be a holy trinity there isn’t more speculation about an evil trinity?  I’m pretty sure that if Satan saw God pull a little Multiplicity stunt, he’s going to try one of his own.  I mean, he is Satan so he’s probably going to make himself into at least 4 (that Satan is such a one upping a-hole).  Personally I think it’s been going on forever.  I’m sure the typical red demon we all imagine with a pitchfork down in hell is the opposite of God. Let’s say that fear that washes over you when you fart but think you pooped yourself can represent the evil version of the Holy Spirit. And as for the ever changing the sac of flesh here on earth that is the counterpart of Jesus I postulate the following list of man-satans throughout time: Vlad the Impaler, Columbus, Hitler, the inventor of the bra clasp (why did we pass on Velcro?) and now that Steve Jobs is dead I guess it must be Mark Zuckerberg .  Yeaaaaaah, I’m pretty sure Mark is the anti-christ.

Enough said, let’s paint a picture of Jesus the Backpacker.

Clothes / Appearance–  While he’s not one for being flashy I’m sure Jesus would ditch his usual garb for something a bit more modern.  I mean, a robe and crown of thorns is so the 90’s.  I’m picturing something of a mix between a hippy and a Spaniard.  That means he’d be wearing capris with a hemp shirt and walking around in Chacos.  He might even be sporting an odd BYU t-shirt just to be a little ironic.  That Jesus, always making you shake your head and laugh.  Of course he’d only be wearing all of this for the sake of appearances because since he’s the son of God he will never get cold or hot or have sweaty balls or any other inconvenience that we suffer.

But to address the pink elephant in the room I’m going to sidestep the whole race card for Jesus.  Although historically it would be accurate for Jesus to be Arabic in disposition I can’t help but picture the “almost Swiss looking Jesus” that I grew up imagining.  And for that reason I believe Jesus would actually appear more like the characters in Skanner Darkly. He would not however, under any circumstances, sound like Keanu Reeves.  Unless he has too much holy wine and starts roaming around and shouting “Party on dudes”!

Speaking of holy wine…

Food / Beverage – While traveling one must adapt to his surrounding and that includes the culinary delights.  Going to dinner with Jesus would be great.  All you need to do is let him order one dish and then after it arrives he will say a little Harry Potter haiku and suddenly everyone has a plate of whatever Jesus ordered.  One unknown is that I’m not sure if Jesus would be dining as the “Jewish and therefore strict, boring and Kosher Jesus”, or as the post-resurrection and now “Christian and willing to eat bacon wrapped titties” kind of Jesus.  Other than that the only real downside to eating a meal with Jesus is that it seems he always requires everyone to sit on the same side of the table. 

When it comes to beverages there a couple of rules with Jesus.  1 – never challenge him to a drinking contest.  He is Jesus. He will win.  2 – Feel free to order him a drink just don’t give him any vinegar and gall.  Every time he drinks it it’s usually an early night for him.   Other than that feel free to get crazy with J Money.  Now God might be a bit of an uptight blowhard but Jesus loves to party.  Get him lubed up a bit and he’ll definitely start putting on a show.  I once saw him beer bong a case of vodka only to then create a hot tub, fill it with Guinness and river dance on it like a drunk Leprechaun.

Music – Look I’m ashamed to admit it here but I just know that Jesus would have an iPod.  For that, I’m going to call him a sellout.  He could have bought a Zune or Creative but I bet he got pressured by a bunch of hipsters that it would be better to have an iPod and try and all look all original and be a trendsetter and all that shit.  But I’m willing to forgive the Almighty, just this once.  Rumor has it if you hit Shuffle on his iPod it might sound something like this:

Song 1:  Straight Outta Compton by N.W.A. 

I’ll be straight up wit you on this one; Jesus can be one bad ass mother f***er.   Hope, faith, love; those religious buzzwords are God’s domain.  After Jesus got sick of taming angel muff in heaven he busted down to earth to have himself a wild ass party.  And nothing gets him more in the mood than some Hennessy and hardcore gansta rap from the likes of certain peoples with a particular attitude.  Jesus can sometimes be seen with a sideways Yankees hat and dre Beats slumped down in his seat riding the bus to the next city, slowly nodding his head back and forth and faintly heard singing “city of Compton, city of Compton.”  Shit, Jesus is the biggest G on earth.

Song 2:  Something by Yo Yo Ma

I don’t know.  I just figured he’d have some classical shit or something.  Maybe it’s Brahams or Chopin or Grieg or any other artist that appears when you google classical music.  I just picked Yo Yo because he’s still alive and if he was listening to one of the dead guys he might feel pressured to perform some Lazarus resurrection or something.  We don’t need Ludwig Van Curly Wig alive and roaming the streets of New York; those guys are better off being celebrated from their graves.  As for the song by Yo Yo, no one and Jesus included, actually know the title to any of his music. As with any iPod these songs usually just turn up under playlists titled “study music” or “slow banging tunes.” 

Song 3:  My Sacrifice by Creed

That’s right, Jesus loves you and he loves me and he loves Creed too. And it’s not even because of the accidental religious undertone of the song titled above.  Nope, J Diddy is just like Bob Slydell and his passion for Michael Bolton and that’s why he “celebrates their entire catalogue”.  That’s why he even had God create Sean Parker just so that he would create Napster and Jesus could download that shit.  I mean, Jesus loves to bang out with his wang out but he’s not going to pay for that stuff (unlike the 40 million or so people that bought enough albums to certify 2 as platinum and 1 as diamond allowing Creed to be one of the Top 20 bands most purchased of the 2000’s).  Bam!  Even if no one reading this loves Creed (sans the author) I recommend you start putting them back on your playlist because if you don’t do it now you’ll be hearing the whole damn Human Clay album on repeat in hell.

Song 4: Stairway to Heaven by Led Zeppelin 

Alright this one should be a no brainer and not just because it references a mythical pathway beyond Mordor, through Middle Earth and around the corner up into his home (…heaven).  Fuck no; that would be child’s play.  It’s because Jesus loves to smoke a bleezy and chill out to the greatest rock band of all time. And no, The Beatles aren’t even in contention; Bonham had more talent in his left arm than Ringo ever had (a point that Def Leppard’s Rick Allen could never argue).  I bet he’s got every album, live show, b-side, bootlegged and hidden track on his iPod.  It probably takes up 500 GB too but he doesn’t give a shit.  Damn, what I would give to have a headphone jack splitter and sit on the Greyhound next to Jesus rolling spliffs and sharing a bag of Peach-O rings while listening to IV.

Money – Jesus wouldn’t have a credit card or cash or travelers checks.  He’s Jesus.  All he’d have to do is perform a miracle and he’d get his shit for free. 

Clerk: “Alright Sir, you’re total today here at The Vatican Hooter’s comes to a record 3257 Euro.  How would you like to pay for that?”

J-Man: “I just added 3 inches to your penis.”

Clerk (smiling) “Jesus Christ”

J-Man: “You said it man. No one f***s with the Jesus”

That’s it.  That’s Jesus as a backpacker.  Now say your prayers and hope he brings you a bunch of awesome shit at Christmas.  I’m asking for tube socks and an NBA season.

Now I’m off to go find some New Zealand sheep to spend the holidays with; Feliz Navidad everyone           

Thanksgiving

November, a month with one of my favorite traditions.  No, I’m not talking about National Sandwich Day (awesome) or National Cake Day (double awesome) or even about all of you that have been growing a mustache in honor of all those swollen penis glands for Movember.  Although, I do tip my hat to you and your facial hair. Afterall, this world needs more mustaches.  But no, I’m talking about the great November tradition that we Americans love to use as an excuse to booze and feast like a bunch of crazed zombies raging for turkey.  That's right, Thanksgiving.  So grab a fork and tie on a bib because it's time for us to all get fat together.  I normally abhor obesity but when it comes to Thanksgiving I give everyone a free pass.  Just don't confuse my kindness for stupidity; if you eat all the marshmallow covered yams I will cut your heart out with a spoon.  'Why a spoon? Because it will hurt more you twit.'  
The only real downside to this holiday is that Canada has a thanksgiving too.  WTF mates?  I mean, you already have Boxing Day and Nickelback. How greedy can one country be?   Ah hell, Thanksgiving is just too much fun to let anyone ruin our opportunity to be big fat drunk lazy gluttons. But since I will be missing out on the festivititties this November I’ve taken the time to recount some of the more memorable parts of Thankksgiving.  Alas, this year I will be spending Thanksgiving in my hotel room, probably alone and definitely naked, eating chicken adobo and slowly getting drunk on Red Horse.  So just go ahead and scroll down before you all slip into a tryptophan and microbrew induced coma, you lucky bastards.



Thanksgiving Traditions: Take 1

Pigskin – Football! Football! Football! Football!!! I don’t know what it is, but we all seem to cream our pants thinking about Thanksgiving football. I don’t even know why I like the game; I never played the damn sport in high school and typically hated the jocks who did.  But hot damn do I sure like watching those meatheads sprint around the gridiron like cheetahs on meth out on a AstroTurf Serengeti.  I also love that while I gorge myself like that one guy in Seven, eating seconds and thirds of bird flesh and pumpkin pie, I can watch a group of highly skilled athletes try to rip each other’s heads off from the comfort of my La-Z-Boy.  On a more sobering note I'm a little sad to notice that whenever the Cowboys and Indians get into a fightin' match, the Indians never win (Dallas is 6-0 vs Washington on Thanksgiving).  I mean, come on now, we should all be friends by now.  White people forgave Indians for scalping Custer and [I think] the Indians forgave the white man for that big land ownership misunderstanding.  So let’s have Washington pull out a victory this year and let bygones be bygones. Although if Chief Joseph was alive now he'd probably be in Dallas on the 50 yard line waving a tomahawk and chanting 'Romo's a homo.' And I couldn't blame him for it.

And then there is something about watching the game on TV and all the guys get a little restless and get itching to go try their luck at a friendly little game of two hand touch.  Just watch out for Uncle Mo Lester; everyone’s got one and we all know he don’t remember once you touch ‘em the play is over.  Such backyard scrambles always give you a new opportunity to prove to everyone that your 40 is still 10 seconds and that your younger cousin Nancy can tackle and catch better than you. No sweat though, at the very least you have an excuse to turn to anyone on the field and say “John, I was first team All-State. I can put the ball anywhere I want to.  I’ll make it rain out there.”  Sure, you’ll probably throw more interceptions than completions but don’t worry, it’s hard to be accurate when you’re holding a Solo cup of beer and calling plays with a cigarette hanging out your mouth.  You’ll all be hammered soon anyway once someone suggests that you all shotgun a tallboy before each snap.  All you need to do is wait until someone pukes cranberry sauce on the ball  and you can all go back inside and ask the nearest mom to make a platter of turkey sammy's and bring them in while you watch Home Alone.  

Food – where do I start with this one?  I guess the most important part of dinner and the whole day is the turkey.  You have to have a turkey.  Prepare it any way you want but make sure you have a bird on the table come dinnertime.  Stuff it with a duck and a chicken and wrap it in bacon and staple on some pork chops and drizzle on some pureed lamb.  Get your hillbilly friends over and deep fry it in a bucket of lard and Budweiser.  Fill the damn thing with Oreos and put it in a bathtub of milk.  I don't care, just make sure you have a dead bird on your table come dinner time.  If I didn't know any better though I'd think our country was turning into a bunch of veggie-tards who think it's OK to forgo the tradition in light of something else, like eating soy. I mean, what the shit is Tofurkey?  You think the pilgrims took a bunch of corn and potatoes and sculpted them them into a bird? 

Pilgrim Smykowski:  "You know Squanto, I had an idea like that once. A long time ago.  It was a called 'make a fake turkey' dish. You see, it would be this dish that you would put on the floor, and it would be made from different non turkey foods that you could pick from" 

Squanto: "We bring you meat, furs and peace pipe" 

Pilgrim Lumbergh "Squant, we're gonna need to go ahead and move you. We have some new people coming in, and we need all the space we can get. So if you could just go ahead and pack up your stuff and move it, that would be terrific, OK?"  

Squanto "Excuse me, I believe you have my land..."

And we wonder why the Indians think white people sucked.   No. The pilgrims buckled on their hats and shoes and went out blowing shit up with a blunderbuss.  And for that matter, if you want to eat vegetables, just eat them.  You don't see me taking my steak and shaping it into some broccoli.  I don't disguise my pork chops like a plate of zuchinni. Camoflauging your soy-tempeh-tofu cat shit into anything resembling meat is nothing short of blasphemy and ought to be illegal. Alright meow, let's move on.


Like many of you I enjoy a nice big serving of mashed taters. It is one of my favorite and most interactive foods at the table, second only the Ashekanzi Jewish dish of kugel.  Seriously, Yiddish food is so much fun; you'll see, the proof is in the pudding.  I know, everyone starts by making a pond or volcano and pouring the gravy in and thinking you’re the first one to do it.  Well, you’re not. Volgravos were invented long ago.  But there are plenty of other shapes you can work on.  Let's get creative out there. Why not make a snowman, an igloo or a mashed potato Hadron Collider?  It would be just like a big potato gun, so that sounds easy enough.  Of course you could always form up some boobs.  It isn't the most difficult choice but it's always crowd pleaser.  I bet you'd even get grandpa to smile at that one when you show him your plate with a couple of  tuber titties and a turkey drumstick shooting gravy on them.  Speaking of interactive food, the wishbone is a real opportunity to make things interesting.  I figure that by the time you find the damn thing it’s late enough in the day that all the alcoholic relatives will have a pretty good buzz going and it won’t be too hard to convince them to make some entertaining wagers.  Forget hearing your mom say “I wish someone would do the dishes” or dad wishing “someone would rake those damn leaves.”  That shit ain't ever gonna happen. Instead suggest to the participants to put some real bets on the line.   Have the loser beer bong the gravy or make them wear the turkey carcass like a hat all day or get them to play chubby bunny with that pile of gourds in the middle of the table. 

Parades – I’m not one for parades, but then again I’m not one for hangovers either.  And yet every Thanksgiving morning I usually find myself engrossed in both of them, curled up on a couch like a retarded kitten and wondering when would be appropriate time to start drinking again.  If you’re like me, hangover-riddled Thanksgiving mornings probably started when you were 14.  While I can’t say I miss my sober tweens, I definitely think I found daylight and the odor of old relatives much more tolerable.  Needless to say, Thanksgiving parades, like all parades, blow.  Are you wondering if I think giant balloons are fun? Yeah sure, I guess they're OK.  But they were probably a lot better back in the 1930’s when everything was more awesome than the alternative.  Let’s see.... do I want to go fight Nazis or watch giant balloons float by all day...

Today though, I think we could use some improvements to our parades.  Let’s cut the high school marching bands, the floats with waving geriatrics and get rid of that giant creepy turkey whose head bobbles and eyes roll around his head like he had a 3 lb shroom omlette for breakfast.  I know Tom Turkey is a stalwart of the parade, but he is god damn frightening.  Look, let’s not get carried away but maybe we could add some exotic dancing, cage free wild animals and maybe, just maybe, we could get an announcer who is engaging with the audience.  I swear they always pick some butthole surfer from a morning TV show that no one watches instead of recruiting some real talent.  Please, just once hire a smoking monkey or Keith Richards or that guy from YouTube who talks about honey badgers.  “Oh look there’s snoopy dog coming this way.  Snoopy dog don’t give a fuck.”  Once I hear that I know it’s my cue to start drinking again.

Shopping – Black Friday can either be the best day in the world.  Or it can be the worst.  Worse than the time you got caught peeing bed at summer camp when you were 12. Worse than that time grandma walked in on you with your penis in your hand a look of terror in your eyes.  And worse than that time you walked in on grandma blowing the milkman. - (do milkmen still exist?)  The scenario looks something like this.  You wake up with your gut rumbling to make an emergency exit.   Your bowels empty what could only be described as a 7 lb gravy covered Butterball shit hurricane.  You walk into the kitchen in search of more rations only to find yourself in a storm of conversation with a pounding headache creeping up behind your eyes.  The headache could be from the women talking, daylight or the 4 bottles of red wine you finished last night.  Through the haze you hear someone mention it's black Friday and all the women (mothers, wives and girlfriends) are going shopping.  All day.  At this moment time nearly freezes and the woman who controls your life (pick one from the list) turns to you in slow motion and says to you “Hoooooney. Weeee neeeeeeeed yoooooou toooooo driiiiiiiiive”.  Your heart stops beating for approximately 30 seconds. Then life suddenly comes back to full speed as you nearly pass out in shock.  Your Friday and potentially your life are ruined. You begin wondering why you even got up this morning.  You’d much rather have pooped yourself like tubgirl then endure a whole day of being a chaueffer to a van load of frenzied shoppers.  You silently make a pact with God that if he could strike down everyone in the room  you'd go to church, swear off drinking and start volunteering.  You immediately revise that to "I'll drink less" and close your eyes before the smiting begins.


On the other hand your lady could turn to you and say “Honey, why don’t you stay here while we go shopping.”   Now look who’s the genius for getting up early?  You'll feel like Christ himself, come to save world as you stroll in to tell the other men that it is because of you that they can all relax and get drunk and eat pecan pie all day.  You've rebuffed the muff and no one has to drive!  Of course we all know that if given the chance you would have thrown any and all of them under the bus if it would have meant more pie for you.  There are no heroes on Thanksgiving.  Just a bunch of fat bastards getting drunk and watching football all day. 

Happy Thanksgiving America.

Things I don’t miss about Amerika : Number 1

The Problem with Tipping: Asia has little tips.  America has big tips.  Maybe our tips could meet in the middle.

Here’s the deal; too many people in America expect too big of a tip too often.  Over here in Asia you damn near start a riot when you roll a couple pennies down the road (which is major fun by the way).  Had I known that I wouldn’t have spent all my change on those Thai hookers.  And Cambodian whores.   And Indonesian muff piles.  Seriously.  One roll of nickels, 17 bad decision. Anyway, back home if you left that whole roll you would still be treated worse than Wu Tang at a Klan party. 

But I can already see what’s going to happen here.  If anyone out there is currently or has ever worked in the service industry they will probably read this title and immediately became an indignant cocktart and decide without reading the rest of this that I am wrong.  So to soothe your qualms and stem those tears I’m going to say this, but only once; I think leaving tips is a nice idea and this is written purely for entertainment.                                                                               

                             Not.

OK, let’s get shit started. Now I realize there are a lot of different people around America that are jumping on this bullshit handout bandwagon. But for the sake of this article I am willing to focus on the most obvious and clear example of this wallet raping of Americans; the waiter.  Never has a single role more aptly personified such a range of clamoring idiots better than the undoubtedly down trodden, marginalized and ever suffering waiter. 

Let us pause and have a moment of silence in honor of their plight. 

I used that moment to scratch my balls; their plight seemed more pressing.  Anyway, how about you just consider everything I write to apply to any jackoff who expects a tip.

Let me be honest with you for just a moment.  I don’t think tips are a bad idea, I really don’t.  In fact, if used properly they are economist’s wet dream cum true as they display a positive reinforcement mechanism being implemented to reward those who specifically deserve it.  Honestly, Maynard Keynes would jizz his pants if it worked the way it should. I can even see Sandberg and Timberlake dressed up with those silly mustaches singing it now “He left me two quarters for a tip.  And I jizzed. In. My Pants”. 

Oh man, those mustaches are epic.  Everyone should go YouTube that right now and come back. 

Ok, back. Where was I?  Sorry, when I see classy dudes in 80’s suits my mind just goes all fuzzy and I lose focus.  Kind of like when you get road head; except this is more dangerous since my blog could potentially impact thousands.  OK, hundreds.  Well maybe 10.  And even if I were to have a blackout orgasm on I-85 while deepthroating some muff in my brand new Custom Ford F-8000 Super Extended Cab Nitro Tank Edition with a 45” lift and a custom steel spike where the hood ornament should be and I hit a car filled with preschoolers so they are all like, 2 to a seat,  I would only kill 9.  Maximum.  Anyway, to help illustrate my point here are a few examples of people that deserve a tip.

Genuine Tips:

Action:  The bartender that doesn’t know what a single shot of anything is regardless of what you ordered.   

Result:  Tip that dude!  Let’s face it, if it wasn't for him you’d have to buy those sluts twice as many drinks. 

 Action:  The cabby who let you finger that muff during your 17 block ride back from the bar.     

Result:  We have a winner!!  Yeah, now he’s gotta wash stinky puss out of his car at 3:30 am.  So wipe your hands on her boobs and hand that nice Pakistani the tip he deserves.

Action: The waitress that saw you staring at her tits and didn’t make it known to your girlfriend that she knows you know she knows you were eye fucking the shit out of her. 

Result:  Yes! You ought to step up and throw that broad a tip.  Come on, it’s not like any of the fathers of her children are going to pay child support this month anyway.

Bullshit Tips:

Action: Some coked out hipster at Bishops just fucked up my haircut. Again. 

Result: I can’t believe he already convinced me to pay $23 for a haircut and now he’s got his tracked up arm out like some beggar outside of Macy’s before Christmas. Fat fucking chance.

Action: I just paid $4 to watch some neck tatted barista pour hot coffee into a Styrofoam cup.

Result:  Take a shit in the tip jar and then go add the creamer to your coffee.

Action:  A waitress asked me what I wanted to eat and brought it to me.

Result: Leave her 10%.  For fuck’s sake not a single state government even taxes you that much and you think just because you carried my pork chop sandwiches from the kitchen to the table entitles you to 20%.  “Mmmm, those pork chop sandwiches did smell good.”

Let’s now recap all those weak sauce arguments typically given for why people deserve tips and why no one gives a shit.

“You know, tipping isn’t required” – Yeah, well society has been brainfucked to think otherwise.  But if you really believed tipping wasn’t required then when someone doesn’t tip you won’t be upset and cry like that time you got your second abortion.

“We have a hard job” –  You carry food on plates.  Yes, I’m impressed by how many plates you carry but that’s about where the magic stops.   Listen, if you don’t like your job change it.  If you don’t have a college education, go get one.  If you’re in college now and that’s why you’re a waitress then start stripping.  If you’re ugly then I don’t care.  Go hide.

“We don’t get paid enough” – Yeah I actually think it’s hilarious the federal government allows you to make less than minimum wage and you all still signed up to wait tables at Denny’s.  I just peed myself laughing at that one.  Seriously, though.  My pants.  Are soaking wet.    

“We deal with asshole customers all day” –  You know, it’s not just the service industry where assholes exist.  LIFE IS FULL OF SHIT STAINS and most of them have day jobs.  Jobs that require them to show up and interact, breath and just be a general shit stain around rest of us. For 8 hours a day.  But just in case you missed that Mr. Rogers episode when you were a kid; a long time ago the rest of us found out that jobs suck.  I don’t show up to work expecting jelly donuts and handjobs and neither should you.

But to help you figure it all out and never forget, I’m willing to even run a PSA about this.  Like one of those awesome NBC “The More You Know” campaigns except I’d hire convicts to do the voice overs instead of George Clooney or any other Hollywood douchebag.  Why?  Because criminals are scary. And scary is convincing. If I hear Hollywood’s most eligible asshat telling me to “always pack a tootbrush” that will never compare to the effectiveness of watching an inmate stab another man with his.    

Or better yet let’s commission the Discovery Channel to run a special on it to inform you all that assholes exist everywhere, not just in your restaurants.  They could call it Fuckhead Week.  It would be just like Shark Week except it would feature all the different scathing, dangerous and shitty assholes that exist everywhere.  Aaaaaaaaand there wouldn't be any sharks.

….. I can see it now; you’ve just finished the last shift with everyone at your dream job as a waiter at Applebee’s.  You’ve been recently promoted to Assistant to the Assistant Manager and you feel like life is sucking your cock.  With two more paychecks you’ll finally have enough money for that new tribal tattoo across your back. You lock up the doors as you and the wait staff surround the bar to drink free booze, count your tips (that you won’t ever claim in your taxes) and talk about all the shitty customers you endured today. Damn, your life is tough.

 Suddenly someone turns on the TV.

“Oh shit, it’s Fucktard Week” says ‘coked out and always spitting when he talks’ Waiter #1

“Hey douche bag! Turn up the fucking volume”  You yell at the acne riddled busboy as you punch him in the kidneys because he makes $.40 less than you a hour and looks like he’s still in High School.  Too bad you forgot he is still in high school, a place where everyone should if they work at Applebee’s.

“Double shots, pour us some double shots” – gurgles the Waitress turned Slut turned Waitress #7 whose been drunk since 7:00.  She’s probably fat, ugly and the only person who doesn’t think so.  She isn’t paying attention to Fucktard Week but then again that’s no surprise because she didn’t pay attention to my order.  She’ll be the first to complain about her tips.

Everyone huddles around the TV like frat boys running a train as they watch in fascination.  Either that or the meth they did during the dinner rush hour is hitting its second wind.   Discovery has drained its budget and hired the guy from Men’s Warehouse commercials to narrate this year.  Everyone leans in a little closer to the screen as their pupils start to dilate.   His intro is simple but effective as he begins with unknown facts about the proliferation of fuckheads.   

“Since the dawn of time man has endured the burden of his fellow fuckhead.  Centuries over have seen its expansive growth reach immeasurable heights.”

As he finishes this sentence looks of affirmation appear on the faces of everyone as they are sure he could only be referring to that family tonight that asked for an extra chair or that couple that sent back their raw chicken.  "What demanding fuckheads" you all mumble. But these looks quickly fade as he finishes. “And now today, they are everywhere.  I guarantee it.”

A mixture of outrage, confusion and nervous twitching ensues. Some have failed to comprehend anything after doing consecutive bumps off one of the waitress tits.  Nosebleeds and screaming are everywhere.

Suddenly Bob from behind the bar grabs a bottle of Jack and smashes in on the counter “No fucking way!” he shouts.  “There ain’t no fucking way assholes exist anywhere but here at Applebee’s”.  Bob will never realize how right he was.

At this Dimitri the janitor, and the unwitting voice of reason, pokes his head around the corner where he has been mopping piss to calmly remark “Hey commrade, quit breaking bottles.  You know I have to clean that up now.”  As he disappears into the background he is heard faintly saying “And commrade, if you don’t like your job, get another one.” 

This onslaught of common sense mixed with potent amphetamines suddenly reaches dangerous levels and everyone’s head literally explodes (thus explaining the decor at any Applebee’s).

Commercial break.

Bottom line here folks is this.  If you do what is expected then I’ll give you a small tip.  If you do something extraordinary I’ll give you a reasonable tip.  If you fuck up you get no tip.  And if you’re beautiful I’ll give you a big tip.  Yeah, life aint’ fair but when I’m hammered at 2:15 am on Saturday night and stumble into a greasy diner and order tots they are going to taste so much better if the lady serving them is wearing a low cut shirt with her titties hanging out.  Mmmmmm ; tots and titties.  American cuisine at its finest.

*I wrote that whole article resisting every urge in my body to make any “just the tip” jokes.  Hardest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life.  If I had to cut my own hands off with a saw strapped to my forehead like some whiny bitch in Saw I’d still say this was harder.

Today's Post

Hey, so my deepest apologies for….ah fuck it.  I’m late again.  We’re all used to it by now so I won’t dwell on the subject.  Listen, I’ve been busy inspiring the minds of those required to listen.  Philippines loves me and the reciprocity couldn’t be more inverse.   So before I jump into the bit I’ve been toiling on let me get something off my chest.

So how’s everyone’s fantasy football league going? Oh man I hope you didn’t draft Peyton Manning.  You guys been picking some good sleepers off the waiver wire?  Uh huh, uh huh yeah, good good.  Hey, FUCK YOU!  I bet you don’t realize how awesome and privileged you are to watch football on Sunday mornings when you’re hung over after a night of Mad Dogs, nachos and white strippers.  I miss my American weekends.  So instead of NFL I have been treated to the spectaculars of badminton, ping pong and I think I even tuned in once for the World Solitaire finals.  Now that shit is epic: double decks, time limits and, and ….damn.  Who am I kidding.  I’ve taken to the bottle again to pass the time. 

But what’s worse is now I’m realizing Asian ESPN was saving the crème de la cum until now, as they seem to have secured the exclusive airing of the WNBA Finals.  Cue the jealous rage!  Personally I’d rather beer bong some acid and blowtorch my scrotum than have to watch that (anymore).  Seriously, no one watches that shit.  Anywhere.  Even the tiny Asians over here aren’t fooled by the fact that the players on TV have breasts.  And suck at basketball.  

So it is with craven humility I even share that I think Minnesota Lynx’s Seimone Augusts is an absolute savage and I can hardly believe she put up 36 in Game 2.  I was edge of my seat watching Atlanta’s McCoughtry put down 38 in a losing effort.  And who wasn’t shocked like a sac in hot oil when Minnesota swept them last night.  Phew! What an amaz…. wait, hold on. Fuck my cock.  It has just come to my attention that I have been the proud viewer of ESPN’s exclusive rights to REPLAY THE FUCKING WNBA FINALS.  I just watched Game 3 last night and I’m looking at the interweb only to discover that the world already forgot this ever happened A MONTH AGO!   Excuse me while I remove my manhood.  I am no longer fit to have it.

But just so you don’t feel too bad for me you should know that I’m heading to Boracay tomorrow for a long weekend.  Google image that shit and weep softly.  And then go watch some NFL.

Things I Do and Don't Miss about Amerika : Part I

UPDATE:

I’m sick of apologizing for always being late with my blog.  Let’s call this what it is – I’m pretty fucking slow with my creativity.  I’m not sure if this will change going forward but it might because my travels are changing.  After 4 months of touring most of SE Asia I have arrived in Manila to pause from my sojourn and go back to work.  Ironically, I have been hired back by my old company to help them set up a new office here in Manila.  Yes, I will struggle as I live the next two months in a 5 Star Hotel and endure its relentless amenities.  My body will ache from going to the gym and using the personal trainers and my belly will bulge in excess from the gourmet breakfasts that are included.  And I will scowl in rage when I return each day to find my clothes laundered, my dishes done and my bed made.  I’m not sure how I will cope but it might include one of the two pools, the sauna or the Jacuzzi at my disposal. 

Anyway, enjoy my latest installment entitled: Things I Do and Don’t Miss About Amerika

*Just an update that my body does ache from the gym.  I tore my pectoral the other day on the bench press.  Hello stationary bike and excessive drinking…

Things I Do Miss About Amerika : 1

Sweatpants

Holy white Jesus I miss my sweatpants.  What I would give to wear some of that fine Canadian lingerieh.   If you didn’t get that shitty joke it was just intended for you to remember that Canadians are a bunch of classless seal stuffers.  Oh I’m sorry, did I forget that every Canadian I met traveling was so nice and awesome and generally what everyone thinks Americans aren’t?  Or did I realize that they’re a giant group of unoriginal penisholes that all have a fucking maple leaf stitched to their backpack like some god damn medal of honor.  Hey Canada, make syrup, come spend your loonies and shut your voice holes.  Alright, so yeah, sweatpants, I really miss those things.

Attention fashion world: you can stop what you’re doing and go ahead and Dereklick your own balls. The world doesn’t need your shitbrained ideas anymore.  We have oversized cotton pants and they’re awesome.  Your new age bullshit is about as useful as the fat kid on the basketball team.  If it was anything but JV we all know he wouldn’t be playing.  So no one needs a cape with wings or whatever else that anorexic toothpick is dragging down the catwalk.  If you want to impress us then take fashion back to its roots and show us hot models wearing bras and teasing us with their titties.  You’ll make your quota in 3 hours.  I guarantee it. 

Now, traveling around the world I was unable to pack my XXL sweatpants and thinking about them now is giving me a giant fashion boner.  I swear the material they’re using these days is illegal.  I mean, you ever walk into Champs sports on a Saturday intending to pick up a new jock strap and golf balls and you find yourself drawn to the sweatpants section?  There you are, hungover and reaking from last night’s whiskey n’ coke beerbong challenge (naturally, you were the winner) and suddenly you wake up in the store with your hands thrust into the insides of the latest Nike Swoosh Air Jordan on 50% sale for only $129 sweatpants? There you are, drool coming down your chin and splatting your chest in the v-neck part of your shirt where more shirt should be and a soft groan is emanating from your throat.  Don’t tell me that hasn’t happened to you. Note: for any women who are actually reading this, I’m sure you don’t know what I’m talking about so just draw a parallel to how you feel when you buy a new Cuisanart or spoons or some shit.  I’m bet you go apenuts for napkin holders.

Why do I love sweatpants so much?  Well yeah, part of it is comfort.  Every now and then I’ll go commando in my sweats and hang free.  If only we had some sort of ratio based measurement scale to identify the underlying construct for the indescribable pleasure of letting freshly showered man balls collide with sweatpants that were just washed in a gallon of Downy. Now that’s a science fair project in the making.  Now don’t forget kids, construct your hypothesis and then experiment; not the other way around. No one likes a fucking cheater.    Another is convenience; waking up on a Saturday nothing can erase the toothy grinned mistake next to you but at least you can rest comfortably once you jump through the window and run home to your grey Champion sweatpants that won’t judge you.  Ahhhhhh….how I desire NCAA sports with beer and non-judgmental sweatpants.  I miss America.

Traveling has deprived me of such comforts as I’m forced to wear some bullshit polyester performance blend, totally removing cotton from my fashion diet. I miss trying to walk up to the drive thru atTaco Bell at 3:00 am overdressed in open laced sneakers, sweatpants dragging at my ass and a classic Jansport hoody.  And depending on how many 40’s I’ve drank I might even say I miss the Crunchwrap Supreme they won’t sell me because I’m not in a car.  Even SE Asia can’t beat an octagon taco for $1.99.

I mean let’s be honest, sweat pants are essentially one giant pocket to keep your hands warm.  No man can resist slipping a hand down the front if only to perform the routine cock and balls maneuver.    

Step One: Grab entire package from right side lifting balls off right leg.

Step Two: Grab entire package from left side lifting balls off left leg

Step Three:  Grab shaft removing said shaft from balls.

Step Four:  Allow slight smirk to cross your face.

Total implementation time:  1.4 seconds

So this weekend when you wake up Sunday morning with some cockbreath and you stumble into your living to watch football, just do me the honor and make damn sure you’re wearing your sweatpants.  You can explain your bad breath some other time.