Situation Normal. Atmosphere Breathable. Brainstem Injected. Dialogue Engaged.
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Monday, April 24, 2006

Lazy Bullshit

I’ve been a bad boy.

There’s a decent chance the lot of you can entertain yourselves with no help from me, but I like to think of you sitting there, weeping from the eyes and anus, hopelessly clicking to reload my page, bereft of joy, soul decomposing, as you wait for another clusterbomb of vile images to spew forth from my horrible little brain like popping pustules of purplish puree smearing on your monitor screen, reminding you that you’re a better person than me while simultaneously causing you to giggle.

I just haven’t had it lately.

Part of it is… nevermind. Excuses suck. I’d rather entertain you. Thing is, I have nothing to offer at the moment. You know what I usually do? I think of obscure words, type them into Google’s image search, and let the pictures inspire me. That’s how I got half the weirdness you’ve been assaulted by during the past year. Instead of trying to tie tattoos, pigs, and revolutionary propaganda into a story, or sentient raccoons, ginger, and jungle guerilla tactics, I’m just gonna throw up a few pictures and see what comes to mind.

Yes, that’s right, I’ve lowered myself to wacky captions. Don’t worry, I already have a brochure requested from the Hemlock Society. I’ll peruse it thoroughly for recommendations if I can’t get this writing/typing thing back on track. I’m already a week late on a new Dirty Margarita column, too. Okay, here goes.



First word into the search engine: blunder

"You fuckers! I almost died! Those directions almost made me ride my bicycle over a cliff! Sometimes I think you guys don't like me. There I was, admiring all the gentle bleating sheep, when I heard some old guy yell 'Watch out!' I skidded to a stop on an inch thin gravel warning track. I looked over and saw treetops way, I mean WAY down below me. It was so not cool. My heart was pounding and I was swearing and scared. I came THIS close to getting pancaked or mangled on tree branches or whatever. But I didn't. Now I'm standing here, larger than life, still kickin' it. You shitheads better watch out. I am so gonna get you back before this trip is over."



Second word: plunge

"I can't accept this kind of failure. Not of this magnitude. Everything I own, everything I've accomplished, all my money, gone. That cunt at home won't touch me anymore, that's for sure. Last time it took five grand worth of diamonds just for a five minute blowjob that didn't get me off. She's a snake. I can't pay for my new Bentley. They'll take that back as soon as I'm a day late on a payment. They don't fuck around. And Glent, shit. When he finds out I just bankrupted his empire he'll probably come shoot me in the face himself. It seemed so simple, so easy. It should've worked. I don't know what happened. Should I eat a bullet now or take my fine Bentley for one last ride? I think I'll go for that drive. When I start crying and can't see the road clearly anymore, I'll find a nice sexy semi and wheel hard left in front of it. It should be fast. Hopefully I won't feel anything."



Third word: plastique

"We have one mission. To make you happy. We will make you so happy you will squirm out happy little poops into your happy little pants. We will make you wiggle and giggle. We are agents of the Super Happy Click Click. Why, you are asking? We will tell. I will tell. We have so much energy, big sugar-sugar super-peppy energy. Yes yes. We listened to many Atari Teenage Riot songs, and we liked the pumpy-pump jump-shout happy-on it gave us. But they said to break stuff, fuck everything. They were so angry, not cheery. So we fixed that. We make a super-sexfuck fun-happy. I play the xylophone. Come, put your hands in your pants. LISTEN."

1:48 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Tuesday, April 18, 2006

For Dotage

I am one step closer to elderly, and in the midst of a bronchial ailment. As I nurse myself and spray phlegm erratically, I commend you to visit other sites until my recovery is evidenced by further linguistic entertainment at this locus. Happy birthday to me. (the Cracker version)
12:46 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Breathe Part Two



“I KNOW ATTENTION DEFICIT DISORDER IS COMMON AMONG THE YOUTH TODAY, SO I FORGIVE YOU. I’LL SAY THIS AGAIN: GET! THE FUCK! OUT! OF MY HOUSE! NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW!

Once I had the majority ousted, I went to look for my neighbor. It was probably too late for damage control, but I had to try. Failure would result in eviction. I’d be slithering through alleys, caked in grime, sheltered by cardboard, nibbling on rats I barbecued over trash can fires. Unacceptable.

My roommate was in the hallway accusing the neighbor of using psychic powers to alert the landlord of his transgression. Last I’d heard, a different neighbor had “called” the landlord using a modern invention called a “telephone,” but none of this registered with my roommate. He was livid, all worked up, splotchy faced and drunk, and doing us no favors. In no way was he settling our looming crisis. I shut him up.

“You. Shut the fuck up. Inside. Now. You’re not helping at all, in fact, you’re just pissing him off worse. Inside. NOW.”

I was getting pretty tired of directing human traffic.

I followed our neighbor to his apartment, where he spent an hour explaining exactly why our actions were rude, and why he intended to request our eviction. I empathized, sympathized, begged, pleaded, and did everything I could to separate my other roommates and I from the party gremlin. I succeeded, I think. He’d heard me screaming the guests out, and I think he got a sliver of satisfaction watching their disgruntled faces as they exited, frowns as symptoms of celebrus interruptus.

I spent another half hour watching his storm videos, which he’d edited so the lightning strikes flashed in time with an REO Speedwagon song. Nature and classic rock, choreographed together in perfect harmony. It was strange and wonderful. After three glasses of wine he was diplomatic and nearly friendly again. My interest in his hobby didn’t hurt. Feeling browbeaten and abused, I begged exhaustion and returned to my loft to survey the wreckage.

Eight tattered souls remained in the residence, all of them hiding from the dawn stabbing through the tall windows. They were all big eyes and giggles.

“We ate mushrooms.”

“I’m thrilled for you. I stress out all night, kick everybody out of your shitty party, spend over an hour getting lectured for your bullshit, and you’re moseying about in Smurf village playing sit and spin. I hate you so much right now.”

It wasn’t all love and roses for the hallucinating happyheads. One couple took too many stems and caps and lost their shit within fifteen minutes of my return. Great. More bullshit. The girl seemed sad and helpless, reiterating over and over “Where’s Mom? Where’s Dad?” Her boyfriend was far worse.

“You fucked my wife? Who’s fucking my wife? Who did it?”

“Tim, she’s sitting right next to you. Look. She’s fine. You’re fine. You’re just tripping.”

“Fffffuuuucccckkkkkk YYYYOOOOUUUU!!!!!!”

Great. Tim’s not only tripping, he’s possessed by a murder demon from Lucifer’s barbwire tickle gang. He started flailing around. When he tried to strike his girlfriend (not his wife, not yet, anyways) I held him back.

“Calm yourself.”

“NNNNNNOOOOOOOOOO! NNNNNNOOOOO!”

I never heard a person scream like that. So loud, so angry, so afraid. Murderous. He ran for the window to take a pavement header. I’m not cool with broken glass or suicide, so again, I restrained him. My roommate looked on in puzzlement. He was tripping, too, though not psychotic. He looked like a fish in a tank. A really stupid, useless fish.

I got help from one of the few friends I’d invited, Chris. (He came to help me move my furniture on Saturday afternoon and stuck around for the party) Together we held Tim down.

“WHERE’S GOD? I CAN’T SEE HIM!”

I was tired. So tired. I wanted to crawl away and sleep. But I couldn’t, because there was nobody else to keep everybody alive and sane. Chris could've, but I couldn't leave him to clean up someone else's mess all alone. That would make me just like my selfish roommate.

Anytime an ounce of slack was given to Tim, he’d lash out, punch his captors in the face, or bite at our ears. The one time he got loose he turned into a Tasmanian devil and punched holes in the wall and ceiling.

I could go into detail, giving you the play by play, writing down the bizarre and frightening things that screamed from Tim’s mouth. He really sounded possessed. I was holding him down, trying to hold his mouth shut, when his voice lowered and he began to whisper.

“steve... help… stop…”

Chris spoke. “Steve, ease off, you’re choking him.”

I let up.

“Is he breathing?”

I put my ear to his mouth. Nothing.

“He’s not breathing.”

I put my palms on his chest and pumped. I wanted those lungs heaving again.

“Breathe! Breathe, Tim, breathe damnit! Fuck fuck fuck!”

“Steve, stop, get out of the way, you’re doing it wrong.”

I got off Tim. I was about to cry. I was so scared. Chris did the same as I did, but lower on Tim’s torso. He successfully resuscitated the violent bastard. Tim started breathing, ragged and slow. Chris slapped his cheeks. “Tim, say something.”

“ffffffuuuuuuUUUUCCCCCKKKKK YOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUU!”

He was alive all right. I stayed back, freaked out by what I'd nearly done. Chris used repetetive brainwashing techniques to control Tim's outbursts. He encouraged Tim to sleep. He babysat Tim for several hours while I sat aside, helpless.

I almost killed somebody. I didn’t, but it was too damn close. It’s haunting me. It takes me hours and hours to fall asleep now. I had to get wasted last night just to get some decent rest.

I feel empty.

I’m not having any guests this weekend.
3:15 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Breathe Part One



“No. Just no. Don’t you remember what the landlord said last time? He said we’d be evicted, he’d keep all out money, fuck our credit, and rape our mothers. Maybe not that last part. But you heard him. No. More. Parties. That’s final.”

“Steve, I don’t have a venue. My reputation will be destroyed. I have to throw this party.”

“Okay, fine. But no massive speakers, and limit it to forty people. I just busted my ass all day long moving couches and desks and beds and bookcases. I moved in today. I’m not getting thrown out tomorrow.”

“We need to have speakers. This is a rave. You know that. But I’ll keep it down, I promise. No louder than your Friday night Wilco.”

“My Friday night drunk music blasts from speakers that are one foot tall. Yours are almost as tall as me. There’s no comparison. Not even close. That’s like comparing a minnow to the Loch Ness Monster.”

Everything went straight to hell. Between 10pm and 3am I went to the DJ booth and turned down the volume every ten or fifteen minutes, compulsively, like a horny farmer fucking a barndoor knothole. I made enemies. I deflected scowls. People said things to me:

“You’re being paranoid, Steve.”
“You’re a controlling asshole and you’re gonna ruin this party.”
“Stop stressing so much. There’s nothing you can do about it.”
“We can barely hear the music. What’s your fucking problem, anyways?”

I never wanted that goddamn party in my house, that’s my goddamn problem.

A neighbor complained. He jabbed his index finger into my chest while steam hissed from his ears and his eyes rolled up in his head. I calmed him, returned to my teeming abode, and continued my fascist assault on the decibel levels. Yet every time I stopped babysitting the current DJ, he cranked up the knobs. The neighbor complained again. I buttered him up and promised to hold it down better than I had before. I was sweating, angry, and terrified. 100 people were in my home, all of them cheering, hollering, and having fun. They talked over the music, the music played over them, back and forth, over and over, an accelerating oscillation of garbled volume.

The other neighbors got involved. They didn’t complain to me. They called the dreaded landlord. He called his building manager, the aforementioned neighbor who’d been kind enough to warn me twice before.

I’d tried to shut the party down at 3am. I told my party happy roommate “Every minute that passes, even at this same volume level, our shittiness to our neighbors triples in offensiveness. The rest of the world is silent right now. We are the only noise. They CAN hear us, very much so, and they are getting PISSED OFF. The music must be turned off at 3. Do you understand?”

“No.”

“You told me you’d turn it down at 1. You failed. I’ve been going Nazi on the amp every five fucking minutes for what feels like eternity. All your DJs want to cut me open stem to stern and watch my guts steam. You’re fucking this up. You’re putting me and our other two roommates in jeopardy. You’re putting MY livelihood at risk. To add insult to fuckery, to prevent me from protecting my residence, you’re complimenting me for trying to be responsible about the noise just to shut me up. It’s like patting a little kid on the head and telling him to run along and play. It’s condescending. You’re a dumb thoughtless selfish fucking prick.”

Then he got mad at me. I started really shouting, cursing out a nice big hateful display of screaming and spittle for all the drugged out hippies to gasp and gawk at.

At 3:30 the roommate went to argue with the neighbor/building manager. He had the nerve to accuse the neighbor of being unreasonable. They shouted at one another in the foyer. I seized the opportunity.

I turned on all the lights and beelined for the DJ booth. "Sorry man, but I gotta kill your set. Scuse me."

I turned off all the gear.

"EVERYBODY! ATTENTION PLEASE! I HOPE YOU HAD A GOOD TIME! SORRY TO END THIS BUT THE PARTY IS OVER. THE LANDLORD HAS CALLED AND WILL HAVE THE POLICE CALLED IN TEN MINUTES IF I DON'T HAVE YOU OUT. SO! GET! THE! FUCK! OUT! NNNNOOOOWWWW!"

That ripped my throat up.

That awful Saturday night was far from ending. My bad day was only beginning to go sour.

I had an absolutely horrible weekend, and I still don't feel human yet. I'll finish exorcisizing it later this week.
3:15 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Friday, April 07, 2006

Fuck Everything

Don’t bother with this one unless you’re shit bored. I’m just venting, and in no way will I entertain or amuse you with this entry. Skip below, or go to Dirty Margarita, or find another site altogether. This is going to be an ugly waste of your time if you actually read it.

The work week is almost over, which usually means the sweet relief of weekend laziness has arrived to cure what ails me.

Not this time. Let’s back up. I need to throw a pity party for myself and get this bile out of my system.

Everybody gets constipated. Everybody who sits down one night and eats 40 extremely spicy hot wings, that is. I couldn’t shit right for three days. Every time I sat down, one tiny orange tiddlywink birthed out and plinked into the bowl. Over and over, every thirty minutes. For days. What a waste of flushing water. I desperately wished I could masturbate my intestines out, just reach in right through my bellybutton and squeeze that fucker empty like a toothpaste tube. It took twenty-three beers in a six hour period to return my ass to Niagara Falls. The deluge was a great mercy. I was hungover on Thursday, but my ass was happy.

The Internal Revenue Service has a rightful claim to my earnings. (All my problems are completely my fault, unfortunately, so I can really only get mad at myself.) I went to H&R Block to sort the mess out. A very prim and proper woman of sixty years or so scolded me for my foolish financial behavior, and then set to figuring out just how much I owe for fiscal year 2003. It was bad. I think I have it covered, but my brain is still aching. At the end of a tax preparation, the Block folks have to ask if the customer is satisfied with the provided service. I said “I’m satisfied your knowledge far eclipses my own, and I couldn’t have done this without you.” She was far more kindly towards me after my poetic turn. The lesson: a person bedraggled and financially idiotic does not mean he’s an unlearned rube. Or maybe it does.

I’m getting bitched at for chores. Chores I completed. Fuck it, I’m not even going into this one. Not worth the ugliness when my roommates read this. All I’ll say is come and get me. Try me. Here’s my new idea: post-it notes. If a mess is made and the messmaker fails to clean it up, after one day, it gets a note that says “One Day.” After two, it gets a note that says “Two Days” AND it gets moved onto your fucking bed. Sound fair? Let me know.

Tomorrow I finish the moving cycle. All the big stuff, everything final, hooray. That’s the morning. But then, after I move in, I have to go help move speakers, amps, and shit like that for a rave. Then work the door all night. Then move it out. And I’m not getting paid for it. I’ve been fed food and gotten free beer for past parties, but that’s hardly payment for ten hours work. I may just bow out of this one, and damn the consequences. I’m just too goddamn cranky to be the happy greeter. I’ll probably succumb to violence for a silly reason if I go. That would be bad. I need peace and quiet very badly. I’ve had none recently.
Kill kill kill DIE DIE DIE!

I feel better now. Maybe I’ll even write something for this site next week. Sorry about all the tumbleweed.
5:04 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Dive Bars and Profanity

My most juvenile effort in recent weeks is my fourth column for Dirty Margarita.
12:30 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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