Situation Normal. Atmosphere Breathable. Brainstem Injected. Dialogue Engaged.
Thursday, March 30, 2006

Fecal Flaunting

“There’s some poop. It looks like pulpy licorice chunks. Right there on the staircase. There’s another one. And another. I saw some in the kitchen, too, and in the lounge. Pretty soon we’ll have a whole carpet of ferret dookus to soften our heels. Quite charming.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s my job to clean that up, so don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried. I have a strong immune system. It’s just…”


“Ecology. We have an ecosystem. I’ve never been a fan of pets. Never been a fan of domesticated lessers. I’m having a tough time adjusting. There’s cat hair everywhere. Now ferret rope. It’s a lot to adjust to, especially for a cold bastard like me.”

“Don’t be a grump.”

“Remember at your last apartment? I told you I’d crush that fucking ferret’s skull with my heel if it wandered into toe nipping range. Now that happens daily and all I can do is hiss at it like a fucking feline or crush it. I don’t wanna crush your pet. Not much, anyways. But it’s really hard to hold back when it knocks over the toilet brush holder and rolls around in it. That’s disgusting, you know. I’m laughing too, but that’s horrible.”

“Better get used to it.”

“I’m trying, that’s what I’m saying.”

“You get along with Suzy okay.”

“Suzy cuddles up next to me because I’m the only human without another animal’s funkstench lathered all over me. She’s just settling for the only untainted person. There’s no genuine affection."

"You're wrong, she really likes you."

"I don’t mind her that much, I admit. It’s cutting into my stubborn ‘I hate animals’ stance, but don’t you dare go labeling me a cat person. I’m still a spider person. For sure.”

“Cat person, cat person, na-na-na-na-naaa-naaa!”

“I wonder if they taste good?”

“Stop it.”
3:57 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Just A Peep

Work is brutal, I'm broke, the IRS is after me, my car is about to break down for the last time, I have no clean clothes, I'm constipated, and most of all, depressed.

I'm on my way to the bathtub to go drown myself, but first, I figured I'd let you know my third column has been posted at Dirty Margarita.
2:55 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Shameless Promotion

Do you like to drink?

Yes, I mean alcohol.

Of course you do. You lushes. I'm guilty too. Remember that time I lost my pants and danced around with a Chucky doll? You don't? Well, forget I mentioned that. It was a long time ago anyways. Over a year, in fact.

There's a new website that just opened today. If you like or, this is a site for you.

Dirty Margarita is the home of the drunk dial. Call the number and leave a message, and it'll post as an audio file immediately to the website. The first drunk dial contest winner will receive a free 1 year membership, worth $60. There will also be telephone karaoke contests coming soon.

Check out the drink recipe database. Pick out the types of liquor on your shelf, and will give you a list of cocktails to create with the ingredients you have available.

Dirty Margarita accepts drunk videos, too! Send yours! Check out those already posted for a belly laugh.

Full service messageboards for conversations and insults are present, and finally...

I'm writing a weekly column for the site. Naturally, these will be about drinks, drinkers, and places that serve drinks. My first two columns are already posted.

Get sauced up and point your browser to

12:04 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Monday, March 20, 2006

Bear Scare

I was greeted by an angry bear when I walked into work this morning. I did a quadruple take and wondered to myself: Is that an angry bear standing before me, reaching out with mangy paws to gouge away at my flesh, to rupture my vitals and drain my life onto the ugly carpet?

The bear was stationary. I found this fortunate, as my wrangling skills are, uh… a little rusty. I haven’t done the whole Jeremiah Johnson thing since I was twelve, and those were just possums.

Somebody just died and left his taxidermy collection to the president of this little technology company. The president thought it would be cute to deliver a couple corpses to the office, where they’d await the arrival of easily terrified employees on Monday.

The other one is an enormous elk head. Twenty three points on the antlers. Dismebodied as it is, it doesn’t quite conjure that high a level of fright. At least, it wouldn’t unless I mounted it in somebody’s shower, where it would likely cause an accidental eyeball piercing. Not very fashionable. Perhaps if I put a walkie talkie inside… nah.

Later that morning a pair of door to door salemen came to the office. They were selling Disney children’s books, and asked if I might be interested in a two for one special.

“I already sold both of my children into slavery. Try next door at the dentist’s office.”

My coworkers patted me on the back. "You tell 'em, Steve."

One of the Disney fucks returned. She asked us a question.

“May I use your bathroom?”

I had wheeled the bear into the bathroom several hours previous. Our toilet paper dispenser is in an awkward spot, so I decided to have the bear hold the toilet paper roll in a more convenient location. It also gave me somebody to talk to while I pinched out yesterday’s White Castle and Nutty Bars.

“Sure, go right ahead, bathroom’s right there.”

What happened next will forever be a highlight of my life. I cannot do her reaction any justice with mere words, but I’ll drop a few choice quotes for you.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! There’s, there’s a… aw hell naw!”

“Tha fuck is this? Y’all gotta bear in that muh-fucka? Is you dudes crazy? All worshipping the devil in yo little cracker cult? I finna quit this job. I cain’t hannle none a this no mo!”

“Y’all is crazy. That’s it.”

3:05 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Friday, March 10, 2006

The Last Gasp Part One

Elmer clutched the edge of the cafeteria table and lowered his skinny, wrinkled, ancient ass onto a folding chair. He flutterblasted a sharp, dry fart from his weary posterior. It swirled in his diapers like a Depression era dustbowl.

“Ah fiddlesticks. I cain’t even sit mah old butt down without risking a hem’ridge anymore. That ‘un almost tore me. Oof.”

White clad orderlies delivered trays of bland, saltless food guaranteed to make bedpan duty less goopy and keep the old fucks’ heart rates low enough to be considered merely semi-catastrophic. Yet no matter how flavorless or inoffensive the culinary fare, the elderly residents would still rupture and croak with metronomic frequency. It was important for the sales force to keep a steady stream of corpses in waiting signing up. Otherwise, cash flow would dry up faster than a menopausal pussy.

One such orderly, Roy, had scored his employment at Shady Oaks via a family connection. His uncle was the “hospitality director” and had hired his sister’s son as a favor. Roy was a nasty little shit with jail tattoos and a barely repressed heroin reflex. For him, access to the aged and helpless was a golden opportunity to vent his misanthropy and sadism upon a captive population of the withered and feeble. It was bully heaven.

He stood near the door of the cafeteria, mop and bucket ignored at his side, arms crossed, looking with contempt upon the assembled group of the unloved and forgotten. Although their children may be waiting for each one to conclude life with a merciful death, Roy liked to imagine better methods of passing for each than a gentle cessation of breathing during restful sleep. These were still daydreams. Roy had not yet graduated from skinning squirrels and stomping cats to real thing: killing actual people. He knew the time would come very soon. A man could only hold such urges at bay for a limited amount of time.

He scanned the liverspotted crowd, pondering potential first victims. His eyes settled upon good old Elmer.

Elmer was eating his tray of chicken, corn, and jello with a moderate amount of success. The onset of Parkinson’s disease had begun, and his motor functions were starting to deteriorate. As he lifted a spoonful of corn to his lips, his hand shook, causing suicidal kernels to dive from the lip of the spoon. They would bounce from the trampoline of jello and launch onto the table. Elmer’s adam’s apple shook and swayed, causing his neck to take on a decidedly turkeylike appearance. Roy mentally dubbed Elmer “old gobbly.”

Elmer tried to spoon his corn into his mouth, licking his thin dry lips to help the corn stick when his aim was slightly off. He looked much like a lizard, running his thin tongue over his nearly nonexistent lips. Lips which sunk in when his dentures were out, like now. He didn’t need them for food this soft.

To Roy, Elmer looked barely human when he tried to eat. He thought it might just be fun to kill Elmer by force feeding him. Yeah... That sounded like fun.


This first chapter was inspired by seeing an old lady gingerly nibbling an ice cream cone in front of the White Hen Pantry in Schaumburg the other day. I just started with the imagery of old folks eating and it grew from there.
10:40 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Palais du Hammersmeeth

Even early at the party, people howl like wolves.

There comes a time in every man’s life when he must throw caution to the wind and make a questionable decision strictly for the purposes of luxury and gratification. In my case, this means spending above and beyond my income to land a new apartment.

A good friend of mine was exploring classified newspapers looking for gigantic lofts to host raves. As an up and coming promoter, he’s always in need of large spaces to cram hundreds of crank addled dancing freaks clad in feather boas, platform shoes, and hideously ugly oversized sunglasses. Surprisingly enough, there’s a surplus of such people in Chicago. These partygoing chuckleheads enjoy lots of spare time and a desperate need to wiggle amongst others. This is where my friend comes in. He rents massive speakers and psychedelic lights and invites these people of questionable enthusiasm to revel in his artificially created environment of overstimulation. He then gladly takes their money.

In short, he’s like a nightclub owner, but without all those pesky alcohol licenses, property taxes, or steady street addresses. It’s all very covert and paranoid.

He found a spectacular loft on the south side going for dirt cheap. He called me.




“Um, yeah.”

“You have got to see this place. We’re moving in together. You’re gonna love it.”

He was right. Let’s see here. Would I like a former dance studio that has a ballroom with two story windows? Sure, why not? Add an orchestra balcony overlooking it, where cellos, violas and so forth used to play for the dancers? Absolutely. How about a kitchen five times the size of my current one? Yessir.

The three smaller bedrooms all line a hallway that overlooks the ballroom. Wow. Toss in a wooden lounge, a massive den, and the master bedroom, for me, complete with my own private bathroom and a personal stairwell to the kitchen? Count me in. I’ll eat shoplifted Payday bars and moldy pizza crusts for a while. I can handle that.

Meet Tony, our sound man and one of our nine DJs.

So he threw a party the night he moved in, last Saturday. (I move in next month.) I helped out by taping over the windows with garbage bags and collecting money at the door. Why the bags on the windows? Well, he’s more concerned with light escaping and notifying the authorities of our presence than he is by the gut rumbling bass terrorizing the entire neighborhood until five A.M. Okay, sure. I’m not in charge here.

We drew about 125 people. It was small by his standards, and only because he took the directions down at eleven. Had he left them available, our attendance may have doubled. (We don’t tell people where to go until an hour or two before the party. Safer that way.)

We had neighborhood gangbangers negotiate their way into the party by paying with marijuana. We hired a seven foot tall four hundred pound black cop to bounce the downstairs door. We introduced ourselves to our few neighbors and warned them. We did everything except tell the landlord.

The gangbangers snuck out while our doorman was emptying his gargantuan bladder. They spraypainted bullshit in our hallways and outside our door. Our landlord called and heard the directions before we took them down. All did not go smoothly.

The landlord was furious the next day. When he showed up, we’d already painted over the graffiti with perfectly matched paint. Still, he made horrible threats and scared me shitless. No more parties.

Until we move out in a year.

In the meantime, I am a king.

The end nears. Most have vacated.
2:13 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Thursday, March 02, 2006

Magellan's Pants

“This is a strange conversation to have.”

“Especially considering you’re both parts of it. You’re talking to yourself.”

“Technically, yes, but in order to have this discussion, I have to imbue you with a personality and all sorts of traits. I think most guys do this. At least, I hope so.”

“I don’t talk. I’m not supposed to talk. I get hard and I squirt. I love surfing pussies. Or, far more often, your hands, you hopeless loser. Why do I need a personality? I suppose you want to name me now."

“If you earn it. Anyways, I want to congratulate you, I mean congratulate me, or… whatever. I’m just happy with your growth.”

“My growth.”

“Yeah. Let me explain. All throughout my teenage years I thought you were pretty small, even though you match up to the so-called average six inches. Still, I felt small, mainly because of Dad.”

“This is disgusting.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Now shut up and let me finish. Dad would always pass out wasted and so forth, and often he’d be dangling out from his loose and stained tighty whiteys. Compared to you, he was enormous. A real snake. I always thought I got the bad end of family genetics on the whole dick deal. Fortunately, I was wrong.”

“This is too weird for me, and I’m just a cheerful dick who doesn’t get enough sunlight. Would you stop?”

“No. See, I figured it all out. You got a promotion. You’re bigger now than you were even a month ago, and we’re well past puberty. By all rights, you should stay the same, for the most part. But you’re growing. Mainly in girth, not in length, but growing nonetheless. I couldn’t be more thrilled. Here’s my theory. After the third girl, you got a level up, kind of like a video game.”

“You are such a dork.”

“No you’re the dork. Bad choice of words. Try nerd or geek for me in this instance.”


“I hope you aren’t religious.”

“I just go with the flow, in more ways than one. You’re fond of religious profanity, and I’m just following your lead.”

“Of course. So anyways, you’re thicker, stronger, and more effective now. Thanks and keep up the good work.”

"Are you sure you aren't imagining things? You did just mow the lawn recently."

"Nope, I'm sure."

“You’re still not keeping me busy enough. I’m bored stupid down here.”

“Shut up. Life is improving and you know it. So stop complaining and keep your head up.”
12:41 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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