Yo, I put another story up on the old Protomonkey today. If you've never been over there, check out some of the other stories/authors too. You'll find youself pleasantly entertained.

Additionally, Eddie VanHanel is offically my neighborhood drunk. I'm not kidding, I'd recognize that face anywhere.

But the first time I did it I was led, literally by the hand, to where the new houses were being built. They were almost finished and were carpeted and everything.

“What if it’s locked?” I said.

“We’re going to find out.”

I was really apprehensive about the whole thing. I didn’t even like the chick and she wasn’t particularly good looking. But she was determined. I was pretty much in a cold sweat as we walked up the driveway. It was late and I should have been home hours earlier and now I was being dragged into an empty house by this girl who was not about to take no for an answer.

I will admit I was terrified. I didn’t picture it like this and I was trying my best to weasel out of it. It’s funny, but I was one of those clueless guys when I first entered high school. I never really got the hint that chicks liked me; someone else always had to point it out.

“Are you sure?”

“Dude, she had her hand down your pants in public.”

“Yeah, but still…”

Or the girl would just give up and have at my private parts after getting tired of waiting for me to make a move. That all changed when I turned eighteen and had developed some confidence and experience, but at the time? I was pretty much walking around innocently while a string of girlfriends kept trying to get me to do stuff. Eventually they’d just come out with it verbally, completely frustrated. Often pissed off.

“Oh! Okay!” I was such a dimwit.

So anyway this girl leads me up the drive way and it’s my first time and all, so I’m scared shitless and she tries the doorknob and it opens. The place was nearly finished and she led me into one of the rooms and starts unbuttoning her jeans while I stood there dumbfounded. And when she finally got down to nothing she pulled me down on the carpet and we had at it. I’d say it lasted somewhere in the neighborhood of seven thrusts. Having finished, and not knowing what else to do, I simply continued. Back then I didn’t know guys lost their erection after they finished, because I didn’t. At the time I had no idea it was unique to like 20% of the population. I found out later that there’s a technical name for it, but it’s not important, because I found out later it gave me a huge edge over people with normal metabolisms. So anyway I keep going and then I said to myself, “Christ, I’m having sex! I need to try it with her on top!”

And I’ll leave out all the details but I attempted several positions from various magazines and movies, some of which worked and some of which didn’t, but on the whole it was a really great time. And I’ll tell you yet again how naive I was. When I put my underwear back on my thing was absolutely covered in liquid and it soaked my underwear through. I found out much later that she was an ejaculator. A woman, that you know, squirts when she finishes. So me being an idiot and all thought that all women did that and as I say, much later I found out that that was not the case at all.

So I guess that ends my tale, which was probably way too much information, but I had nothing again and it’s the only true story I could think of that I’ve never told anyone before. Until now. I predict regretting this in 5…4…3…2…

Borders, Waldenbooks Won't Carry Magazine

Borders and Waldenbooks stores will not stock the April-May issue of Free Inquiry magazine because it contains cartoons of the Prophet Muhammad that provoked rioting, burning, et. al.

Here’s the good part:

"We absolutely respect our customers' right to choose what they wish to read and buy and we support the First Amendment," Bingham said. "And we absolutely support the rights of Free Inquiry to publish the cartoons. We've just chosen not to carry this particular issue in our stores."

That’s like a country club saying, “We totally believe in equality and human rights, and that’s why we’re happy to invite Blacks, Indians, Hispanics and Catholics to join. We’ve just chosen not to let the Jews in.”

Not that it matters. I’m under the impression that there over 3,000,000,000 blogs on the web and one million more spring up each day. Of those, probably one thousand of them are worth reading, to me, and I will probably never find them. I made the numbers up, but you get the point.

And here I sit. I could have been a contender, but that would have involved me caring about the hits and the numbers and doing the side show act to draw attention and somehow that all reeks of work and ambition. And in the end I would have been “Whack –a-mole’d” anyway, because I’ll never be part of the mainstream anything. When I get too close to the herd I panic and flee, fearing I’ll be swallowed up by the general mediocrity.

If you’ve read this far you will have realized I have nothing to say of any relevance. Again. That makes 2,999,999,999 of us. Yet I keep typing, like one of those assholes at party that corners you and keeps talking and talking about his fucking angina or whatever. And that’s another thing. I have come to dislike parties. In the old days when I was single I had a reason to be at a party. I was there to work the room. Nowadays, I know who I’m going home with so I’m stuck with the shitty part of the party. The small talk.

It wouldn’t be so bad if people were more interesting and told tales of adventure, but I just don’t give a shit about the Atkins diet or Everwood, or whatever else is sapping the life blood from most people. I don’t want to hear people talking unless they have something interesting to say. Like they accidentally ate a caterpillar or something. People don’t have to be secret agents to be interesting, but most people live in a soft, wet bubble of banality. Lot’s of interesting things happen inside the bubble but they refuse to notice. They don’t have the eye or the imagination to polish up a mundane episode or anecdote and relate it with any gusto.

I’d love to be at a party one day and have a guy say to me, “I’m Phil, and I just wrote a book on the migration of American Indians in the 15th century.” That would interest me and I would engage Phil in conversation, but that’s not likely to happen in the circles in which I travel. I would be just as happy to have a guy say to me, “I’m Phil, and I just stocked my above ground pool with rainbow trout.” That works for me.

Unfortunately, what I usually get is, “I’m Phil, and I’m getting over a nasty cold.” Or, “I’m Phil…did you see the cover of the new TV Guide?”

And if given the chance, Phil will bring you down with him. His banality will eat away at you until you can get away from him, only to be cornered by another robot with tales of his high school track and field accomplishments back in 1980. It’s a slow, painful death.

Now is the point in a post where I count up the words, 517 to this point, and think about slashing 250 of them. I’ll look it over to see if it rambles (yes), look at the pacing (which is dreadful in this case) and look to see if I’ve jumped from topic to topic with no theme and no direction. This is where I would start the re-write or trash the entire post. I might pick one small phrase, for instance, “Like they accidentally ate a caterpillar or something,” and write a new post around that one line and send this one to hell. But not today.

Today I’m going to post this just as it came out, with no re-write, no pacing and no theme. If you’ve read this far I commend you and I apologize in advance, because I’m dedicating this to Phil, the guy who cornered me last Saturday night to talk about his fucking plan to landscape his yard this year. When I walked, he walked. There was no getting away from Phil. He waited OUTSIDE THE BATHROOM DOOR while I peed so he could continue to tell me about his future koi pond.

He’ll never know how close he was to a full on, Sonny Corleone beating.

For Christ's sake, check the shoes. Black and white wingtips aren't something you see everyday. you know, for all the grief a guy like me gets for having absolutely no style, not only do I have it up to my eyeballs; but so does the old lady. Somebody better send this in to The Manolo, just so we can prove that the metrosexual of the trend is just the fad of the latest bullshit. I rest my case.

[step, step, step]

[step, step, step]

Database guy: [jokingly] You allergic to soap or something?

Irate Project Manager: What?

Database guy: You didn't use soap when you washed your hands.

Irate Project Manager: It's seven in the morning. The only thing my dick has touched since being thoroughly scrubbed with a loufa an hour and a half ago is the inside of freshly laundered underwear.

Database guy: Dude, I'm just joking...

Irate Project Manager: My dick is clean. It's not like I'm bending programmers over their monitors and ramming my cock in their asses.

[stunned silence]

Irate Project Manager: Yet.

[more silence]

Database guy: So...Project Black Widow running behind schedule?

Irate Project Manager: Yeah. How did you know?

Database guy: Just a guess.

Last night I sent Shank and his future bride a wedding gift. I was telling my wife what we got them and my wife said that’s all fine and dandy but asked what I wrote on the card.

I’ll admit that I’m walking on thin ice with things like this. I have enough class to know what’s appropriate and what’s not, but I still freeze up.

She was reading my mind, obviously, because just moments before, I was upstairs staring at the blank field where I was suppose to write something wondering what the hell to do. My natural instinct is to write something funny. Or obscene.

I’m not a touchy feely kind of guy. I’m not one of those guys that hugs other guys all the time. I’m not afraid of turning gay or anything, it’s just that I grew up in the firm handshake school. When I grew up there wasn’t a lot of hugging in the family, even with women. I think a lot of it had to do with putting on airs. I’m pretty sure my family was preparing me for a Princeton education where proper fellows didn’t show emotion.

Once when we were in Los Angeles we went to see a band at a well known club. My wife was talking to some friends and when she turned around there was a guy hugging me. He was the lead singer of the band, and as such, he was wearing arm length opera gloves with the fingers cut out. So she turns around and there this guy with opera gloves hugging me and she has no idea who the guy is but thinks it’s hysterical. I was nonplussed, but I had officially been hugged by a friend. I would have rather been hugged by the guy’s girlfriend who was a hotty. There’s always the chance she’ll squeeze your ass and then wink at you when she breaks the embrace, but it didn’t look like that was going to happen. Neither did the Princeton education, but that’s another story.

All that was some years ago. Friend hugging has now encroached upon my life in a huge way. There’s way too much hugging in the world. I don’t like hugging my friend’s wives. I don’t like kissing women on the cheek. I don’t like human contact at all unless it’s with my wife or my kid. Or a hooker. Okay, so I’m exaggerating, but you know what I mean.

Meanwhile, my old lady still wants to know what I wrote on the gift card.

“I think I wrote ‘best wishes’.”

“That’s totally wrong! You’re supposed to say or write ‘Good luck’ to the groom and ‘Best wishes’ to the bride. You should have written both. Don’t you know anything?”

Apparently not. So, Shank and Mrs. Shank, Good luck and best wishes on this joyous occasion.

***Update***

I’ve just been chastised for getting it wrong again in this post. Apparently, it’s:

To the bride, best wishes, and to the groom congratulations.

###

Twenty Major: The Interview

As the winner of Best Irish Blog in the recent Irish Blog Awards, Twenty Major stands head shoulders above the rest. We badgered Twenty until he agreed to talk to us on the record:

SBD: One thing we love about your blog is your liberal use of the word "cunt." Here in America we're very repressed. Most American bloggers wouldn't dream of using "cunt" at all, mainly because we're pussies who are afraid of our women. Does everyone in Ireland use "cunt" as liberally as you or is it frowned upon? Personally, I'd like to see more clergy use the term. Do the clergyman in Ireland say it a lot?

TM: It's still quite taboo really, you certainly wouldn't hear a priest saying "Let us pray, you cunts", or "Our cunt, who art in heaven." Although the priest might say "If you tell anyone what I just did to you, 11 year old altar boy, I'll kill you, you sored arsed little cunt." Personally I like to think the site is helping to spread the glory of such an underused and wonderful word. Most of the clergy in Ireland now say "I didn't touch him, I swear", before they're sent to work in Boston. I'd like to see more American bloggers use the word though. Certainly that Instapundit fellow could liven up his site with a 'cunt' here and there and that lad from Star Trek needs to get more in touch with the common Irishman if he really wants to make. Wesley cunting Crusher, indeed.

SBD: We've had enough of Bono. Is there anything you can do to control the fucker?

TM: No. We've been trying for years. Luckily he seems to spend a lot of time outside the country. Adam Clayton is nice though. For a robot. You do know he's a robot, don't you?

SBD: How'd you get the name Twenty Major?

TM: Major is a brand of cigarette in Ireland, smoked by old codgers, curmudgeons and pigeon fanciers. Twenty Major and a box of matches was something you'd hear in the newsagents or in bars. Naturally I smoke Major. I would like to stress that as it's illegal for cigarette companies to advertise and sponsor anything these days they're certainly not handing me a great lump of cash, off the books, each month.

SBD: What's the difference between Ireland and Scotland?

TM: That is a good question. There are more protestants. Also they're pretty much incoherent before they drink whereas Irish are ioncoherent after drink. There's a bar I sometimes go to, don't tell Ron, owned by a man called Alan from Glasgow. I cannot understand a word he says until I've had at least 4 pints then I can speak fluent Scottish. The men also wear skirts when they go to weddings which is a bit gay really. You can call it a 'kilt' if you like but lets be honest, it's a skirt.

SBD: What's more Irish: Potatoes, Guinness, or the word 'cunt'?

TM: Guinness. Potatoes are a stereotype. The word cunt is not particularly Irish. I imagine it to be Germanic. It's got that harshness that only a German or a visigoth could have mustered. Guinness came to the fore after the potato famine. We put all our eggs, so to speak because we didn't have any eggs, in one basket there. Now Guinness is like one of those Slimfast shakes. It's a meal. 10 pints of Guinness a day and nobody starves so if the English try to kill us all again it just won't work. Check out the belly on a regular Guinness drinker. There are fat reserves there to fill the humps of a 8 humped camel, if such a thing existed. When there's a worldwide food shortage due to global warming, pesticides in foods and genetically modified crops becoming inedible Ireland will be the healthiest, tubbiest nation on earth. And we won't share. We only send the gone off barrels anyway,

SBD: Would you piss drink warm Guinness if it were free?

TM: I'm not quite sure what you mean. If you mean 'If you could piss warm Guinness would you drink it?' then the answer is yes, yes I would. If I could piss Guinness I'd be the richest man in the land. If you mean 'Would you drink warm Guinness if it were free' then the answer is no. A man has to have standards and while I would happily fill a pint glass with my own Guinness piss I would prefer to pay for cold Guinness than drink warm free Guinness.

SBD: In American bars, there's usually a dish of complimentary peanuts or pretzels to snack on. What do they have in Dublin bars?

TM: There is no such thing as compimentary snacks in Dublin bars. Sometimes Ron puts out some Ritz crackers but Stinking Pete is the only one to eat them and they give him the raging scuts each time. He never learns.

SBD: How many pints would it take before you had sex with Mary McAleese?

TM: All of them.

SBD: How many pints would it take before you had sex with Britney Spears (current skanky incarnation)?

TM: You mean there was a previous non-skanky version? I must have missed that. Her current pie-eating physique means she'd fit in well in most Dublin nightclubs. Mini-skirt and enormous thighs is not a good look.

SBD: Shane McGowan. First thought to come to your mind?

TM: Why aren't you dead yet?

SBD: Have you ever been ejected from Ron's?

TM: Never. Dirty Dave was thrown out once for suggesting that Ron gave him the wrong change. He insisted he'd given Ron a twenty. Ron said he gave him a ten. There was a big argument and Ron fucked him out on his ear. When he did the money at the end of the night he found himself a tenner up. He didn't say sorry but when Dave asked for a whiskey the next night he gave him a triple and only charged him for a double. He's big hearted once you get to know him.

SBD: How sorry are you that you agreed to this sad fucking excuse for an interview?

TM: Not sorry at all. I love interviews.

I mean, it was inevitable that I would write an American Idol post. I got pretty drunk last night, bombed actually, and decided that American Idol was a good way to spend my time. It wasn't as increidbly gay as I thought it would be, but understand, that's how drunk I was. I wouldn't recommend trying this without supervision; the old lady was home and wasn't nearly as plastered as I was.

First, the judges. Randy is a sycophantic jerkoff. That guy tells everyone "It's not the best song you've sung, but I like it." What a limp noodle that guy is. Paula is just like Randy, but with smaller tits. A big ol' bag of clapping, head-nodding idiocy. Simon. I like Simon, much like myself he's almost always right. And, much like myself, he could probably stand to be less of a dick to absolutely everyone in the world. Guy needs to tone it down a few notches. Seacrest needs to be lit on fire during the season finale. I can't believe Simon's never jumped over the table and throttled that guy. He's such a corny, limp-wristed, plastic geek. I mean, they might as well just have a cardboard cutout of Ben Stein interviewing these people.

Mandisa - Despite her unfortunate name (which sounds like something one might call a crossdresser) and the unfortunate shape of her body, she's got awesome talent. And don't get me wrong about her body, I'm not saying she's too fat to win, I'm just saying her shape is odd. It's like one size above the waist, and a totally other size below. How does this chick find clothes? Anyways.

Bucky - What a fucking reject this guy is. Why are you even on the show? He's up there, singing like he's got a handful of marbles in his mouth and just in general looking like a complete tool. His hair is horrible too. Like I can't fucking tell you dye the shit when you've got Walter Matthau's eyebrows reincarnated on your forehead there.

Paris - This chick has style for miles.That's all I have written down on my notes. The word style over and over again. Must've been getting pretty wasted by this time. She did pull this 'Aw shucks' routine while talking to Seacrest (that insufferable side-alley glory hole) that I totally didn't believe. I think that's the chick whose family is in the biz, so I doubt she's one of these types who shufffles her feet and stares at the dirt.

Chris - You almost made me hate Johnny Cash, then I remembered it wasn't his fault you were encouraged to completely mutilate the song that would become his mantra. You're a fucking dick for singing 'Walk the Line' like some kind of Vegas lounge lizard. I hope Cash haunts your nightmares. If you want to sing like some soulless idiot, I'm sure Limp Bizkit could use a new frontman, or your local college band is scouting for some groupies to tour with. Unbelieveable man.

Catherine - Wow. This chick, besides being finer than frog's hair, can sing like only a couple other ladies on the show. She smolders like a smelt pot at a die-casting plant, and sings with real feeling. Granted, I think she missed a note in there somewhere, but it's not too often someone does justice to such a song.

Taylor - I love me a whiskey tenor. Besides the fact that this dude is old enough to have fathered the rest of the contestants and is still a contender, is the fact that he's got one of those rare gravelly tones that's still even. It's a difficult voice to sing with, and I'm not surprised he's so much older - probably took him that long to get it right.

Lisa - What a cornball this chick is. She's not unique, nor does she have any real outstanding appeal. I mean, she's up there obviously trying to be sexy, but it just looks like some highschool kid imitating Christina Aguilera or any of the other million pop princesses out there. Besides, she's oversinging the shit out of the song, and would be better singing show tunes.

Kevin - When this kid walked out, I had pretty much decided that I wasn't going to like him. I mean, he's dorky looking, young, starry eyed; and that shit is just the slippery slope to another one of these "Oh man, I never thought I'd make it to Hawllywood!" types. But he fucking nailed it. He could have so easily been corny and hokey, but he fucking nailed it. I was assuming he'd get out there and absolutely belt this tune out; loud long chords, just murdering the song. But his delivery was smooth and his own. Great. Now we just need to get him laid.

Elliot - Looks retarded. He's wearing a 'Striped Shirt!', untucked of course, a big fucking dorky yellow tie, and faded jeans. How obnoxious, he's dressed like Carrot Top or some shit. Where your props at dickface? Anyways, and he sings like a douche too. Barry Manilow even tried to coach you into not mauling the melody, but you went out there and rode the thing all over the stage. I can't believe Simon gave you the thumbs up, if I was there, I'd be throwing shit at the stage.

Kelly - I love the chick's backstory, very authentic; but she didn't sing the blues well. I don't know if she wasn't feeling it, or just didn't tap herself, but she's out here singing this blues song and I fell like I'm watching the Mickey Mouse Club or some shit. She's not dressed to sing the blues, not expressing the blues in her facial or body language. What gives girl?

Ace - Another unfortunate name. People name their pets Ace dude, I'm sorry. You have better intonation than that other long haired wanker, but you need to move from behind the mic. What are you hiding from back there dude? It's not your date man, quit trying to make out with the thing. Oh Christ. He's got sunglasses tucked into his pocket. Man, you're inside and it's nighttime. You sang well, but in the end, you looked like a bonehead. It's okay though, I'm sure your mommy still loves you.

Which suck worse:
France/The French

OR

House Cats

You decide in the comments. The team that wins, gets points.

I’m at a loss. Nothing has enraged me to the point of posting in several days. In lieu of anything of substance I offer you my thoughts on booze.

I’m partial to Macallan 18 year old scotch. No ice, no water. It’s pretty close to perfect. If I can’t get that I’ll go with Lagavulin. If neither is available I’ll move on to one of the Glens or even a Johnny Walker.

If I can’t get scotch I’ll go with Maker’s Mark bourbon. Moving down from there, in no particular order:

Grey Goose Vodka, Harp Lager, Vanilla extract, Nyquil, Hobo-tastic red-flavored wine, Tanqueray gin or one of the fine products reviewed here (a most excellent site).

As you can see, I have a refined palette.

My inlaws are not sane. Well, when I read that it sounds like I'm saying all of them, but it's really only two - Mom and Dad InLaw. Completely and totally off the reservation, as they say. Apparently it didn't used to be that way, they just got divorced and went cuckoo. Personally, I think that anyone who behaves like they do is not suffering from some acute-onset adult psychosis. What these people demostrate is something that is obviously deep-seated and severly manic.

I'm the kind of guy that buys things and milks them for everything they're worth. I've got a 6 year old car with only 44,000 miles on it. The newest pair of jeans I have is a year old; the oldest is 10. I buy shoes maybe once every two years. I've had the same wallet I've had since I was 16. Granted, it's a horrible looking peice of shit, but it just. won't. die.

So I had to go shopping for work clothes today. I mean, it kind of irritates me, because I got some shit for Christmas last year, but it's starting to wear. Normally I wouldn't give a shit, but I feel like I should approach my work attire with a little more tact. Which sucks, because I have very little as it is.

So I walk into Dillards to see if I can scrounge anything from the clearance racks. In my mind, there are only two months in each year that a person should be shopping for clothes: March and September. Grab the shit that's on clearance from the previous season right?

So there I am in shorts, a favorite old t-shirt, and a pair of Rainbows. I'm perusing the labels (Murano, Turnberry, Polo, etc.) and checking sizes. I'm a bit of an odd shape (tall and medium built), so many times the clearance racks are filled with the sizes that most people can't fit but will fit me fine.
"You look a little tall."
"Hm?" The sales lady startled me. She's about the height of a hobbit, and looks oddly like one. "Oh, I'm about a 34-34."
"Well, most of that stuff is down in that section down there." She points and, I swear, she's looking down at me through her glasses. Amazing.
"Actually, there's some right here on this rack."
"That's the clearance rack. You might have more luck right over there," she points again, "This is the designer section."
What a judgemental cockface this woman is. I'm sorry it's 60 fucking degrees outside and I decided to wear shorts today, but I'm pretty sure I can shop wherever the fuck I want. I checked the mirror just to make sure I was still white. I figured maybe I'd entered the fucking Twilight Zone or some shit. I didn't know people really treated eachother like this.
"No, that's fine; I'm looking for work clothes."
"Is it an office environment?"
No bitch, I'm the dancing monkey in a fucking travelling circus. "Oh yeah," I say with a little emphasis. She scuttles off. Probably back to the rock that she lives under. Wicked cunt.

I finish picking out some slacks and shirts, and I guess that pious, crotchety old bag finally resigns herself to the fact the best way to get me out of her designer section is to finish the sale. She comes over to help me and I try my best to ignore her. Then I realize I'm in way over my head - these clothes come in colors and patterns. Fuuuuuuck.

The office attire I have at home is all plain: french blue, grey, white, black, olive, khaki. The shit in this store is striped, herring-boned, criss-cross, sand, brown, green, blue, fucking radiant and crazy. For a second I thought I was on acid. I recognize that I'm going to need this woman's help. Enemies allied. Son of a bitch.

She helps me pick out some shirts to match the pairs of slacks I have. After shopping around, I think the old fucker gains a little bit of respect for me. Probably because I'm holding merchandise in my hands. She's actually helping me find deals, working with the colors I want to wear, etc.

In the end, I walked out of there with a couple of outfits for an outrageously cheap price. Which makes me happy because I know that bitch didn't make shit for comission. Serves her right the (ahem, I'm going to try this one out here) poxy cunt.

So, I don't now where you live, but unless you live under a goddamn rock you probably have a Wal-Mart in your area. Well, around here we've been having a rash of robberies in the Wal-Mart parking lots. Apparently, they're big enough that a team of two can overtake someone, steal their wallet, and bail before getting caught. I didn't believe this shit until it happened to me this week.

I'm coming back from the store out to my car, and I've got two armloads of merchandise on me. I walk up to the car, and there's these two fine, barely dressed broads washing my windshield. They're rubbing their bodies all over the place, gyrating, moaning for Chrissakes. Except I'm a fucking nut about the damn car and I'm thinking I have to go home and dry the fucking thing off now. So I get ready to toss some money at these skanks to get them outta here; and they say they don't want the money. Whatever. I'm putting my shit in the trunk, and they're like "Can we get a ride down to Fairfield?"
"What the fuck ladies, do I look like I work for the fucking transit authority to you?"
"But we'd reeeeeally appreciate it," they say; fondling eachother. Unfair.

I let them in the backseat, and as we're cruising down the street these freaks start to make out. I'm trying to hold the fucking wheel, shift gears, check my blindspots, and watch these hot chicks covered in suds make out in my backseat. I was never good with over stimulation. Completely derails my focus.
Halfway there, the two of them climb into the front seat and start doing things to me that are illegal in 16 states. I'm trying to navigate rush hour traffic through a sea of knees and elbows; and the goddamn windows are fogging up.

I drop them off at Fairfield Shopping Center, and as I'm driving away I realize one of the wicked bitches lifted my goddamn wallet off me. Just wanted you guys to be on the look out. They go from shopping mall to shopping mall doing this shit to people and then lifting their wallets.

Happened to me this afternoon, Wednesday, twice on Sunday, and last Saturday as well. Fucking theiving bastards.

Once a year I become so enraged over scientology that I post something. This shall be brief.

Comedy Central pulled a repeat of the South Park episode mocking scientology, purportedly after pressure from he who shall not be named who threatened Viacom, saying he’d pull out of the promotions for Mission Impossible 14.

I said I would keep this brief, so here’s the fundamental issue I have:

Crazy brainwashing cult created by a shitty science fiction writer. That’s it. The whole bushel of corn.

You’d think people would shy away from a “religion” that sprang up overnight from the mind of a shitty writer. You’d think that people might be wary about “religions” that charge exorbitant sums of money. You’d think that people would be hesitant about a “religion” where locking people in rooms is common practice.

You’d think people would just say no to a church who was FOUND GUILTY
of charges relating to infiltration of the Ontario government and 3 police forces in the 1970’s and fined $250,000.

You’d think a lot of things, but you’d be wrong. Because people are fucking nuts.

I’m done.

Best ever article on scientology, from Rolling Stone.

Short, fun article on scientology.

I'm blogging from work. Unbelieveable. Hopefully it won't get me booted out the front doors.

Also, I don't know how many of you have ever been to thephatfree.com (probably the whole lot of you bastards, since I'm always the last person to find out about anything. Did you hear we been to the moon? And then some knotheaded numbnut tried to say it was all a hoax. Anyways), but you should check it out. They rank the posts there, and by God, those five that're listed as the funniest are some pretty top-notch shit. I was reading those ones yesterday and damn near pissed the desk.

As for St. Patrick's Day: No holiday complements the NCAA Championship better! There's sports bars that I need to be in, trash talking, half-time beer binges, overtime smokes, and then when the upset comes there's the uproar. Practically a riot. Last night my cinderella team got knocked out because they played like absolute crap when it really fucking mattered. Meh, that's why they're Cinderella's. Fucking barneys is what they are. Anyways, my two favorites are still in it, assuming this "let's all play like absolute crap" thing isn't contagious.

And yes, when I was in Vegas I failed to get in touch with Jen. And yes, it was totally and completely my fault, because I transposed the last two digits of her phone number. However, I doubt she could have handled the lot of us on Saturday night. We were some rowdy drunken bastards, and we were moving right fast. The funny thing is I sent like three text messages and left one voicemail on some other poor girl's phone. And this was at around 11 or so Vegas time, so it was probably right in the middle of the woman's REM state. At any rate, Jen, since you were insulted and all, I suppose I owe it to you to do something nice for you like invite you to the wedding or something. Sooo...

I’ve never been a big fan of St. Patrick’s day. Somehow, even though I’m a wee bit Irish, I can’t validate it as a holiday. I still have to go to work.

When I was a kid my Mom would bake Irish soda bread and we’d eat corned beef and cabbage and I’d hear tales of our earlier ancestors, who apparently brought nothing with them from Ireland except a foul mouth, which has become my only legacy.

“Our family came from County Cork,” my mother would say with pride, as if she could find it on a map. “Nanna used to say we were what’s known as shanty lace Irish.”

I believe that to mean that they didn’t have a pot to piss in but had notions of being more respectable. Sounds eerily familiar.

I’m a pretty fair genealogist and I’ve found that some of my Irish forefathers were tavern keepers in the 1870s. Sample rooms, tap rooms and taverns. They couldn’t have been very successful because they’re long gone now. Once on a trip back to where I grew up I went downtown to find the old addresses of a couple of these places. I wanted some photos but it didn’t turn out too good. What used to be a shitty Irish neighborhood one hundred years earlier was a full-fledged ghetto now, and once the first bottle bounces off the rental car I usually take the hint.

Maybe writing this post has had an effect on me as I suddenly feel the need to have a drink. I wouldn’t mind a Bushmills. Or some vanilla extract. Who’s kidding who, I’d drink cough syrup right now if I could get it.

This just in:

Twenty Major is live blogging from a pub in Ireland.

I get the feeling no one’s reading this stuff. Have I driven away all the decent folks with my low-brow drivel? There was a time you know, when I pulled big numbers. No matter, I will not be dissuaded.

I was just thinking that if you know who HR Puffinstuff is, it’s probably time for some sort of middle-aged rectal exam. I vaguely remember the theme song and I’m pretty sure HR was a guy in shabby, B-class baggy animal suit of some kind. Maybe I should schedule a physical.

I think about my childhood a lot. I was a happy kid. I recently came into possession of my baby book. An entry on page six, when I was two or three years old sums it up:

Paul is a happy baby and can sing many songs.

God knows what went wrong. I read that entry to a friend of mine and he just started belly laughing. “Well,” he said, “You’re a sour son-of-a-bitch now!”

Who knows what went awry. Things seemed pretty good up until my twenties. I guess that’s when responsibility beats the shit out of you and leaves you for dead. Responsibility has sucked the very marrow from my bones.

Now I find myself reliving my childhood in mini dream sequences throughout the day. Who knows, maybe I’m not the only one.

Phillip:

You’re not nearly as smart as you think you are. More importantly, what the hell have you done in the last twelve months? I think a list of your accomplishments could be written on the back of business card. With a Sharpie. In addition to lackluster performance, you have an extremely limp handshake that creeps people out.

Janet:

You are, without a doubt, the most talked about person in the whole company. Dumb as a stump with a great body. Very attractive. A solid nine. There is no finer sight than that of you bending over in the copy room picking up paperclips. I love you Janet. I love you with all my heart.

Toby:

Please get out of panic mode. Nobody can be that panicked all day long, every day. Considering what you actually do here, it’s uncalled for. Just pick up the phone and say the name of the company. It’s not like you have stock options at risk.

Arthur:

No one believes you. Every Monday morning we have to hear about your conquests and skills with women, skis, cards, darts, et. al. ad nauseum. You walk from cube to cube with that fucking mug of coffee like you’re the second coming. And you just don’t get it. I’ve told you before to keep your voice down. I’ve told your manager I was going to take it out of his ass if I found you walking the floors again. I have kicked my office door closed in your face and you still don’t get it. You are universally despised.

Martha:

Stop. Fucking. Cooking. This is a workplace, not the goddamned Waffle House. You’re stinking up the whole floor with that shit. You know what? I’m the guy that had microwave popcorn banned here. Me. And I’m proud of it. Little did I know it would be replaced by you cooking full fucking meals. You put fish in that microwave one more time and I swear I’ll pee in that thing. You go ahead and try me.

Albert:

You are one seriously confused mofo. Let’s forget for a moment the magnitude of your stupidity and talk about what’s socially acceptable. Asking if you could borrow someone’s newspaper and then proudly walking into the shitter is just…just…I fucking don’t know what it is. It horrifies me.

To be continued…

I dislike all of you. Immensely. The lot of you are boorish and mundane, without an original thought amongst you.

Specifics

Theodore:

What the fuck do you do in the bathroom all day? There’s a fucking pool going now on how many minutes per day you spend in there.

Deb:

You’re a serious skank. You’re stinking up the whole floor with the smell of Benson & Hedges and cheap-ass perfume. You must swim laps in that shit. I suspect you’ve had group sex in a moving car whilst smoking a cigarette. Please refrain from speaking to me.

Leo:

If you say, “Think outside the box,” just one more time, I will personally throw you down the stairs. I’ve warned you numerous times.

Carol:

You are way too heavy to be wearing clothes that tight. You’re not fat, you’re not unattractive, but you’re going to bust the seams on that shit. Please comply, as you seem to be very nice.

Anthony:

You’re a real asshole and the guy I’m most likely to attack physically. You need to lower your goddamned voice. There’s nothing I dislike more than a loudmouth braggart. And you really need new shoes. I would be totally embarrassed to wear those old ratty dogs to work.

James:

You’re a special case. You love meetings, and I know why. While the rest of us are trying to escape and do actual work, you love to sit there and think in the abstract. I see the way you light up when the brainstorming starts. You know what? There are bad ideas. Lot’s of them. And the next time you defend or advance some retarded idea in that conference room I will personally stand up and give an oral history of your fuckups like a griot reciting the 1,000 year history of a village. You will be able to walk under a closed door by the time I get through.

Sam:

I don’t know how many shirts you own, but I’m guessing three. I see you every day and I only count three shirts. That’s either very heavy rotation or you need some kind of help.

To be continued…

I have to admit I’m not big on answering the phone. In our house, 95% of all phone calls are for my wife. She’s on the phone so much the fucking thing gets hot.

Anyway, last night we had an aunt and uncle from out of town come over for dinner. Very conservative and a lot older than us. So we’re sitting there dipping bread into the artichoke pesto when the phone rings. I looked over at my wife and told her to let it ring.

“You know it’s not important,” I said, “You can call them back later.”

She nods in agreement and we go back to chatting in a reserved manner. Just then the answering machine clicks on and a loud voice booms through the kitchen. And at that moment I realized my error.

“Hey asshole!”

It was an old friend of mine. He was hammered. I instantly knew that this would end badly.

“Dude, get your hand off your cock and answer the fucking phone!”

I looked at our guests. They were stunned. Ashen.

“C’mon fuckface, I know you’re there!”

At that point I didn’t know what to do. I realized I was holding my breath. My old lady was looking at me, her eyes pleading. But there was no solution. We were already mortified.

I didn’t know if I should run over and pick up the phone or what. I was about to declare it a wrong number when he addressed me by name, cementing forever the already tarnished reputation I hold in the family.

“That’s Paul’s old college roommate,” my wife offered, “You know how it is…”

But they didn’t know how it is. Or how it was. And we went back to the pesto and I poured more wine and thought about my buddy. And how he’d screwed me royally, and the joy it would bring him when I eventually called back. Somehow, it made me feel better.