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.

Travel Sex: 4 tips to help bros land muff while traveling

Alright, this article is for all the bros out there traveling around the globe. I know that traveling can really exhaust a bro and what better way to recharge than by plugging his battery into a muff outlet. But traveling can make it more difficult than usual to tame some muff as a bro encounters language barriers and other cultural cock blocks. So after months of depleting research I have compiled a few tips on how to nail some tail while on the road.

Note to bros: This article would have been finished sooner but some chick’s ponytail kept hitting the space bar.

Facial Hair – Alright, if you’re a bro out traveling you’re a damn fool not to be sporting some facial hair. Facial hair is an unmistakable way to signal to the world that a bro has arrived while subjugating any and all muff immediately upon visual contact. In other words facial hair is like a fucking hypnotic laser that captures muff. “They’ve done studies, you know. 60% of the time, it works every time.” As soon as some muff sees you with a beard she will instantly know two things; one is that you’re a bro and the second that you’re the Mayor of Muff City. Now bros already know that we are the best at stuffing bone, but I realize many people are still ignorant of this fact. How do I know that bros are the best at taming muff? Well, because bros are the best at everything. If need be we could outswim a dolphin or play football on the moon. Bros love showing off against wild animals and participating in lunar sporting events. If you think I’m wrong just check out this list of dudes with facial hair: Paul Bunyan, that guy from the Dos Equis commercials, the Brawny paper towel guy, ZZ Top and Jesus. Yeah, I know, that’s a fucking legit list of bros. All are clearly the best at what they do and all of them were bros. So put down your razor, grow your beard, and slam that muff.

Beaters and heaters – All bros know that appearance means everything but that with enough drinks you can always improve on your first impression. So when it comes to your attire no self-respecting bro would wear anything but a beater (tank top to the ignorant). The beater is a fucking lethal weapon in the bro wardrobe and is almost so effective it should be illegal. It’s like hitting down+down+up+up+a+b in Mortal Kombat on Sega. It’s like a Sub Zero “freeze move” as you lay out muff with your favorite beer logo and perfect tan while also demonstrating how super ripped you are. Starting out shirtless, while a classic bro option, will sometimes encourage non bros to do the same thing thereby visually retarding the talent with their non-bro bodies. While a bro can overcome any obstacle it’s just better if a bunch of fat dudes aren’t walking around half naked. Fact: bros hate fatties, male or female.

Now sometimes you won’t be able to stand around pounding beers with other bros because you’re by yourself. So in these moments of going brolo you’ll have to step up your game a bit. Enter the heater. Fact: smoking makes everyone look cooler and impresses chicks. I’ve literally seen panties fall to the floor in the club when a bro starts puffing on some a Marlboro Red. Don’t bother yourself with all the lies floating around, cigarettes are not harmful. Bros never get cancer.

Money – Shit, bitches love money. There’s nothing that gets muff hotter for a bro than knowing (or thinking) he’s got stacks of cash. I mean really, watch the way the eyes of some muff light up when a bro pulls out thick rolls as if he just landed on the fucking sun and he ain’t even breaking a sweat. It’s a well-known fact that if you’re a bro with money you will be dining on muff candy all night. But for the traveling bro I know you’re on a bit of a budget and that can make things difficult. That’s why you should travel to countries that have ridiculously stupid exchange rates. I mean you can get 4000 Cambodian Riels or 8000 Laos Kip for just $1. Let’s be honest, you can’t help but hit Bro status when the ATM stops you from withdrawing more than 1 million at a time! And don’t get me started on Vietnam. Any country that names its money the “dong” is just begging you to visit and show off just how much dong you’ve got stuffed in your pocket. In fact, it makes for a great ice breaker to ask any muff how much dong she thinks you’ve got and then encourage her to stick her hand in and find out for herself. This sly move basically guarantees any bro to a “non-refundable 1^st class VIP no-condom-necessary” ticket to our favorite destination: Pound Town.

But why is this so helpful you ask? Because unless you’re talking about the cost of shoes (which a bro will never be doing), then muff have no concept of numbers, money or counting. Just ask any chick how many players are on an NFL team, what the maximum Roth IRA contribution is or how many places a bro can stick it in them and every time their answers will be too low. So they don’t realize that when you roll up with 30 thousand Kip and offer to get them drunk enough to dome you on the dance floor you’ve really got less than five dollars. And you thought math would never be useful!

Foreigner/ accent – Note to fellow bros: muff absolutely love bros with a foreign accent. So every time I travel to a new country I use a new accent. When I’m in Germany I speak like the French. Visiting the beaches of Thailand; go ahead and suit up with an Italian twist on. Or if you’re traveling to Zimbabwe go ahead and use the Aussie tongue and invite them to go down under. The problem is that since America is the center of the universe we don’t actually have an accent and thereby must borrow from others. Make sure to avoid the harsh languages, no bro is get some Columbian muff by speaking like a god damn Uzbekistani. Just pick a country that naturally speaks English (Britain, New Zealand or Ireland) or that just makes a bro sound super cultural (French, Italian and Brazilian). Now bros, there will be an occasion when you need to make a change on the fly due to unforeseen circumstances. (For the record bros don’t make mistakes we make adjustments). Let’s say you’ve been pounding beers and you’re already 17 deep when you spot some a nice slice of muff pie. You size her up and determine she’s definitely from Nigeria and within moments you calculate you should go with the French accent (an all-around winner). But when you begin talking you realize she speaks French too. Don’t worry, stick to nodding your head and pounding beers. Encourage her to drink more and interject into whatever she’s saying with an occasional wie for good measure. Within an hour you’ll be able to take her back and find out if she’s Greek too!

Random picture of a bro demonstrating these useful tips

And if you hadn’t figured it out this piece was a bit of muff taming hyperbole that was inspired by http://www.broslikethissite.com/

Some of best / worst / weirdest / funniest / things while traveling: 2

Crazy Night – Siem Reap, Cambodia : August 3^rd 2011

Alright, so Cambodia is a hell of a place. I totally recommend everyone to tour the massive site of Angor Wat. There are some wicked temples and other ruins that are great to view when tripping on a half oz of shroomers. Check out my photos of us pretending to bang stone lions. Shit’s great.

Anyway, so the city of Siem Reap is pretty decent too and David and I had quite an interesting first night. It started with us on the hunt for some decent grub after killing some Angkor beers back at the hostel. Man sized appetites demanded meat and we stopped by some restaurant that had some animal roasting on a spit. This thing was the size of a small cow and had a long tail but the meat was all white. It smelled good so we took a seat; we figured if the locals were eating it then it had to be food, or close to it. I implemented some wicked sign language to get us some beers and an order of the grilled beast. (We never did learn what the fuck it was). When our food arrived we were treated to what can only be described as pieces of skin on top of pieces of fat. It was about as chewy as a used Trojan (or so I’ll assume…) and tasted about the same. Fuck it though; we ate it, pounded the beer and paid our $3 bill and left. After grubbing on some banana pancakes in the street (absolute tits!) we found ourselves a nice bar packed with locals. We were the only vanillas in the joint but what the hell, everyone drinks beer.

Side note: The whole world loves beer. It’s a beautiful thing, but that’s another topic.

So we started guzzling some local brew for like a nickel a pint or something. I don’t know, when we left we were drunk so we just left some monopoly money and walked away. By this time the beer was taking hold and we were getting a case of the drunken munchies. I attempted to beckon the waiter over but in hindsight I think I just waved at everyone that walked by. I mean after a fistful of Angkor beers they really do all look the same. I inquired to whoever showed up what would make for a good snack choice and he recommended dried snake. “Oh shit,” I said “I didn’t realize snake was in season. Yes, bring us one.” It was dark in the bar but what arrived definitely looked like a dried rolled up snake. It was salty like jerky but definitely did not taste like beef. Honestly, it was pretty decent and we ate the whole thing, washing it down with some more pints. At this point I had to rock a piss so I set out searching for the men’s room. Outside was a trough of sorts with dudes letting loose. I pulled up a spot and just as I whip it out some little guy comes up behind and starts rubbing my shoulders.

Handsy bathroom dude : “You like massage mister?”

Me: “Uhhh, yeah. Wait no. What the shit are you doing?”

Handsy bathroom dude: “I give you massage”

Me: “Yeah I see that. I’d suggest you stop doing that.”

Handsy bathroom dude: “You sure you not want massge?”

Me: (Pausing while he worked down the lumbar) “Yes, I’m sure.”

Let’s be honest, the dude had soft hands but I just can’t be having that. I mean, usually I can pee anywhere anytime, but with a little Cambodian man rubbing your back and your dick is already in your hand it’s surprisingly difficult to piss. Luckily he backed off and I was able to take care of business. I made my way back to the table and we proceeded to drink more and then hit the road.

So we’re making our walk back home when we turn a corner and out of fucking nowhere David is mobbed by hookers. Now, I already had a prostitute grab my cock in passing when I was in Laos so I was a seasoned vet to this shit and I figured the rookie David could shake it off and we’d move on. In fact I found it quite funny and while I’m laughing I proceed to grab my can of Grizz and begin packing a dip. It must have been the beers but I hadn’t figured our little situation wouldn’t have been a problem but all of a sudden they spot me too and come flocking. Now, these girls ain’t like hookers back home; these bitches get quite physical, almost violent. At this point I got three or four women surrounding me, bumping into me, grabbing me all over and speaking broken English sex talk. Quickly I realize that I have a bit of a dilemma; my can is open and I can’t afford to spill this shit (you can’t get chew in Asia) but these hoes be trippin’ and trying to make a mess of things. I’m trying to keep steady with my hands while trying to force theirs away with the rest of my body when, Fuck! I realize they got their hands in my pockets and it’s not my junk they’re after, it’s my cash. I jiu jitsu my way out while David and I make a hasty zig-zag maneuver to finally break free of them. God damn sluts tried to rob two poor drunk white boys. Trapster probably said it best: “Damn! Sluts!”

Some of best / worst / weirdest / funniest / things while traveling: 1

Hello readers,

I realize yet again that I have left a large gap with my blog posts. I hope you have been able to fill that void with drugs, alcohol and Harry Potter. I blame Beerlao, Tiger Whiskey and the amazing value of Laos street hookers (the exchange here is awesome) for my absence from the blog. Going forward I vow to increase my posts and write about things that are weird, funny or horrible while I travel. Since I journal everything in my other blog I forget to keep you all aware of the best and worst parts. So…..my deepest apologies. I have some catching up to do but here are a couple of them from days past to get you started.

Traveler’s Diarrhea - Pokhara, Nepal : May 31^st 2011

I awake with a bulging feeling in my gut. There’s low rumble with an impending request to make an exit. I stumble to the bathroom in the dark and turn on the light. Fuck, there are 3 cockroaches stunned by my entrance. Cockroaches always look guilty when you see them in a group; like they were doing drugs, telling a dirty joke or standing around with their “wieners hanging out for everyone to see.” Under normal circumstances I would have shrieked like a bitch and then grabbed a shoe to chase the fuckers. But not this time, fuck me I barely make it to the toilet in time. Standing there I shuffle my feet and hear a crunch as one of the roaches miscalculated my need to regain my footing when pissing at night with a raging pee boner. But wait, what’s that?! I pull down my pants and land on the seat just in time as lunch comes pouring out like a fire hose. Twice, no, three times. Fuck I say, I think I’ve got the shits. Feeling depleted and tired I head back to bed. But sleep does not come as there is no rest to my stomach while it churns and pain mounts inside. It is but half an hour before I am forced to return to the throne and further empty solids, liquids and plasmas from my body. It’s only twenty minutes later and I am urged back, but this time it is my stomach. I drop to my knees and violently heave as dinner bursts like a culinary volcano. After the third heave while I ponder if it tastes better coming out than going in (the food in Nepal is really bad) I jolt upwards and sit down just in time as liquid fire escapes my ass. By 3 am I am making my eighth appearance and while slumped over with my intestines leaking from my body I smack under my leg and feel a squishy crunch as I kill a second of the roaches. I’m not sure why but he seemed to have been headed for my butthole. I feel so sick I don’t even care. The minutes tick on with return appearances of me in the bathroom. I am so thirsty but we have no water, the stores are closed and tap water isn’t safe. I rummage through the bag of my roommate looking for iodine pills or a revolver. In a state of confusion as to why I am going through his shit at 5 in the morning I moan something about water and cockroaches so he gets up to help. He finds the pills but reminds me it takes nearly an hour for them to work and the water to be safe. Fuck. And so it goes for the next 24 hours as I lurch and moan in bed like a beached whale, making 20 individual trips to the bathroom. The only thing keeping me alive was the thought of smashing that third and final cockroach. Well, that and a heavy dose of azithromycin.

Smuggling Beers - Bangkok, Thailand : July 2^nd 2011

Alright so it’s the night before the presidential elections and the country of Thailand thinks it’s a good idea to stop selling alcohol at 6 pm. Let me sum it up as the worst idea ever. I mean it’s not like there is a history of violence related to elections. Anyway, so we were hoping this just applied to the impoverished Thai citizens but we soon discovered that even the tourist section had dried up. Such news could only be described as fucking lame. It’s like learning that Santa Claus doesn’t exist anymore because he died of AIDS before they could make a quilt big enough to cover the North Pole. So yeah, it’s basically the worst night imaginable. But as we are strolling a side street we here a little voice shout out “hey, what you need? You need beer?” My friend and I look at each other like we just spotted the Holy Grail. Well, the Holy Grail if Jesus bled Chang. We shuffle over to the man to confirm our request. He nods his head and makes a secret Thai signal (holds up two fingers) to another man hidden in the shadows. Moments later two cold packages wrapped in newspaper are delivered to our shaky hands. We sneak the man some cash and shove the giant bottles in our pockets. Had this been another night we would have happily pretended that we had “popped some Viagra to issue tickets with raging boners.” But tonight we had to sneak our way home. Honestly we both felt like we were back in high school buying our first bag of weed. What a couple of pussies we were. We checked every corner for cops and took side road all the way back home. Not only that but we paid triple the normal price. Fuck, sometimes you just have to have a Chang.

Quick Update

Alright so here’s a photo update of me. I grew a beard, shaved my head and donned some aviators. And yes, my shirt does have a panda holding handguns. You can buy anything in Thailand. Shit’s great.

I’d like to also give a big thank you to everyone now that we have surpassed 1000 page views on my blog. I know about 900 of those are mine and another 100 are probably from Tyler Luckey so really I’m thanking about 7 people. Keep it up!

I’m currently in Laos right now and I am literally partying my dick off. Don’t worry I’m also working on a little article for all my bros so stay tuned in the coming days for that one. Enjoy your Monday at work!

Why the Zoo sucks

Note: If you want to see photos you’ll have to visit my other blog or my facebook page. It’s too much of a pain in my dick to upload them everywhere. Just click this link to my PG blog and shutup. Also, it’s nearly 2 am here in Bangkok and I’m hammered. I started this sober and finished it tonight. Ignore the mistakes and enjoy the rest.

Zoos

Alright, I acknowledge that I have been away from this blog for quite some time. In my defense I was busy drinking and fucking. If you think those are poor excuses you should go make me a sandwich because anyone who doesn’t think that pursuing carnal pleasures is the most important thing in the world clearly shouldn’t be wasting her time thinking and should be busy stacking meats on other meats. And don’t forget to toast the bread.

l should also clarify that Sarah just visited me in Thailand so I wasn’t randomly dipping my stick in foreign holes with careless abandon. But now that she’s gone I have a green light to frolic in the nightlife of Thailand and play my favorite games of “Is She a He?” and “I Can Do What That For $3?” with unbridled booze fueled pleasure. And for the record all of them have been He’s. Money well spent.

But in the days leading up to her arrival I was passing my time in Bangkok taking in the sites and had the opportunity to visit its shitty zoo and it has left me thinking. This whole zoo racket needs a bit of a home makeover and who better to make the big decisions on what animals to keep and which to toss into the gutters of Kolkata, than me, Zoo Critic Aficionado.

OK, Zoos have too many damned animals that no one gives a shit about and not enough interactive exhibits. In the future there will be 3 criteria for who is chosen to sit in a giant box of natural habitat for eternity and who gets to join Toto and go bless the fucking rains down in Africa. And the criteria are….Big, Dangerous or Cute. That means elephants, pythons and seals are in and camels, rats and every god damn bird is out (will address later). And any animal with a combination of these powers: like a rhino, a panda with a machete or a fascist penguin, is guaranteed a golden ticket to the big show. Any animal that lacks one of these criteria can piss off.

BIG: OK, this is the exact opposite from the traits to be looked for in humans. Notice to fat chicks: no one likes you; we only appreciate putting another notch in our belt. When I come back from the zoo I want to tell everyone I saw the first giraffe/ blue whale cross breed. I don’t want to tell my friends I fucked one. Back to the point here, big animals make the cut because by default they are savage beasts. I like the fact that if you attempt to feed a buffalo in the wild he might freak and trample your family while you take photos from the top of the Jeep. You’re going to regret not having bought that Canon EF-S 55-250mm telephoto lens when the last memory you have of your daughter is a grainy blur of dirt, fur and blood. At least remember to put it on ACTION mode when you’re on the Jeep!!

Exceptions: Hippos. These aren’t big they’re just fat. If hippos were people they wouldn’t be in the WWE they’d be that sweaty guy you got stuck behind at the DMV. Don’t mistake fat for unique, beautiful or special.

DANGEROUS: Holy shit I love dangerous animals (from behind an steel gate of course). I’m talking about all the cats: tigers, lions, cougars and jaguars. All the bears: brown, black, white, white and black, cinnamon and teddy. We’re keeping the sloths, poisonous frogs and sharks. I love witnessing any animal that in other circumstances would just as soon slash through a man’s thigh like butter and eat his face while he screams in terror. I would however, like to give a belated shout out to V Kilmer though for solving that nasty lion problem back in 1996.

Exception: Poisonous spiders. I hate spiders and they’re no way in hell they’re coming into my zoo. They give me the heeby jeebies and a zoo is no place for that.

Cute: Before you call me a queer for this one don’t worry, I checked the official bro code and it’s cool to like cute things. It’s like thinking your buddy’s little sister is cute. Yeah she’s only 17 but she’s got perky tits and he isn’t your best friend anyway. No one is going to blame you if you get to cop a feel. So…cute animals are in. Admit it, you love watching those little otters play in the water and when the penguins come scampering down that little ice luge it makes us all a little wet.

Exceptions: Your buddy’s little sister. That would just be effed.

….

So now let’s discuss the animals that are a fucking waste of space and would better off mounted on my wall than part of my already miserable Saturday. Besides, the only reason I came to this zoo was because I was told there would be sno-cones and all I got was some miserable shaved ice. Does no one realize there is a difference? Anyone can pour shitty colored syrup on ice and put it in a cardboard cup. It takes some real talent to make a sno-cone with every tiny perfectly shaped ice cube drenched in shitty colored syrup. I want my 50 cents back. I mean, it’s like telling me were going to watch Babe and instead someone puts in Gordy. I hate those people.

Top 3 biggest wastes at a Zoo:

Insects: About as useful as a degree in English are the bug exhibits. I don’t like bugs out of a cage so I sure as shit don’t need to see a million of them running around a box of dirt. Oh, what is this? The new mosquito exhibit you say? Well sure I’d like to enter it. Nothing gives me more pleasure than looking like the Indians after we gifted them all those warm blankets. We hire people to kill these things in our homes and you want me to pay to see they live in a shoebox? I don’t care see ants living in a farm or watch snails move faster than Superman after he fell off a horse. I’ll go to the Amazon if I want Malaria or to New Orleans if I need to see cockroaches feasting on a FEMA failure. Creepy crawlies are fucking out.

Exceptions: Ladybugs and the cast of Bug’s Life. Man I miss getting high and watching Pixar.

Animals we eat: Why would I pay to see an animal that might be part of my dinner that I’m eating at Old Country Buffet? Deer, kangaroos, ostrich, goats, deer, fowl, fish, zebras, pigs, cows, sheep, antelope and gazelles are all excommunicated from my zoo. Look, unless you’re going to set up a giant spit in the center of the Zoo and let us pick our lunch there is no reason to showcase this entrees. No one wants to pay an entrance fee to see how our dinner eats hay and takes a shit. We hunt, butcher and devour these animals. If you want to see these animals walk into Safeway and get a steak stuffed with a pork chop wrapped in bacon and fry an eagle egg on top. And get it to go so you can eat it while you’re touring the zoo. The wild beasts will go crazy from the scent and we’ll have the fences so low they just might jump to take a bite. Interactive zoos is where it’s at.

Exceptions: Any endangered species. Just knowing it’s illegal makes it that much more awesome. I invite some spotted owls to make an appearance at my Zoo but I’ll be handing out complimentary crossbows to make things interesting.

And finally….Birds: The number one biggest failures at zoos are birds. They’re loud, annoying and don’t do anything but fly around. And don’t tell me that flying is significant enough and that’s what makes them special. Giving a bird credit for flying is like high fiving a fatty for having diabetes. Of course they’re going to fly; they have wings attached to their bodies. Show me a chicken in the cockpit of a F-15 mowing down escaping refugees with a .50 cal and then I’ll say birds can come into my zoo. Until then, let’s call birds what they are; assholes who can shit on you and get away with it. To help prove my point let’s look at the famous birds in our culture and break down why they suck.

First is Donald Duck. This quacking sack of pubic feathers wouldn’t be so bad if he had never introduced us to his shitty little nephews: Douchey, Pooey, and Louie. When I was watching my Saturday morning cartoons all I wanted to see was that dipshit coyote repeatedly stick Acme dynamite up his ass in hopes of blowing his pecker through the roadrunners skull. Instead I would be randomly treated to three autistic baby ducks yammering about their molester uncle and go on asinine adventures. You took away the Saturday mornings of my youth and I refuse to let that happen as an adult.

Next are Angry Birds. It’s hard to hate on these flying missiles of animated ecstasy but then again I hate anything made popular by Apple. I just want Jobs to know I’m routing for the tumor. But on behalf of corporate America…everyone needs put down your iPods and get the fuck back to work. You’re putting us in jeopardy of being as productive as a condom at a bugchasing party.

And finally…Big Bird. Never in my life have I seen a more apparent pedophile wearing a costume. At least with clowns we know they’re after our kids, but that’s why we hire them. Anything to get 2 hours of peace and quiet while little Jimmy can become afraid of the dark and people with red balls on their noses. For years Big Bird has masqueraded as a servant to our children, supposedly wanting to teach them how to tie their shoes and make PB&J sandwiches. Jesus Christ, if your kids are that retarded then let them play with some giant groping bird that always has a suspicious smile on his face. There’s little doubt what goes on inside Big Bird’s trailer when the cameras aren’t rolling. I bet Snuffleupagaus would probably be getting in on the action too if he didn’t look like he had always just injected a pound of heroine. By the way, Snuff would be allowed in my zoo on grounds of big and potentially dangerous.

Notable exceptions: Penguins - these little fuckers are too damn cute to be mad about. Besides, they live on a sheet of ice, slide into frigid water to have fun and can’t even fly. Everyone wants a penguin as a pet.

Black Swan – Natalie Portman is hot and can cum and preform at my zoo anytime.

Changes to make to Zoos

Now that I’ve pulled the panties down and given zoos a little bit of penetration it’s time to tell them how to tend to their wounds. Yeah, clear the cages of those no talent ass birds so we’ve got space for our new additions. Or at the very least we need to add a little intrigue to the day’s events. Here are my suggestions:

4: Drug day. Once a month we’ll get a grab bag of the latest shit on the streets and add it to the morning rations. After the feeding we’ll open all the cages and see what happens. It will all be random and fucking exciting. We’ll have bats on crack, baboons on 4 Loko and rhinos tripping on angels dust. The trick is to not tell the general public. No one likes a riot and besides it will make a shit load of good material for Tosh.O I can’t wait to see him in a sweet new T and trendy hoody giving a web redemption to the crying mom who tripped her 4 year old to save herself from the crystal meth induced raging pack of porcupines. Shit will be sweet.

3: Puppies and kittens exhibit. I’m getting a boner just thinking about it right now. Absolutely no one can deny that these tiny creatures aren’t adorable. I suggest we open a kittens petting cage right next to the open air python booth. Not only would this solve our need to source gerbils for the snakes (Richard Gere wait your turn) but it would also relieve us of manually updating the kittens display every 7 -10 days. Besides, we would run out of shotgun shells if we had to rid ourselves of cats all the time. As for the puppies there would be a peanut butter stand right outside and for a meager $17 you could have a tub of Jiff creamy to “feed” the puppies in your own private booth.

2: Monkey Monday: We all know these creatures are part of our past. Whether we came from them or someone came in one, we are irreversibly linked to them. Why not let them participate in the modern world with us on what is normally the worst day of the week. We could all use some cheer on Monday so I suggest we drop a basket of modern weapons into the cage and see what happens. Of course we’ll lift the top of the net so they can fully integrate with humans. Chimps with rifles, gorillas with mace and baboons wielding batons should let us know once and for all who will win. I don’t need to watch another shitty version of Planet of the Apes to determine the outcome, let’s Darwin be the judge.

1: Humans cage. I can’t possibly be the first person to think of this one. What would be better than see your fellow man in a miniature version of his real world? We could finally know how he acts in the wild, track his moves and discover the long lost mating habits. Maybe men do cry when watching Lifetime or maybe women do like it in the ass (fingers crossed). We would finally find out. No worries, all subjects would be volunteers and paid a fair wage. Finally, we can find out how someone survives in one of those 100 sq ft Ikea floor plans.

OK, so now you’ve read and internalized all my great ideas you should have come to a some forgone conclusions: viewing savage beasts in a fake environment is worth your precious time if your lady promises to blow you while you watch NFL on Sunday, animals when given the proper equipment to terrorize civilians is better than watching Will Smith pretend to be awesome in any movi, and unless we find a Pterodactyl, birds need to stay the fuck out of Zoos.

Goodnight everyone.

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