Yesterday. An ode.
It had been raining all day yesterday
Surprisingly, the bus wasn’t late!
Because typically in the midst of such storms
One can expect a cold, soaking wait.
But the bus! Rejoice! Was on time!
And for this, no one was upset,
Though the weather had been nasty all day
And the ground, as a result, was quite wet.
Perhaps it was because we were on time
And not late, as one might expect
That that fat man at the next stop
Wasn’t there with the others just yet.
So as the others all got on board
He came running up over the hill!
Breathing hard and bulbously bouncing
The hard sprint taking all of his will.
Wait! He would’ve like to have yelled
If only he could’ve caught his breath
But instead he just torturously ran
Looking exactly like death!
But the bus driver, he didn’t see him
And as the bus slowly pulled away
The fat man managed to get along side it
But that’s when his large feet gave way.
And so, because it’d been raining
He slipped hard upon the wet grass
And fell roughly down in the mud
Bouncing harshly upon his wide ass.
But the bus, it kept on going,
No one aboard called for it to stop
Though, perhaps, no one but me
Was witness to the fat mans poor flop.
So why, you ask, was I silent?
Why didn’t I say “wait! That guy’s toast!”
Because then this blog that nobody reads
Wouldn’t have had this kick ass blog post.
The Utah County Menace
Forward: The following is a true story. It happened well over a year ago and has been told with varying amounts of indignation and frustration. The following account was taken more or less directly from an email version of the story. The original email version was rated R for language; this version is rated G so you can share it with the kids. Of course, it still contains words like ‘asshole,’ ‘douchebag’ and ‘dickless’ but if your kids can’t handle those words, then they have much bigger problems than anything they’ll hear from me. For those who want to hear the story now, much like this mornings request that resulted in this blog post, this version will henceforth be the official one. Names have been changed because I never knew what the hell they were in the first place. On to the story….
The Utah County Menace:
A Tale in One Act.
For those unaware, my ass takes the bus to work every day. What may be less well known and appreciated is the fact that my ass walks my ass to the bus stop everyday. No driving for me; I can take it! 20 degree weather, winter blizzards, cat 5 hurricanes, mosquitoes or rocks in the shoe – whatever onslaughts nature may hurl at me, you will still find my ass faithfully walking my ass to the bus stop. True, it’s only like half a mile, but I’m not claiming to be Lance Armstrong or anything. I have been doing all of this for six years.
On my person during this commute: a backpack containing reading material, an iPod and a lunch of some kind. (It’s worth noting, perhaps even relevant, to mention that said backpack is also liberally decorated with buttons applauding tree-huggery, numerous Obama ’08 buttons and other forms of liberal paraphernalia. Also I’m perfectly aware Obama has already won the election, thereby making the campaign buttons more or less irrelevant. Remember, though, this occurred well over a year ago. Of course, to be fair, the buttons are still there. See, I’ve long since accepted the fact that I am one of those ideological douchebags who never shut up. Keeping campaign material around long after an election is one of the many symptoms of that behavior.) And, of course, with me as always, my constant companion, my dear best friend: my coffee mug. Oh yes, my mug: a beautiful, sleek metallic blue mug with a spill proof lid and the ability to keep coffee warm forever. He’s wonderful, my mug. A true Pal and Confidant that, for the purposes of this story, we will call Phil.
So last July, Phil and I are making the walk to the bus stop; it was a beautiful summer morning. Cool and crisp, nothing beats a fine Utah morning. “Why, isn’t it just lovely outside?” I ask Phil, all happy and crap. He agrees. We make it to the stop without incident, early in fact, with several minutes to spare. As we stand patiently at the stop, Phil and I see a police car approach us on the road. “What’s up” I say to Phil? “I don’t know” says he, “enjoy some hot delicious coffee, why don’t you.” I do. I thank him for the advice. “Thanks for the advice, Phil. The coffee is delightful.”
Imagine, then, our surprise when said police car pulls up along side of us. A very ugly police officer gets out and, for some asshole reason, he has his hand on his gun. He approaches us slowly.
“Hello,” I say, because I’m just friendly that way!
“What’s going on?” says Officer Ugly, now standing next to me.
“Waiting for the bus,” says I.
“We got a call that you were brandishing a weapon of some kind, possibly a firearm or a radar gun,” says Officer Ass, eyeing me suspiciously.
I, relieved at the obvious error, triumphantly hold up Phil and laugh. “Look anything like this?” I say. And I fully expect it to end here. I’m waiting for a bus and I am dangling a coffee mug by its handle which, I guess could be mistaken for a weapon, especially if you’re a complete and total moron, which we can only assume the caller was. No problems.
“I doubt it sir,” says Assugly without any humor “What time does this bus come?”
“6:22,” I say, getting worried that I’ll be held up and miss it.
“Do you have any ID?” Only this question didn’t come from Officer Dicksington. It came from someone standing directly behind me, and scared the shit out of me, I don’t mind saying. I turn around to find another officer standing right behind me, you know, in case I’m going to run for it. We coffee drinkers are known for our agility, see. I am now surrounded by two officers and their cars.
“But the only thing I’ve got is this coffee mug,” I say. Phil nods in agreement, seconding my story.
“Let me just see your ID.”
I give it to him. While he’s writing down my name, address and asking me for my phone number, I am thinking that this is getting slightly ridiculous. When he starts asking questions – where I’m coming from, where I am going – I am thinking that this has gone far enough. But the absurdity only grows! Officer von Assward the Douche says he’s going to pat me down. He frisks me! Checks my pockets! Maybe would’ve gone on to a full body cavity search if not for the fact that people I ride the bus with have started to show up! “What’s going on?” says one of them. “Evidently, it is now illegal to drink coffee in Utah County,” I say with a pissy smile. Our officer friends remain humorless. (For our out of state friends, Utah County is predominantly Mormon: not a coffee loving demographic.)
“Can we check the inside of your bag?” one of them says. Several other commuters have, by this time, arrived.
“Are you serious?” I say.
“Let’s just take a look in your bag.” Says Officer GenitalScab, impatiently. I open it and he and Officer Nutsack look inside. There they find my dangerous book! (A David Sedaris, I think.) They find my dangerous sandwich! (Ham).
“What’s really going on?” says the fellow commuter again. So I make a final attempt to mitigate the obvious awkwardness and embarrassment of the situation by making a satirical observation: “What you’re witnessing,” I say, “is racial profiling. As a Utah County Minority – a person that drinks coffee and wears Obama Buttons – I’m obviously up to no good!”
No one laughs. My fellow travelers seem concerned. Finally, I tell them the truth. I confess my crime to them, God, Humanity and the World: “Someone thought my coffee mug was a weapon. I was just holding this coffee mug.”
Perhaps by hearing it articulated thusly, Officer Sarah and Officer Palin realize what it is they’re doing. Perhaps, somewhere in the recesses of their small minds they have figured it out. They realize that there will be no front page story applauding their genius because, after only two weeks since they first learned to read, they have managed to stop a dangerous criminal from his life of crime. Perhaps they see, through their ugly and unremarkable little eyes, that this was an obvious mistake and yet, because of the difficulty the stupid have in figuring things out, they have still managed to inconvenience me, embarrass me and subject me to an interrogation that should never have happened. They are looking at my ham freaking sandwich for the love of Clarence! They offer a half-assed bumbling apology and leave the crime scene, with my name, address and phone number written in their notebook, just as the bus pulls up…
I’ve made the same walk, with Phil and Obama at my side, every work day since then. There have been no additional problems despite the fact that I fragrantly drink the dangerous and provocative coffee, right there in public! Occasionally I’ll wrap my finger around Phil’s handle as he dangles at my side in an attempt to make it look like I am carrying a gun. But then the street light casts my shadow in front of me and I see myself for what I truly am: a guy carrying coffee. Still, to all those rightfully afraid, be warned: I am on the loose…
A New Direction
The nice thing about having a blog that nobody reads is that you can say whatever the hell you want. Or so I thought. Until I wanted to go work for the Obama administration. See, I thought, I still think, that I would be a spectacular Secretary of Commerce. Good salary, hot-ass secretary, all the steak sandwichs that a person can eat and the drunken, licentious parties the Sec O’Com is known for-I’m thinking of you, Roy Dikeman Chapin! Sounds great-that is so the life for me. After all, I could use the change of direction in my life. The Secscom-that is what I will call it when I am in-fulfills that change perfectly. So I went looking to apply. And I found this…
And I think this blog, this worthless trashy blog of inanity, disqualifies me! WTF? Seriously? OOO, so I made a few wisecracks about people, so I revelled in my misanthropy, so what? The bastards. So I pointed out the inherent douchebaggery of the general populace; I’ve yet to be proven wrong, you know! And so what if I implicated an obscure and maybe harmless Roy Dikeman Chapin as a sex hungry megalomaniac. I’m sure he would appreciate just being mentioned. But, alas, such escapades will keep me from my well deserved dream job as the secsycom, so I must, with heavy heart, shift this blog in a new direction, damnit all to shit! One that promotes HOPE and CHANGE and PEACE and EASY LOW-CAL CHICKEN RECIPES! So, here goes, my first word of advice, offered in a spirit of altruism and love, motivated by nothing more than an honest desire to do good and land me an ass-good job in the Obama administration:
If ugly people wouldn’t make eye contact, then fewer people would realize that they’re ugly.
Your Welcome.
Endless Summer Nights: the tragic soundtrack of biochemistry
The biochemists have just handed me my ass. A twisted group, the biochemists. See, the business of the biochemist is, at the expense of conveying anything useful or productive, to take sadistic delight in handing a person his or her ass. And so have they done with me-here’s your ass. Take it. We sure the hell don’t want it.
But, despite how horrible it really should be to have ones ass handed to oneself by the biochemists, this development is not the most terrible tragedy facing me at the moment. It should be, to be sure, but it is not. Instead, I have become preoccupied with the unfortunate music the large and ugly captain of the campus shuttle now escorting me back to reality has chosen to play. Richard Marx. The asshole is listening to the shit-poor hack of Richard Marx. And I’ve become obsessed with this, focusing on this development with such unprecedented scrutiny that, had I applied the same level attention to the biochemists, my ass would have avoided the trauma of being handed to me. But seriously, Richard Marx? Do you all realize that while you are hard at work, right this very moment, fretting over the sadism of the biochemists or whatever the hell it is that you do, Richard Marx is somewhere collecting royalty checks for this? Does that not just bother the entire shit out of you? Dude’s raking it in for achieving nothing more than the ability to give the act of defecation a musical voice! Here you sit, all bruised and battered from having the twisted biochemists hand you your ass with such glee while Richard Marx, with his stupid gay blow-dried mullet of shame is somewhere on the beach collecting freaking royalty checks! The biochemists-who take such sexual delight in handing the poor bastards of the world their asses that one must assume that they differ from the majority of their peers in academia and are, in fact, Republican-sit and pound on your ass before they hand it to you all ruined and useless and, all the while, somewhere, where the mullet is still cool, the Marxist sits and smiles as that horrible atrocity “Endless Summer Nights” shits itself over the radio, knowing that he is about to receive another freaking check! What the hell is wrong with the world, everyone? The worker slaves, the laborer toils, the biochemists terrorize and Richard-shrunken testicle-Marx gets paid for lacking any talent whatsoever!!! Has everyone but me, who sits upon his biochemically ruined ass, gone insane?
A Little Bit of Happiness in an Otherwise Bleak and Dismal World
Heard this yesterday and it has made me so very happy:
Guy goes to the doctor. Doctor says, “I’m sorry sir, but I am afraid you’re going to have to stop masturbating.” Guy says, “why?” Doctor says, “so I can examine you.”
In a world where McCain’s poll numbers are up, there are things to enjoy!
Barack Obama will loose Utah this November…guaranteed!
I happened upon this old blog of mine the other day. I was struck, as often happens when one revisits ones work, by the utter inanity of it. Retarded was the resonating word. Admittedly, I did have a little chuckle over that Creed diatribe-no apologies there. And my encounters with dear Rich were worth remembering. Other than that, this blog has been an unfulfilling endeavor, easily discarded among the virtual wasteland of detritus that wastes a good chunk of space in the network of tubes and midgets that comprises the Web. The one faithful reader I had evidently died of necrotizing fasciitis. Poor guy. Of course, he would have laughed at anything in any attempt to mitigate the pain. (To his credit, though, it is amazing how funny he made the fasciitis out to be! I remember, right before he went completely blind and lost his penis, he had dressed himself up like the leper from Braveheart and started reciting lines from old obscure French films. I think it was supposed to be funny. Anyway, I laughed.) So, after he died in what sounded to be a horrible, gruesome death, I felt less compelled to participate in the masturbatory endeavor that is the weblog. Seemed less important, somehow.
Still, without the time sink that is blogging, I needed a new form of pissing away my life. I considered a brief stint as a nude model, but the money was too good and I worried about, as they say, ‘keeping it real.’ Plus, the only people willing to hire me were old bridge clubs. So I passed on that one. Next I considered making a difference. I thought that making a difference would be an effective employ of ones time and resources. The difficulty, it turns out, in making a difference, is that in order to make a real difference one should have some idea about what to make different. I have never liked the street light that governs my walk in the morning. I’d like that to be different, I thought. But, as is the case with people with no desire or motivation, I had no idea where or how to begin. Plus, I didn’t really care all that much; evidently one should not suppose one has the ability to truly make if difference if one finds himself utterly indifferent to that which he would make different. So, the street light remains.
But, nevertheless, I appreciated the idea of making a difference. At this point in the narrative it becomes necessary to indicate that it was now late January. Soon, Utah was going to be participating in Super Tuesday! Elections-of course! If I was truly going to make a difference in life, then whyn’t here? Well, whyn’t? So one fine Saturday afternoon I went down to the good Senator Obama’s Salt Lake headquarters. Proud of finally, as they say, ‘doing something,’ I pulled into the parking lot, went inside, and immediately returned back to my car. Turns out, I wasn’t anticipating hating everyone inside Obama headquarters, but I immediately did! Why in the hell does every democrat in Utah have to be freakishly abnormal? So many bastards volunteering their time, trying to be all hippy and free-love and all about change and making change and doing things differently. What the hell’s up with that? Why can’t people make a difference without being so enthusiastic about it? Whatever happened to good old fashioned people who keep to themselves while changing the future of America? Douchebags everywhere, all wanting change. Of course they want change! They’re douchebags! Ask any douchebag, “what is the one thing that sucks about being a douchebag,” and they will invariably tell you, “being a douchebag. Sure wish I could change that.” Now, you might argue, if I was so concerned about making a difference, why wasn’t I willing to stick around and help the douchebags with their douchebagginess? Seemed like a lot of work. However, I can and will unequivocally state: Barack Obama will loose Utah this November. I’ve seen his most ardent supporters.
So, gave up on change. Went back into hiding. Closed myself off to the world. When I finally remembered that at one point in my life, I did a half-assed job of maintaining a blog, I reluctantly went back. After Larry’s horrifically disgusting death, it wasn’t as easy as I thought it’d be. Nothing to do with Larry and the thought of him loosing an ear in a windstorm, just my own laziness. Plus, with Larry dead, and all the other occasional readers of this crap long gone, it seemed irrelevant. But that is when I realized that I can do irrelevance! I am irrelevance, baby! Irrelevance is what I got and irrelevance is what I have to say! So here it is: total irrelevance.
Enjoy your day. (And I am already well aware the above post did little to offset my initial claims regarding the inanity of this blog.)
From WebMD: When necrotizing fasciitis occurs in the area of the genitals, it is called Fournier gangrene.
The Statue
So you’re wondering where have I been? Well, screw off; I’ve been far too busy. So sorry if that offends all of my reader. (And, where the hell have you been, Larry? I know you’re there, you moron. ) Here’s the thing, dear Larry, it turns out that my pessimism is growing much worse, though that’s hard to conceive, I know. This surge of blackened negativity keeps me from this blog. I have also stopped making mental notes regarding the locations of various fire hydrants. And yet, the anger is welling in me even as I sit here pissing and moaning about pissing and moaning. My cynicism, usually a welcome chocolate syrup to the milk of my mundane life, isn’t much fun anymore. Kind of depressing, frankly. My assholiness is turning me into a real asshole. I’ve not yet shot a man in Reno just to watch him die, but I pushed over a toddler just to watch him cry. Why this hostility, you may ask? Can’t say. Perhaps it is because I have to get my poor ass up a good 30 minutes earlier to catch the early bus. So, in addition to being ass-tired, I also have to suffer with no more Rich in my life. (Rich’s ultimate piece of gospel: “Sometimes you’re the pigeon, and sometimes you’re the statue. Brilliant Ugly Man. He will be missed.) Perhaps it is the changing seasons. Perhaps it’s you. Yeah, it’s probably you. And I’m referring to you, Larry, you jerk.
But I need something to change. Need the enema of life to blow free the detritus that has clogged my mind. Need the Great Chimney Sweep to cleanse the soot of my tired self. I need more Dick Van Dyke, less Dick Cheney. Need more sandwiches, less green beans. Need more sunshine, less Dick Cheney. And, as I have the delightful talent of alienating every jerk off who ruins my day with their presence (Larry), where might I look to gain this serenity? Well, it needs to come from somewhere because I ain’t doing it.
And then it comes. God bless us all, it comes. And it comes in the form of the wheel chair, can you believe it? A wheel chair of all silly things. My savior today was the medical device utilized in transporting cripples. This is the sandwich to my Cheney. Serenity wheels up its handicapped self.
So, here’s the story. As I walk in to the hospital ev’ry day, there is a nice, ordered line of wheel chairs near the entrance. This way, when patrons come to take advantage of the valet service the hospital offers, those who require a wheel chair have one readily accessible. Never paid them much mind, really. Only today, there’s this woman raising all hell that there isn’t a wheel chair available that will fit her, uh, ample girth. Turns out, she needs a double wide and won’t be happy until she gets it. And she’s really pissed. Like a rhino kicked in the horn. I’m afraid she’ll stampede! (Though, this isn’t really a possibility since there is no way she could summon enough energy to do so.) But, being large, she has taken charge and demands the double wide. So barreling around the corner comes some poor fool pushing the wide seated chair. By the time he approaches her, I have already passed them on my walk; so I stop, and turn around just in time to see the pusher accidentally cram the wheel chair into LargeandinCharge’s shins. I hear her howl and for the moment, I smile.
Why, you wonder, does this pick me up? Why I get enjoyment from the misfortune of others, in making juvenile jokes? Well, you take what you can get. And you seek happiness out, wherever you may find it!
On Scooter Libby…
So our president has commuted the sentence of I. Scooter Libby. Not surprising; a pardon is well on it’s way. Reminds me of my own scooter story:
I remember, it’s been years now, I was looking to finish my first novel, “Of Damn and Pain Go I.” I thought it would be convenient to finish the book, you know, away from the hustles and bustles and annoyance of city life. So I took my family to winter at a hotel in Colorado. We were the caretakers over the months when the resort was snowed in. Anyhoo, it provided a great opportunity for me to relax, get some good writing in. A man needs to focus on such things.
I brought with me my wife at the time, a terribly ugly woman with what appeared to be an Adam’s apple and hair like chicken wire. Completely breastless and an horrific cook to boot. And of course our son, the infamous Danny. Danny: the little jerk. Always riding his scooter bike down the hallways of the hotel. Over the carpet, over the rugs, his bike was like a drum pounding the inside of my brain. It grew difficult to think! I was just coming to a crucial part in “Of Damn and Pain Go I,” the part where Trisdale the Munificent gave ninepence to Loquacious Lonny for chimney services rendered. It was then that Trisdale realized Lonny was his long forgotten son, product of his torrid affair with a food handler. Brilliant and mesmerizing it was! So much to learn of ourselves in its timeless moral.
And just as my brain began formulating the aforementioned apex of emotion, Danny came barreling down the hall on his scooter! Rumble, rumble, rumble. Damn you, Danny! Quiet you jerk! But no, he persisted. Riding his scooter into the very recesses of my brain where craziness and lunacy dwell. So it was thus that I went loony and chased Danny-boy and his ugly mother around with an ax until I froze to death outside. Very sad and unfortunate, much like Bush’s actions towards his own Scooter.
What became of Danny, you say? Well he became a cross dressing airline pilot who was recently arrested for seducing farm animals and…wait a minute. I’m not old enough to have a airline pilot son! I don’t even have a son! Oh yeah, that wasn’t me at all. Sometimes I confuse my life with “The Shining.” I need to really stop doing that…
Creed!
I read today that the former frontman for the band Creed was arrested for domestic assault. No comments here other than another opportunity to say, yet once again, that Creed sucks so bad I can’t believe anyone was ever retarded enough to actually buy that crap. Creed, the sound that results when you take a tape recorder in the toilet whilst the bowels are suffering amoebic dysentery. Creed, the band when given the choice between having amoebic dysentery and listening to Creed, well, you just love amoebic dysentery! Creed, whose music, even you’re delusional enough to call it music, only existed to give my pending tenure in hell an appropriate soundtrack. The hate I have for the worthless suck that is the ass music of Creed cannot be over stated. So much overwhelming hate! Damn you Creed! The sound of vomit never sounded so lovely when compared to your hack! Look! I’m pounding the keys of this computer extra violently because of the anger Creed ignites! Maybe that’s why Creed guy got arrested for assault! Too much Creed in his life! When Creed’s crappy ass whore suckage grew too ass for this world and their ass poor music crap was finally flushed away, I celebrated by actually weeping. True story. It’s so great to be able to turn on the car stereo and NOT have the vomit belch of ass Creed defecating from the speakers. And when, due to the unforgivable judgment of some terrible DJ, that does happen, then I drive straight to the pet store and wring the necks of bunnies and chicks! Well, not really, but I should. Ass Creed Guy shouldn’t merely be punished for domestic battery, he should be imprisoned for life for the vile blood and bile and poo and ass of that obscenity he calls music! Lock the bastard up! Beat him with his guitar! Lord knows, he’s shown it no respect!
Creed blows.
More from Rich!
Oh Rich! You are indeed a poet! Your insight is as beautiful as the springtime sun, rising gloriously behind your gigantic frame! What beautiful declarations you offer unto us. Thou are divine! August and brilliant, your very words inspire, excite and stimulate our neglected minds. Walt Whitman never dreamed up such words as thee! Robert Frost, thy talent did lack! Dickinson a hack, next to thee. Shakespeare, a blowhard, frankly. O! Rich! What a delight it is for me to share this bus stop with you! Speak, dear Rich. Speak.
And as I see you approaching, I know greatness is about to become manifest. Listen. The spring birds, jealous their incantations will not do justice accompanying your words, fall silent! Listen. The sound of the traffic fades away as we hungrily await your voice. Listen, just so. Our attention microscopically attuned to just you. O! Life! O! love, thy name is Rich! Our thoughts become whispers, fall silent, drift away in the wind. Silence. O!
“Well boys,” you say as you arrive. Yes? Yes, Rich, continue please! Share Rich! Inspire! Lead us! We are merely your grateful students, you our dear mentor! Do not hold back, shout from the roof tops! Herald the morning, the sun with the power of your voice!!! “Well boys, today is the first day of the rest of our lives!”
YEEEESSSS!!!!
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