"God"

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, the Movie Trailer!

Animated Excerpt from Tales of a Drunken Degenerate chapter four!
Never coming to a theater near you!

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate part twelve, copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twelve, "Nobody's Fault But Mine"
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eb9agQrObSU
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You wake up in your apartment alone. Wal-Mart girl is gone but at least she didn't set any alarms this time. Fast learner that one. Someone is pounding on your door like they're trying to break it down. Climbing out of bed with a groan, you walk naked to the front door and peer out the peephole. It's your landlord. You open the door wide enough to poke your head out.
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"What the fuck do you want?" you ask, politely enough. "I want you out of here, that's what the fuck I want!" Your landlord, Ernie, is a balding middle aged man who has a habit of calling you kid and whose face has a tendency to get red when he's worked up about something. It's the color of a stop sign right now. "First some detective comes around asking all sorts of questions about your personal life, like I would know or give a shit, and then this morning a couple of bikers come charging into my office demanding to know which apartment was yours."
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Oh shit. "What did you tell them?" "I told em you moved out last month, I'm not a fucking scumbag. They were obviously looking to kick your ass, and while I'm not totally opposed to that, I can't have no trouble here. Which is why you gotta go. I can overlook the constant reek of pot smoke comin outta your place, and the loud music, and even that time you vandalized the coke machine and stole everything but the diet 7-up, but I draw the line at cops and pissed off bikers. What'd you do to them anyway?" "I shot my load into one of their faces." "Jesus Christ! That's the kind of shit I'm talking about, what the fuck is the matter with you kid?" "I don't know" you answer truthfully, "but you can't just kick me out, I actually paid my rent on time for once!" "Tough shit kid. You got thirty days to get the fuck out, and don't expect your deposit back either, fuckin place looks like a bomb went off in there! See ya around kid." He hands you an eviction notice and walks away. "Thirty days!" he calls over his shoulder.
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Well that's just great, just what the fuck you needed to hear. No way you can afford to move right now. Shit, you don't even have a car anymore. Stressed out, you get dressed and then search the apartment for contraband, and after half an hour of sifting through random piles of stuff, come up with enough weed to roll a small joint, three bottles of liquor containing about a swallow each, a Valium, and a small piece of rock cocaine, the origins of which are unknown. You drink the liquor first, using the last swallow to wash down the valium. Then you fashion a makeshift pipe out of a beer can and cigarette ashes, and smoke the one hit of mystery crack. By the time the joint has burned halfway down, you're feeling much better about things. Your situation hasn't improved one iota, but you feel better about it nonetheless. There's a knock at your door, not the merciless pounding of Ernie, a sharp and insistent rapping. You check the peephole. It's your father. Fuck.
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"Hey Pop!" you say in your phony I'M-FINE/YOU'RE-FINE voice. "How they hangin old man?" "Cut the shit." your dear old dad says, looking like he'd like to hit you for old times sake, but knowing you'd knock him on his old ass. "I didn't want to come here, your mother insisted on it. She wants to know why you left the hospital, and why you didn't come to the house to see her after you did. It's the drugs isn't it?" "No dad, it's not the drugs... I, I just felt better and wanted to get out of there, that's all." "Horseshit. We know you're on dope. You been on dope for most of your pathetic life and I refuse to take the blame for it." As if you ever blamed him for anything besides being as asshole. "You're a loser son, and it's nobody's fault but your own. Call your mother." He walks out without saying goodbye. "Nice to see you too Pop!" you yell as the door slams hard enough to rattle it's hinges. All of a sudden you feel like shit again.
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After being both evicted by your landlord and called a loser by your father on the same day, sadly not the first time this has happened, you don't feel like doing much. Your latest unemployment check is in the mailbox so you walk to the bank to cash it, then pick up a pizza, a bottle of whiskey, a case of beer, and some cigarettes, and go back home. You take the phone off the hook. You close the blinds. You watch bad TV and drink until until you pass out.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Santa Claus is Coming, and He's Had Enough of Your Shit!

http://www.jokesunlimited.com/christmas_elf_name.php
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6NnnmnY_TGo
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Once upon a time at the North Pole, there lived an elf named Beaker Sparkly-toes. Beaker had a very important job in Santa's magical workshop, he was in charge of fixing all of the machines the elves used to make the toys. He was proud of his job and he worked very hard. Whenever a machine would break down Beaker would work as fast as he could to get it up and running again so that there would always be plenty of toys for the good girls and boys on Christmas morning.
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One day there was a problem with the conveyor belts on the Tickle Me Elmo production line and Beaker was called to fix them. This was a really big deal because almost all of the children wanted Tickle Me Elmos that year and the elves needed to work day and night if they were ever going to be able to make enough. It was up to Beaker to save Christmas.
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He worked harder and faster than he ever had before. "Go Beaker, go!" shouted the elves, "You can do it!" And then they all began to sing! Tools and spare parts were flying everywhere, Beaker was determined not to let Santa and the little children of the world down.
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But Beaker was working so fast and hard, that he became a little bit careless. He accidentally crossed some wires, which caused the machine to start up while he was still inside the conveyor belts. By the time the other elves were able to hear his pitiful screams for help over the sound of their merry singing, and somebody found and pressed the emergency cutoff switch, Beaker had lost both of his arms and one of his eyes. He would have surely died if not for Santa's magic healing powers.
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That year there was a terrible shortage of Tickle Me Elmos, and a lot of kids had to settle for Grover or Bert and Ernie, and they cried themselves to sleep on Christmas night because they thought they had been naughty and that Santa Claus didn't love them anymore.
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When Beaker awoke from his coma, he felt horrible. Not because he no longer had any arms and was horribly disfigured, but because he had ruined Christmas. But then Santa paid him a visit. He told Beaker that it was not his fault, it was just an accident, and that he still loved him. Beaker thought there was a funny look on his face when he said it, but he told himself it was just because he wasn't used to only seeing out of one eye. Then Santa told Beaker that since he could no longer fix the machines, and everyone knows that all good elves must work, he had a very special job just for him.
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He brought Beaker to the reindeer barn and told him that it was his job to keep an eye out for the Abominable Snowman. If he came near the barn to try and eat the reindeer, he was to use his feet to call Elf security on his walkie-talkie immediately. All he had to do was keep watch and not fall asleep. "You can do it Beaker, I know you can!" said Santa.
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So Beaker was left all alone in the barn with the reindeer. It was chilly in there and smelled like reindeer poop, but Beaker was glad to be able to do his part. He tried making conversation with the reindeer, but they weren't as forgiving as Santa Claus, not even Rudolph, who should have remembered what it was like to be an outcast.
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There was nothing for Beaker to do but think, the Abominable Snowman hadn't been seen in decades. The more he thought, the worse he felt. He had ruined Christmas, lost both of his arms and one of his eyes, and everyone hated him. Soon he was sobbing uncontrollably. He cried and cried for hours, and the tears coming from his missing eye's socket were pus yellow and runny. He cried so much for so long that he became exhausted, and against his will he did the one thing he was not supposed to do, he fell fast asleep.
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When Beaker woke up, Santa Claus was standing over him, and he didn't look happy. "Oh Beaker," said Santa, "I told you not to fall asleep. While you were napping the Abominable Snowman came into the barn and he took Blitzen away." He shook his head sadly, sighing, "My poor Blitzen..." Beaker looked over to Blitzen's stall and saw that it was true. A trail of blood led from the empty stall to the open barn door. Beaker began to cry again.
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"Now, now, Beaker, don't cry. Santa still loves you." said Santa, and this time Beaker was sure he had a funny look on his face when he said it. "But I'm very disappointed in you Beaker. Since you can't do this very special job like I asked you to, I'm going to have to give you a different job, because everyone knows that all good elves must work. Come with me now Beaker." Santa led Beaker out of the barn and into the woods. Beaker didn't know what kind of job he was going to get now, but he swore that he would work hard and never let Santa down again. I'll make him proud of me, he promised himself as he followed Santa deeper into the woods.
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In the Great Hall, all of the other elves were enjoying a rare break from making toys. They were drinking spiced cider and singing merry songs. From somewhere nearby in the woods outside the Great Hall, they all clearly heard the sound of the gunshot.

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part eleven, copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part eleven, Love in all the Wrong Places.
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You're feeling pretty good after the food and the beer and the narrow escape from certain death. You really thought you were a dead man back there, and that scared the shit out of you. So maybe you don't want to kill yourself after all. Good to know.
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"I owe you one baby, you fucking saved my life back there you psycho bitch. No shit." You reach over and give her right breast an affectionate squeeze. "When I saw you were gone I thought for sure that you'd run out on me and left me all alone." "Shit no" she says, smiling at you, "What kind of a shoplifting, coke snorting, gun toting whore do you think I am anyway?" She pulls into the deserted parking lot of a nearby grocery store. "What are you stopping here for?" you ask. "You said you owe me one right? Well it's time to pay up sucka." She puts the car in park and then reaches over to touch your naughty place.
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"I'm sorry baby but I don't think my magnificent dong is ready for a repeat performance quite yet. It's still a little sore." A lot sore is more like it. "No worries, I'll just suck your cock then." This chick seems to really love giving you head, and after saving your ass the way she did, you're in no position to argue. "You smoke this" she says, handing you a joint she pulls out of the ashtray, "and let me do my thing."
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You fire up the jay and she starts to do her thing. It hurts a little, so while you're perfectly able to maintain an erection, you have time to smoke the joint down to a tiny roach, and you're not even close to cumming. You are totally baked however, and feeling a rather giddy so you decide to have a little fun with Wal-Mart girl and play some Tonsil Ball. Tonsil Ball is played by thrusting your hips when a girl is going down on you to see how far back in her throat you can get your shaft. She of course eventually gags and gets pissed off, at which point you apologize profusely and then do it again a few seconds later.
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You give her an experimental little stab, and she remains unfazed. You try it again a few seconds later, putting a little more hip thrust into it. This time she looks up at you and rolls her eyes before continuing her work. Again you give her just a bit more, and this time she gags a little, but keeps going. So you go for the deep throat, thinking she can handle it, and she gags and then proceeds to spew the bulk of her stomach contents onto your cock and balls. Your lap is now a warm puddle of regurgitation; cheap booze and greasy food and a little white thing you're pretty sure is a partially dissolved birth control pill. She sits up, still heaving, and a fresh stream of vomitus hits you in the chest with enough force to splash up onto your face. A drop goes into your mouth, and that sets you off, you hurl up the burger, fries, and beer, and add it to the mix.
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She's crying, but you're in no mood to comfort her just now, despite the fact that this is all your doing. You get out of the car and rip the hospital gown off, using the back to wipe off your face. You feel a little better. "It's okay." you tell her, "move over and let me drive, we'll go to my house and get cleaned up." You're less than half way to your house and you start to suspect you may not be able to make it there without tossing your cookies again, the smell is horrifyingly putrid, even with the windows down. You're passing the public golf course when you have an idea. You pull over and park on the side of the road. "Come on" you say to her, getting out of the car, "follow me." She does, reluctantly.
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There's no fence around this particular golf course, and the sprinklers are on. You lead her out onto the grass where she strips down. The two of you rinse off under the industrial sprinkler head, it's cold and there's so much water pressure it's actually a little painful, but neither of you complains.
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Looking at her, standing there naked on the 8th green, you realize that she really is quite beautiful. She shivers, cold, and you go to her and put your arms around her. She responds, and then the two of you are kissing passionately, tasting each others digestive fluids and loving it. You lower her to the grass and proceed to make love to her. Real love. It lasts a long time, because every thirty seconds or so the sprinkler comes back around again and shoots a stream of icy cold water straight into your ass.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part ten, copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part ten, Roadhouse Blues
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LwfmfMBLZiM
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In a scene straight out of a bad Hollywood movie, the music abruptly cuts off, and there are several agonizing seconds of complete silence. Then all hell breaks loose.
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"You're fucking DEAD!" screams the huge biker, as he's wiping off his face with a bar napkin. Several of his equally large and frightening biker buddies gather around to back him up. Even on your best day, you wouldn't stand a chance of beating them in a fight, and this is far from your best day. In your current condition you'd be lucky to survive the first crushing blow from his ham sized fist.
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You better try to talk your way out of this, and right now. Come on man, time to be charming. An angry mob is slowly making it's way up the stairs with every intention of stomping your guts out. "Hey, hold on just a second!" you say, holding up your arms, and to your immense relief, they hesitate. You grab your beer off the table and drain the glass. Here we go.
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"Listen guys, I've had an unbelievably shitty week. I'm not looking for trouble here, I just needed some beer and a bite to eat, that's all. I have been thrown in jail, I overdosed and apparently died, I just got out of the hospital today..." you gesture to your gown and hospital wristband. "And this asshole Detective I made punch me in the face so he'd have to let me out of jail seriously fucked up my car and then dropped an enormous deuce in the backseat! This young lady..." you turn to point to Wal-Mart girl, but she seems to have mysteriously disappeared, "she was kind enough to offer me some snatch, she thought I might feel better if I got my rocks off. I am SO sorry about what happened. It was not my intention to cum all over you fine folks, especially YOU good sir, I, uh, only meant to unload on her back but she moved... If it's any consolation, my wang feels like it's on fucking fire right now! If could go back and change things I would kick her out from under the table the second she started to blow me!"
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Swing and a miss. They are not swayed by your reasoning, and resume their Death March up the stairs. So this is how it's going to end. Beaten to extinction in a barroom brawl, wearing a hospital gown. They are almost to the top of the stairs when Wal-Mart girl reappears, holding her purse and digging around in it's contents frantically. She finds what she's looking for and pulls out a small revolver. *POW!*
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She's fired a round into the ceiling. "Everybody back the fuck up RIGHT NOW!" she screams. "Me and my man here are walking out the front door, and I swear to Satan I'll put a bullet between the eyes of anyone who tries to stop us!" She makes her way slowly to the door, keeping her gun pointed at the gentleman who received the complimentary facial, and you're right behind her, in a state of shock but grateful to still be all in one piece.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part nine copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part nine, "My Shit's Fucked Up."
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D2aUJF3gdog
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You're standing at a gas station pay phone a few blocks from the hospital. You're barefoot and wearing a hospital gown, skinny ass flapping in the wind for all to see, and your dick is swollen painfully from where you ripped out the catheter. You need help, but you realize you don't have a friend in this world, except maybe for that fat piece of shit Chickenwing. After a moment of indecision you dial his number, collect of course.
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Twenty minutes later his beat up Nissan Sentra pulls into the gas station and you jump in the passenger seat. "Wanna go back to my house? I just got a really big bag of some killer shit!" Killer shit is right, you think. You almost fucking died and all this douchebag cares about is getting home to his pipe and his porn. This guy is your best fucking friend!
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"No, you're taking me to get my car." you say, in a tone that leaves no room for argument or discussion. The last thing you need is another crystal meth binge at Chickenwing's Porn Palace, not now, no way are you coming back from another one of those grand adventures. You figure you'll go to your favorite bar and grill, or at least your favorite where you don't owe a huge tab, nurse a few beers and hopefully get someone to buy you some food. Ronnie's Roadhouse is just the place to figure out where you go from here.
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You arrive at the police impound lot about thirty minutes before closing time. You don't have the piece of paper the dickhead detective gave you, and the guy working the desk is an asshole and tries to charge you six hundred dollars to get your car back. You tell him that you highly doubt your car is even worth six hundred bucks, and ask him to call Detective Blake at the station. He tells you to go fuck yourself, and you lose it. You push his desk over on it's side towards him, then slap him four or five times in quick succession. "Now do as I say and call the fucking cops already!" you tell him. He calls. "Alright Fuckhead, they said you can have your piece of shit car!"
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Five minutes to closing time, and you are finally allowed out on the lot. There's a rather unpleasant surprise waiting for you. The windows on both sides of your car have been smashed. All of the tires have been flattened. There's dents all around it, and there is trash all over the inside. Also, sort of the coup de grace if you will, someone (you suspect Detective Blake himself), has taken an extremely large shit right in the middle of the back seat. Sighing, you remove your Miles Davis CD from the player that was remarkably left untouched, and get back into Chickenwing's car.
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"Where's your ride?" he asks. He's been snorting lines of crystal off his dashboard while he waited for you. "Chickenwing, I don't have a car anymore" you say, "take me to Ronnie's Roadhouse and let me borrow twenty bucks you fat tweaker, or I'll never fucking talk to you again."
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Ronnie's is a two story redneck biker bar with a small cafe upstairs. The place is fairly crowded for the middle of the week, but apparently they're all here to drink and dance, because the cafe is deserted. You sit down at a table in your hospital gown, and you have the entire upstairs to yourself for almost half an hour before a bored looking waitress shows up to take your order. It's Wal-Mart girl. Somehow, you are not surprised.
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You order a burger and fries and a pitcher of beer, and when she comes back from putting your order in, you tell her about how you escaped from the hospital, including how you stupidly ripped out your catheter like you did, and how your car was completely destroyed.
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"You poor baby!" she exclaims. "Your shit's fucked up!" she says, lifting up your gown to take a peek. "Let me make you feel better." She gets down on her knees under your table and goes to work. At first you're afraid getting sucked off will hurt too much, but it's only slightly painful, and feeling better every second. Soon, you're at full mast, and you decide there's a better place to put your cock than down this bitch's throat.
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You bend her over the balcony and take her from behind. You can see the people downstairs, at the bar and on the dance floor, and they can see you, but only from the waist up. It looks like the two of you are up there dancing to the music, instead of fucking like a couple of Jackrabbits.
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You start to feel like you're about to cum, so you decide to pull out and bust your nut on her back. But as soon as she feels that you're no longer inside her she turns around. "Put in back in!" she moans, right as you climax. It hurts like hell when you blow your load, and it shoots out, up and over the railing of the balcony, landing on the crowd below.
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Most of your jizz hits the face of a really large biker dude who was dancing with his old lady. "What the fuck?!?" he yells, glaring up at you with murder in his eyes, and suddenly everyone is looking up at you.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Brains!

Created by Mingle2.com (Dating for non-zombies)

The Death of the English Language and Any Real Communication

lol, omfg, lmfao, rofl, brb, idk, etc...
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What the fuck? What have we all become? Evolved, some might say, but they sure as shit better not say it to me or I'll knock their fucking teeth out so they have a reason to sound so fucking stupid. Every time you use one of the moronic abbreviations above or any of the countless others, you contribute to the seemingly endless dumbing down of America, and put yet another nail in the coffin of the English language. And it's not just the sheeple, it's educated and sophisticated people as well, because this sickness has spread faster than the latest H1N1 outbreak. I'm not the first asshole to complain about it either, there are hordes of Grammar Nazis out there who are far more militant than I.
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In fact, this rant was inspired by an episode of the Showtime series Californication entitled LOL, and I couldn't help but wonder; how many of the cast and crew of that show use that three letter abomination on a daily basis? How many of you reading this are just as bad? How many of you actually laugh out loud every time you hit those three keys? Is it really that much of pain in the ass to actually type in "Be right back?" That took me less than three seconds, and while not everyone can type as fast as me, most fifteen year old girls can send a text to their best friend forever telling her that Brandon TOTALLY smiled at her in the hall at school today he is soooo cute, and by the way, your hair looked really good today, in that amount of time. What's the big rush girls? Slow down you have your entire lives to talk about meaningless bullshit!
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I know what you're thinking, and the answer is yes, I too am guilty of this most heinous of literary sins, at least to a small degree. I will occasionally use "OK" or I might say "Back in a sec" instead of "Please pardon me briefly, I shall return momentarily." But I NEVER sink to the level of bastardization that has become commonplace on the screens of nearly every cell phone and computer screen in the country. It's gotten so bad that I've heard "lol" and even "rofl" in actual face to face conversations. I somehow managed to avoid puking my guts out, but only by the narrowest of margins.
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It was bad enough when two people with less than nothing to say to each other would pollute the air with the sounds of their instantly forgettable chit chat, but now we don't even care enough to make actual words come out of our throat holes. Just as long as some sort of sound is produced to fill the silence. We might just as well be two radios tuned to different stations, facing each other and blaring away loudly, that would accomplish the same amount of communication as two people with no interest in really conversing making small talk.
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I still know what you're thinking, and once again the answer is yes. I have had more than my fair share of those riveting and deeply fascinating conversations about the weather, a sport I know and care nothing about, or the price of beans in Boston. But for many years now, I have only kept up the charade when to do otherwise by telling them to fuck off would hurt the feelings of someone I care about. If a random stranger, on a bus or train say, tries to engage me in a pointless, "I'm afraid of silence!" conversation I immediately begin asking personal questions, revealing the most intimate details about myself, and delving as deep as I can into whatever aspect of their life I believe will offend them the most. I have fun with them until they either loosen up and we start to REALLY talk, or they leave me the fuck alone and go about their business, leaving me to go about mine.
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Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part eight, Copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part eight, "I Think We're Alone Now"
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3eMyAbg6CWQ
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Alone with your thoughts. The very place you have always hated to be and avoided at any cost. Totally alone. Just you and you and you... And this time there's no bottle or bag to save you from yourself. You're pretty sure there's a mild sedative of some kind in the bag of fluids that's slowly dripping down into the I.V. in your arm, but it only seems to be amplifying the negative effect of your complete and total isolation. There's no retreat. There's no escape. There is however, surrender, and because you're helpless to do otherwise, you give in to it, hating yourself for it all the while.
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Your mother does not come back. You half expected her to, but it seems that this time she was serious. Her words float back into your mind, unbidden and unwanted. What the fuck does she know anyway? All the people that love you? No one gives a shit about you! Your father? What a fucking joke! He wouldn't even get you out of jail this last time, he just slammed down the phone and left you to rot in that stinking cage... he could have easily afforded the bail, he had piles of money socked away. All he's ever done is criticize you and tell you you were no good. As a kid he used to get drunk sometimes and verbally abuse you just so you would cry and he would have a reason to hit you. Your mom could have probably stopped it with a word, but instead she just turned a blind eye.
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Later, when you were alone in your room crying, she would comfort you and tell about how he really loved you, he was just under a lot pressure. Pressure from what, she never said, but it sure wasn't sexual frustration, later you would hear them having sex through the paper thin walls and feel sick to your stomach.
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You have no real friends, nothing even resembling a career, you're too afraid to let anyone get close enough to you to forge any kind of lasting relationship, and you have long since killed off any aspirations. Hopes and Dreams are dead and buried. Fucking and getting high are all you have, all you know, and seem to be the only thing you have ever been any good at.
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You're not trying to kill yourself, you're just doing what it is that you do best, because that's all you know how to do. If you must be a no good piece of shit why not be the best no good piece of shit you can be? But you don't really want to die. Do you?.
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You realize that you don't know the truthful answer to this question, and it scares you. Fuck this, you've had enough of this pity party, thank you very much. Sitting up in bed, you pull the I.V. out of your arm and the catheter out of your dick, which forces you to let loose with a blood-curdling scream. After looking around the room for your clothes and not finding them, you walk out the door. Running away from this hospital, this place of forced isolation and Death. Running away from yourself.

I am a Pirate!

YouTube Comments, A Study in Human Behaviour

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BoiWonda4u (2 minutes ago) Show Hide
Marked as spam
Reply | Spam
Shut cho soft ass up bitch u sound stupid u fucking idiot. emotional slut bag bitch ass hoe. the fuck up round here.
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aubrey716 (34 minutes ago) Show Hide
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this song breaks my heart. i feel like it plays the deepest emotions of my heart into words..i miss you rene..
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YouTube Comments...
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What purpose do they serve exactly? Why do we care whether someone did or didn't like a particular song or video clip? Are we that desperate for affection, that we seek it out from total strangers, in the form of the anonymous clicking on a "thumbs up" button? Why this innate need for others to agree with our point of view?
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Also, if you read enough YouTube comments, you start to notice the trends. Spamming and shameless self promotion of course, but also people craving human contact and people with underlying issues that sometimes make their way into their comments. I've seen many references to divorce, suicide, drug use, sex, even a mention of someone being abused as a child, and none of these were in relation to the content these people were supposed to be commenting on. I'm guilty of this strange phenomenon myself, I once wrote a deeply personal verse to the instrumental version of Paper Planes by M.I.A. and posted it as a comment. You see a lot of would-be rappers posting verses in place of comments.
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Then there are the ones who appear to sign in to YouTube soley to attempt to pick "comment fights", saying anything to get a rise out of someone else so they can flame that person again. I've seen some of these get really nasty and offensive, two people who don't know each other getting very personal.
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Occassionally, you will see the YouTube equivalent of an online chat that has just sort of spontaneously erupted, and more often than not it has nothing to do with the content of the related YouTube file. Are we really that pathetic? The answer is YES.

I'm a Douchebag!

I befriended someone online, we made plans to hang out at the Atlanta Decompression party. I ended up not being able to make it. I get an email saying hey where were you, what happened, etc. I really meant to reply but it got pushed to the back burner. So did the next one. Today I get one that says fine if you don't want to be friends I'll erase you from my contact list, have a nice life. This person seemed really cool, and I didn't mean to intentionally ignore them. You shouldn't treat people that way. Like the title says, "I'm a Douchebag!" I will try to work on this. That is all.

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part seven, copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part seven, A Near Life Experience
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You can tell by the smells (rubbing alcohol with just a hint of Death) and sounds (the hushed voices of nurses and doctors and the intermittent beeping of some sort of machine) that you're in a hospital. For some reason you're unable to open your eyes or make a sound, but aside from that strange sensation you feel fine, you not in any pain that you're aware of. You keep trying to speak, to call out to the darkness and ask where you are and what the hell happened, but the effort is making you very confused and tired, so you finally give up and just lie there. Maybe you sleep a little, it's hard to tell, but eventually you hear a familiar voice.
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It's your mother. "Wake up son." she whispers, and you can feel her hand in yours, warm and reassuring. "Wake up. It's time for my baby boy to wake up now. Wake up and look at me." She sounds scared. It's freaking you out a little, so you struggle against the darkness, and only fall deeper into the bottomless pool of black that surrounds you. You decide it's not so bad here the nothingness. For in a world of nothing; there can be neither pain nor sorrow. You give in and let it take you.
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Just when it seems that you're crossing over into some new place, the universe is suddenly filled with bright light, and you feel pain like an electric shock traveling from your chest through your whole body. You can see now, and while you're not yet ready to speak, you hear yourself gasping for air, as you breathe in lungfuls of canned oxygen through the plastic mask covering your mouth. You're alive again, but you're not really sure how you feel about that.
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You see your mother come back into the room after they wheel away the cart that holds the shocking machine. She's been crying. You manage to reach out to her, weakly, and once again you can feel her hand in yours, only this time it feels cold and clammy. You want to tell her not to worry, that everything will be okay, but your words come out all wrong, you're speaking some kind of gibberish, like they zapped you all the way back to when you were two. Then it's black again, but not the same all-encompassing nothingness of before, you've merely fallen asleep, exhausted.
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Some time later you wake up. Your mom is still holding your hand, asleep in a chair next to your bed. Even deep in her slumber, she can somehow sense that you're awake, and she opens her eyes. After several failed attempts, you manage to croak out "Hi mom" and she starts to cry again. "I'm okay." you say, and she cries harder. Her tears of sadness and grief or whatever abruptly become tears of anger.
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"You are NOT okay!" she's yelling now. "You fucking died, and I had to sit here and watch it happen! I've been watching you slowly kill yourself for years! You died, right here in front of me! I can NOT do this shit anymore! I WON'T! It's not fair to me and it's not fair to your father, or to any of the people that love you! I don't know why you're so determined to end your life with drinking and drugs, but I can't be a witness to your suicide anymore!" She gets up and walks out the door. You want to call out to her and tell her not to go, to come back, but you just can't find the words. You're left all alone, with just your thoughts for company.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part six Copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part six, Downward Spiral of a Drugged Out Degenerate
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As you make your way to the fridge for something to drink, you see that Chickenwing was lying about not having any dope, there's an enormous pile of crystal meth on the triple beam scale on his coffee table, next to a good sized bag of pot. "What the fuck?" you ask, pointing.
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"Alright fine, I was holding out. I just didn't want any company." (In other words, he was right in the midst of a dope-fueled wankathon.) "Hey, that's my last beer asshole!" "That's what you get for lying. Now load up the pipes, I need to get fucked up in the worst kind of way." He follows orders, breaking out his homemade meth bong, and filling it with strawberry kool-aid as you chug the beer. "You wanna hit this first or smoke weed?" "Both." you answer, reaching for the bag to roll a joint. You tell him about your adventures of the past two days while you begin the process of getting thoroughly annihilated.
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A speedfreak is out walking one fine evening... He finds what looks like a homeless person lying in the street, helps him up, and gives him a cigarette. The homeless guy says, "Dude, I'm a genie. And since you were so kind to me, I'll give you three wishes." Of course the Tweaker immediately says, "I want a big bag of meth!" The genie says,"Okay no problem!" POOF, the bag appears! They prepare some thick long white lines, load up the trusty pipe, and share it between the two of them. The next morning the genie asks "What's the second wish?", "I want TWO big bags of meth", says the speedfreak. "Okay," says the genie. POOF! And they prepare it and snort it and smoke it all up between the two of them. The genie asks, "And the third wish?" "I want FOUR big bags of meth!" POOF!! So, they prepare lots of really big lines and smoke lots and lots of really big pipeloads, and once again share it between the two of them. Much later the genie gets up and says, "Okay, it's time for me to go." The genie takes a couple of steps, pauses, turns around and says, "Okay, just one more wish."
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Sometime later, possibly as long as a week but at least three or four days, you have no way of knowing for sure, you're shaken awake after briefly passing out in the recliner. It's Wal-Mart girl doing the shaking, which makes no sense because you're pretty sure you never left Chickenwing's place. Nope, this is his smelly chair all right, in the corner of his filthy living room. What the hell is she doing here?
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You vaguely remember a guy you never met before stopping by at some point. Somehow, you had managed to talk him out of two hits of acid and a tab of ecstasy, putting the bill on Chickenwing's tab, probably not the smartest idea after smoking ice continuously for days on end, but at that point you were way beyond caring, you just wanted a different kind of buzz. But you don't remember any other visitors over the course of this latest massive drug binge, it was just you and Chickenwing, the radio, the overflowing ashtrays, and the steadily declining mountain of crystal meth on the table. If it wasn't for the whole shaking you awake thing, you could almost convince yourself that she was just another weird hallucination, but hallucinations can't touch you, you know this much. So just where the fuck did this bitch come from, and more importantly, why was she once again fucking up your sleepytime?
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"Just where the fuck did this bitch come from?" Chickenwing has just now appeared in his bedroom doorway, looking about like you feel. "Karen? She's my upstairs neighbor. Why, do you guys know each other?" "In a manner of speaking." Karen pipes up, looking at you curiously. "Bet you thought you'd never see me again huh? How have you been?" "Lousy." you answer, standing up on legs that aren't quite steady from too many drugs and not enough food. "I need a shower." Without another word you strip off your clothes as you walk towards the bathroom, then climb into the shower and stand under the warm water for half an hour or so until you start to feel like you may be able to face the world again.
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When you emerge from the bathroom, naked except for the towel around your neck, Karen (she will always be Wal-Mart girl to you, never Karen) is cutting up lines of Bolivian Marching Powder on a mirror. From the looks of them, they've already had a couple each while you were showering. Fuck it, you think to yourself, may as well go for broke. You put your pants on and join them, snorting up line after line, until suddenly everything goes black.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Burning Man 2009 Time Lapse by Delirious

Evolution from Delrious on Vimeo.

Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground....

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part five Copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part five, "Ain't no thing but a Chickenwing!"
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After breaking your nose, the fat detective finally told you what you were doing in the interrogation room. Video surveillance footage from the Super Wal-Mart showed a young woman and a man who looked remarkably like you fleeing into the night after the girl was caught shoplifting and the guy punched an employee in the face and laid him out.
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Detective Blake's intention had been to get you to confess to the previous night's incident and thus allow him the honor of adding an assault charge to your lengthy, if rather unimpressive criminal record. But he'd fucked up when he lost his temper and broken your nose, and he knew it. What's more, he knew that you knew it as well. Once you've stopped the worst of the bleeding with the handful of Kleenex he'd begrudgingly provided you, you suggest that the two of you make a little deal, and he's understandably quite receptive to your proposition.
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You walk out the front doors a free man less than an hour later, all records of your latest stay on a one-way trip to the paper shredder, and your nose freshly bandaged by the jail's nurse.
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Your car is still in the police impound lot, but you've got a letter releasing it to you free of charge in your pocket. Unfortunately, that letter and a cigarette lighter are the only things in your pocket, you're flat broke. You decide to walk to your friend Chickenwing's house, a couple of miles away but still a hell of a lot closer than the impound lot.
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Chickenwing, whose real name is Derek, got his name because he was born with a physical deformity that caused one of his arms to be much smaller and more crooked than the other. You'd first met several years ago at a dealer friend's house. He was one of those unfortunate souls that will put up with almost anything just to have a "friend" to hang out with. Besides being cursed with the poultrylike limb, he was also morbidly obese, none of which mattered to you. What mattered was that he had an enormous drug habit and willingly shared his drugs, and would occasionally let you borrow a few bucks if you asked nice enough.
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You arrive at the door to his apartment in one of the more rundown complexes downtown sweaty and out of breath from the hike. You knock loudly, and when a minute passes with no response, knock louder still. "Just a minute!" comes through the door.
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This means Chickenwing is in the middle of enjoying his unbelievably extensive porn collection and wants to finish his business before answering the door, and this is by no means the first time you've been forced to wait outside. Chickenwing is a man who takes his masturbation VERY seriously, (something the two of you have in common) a pervert of the highest order, regardless of who may be waiting outside.
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When he finally opens the door, he's even more sweaty and out of breath than you were when you first arrived. "What the fuck do you want? I don't have any dope, and I don't get paid until next Friday!" He goes to close the door and finds your foot is already inside. "Let me in Chickenwing, you Dirty Nigger!" you cry with a silly grin.
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"What the fuck happened to your nose?" Curious now, he opens the door and grants you entrance into his disgusting palace of self-pleasure.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part four

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part four, A Blast From The Past Comes Back To Bite You In The Ass
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The guard leads you down a hallway to an interrogation room, where he unlocks the door and unceremoniously shoves you in. A disgustingly obese man in a suit almost as bad as yours is sitting behind the table. He motions for you to sit down in the other chair across from him. "Detective Blake I presume?" You make no attempt to shake hands, and neither does he. "You mind telling what this about?" you ask, knowing there's no way in hell you're going to get a straight answer. It's much too early in the game.
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"How about if you tell me." Typical cop response, like you're just going to break down right there and confess to murder. Maybe tell him about all those bodies buried under your house. What a fucking joke this guy is. You decide you might as well try and have a little fun with him.
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"Well, it could be about a lot of shit, but I'm not about to just start spilling my guts to you. Shouldn't my lawyer be present for any questioning?" As if you have a lawyer. "Fuck your lawyer punk, when I get through with you, you're gonna need a fuckin priest." You say nothing, just stare blankly into his eyes. He drops his gaze first.
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"Fine" he says, switching tactics, "if that's how you wanna play it." He pulls a thick manila folder out of a scuffed leather briefcase. "You know what this is?" You have a pretty good idea, so you give him your most charming aren't-I-so-cute smile. "Pictures of that threesome I had with your wife and teenage daughter?"
"You just better watch that mouth Mr. Comedian, or it's gonna wind up missin a few teeth. It's your criminal record. Let's take a gander, shall we?" "Sure, I could use a few laughs right about now." He opens the folder and begins to read.
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"Drug possession, drug possession, drug possession, drunk and disorderly times five, public intoxication times eight, and drug possession with intent to distribute..." Your smile widens the tiniest bit. "What can I say, I like to party and I'm really good at it." "Sure ya are, you're a regular party boy ain't ya? Reckless endangerment..."
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"Hey" you say, losing the smile for now, feigning indignance, "they KNEW it was a fucking flamethrowing fire cannon, they should have stayed the fuck back like I told them to and they'd still have their eyebrows!" "Sure kid, whatever you say. What's the deal with this public nudity charge?" "If you could have seen that girl, you would have went skinny dipping with her too!" "I'm a happily married man amigo, and I don't fuck around on my wife, I'm not a piece of shit like you! Alright, let's move on." He shuffles some papers around, apparently looking for something in particular.
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"Bestiality? No shit? What kind of a sick fuck are you?" Remembering the incident, you can't help but smile again. "I was just messing around with my buddy's cat for a laugh while we were all drunk one night. How was I supposed to know those pictures would end up on Facebook? Those charges were eventually dropped, it should say so right there on that paper." You lean over the table a little to take a look and he moves the sheet of paper to the bottom of the pile and pushes you back down in the chair. "Sit your ass back down!"
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"Here's one that wasn't dropped. Assault and Battery. On a sixty-seven year old woman?" "Okay, that one I was in the wrong, my bad, but that old bitch was just begging to have her ass kicked, she's lucky all I did was backhand her. Just because you're old does NOT mean you can just do whatever the fuck you want! Anyway that got settled out of court." Your father had paid the old woman ten thousand dollars to testify at your trial on your behalf, since the District Attorney insisted on moving forward with prosecution.
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"Okay tough guy, last one. Explain this pimping and pandering charge." He looks oddly pleased with himself. "All I did was introduce my mom to a few lonely guys I know. I though they'd hit it off, my parent's divorce was really tough on her. If she made a few bucks, that's HER business. Too bad you're married, she's got a thing for fat slobs on a power trip..."
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The last part was a total lie, the pimping charge had been the real deal, just you and some morally challenged girls you knew trying to make a few extra bucks on Craigslist, but you're determined to get a rise out of this prick if it's the last thing you do.
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It works, the next thing you know you're lying on the cold vinyl flooring of the interrogation room, and blood is pouring out of your freshly broken nose.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part three

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part three, Further Degeneration of a Drunken Degenerate
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Jail. It's been awhile since the last time you were a guest of the county. You'd briefly considered fleeing on foot but you knew they would get you eventually, the hotel manager saw you get into the car and even though you no longer resided at the address the DMV had on file, your current address was easily obtainable from the unemployment office.
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So instead of running, what you did was lock your door, flip the manager a bird, and reach into the ashtray for the half a joint you'd left in there the night before. No since letting it go to waste, as the police would almost certainly search your vehicle. Besides, nothing makes a difficult situation a little easier to bear than sweet Mary Jane. The dickhead manager was standing in front of the car, unaware of the fact that you're a sitting duck. He pulls out his cellphone, and dials a number. You can just make out his side of the conversation as you fire up the joint and take a long drag.
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"Hello? Yes, I'd like to report a theft please. My name is Roger Stanson, I'm the manager of the Holiday Inn down on Bradshaw Boulevard... A guy came in here this morning and stole a bunch of food from our complimentary breakfast bar. No, he's not a guest, I just told you, he was stealing!" A pause. "No, he tried to run, I'm standing in front of his car out in the parking lot right now, please send an officer immediately, I'm pretty sure he's smoking dope!" You smile and hold the joint out towards him, like you're offering him a toke. "Yes, I will, please hurry."
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He hangs up and returns the phone to his pocket. "You're in a lot of trouble now buddy!" he says, "The cops are on their way! Yes siree Bob, a LOT of trouble..." There's more, but you were tired of listening to his self righteous and sanctimonious bullshit, and turned on the radio to drown him out. The weed had started to do it's thing, and combined with the sounds of Miles Davis blasting out of your one working speaker, you felt pretty good, all things considered.
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You had enough time to finish the joint and two cigarettes before the law shows up. You're a bit surprised to see a state patrol car pull into the lot instead of the sheriff's cruiser you were expecting but a pig is a pig, in your humble opinion. You're tapping your fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music when the officer, after exchanging a few words with the manager, (who looks like he just received an unexpected and really good blow job) walks up to your window.
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"Get out of the car and put your hands on the hood!" he ordered. You chose to ignore him and turned the music up a little louder instead. It was your favorite Miles Davis tune, and you had no intention of exiting the vehicle until the songs completion. But the cop would have none of that. He drew his gun and said, "OUT! Now Asshole!" So you shrugged your shoulders and with a sigh, did as you were told. You were immediately cuffed and shoved into the back of the patrol car. After searching your car and coming up empty except for a nearly empty pack of rolling papers and an old issue of Barely Legal, which he kept, the pig took fuckhead Roger's statement and carted you off to jail.
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By the time you were finished with the usual rigamarole of the booking process, the strip search, fingerprinting, and paperwork, and were at last allowed your phone call, it was early afternoon. You called your father, and got as far as "I'm in jail, and..." before he slammed the phone down.
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So now here you are, in the grimy holding cell that reeks of piss, body odor, and cheap disinfectant cleanser. You've got the place all to yourself for the moment, it's just you, the stainless steel toilet/sink combo, standard issue inmate mat and scratchy and stained green blanket. There's a phone on the wall that only calls bailbondsmen, useless to you with no collateral of any kind and a negative bank balance. Your laptop is stolen and the title of your shitheap of a car you pawned last week for the price of a couple lapdances from your favorite stripper, Bliss, who refuses to fuck you for any price but will tolerate the occassional groping because she says you're a nice guy.
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The situation looks pretty bleak. You'll most likely be here until you go in front of the judge, who, at your last court appearance, promised to make an example out of you the next time you set foot in his courtroom for any reason. You figure it will be anywhere from three days to a week until your number comes up for court. Nothing to do but wait it out and hope like hell his honor dies from a stroke in the meantime. You lie down on the mat, balling up the filthy blanket for a pillow, breathing in the built-in smell of the countless farts of all the losers who came before you, and just as you begin to nod off the cell door opens and a voice calls out your name. "Get your ass out here, Detective Blake wants a word with you!"
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TO BE CONTINUED...

Old Craigslist posting, I just thought this was kind of funny...

Here's the original post:
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I have a huge bathroom.
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I am a female in my mid 60's and I am looking for a room mate. Times are tight and I need some extra money.
I am willing to rent out my bathroom in my 1 bedroom east village home.

My bathroom is large. You can easily put a twin air mattress in there. I only ask that when I need to use the bathroom, you or your air mattress are not in it.

I do ask that when you are in the apartment, you confine yourself to the bathroom. I do not feel comfortable with a stranger walking around my living room. This might change as I get to know you better.
You may have guest over as long as they are cnfined to the bathroom as well. This might seem a bit odd but please remember the rent is $400 and the bathroom is large.
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Now, here's my interpretation:
I have a huge bathroom.
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I am a (mentally unstable) female in my mid 60's and I am looking for a room mate(prisoner/sex slave). Times are tight and I need some extra money. (Heroin ain't getting any cheaper ya know!)
I am willing to rent out my bathroom in my 1 bedroom east village home. Also the cabinet under the kitchen sink, as soon as the eviction proceedings for the current tenant are finalized.
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My bathroom is large. So large that the neighbors will never hear your screams. You can easily put a twin air mattress in there. Or forty six dead cats, neatly stacked. I only ask that when I need to use the bathroom, you or your air mattress are not in it. I masturbate frequently, so I'm gonna be in there A LOT.
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I do ask that when you are in the apartment, you avoid direct eye contact and confine yourself to the bathroom. If you do not confine yourself to the bathroom, I will confine you there myself. I do not feel comfortable with a stranger walking around my living room while I'm doing my Pilates. It's MY fucking living room, you stay your ass in the bathroom damnit, unless I need to use it, in which case you may wait on the fire escape. This might change as I get to know you better and adjust to my new meds.
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You may have guests over as long as they are confined to the bathroom as well and are between the ages of 12 and 14. This might seem a bit odd but please remember the rent is A REAL BARGAIN at $400 (rent subject to change without notice) and the bathroom is large. Weirdos and creeps need not apply.
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* cats are OK - purrr

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part two

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part two
-A Mid-morning Tale of a Hungover and Still Hungry Degenerate
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Your alarm wakes you up at ten a.m. It's been just over two hours since you and Wal-Mart girl fell asleep on your bed, your Spongebob blanket is still slightly moist from the sweat of your coke-fueled sex and smells like a combination of bodily fluids and cheap whiskey. Why the hell did she set the alarm you wonder, as you lie there listening to the shrill beeping that seems to be piercing your brain and causes your head to throb dully with that familiar pain that comes from a night of excessive debauchery. It had to be her, you haven't set the alarm since you were fired from your last job three months ago.
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After fleeing into the night together, the two of you jumping into your car and speeding away so fast you would have made the Duke boys of Hazzard County proud, you drove to a deserted construction site and snorted some of her blow off the dusty dashboard of your Caprice Classic. You laugh hysterically about how you punched out the stock boy, and the getaway you had just made, talking loudly to be heard over the classic rock station blaring out of the radio, neither of you even for a moment considering turning it down.
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She offered to take you up on your request to buy breakfast but thanks to the cocaine you were flying high, and no longer hungry, so you stopped at an all night gas station where she ran in and grabbed a case of beer. It was after two and not yet six but the bored looking cashier just wanted to get back to his copy of Rolling Stone and sold her the beer without batting an eye. You were half afraid she'd try and steal something and force you to beat another hasty retreat, but apparently she'd had enough of that for one night.
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You went to your apartment, cracked open a couple of cold PBR's and she cut up the rest of her stash into lines on your coffee table after first wiping up some of the ashes and marijuana particles that liberally covered the table's surface area with a fast food napkin she pulled from the depths of her shoplifting coat.
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You got high together, and took turns playing Youtube songs for each other on your laptop until she finally said, "Are we gonna fuck or what?" So you fucked, and over the course of the next couple hours you fucked several more times, until the coke was long gone and you both started coming down, exhausted from all the physical exertion.
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And now here you both are, lying in this filthy bed together, you with a raging hangover made infinitely worse by the high-pitched, Banshee like beep-beep of that goddamned alarm, while she sleeps on, oblivious... Fuck That.
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"Hey, wake up!" you elbow her sharply in the side and she barely stirs. "Hey!" you yell louder, shaking her by the shoulders. "What?" she mumbles sleepily. Her morning breath is atrocious, which should come as no surprise considering the filthy things she did with her mouth just a few short hours ago. "Why the fuck did you set my alarm clock?" you ask, making no attempt to disguise your irritation. "Oh shit, I gotta go to work!" she says, and immediately gets out of bed and begins hunting for her clothes, which are strewn out all over the bedroom. Moving quickly, she's dressed in no time. "It's been fun." she says, and without another word she's out the door and gone, leaving the alarm to continue it's battle cry on the nightstand.
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You can stand it no longer, you reach across the bed and yank the cord out of the wall, then sling the fucking thing out the bedroom door and into the hallway, where it hits the wall with a resounding crash. At this point you'd like nothing more than to fall back asleep for ten or twelve hours, but you soon realize that's not going to happen.
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Now that you're no longer intoxicated your hunger is back, and it's back with a vengeance. You realize it's been two days since you've last eaten. This poses a problem because you have no food of any kind in the house and it's still three more days until that unemployment check hits your mailbox. Luckily you've been in this predicament before and know just what to do. It's just past ten, so you've got a little less than an hour to make it happen.
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With a groan you drag your carcass out of bed and over to the closet, where you pull out the only thing hanging therein, a pinstriped suit that's seen better days. It's threadbare and could use a good cleaning but should be more more than adequate for the task at hand.
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You dress as quickly as you can, which in your condition (Dead Dogshit) is just slightly faster than a snail's pace. In the car, you pull a clip-on tie out of the glove compartment and put it on before starting the engine and driving away.
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By the time you pull into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn and park, it's a quarter to eleven. You're pushing it, but should have just enough time. You walk into the lobby, past the front desk, and into the dining area, where you grab two styrofoam plates and load them up with the hotel's free breakfast. Sweet rolls, fruit, cereal, sausage patties, a waffle, the whole works. You set these down at a table in the corner then make two more trips for beverages, three cups of coffee and two cartons of orange juice.
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Twenty minutes later, your ravenous hunger thoroughly satisfied, you're feeling a million times better. Still not quite human perhaps, but much, much better. You're debating on whether or not you have room for one more cinnamon roll and fantasizing about a threesome with Wal-Mart girl and the hotel maid wiping down tables across from you, when a voice breaks into your reverie. "Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?"
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It's the hotel manager, Roger according to his name tag, and he looks anything but happy to see you. "Pardon me?" you ask, trying to play it cool. "You're stealing food, and I'm afraid I simply can not allow that." His voice is so stern you would think you were stealing the food right out of the mouths of his children. "I'm afraid you must be mistaken sir, I'm a guest here." You hope he doesn't ask what room number you're staying in, or worse yet, to see your room key.
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"Bullshit!" he's furious now, face beet red, a vein in his temple throbbing. "I let you get by with it the first few times, but now you come in here looking like a complete derelict, eat enough food to feed a family of four, and eyeball rape one of my maids, who also happens to be my favorite neice! I'm calling the police!"
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You'd forgotten that your face was recently used as a punching bag, while you were getting dressed you hadn't bothered to take a look in a mirror you were too focused on the primary objective of getting some food in your stomach. Also you smell like a rutting pig, and you're sweating booze out of every pore. Ah fuck, here we go again, you think, then make a mad dash for the door.
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He wasn't expecting you to run, and you've got a good lead on him by the time you hit the parking lot. Jumping behind the wheel you can't help but laugh a little at once again finding yourself in this sort of predicament, but the laughter stops real quick. The car won't start.
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TO BE CONTINUED...

For Pamela!

I have no idea how this is going to turn out but I promised her something weird and rambling tonight, so I'll give it my best shot. Pay no attention to anything I'm about to write, it's all complete and utter nonsense I assure you my furry little friends! Just recycled jokes (recycling is good for the environment damnit!)and social commentary from the mind of a heartbroken and slightly cynical lunatic with way too much nicotine, sugar, and caffeine in his system. Just be thankful that's ALL it is this time!
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I've got the headphones blasting out the funky hip-hop beats for inspiration, and I'm enjoying yet another DELICIOUS Pepsi and Reese's flavored ice cream soda. If I keep on drinking these things I believe I really could give up the liquor. Who knows, I might even put on some weight, apparently I have to gain fifty pounds or Pam will never date me. Says her. Of all the reasons not to date me, and Satan knows there are plenty of those, it's a little bit of body mass that comes between us? Damn my metabolism! Slow Down! Ha! Like I wanna date ANYBODY anyway. Nowhere near ready for all that again. How big do I have to be for "friends with benefits" what's the weight requirements for that? I'll start eating right fucking now, I swear!
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There was a time, not so very long ago, when I could walk around inside a crowded store, and the hot high school chicks would smile at me and check me out. Now, they just kind of "keep an eye on me." Back then I was too timid to do anything, and now that I'm brimming with confidence in my boyish good looks and silly/smart charm suddenly I'm the creepy old guy? Damn, it's like you follow one girl home in your car, and you're a creepy stalker for life... Pretty soon if I want to get laid I'll have to whore myself out on Craigslist to horny retirees and terminal cancer patients looking for one last roll in the hay.
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Speaking of hay, what the FUCK am I doing out here in the boondocks, caring for farm animals and picking the last of the fall harvest from the garden? Green Acres is NOT the place to be, I don't care what the admitedly catchy song tells you. Meanwhile, back in the Bay Area, all this cool shit is going down, Burning Man parties and gatherings, concerts and plays... and I'm forced to live vicariously through friends and internet friends.
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In other news, it seems that A-1 steak sauce will make you more attractive to some women, so guys, throw out that goddamn Axe body spray! That shit always smelled funky to me anyway, although I must confess I'm guilty of using it on rare occassions, usually to cover up the smell of marijuana smoke around someone's parents or spouse. I generally prefer to just use a good antiperspirant and let my bodies natural pheremones do the work. I do have a soft spot for mens Nautica but I haven't worn any in a long time.
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But I digress. I was going to tell you the story about the shaved poodle, a pissed off upstairs neighbor, a bathtub full of cottage cheese, and a stick of dynamite, but I just don't feel up to it. Besides, I'm pretty sure the judge never lifted that gag order so I better not. Another time perhaps...
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Man, this is turning out to be harder than I thought. Usually I can fill a page with nonsense in just a matter of minutes but this has taken the better part of an hour. Granted I have been switching back and forth to YouTube after every song. I never could perform under pressure, I get as nervous as a virgin in the back seat of a car on Prom night. Maybe if I had an actual topic? Current events it is then!
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*Families urge Iran to release U.S. hikers*
"It's high time Iran put an end to this, showed compassion and let them come home," said Cindy Hickey, Shane Bauer's mother
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Yeah, that'll happen Mom! Iran didn't listen to the U.S. when we asked them to stop with the nuclear shit, but you think if YOU just ask nicely they'll let your son out of their prison? It's going to take a lot of ass kissing and probably a former president, or at least the Reverend Jesse Jackson. I'll bet Oprah could get him out!
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Alright, screw current events, there's never any good news anyway. Actually I suppose that's enough gibberish for tonight. If you're still reading this, you REALLY need some kind of hobby, stamp collecting, scrimshaw, anything! That's all folks, except for one last thing. "I know that you believe you understand what you think I said, but I'm not sure you realize that what you heard is not what I meant.”
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Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow!

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part one

It's sixteen minutes after three in the morning and you've just been thrown out of the bar after you realized that once again you have miscounted the number of beers you drank and now you don't have enough money to pay your tab. You apologized profusely and gave the cute blonde bartender all of the money in your wallet but it wasn't enough to prevent the meathead bouncer from blacking your eye before he threw you out the door and into the parking lot, where you landed in a cold puddle of muddy water and motor oil.
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Pissed off and hungry, you drive to the twenty-four hour Super Wal-Mart. Your intention is to shoplift something to eat, a deli sandwich, or maybe one of those really big microwaveable burritos, but your soggy and oil-stained clothes and your swollen purple shiner make this task exceptionally difficult, even at this late hour. You've drawn the attention of one of the stock boys, a pimply-faced young man who looks as if he's got something to prove to the world, or at least his shift manager. He's following you.
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You wander the aisles aimlessly in an attempt to lose him, but he stays right on your ass. You're beginning to think you might have to detour to the restrooms where you can put some cold paper towels on your eye and hopefully shake him off in the process, when you come upon the girl in the arts and crafts aisle.
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She's pretty, hot even, (at least by your minimal standards) and because she's looking at paint-by-number sets and velvet felt tip marker posters at just after four in the morning it's a safe bet she's tweaked out of her mind, which means you might be able to score in one way or the other.
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"How would you like to buy me a nice big Waffle House breakfast?" you ask her as you walk up. "I'll bet I'm a lot more fun than arts and crafts." "I doubt it." she replies, checking you out and taking in the whole picture. Your soiled clothes, black eye, and slightly nervous grin.
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Deciding you look relatively harmless she decides to toy with you a bit. "If I buy you breakfast, what are you gonna do for me, huh?" "I'm sure we can work something out." you say.
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Just then she notices the stock boy, who's been lurking at the end of the aisle, watching this pathetic scene unfold. "I gotta go." she says, suddenly uneasy. "What's the rush?" you ask. You reach out to stop her as she begins to quickly walk away and end up with a handful of her coat, which pulls back. A jumbo pack of markers and a few paintbrushes spill out and hit the floor.
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"I knew it!" cries the pimply-faced boy triumphantly, as if it was her he was after all along. He heads down the aisle towards the two of you, almost skipping in his exuberance. "Stay right there!" he orders in his best I'm-in-charge-here voice.
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Without thinking about what you're doing you give him a hard right hook to his greasy chin, with all your anger at the meathead bouncer (who was just too damn big to hit) behind it, and he goes down hard.
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"Run!" you yell, but she's already headed for the door.
TO BE CONTINUED...

The Midnight Writer Rides Again! Another installment of late night blathering by yours truly.

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As always, images are used without permission but with thanks and gratitude!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tzWckYfZhbA
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It's been awhile... Having just a few days previous attempted the online equivalent of drunk dialing and being utterly ignored (well, in all fairness, she did remove me as a friend on Facebook.) I'm not exactly flying high here folks. Quite the opposite in fact. I'd love to crawl into a dark place and die but I'm afraid that's just not an option at this late date. Neither is drinking myself into a coma, the bars have long since closed and there's not a drop of liquor in this place. Probably best to try and catch that wagon, see if I can't manage to hop on this time...
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And so I write. The question that is foremost on my mind is age old; Is it truly better to have loved and lost?? Right now I would have to say that the answer is unequivocally NO. Not at all. Perhaps tomorrow I shall feel differently.
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I have an uncanny ability to completely fuck up everything that's ever meant anything to me in my life, and I'm not sure why I insist on using it. Four pitchers of beer?? Why not take a nice late night motorcycle ride?? Now, after a brief stay in the old gray bar hotel, I have my first official DUI, a right leg that resembles raw hamburger, and Pops is laid up in an Atlanta hospital with a brand new piece of pipe for a leg bone! Good Times?? No, indeed.
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On the plus side, my Muse seems to have awakened from her months long power nap, and oh boy, is that bitch pissed off! She's spoiling for a fight, and I am just the man-child to give it to her...
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If I can scrape up some currency I believe I'll head out West, first back to Cali and then to The Big Easy for some much needed R&R of the best kind, the kind that helps people.
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That will hopefully carry me over to Burn Time or thereabouts. Afterwards, if the Muse stays on her game, I should have enough for a "book" of some kind. (Books are these things with words that you read. Like tv only better because the picture is in your head!) Maybe I can finally publish some of this insane drivel I've been banging out and halfheartedly submitting these past few years. Or Maybe I'll meet a rich Brazilian beauty in "Naawlins" and set sail for parts unknown, never to be seen again. Only time will tell. Stay tuned!