We all have our moments. Some are good and some are bad. One day we're making love on top of a mountain while simultaneously caging falcons. We go to bed fulfilled and signal to our new-found companion that it's time to initiate the night watch. Sure, we sleep comfortably knowing that a falcon has our backs, but something changes when the world grows still. We begin to stir, unsettled - tossing and turning. The hours float by but the dreams don't come, and soon that joyous bastard of a sun breaks the horizon once again. If that doesn't wake you, the blue jay will, and you should've killed that son of a bitch a long time ago.
Letting out an obnoxious groan, you open your eyes and stare blankly at your surroundings. For a moment, you don't know what the fuck you are. In your confusion, you begin to ask yourself existential questions. What is bed? What is white door? Why is me? Why is sheet? A fuse ignites in your brain and your sense of self-awareness comes flooding back. You feel agitated. You feel fatigued. You feel like pile of shit. Your bad day has arrived.
Now the catalyst of your current predicament could be an infinite number of things. It could be the cocktail of Jameson and methamphetamine that you consumed the night prior. Maybe it's more of an emotional aftermath. Sometimes no means no and all she really wants is a deeper commitment before she lets you put it there. Most of the time we can't even find the reason why we feel this way. Scientists will probably tell you that it's about science, but that's all speculative. There's no real evidence to support that. The truth of the matter is that it's fucking mystery, like the whereabouts of Tesla's research, or the existence of centaurs within modern society. We just don't know. We're powerless when it comes to such things, and without the help of grain alcohol, the only choice we have is accepting the hand we're dealt and moving on with a pessimistic demeanor. But what if I were to tell you there's another way?
No, I'm not going to question the adequacy of you or your partner's genitalia, or make some weak attempt to plug my book (available exclusively for you at the low price of $17.99 +S&H on Amazon). I mean, I could make millions if I wanted to sell the idea, but I'd rather do a great service to my fellow man and reveal it to you now, for absolutely free. So, if you're ready to feel better about yourself but a life of alcoholism just isn't for you, then perhaps it's time that you purchased a monocle.
Allow me to explain. Feeling better about yourself isn't always about bettering yourself. Sometimes all you really have to do is equip a fancy monocle and establish yourself above those who are inferior, ie; your immediate family and friends. See, it doesn't matter if you have a history of propane abuse or a few pesky counts of feline bestiality. Once you're wearing your monocle, you've already exceeded societies standards and graduated into the upper-class. An entirely new world of possibilities will begin to unfold at your feet. Aristocrats will be captivated by your charisma and extend to you their personal invitations to elegant social events. You'll earn the privilege of erecting your pinky finger while enjoying a glass of fine wine. Extravagant women will become infatuated during your phenomenal performance on the piano. Your former friends will frame photographs of you in your honor, blaming themselves for falling so far behind and wondering if you could have saved them -- if only they hadn't made fun of how weird your balls looked that Labor Day at the lake.
You'll learn that you're rather adept at growing a large, pristine mustache, and you may just win a couple of ribbons for it. You'll be the man of the hour; the life of the party. You'll be the gentleman and the scholar. But most of all, you'll be interesting.
Indeed, should you heed this advice and make such an investment, you'll live a rich and bountiful life, all credit due to a little bit of initiative and an exquisite glass monocle. May you reach new horizons. May you toast to new stars.
Throughout time, we've become familiar with a countless number of villains; stemming from movies, comic books, video games, and even TV commercials. Some of them are more widely recognized than others, like the Emperor Palpatine is to Gargamel (oh shit, he said Gargamel!). This really upsets me, and I think it's about time I turned the spotlight onto pop-cultures most underrated villain. I'm talking about, of course, the fucking Hamburglar.
This son of a bitch is a menace to society. He's the scourge of the fast food industry. Do you have any idea how many families have gone hungry after losing their meals to him? Sure, they still have the french fries, but every one knows those just don't cut it. McDonalds puts so much fucking salt on them, you end up driving yourself into a financial hole just to pay for the drinks. You wouldn't even need a drink if you had a juicy hamburger to bite into. It's tragic.
Just in case you're not buying this, allow me to ask you something. Have you ever noticed that McDonalds seems to be the only establishment that actually uses the first drive-through window? It's not because they're busy. Everyone knows that Burger King is ten times better; not to mention they don't coat their burgers with ass. No, it's because the other restaurants use their first window as a sentry tower. It's there so they can watch out for the Hamburglar. They actually pay a guy to do this too. Since the invention of the fast food sentry tower, successful window to car transactions have gone up 46%. Now that employees can see the Hamburglar coming, bags of food aren't being snatched up quite as easily.
Now, to really understand how the Hamburglar has gotten away with so many thefts, we must take his uniform into consideration. It's made up of three key elements, the first being stealth. He's chosen the classic black and white horizontal stripes, which provide camouflage both during the day (white), and during the night as well (black). The eye mask keeps his identity a secret. The second element is deception. He wears red gloves not only to eliminate fingerprints, but because ketchup stains would stand out against other colors, potentially ruining his chameleon-like guile. His third, and most rewarding element, is capacity. The Hamburglar's pockets seemingly have no end. He can steal as many hamburgers as he wants, and he'll never have to make a second trip. His pockets are just too deep. Together, the combination of these elements have allowed the Hamburglar to pull off some incredible heists.
Now, it's rumored that the Hamburglar has been caught and incarcerated in the past, but there is no evidence to support these claims. It's nothing short of propaganda that's been put out there by Mayor McCheese himself. The closest McCheese and his crooked constables have come to making an actual arrest was back in the summer of '87, when the Hamburglar led officials on a six day manhunt. They had finally cornered him outside of a franchise dispensary, when he suddenly disappeared through a manhole and wasn't seen again for nearly a decade; probably surviving off of his gargantuan horde of stolen hamburgers. Any burger thieving perpetrators that have been perused since then were nothing but impostors. Here's a few of them to watch out for.
Unfortunately, as much as we know about the legitimate Hamburglar, there is far more still left to uncover. The Hamburglar is a notorious cultural icon, a hero to the easily amused, and a living nightmare to empty stomached. But however you see the Hamburglar, there's one opinion that I think we all can share. He is damngood.
When I was a young boy in the prime of my life, Elementary school, I realized that it was time to change. You see, I'd been traveling down the same road for ten years. I had finally grown out of my Mickey Mouse bedsheets and I was on my way to becoming a man - a man that deserved some fucking respect. I came to this revelation while on the playground one day after lunch. Note that after I finished my lunch several minutes beforehand, I slammed a box of apple juice and crushed it with my bare fist. That last bit of information isn't entirely factual, like a small number of details in my story.. But for the sake of sounding credible, I'm going to tell you it's true.
The story begins with my friend Chris and I, hanging out on the 12' foot steel jungle gym. I usually didn't sit on the very top of this particular gym because I didn't want to embarrass the other kids who may have been too afraid to ascend the structure. I mean, it was pretty terrifying at the summit. I personally had climbed to the top of it hundreds of times. I was just showing a little bit of compassion, you see. I was setting an example for the younger kids, to show them that even the bravest of kids can still be cool on the 5' foot beam. Moving on with my story, I turned to Chris at one point while lighting up a candy cigarette. "You know what, Chris?", I continued, "I think it's time we became the bullies of this playground."
After taking a moment to weigh the potential consequences, Chris nodded in agreement. "Yeaaah!", he replied enthusiastically, "Bullies of the playground!", and it was done. We were bullies now. There was no turning back, my friends. From there forward, we were untouchable. Newspapers across the nation would spread the word from Anchorage to Sarasota. Mothers would draw the shades when we rode by on our Huffy bicycles, protecting their sons and daughters from our very presence. Together, we would develop complete immunity to competition and ridicule, using nothing more than our ten year old brute strength, and sheer intimidation to pave our way through a rough and savage world.
(For the full experience, I recommend that you play the song below when prompted to.It's within your best interest, I promise.)
Chris and I stepped forward from the jungle gym and into the blazing sun, walking toward the crowed slides. (Cue western showdown music, embedded above this paragraph) - A lone, brittle tumbleweed skipped across the dusty courtyard before us. The feeling was empowering, and oh, could we feel it. The playground was ours. Climbing onto a vast wooden structure lined with a series of stairs, we stood blocking a line of kids waiting to go down the slide. "Move!", the first kid demanded. I tipped my my cowboy hat slighty, revealing a dark, stony gaze. "Make me.", I smirked, confident that he would do nothing of the sort. He pushed his way past me and jumped onto the slide. Alright, just minor setback, nothing to worry about. The next kid won't be so lucky, though. Okay.. Looks like that didn't work either. Perhaps this wasn't the best way to start our campaign. After all, we had to gain notoriety if we wished to make a name for ourselves, and notoriety has to be earned. We knew we had to take somebody down. Scrapping our previous plan-of-action, we turned our sights to a much easier target, the balance beam girls.
(Keep music rolling for optimal dramatic effect)
We made our way toward our next victims with long, slow-motion strides. Our shadows cast over them, as they turned their heads to see us approaching. I could already see the fear in their eyes. This was going to be easy, like pie. I could taste it, even.. The pie, that is.. I happened to enjoy pie, but not blueberry or apple pie. No, I had a taste for razor-blade pie now. I had a craving for blood, and nails, and gunpowder pie. I licked the dirt off of my lips. It was sweet against my tongue. The girls froze, their conversation stopping abruptly as we planted our boots into the sand, kicking up dust. Chris and I turned to each other, cracking a smile before slowly turning back toward the girls. Sweat began to bead on their foreheads, glimmering in the bright summer sun. I spoke. "What are you girls looking at?", I asked menacingly. Their faces fell to the ground, avoiding eye contact and my inquiry. "Hey, I'm talkin' to you!", I exclaimed, my hands firmly at my hips, elbows jutting out like blades. One of the girls swallowed hard and rolled her eyes up toward mine, taking a small step forward. She gazed quickly around the playground, hoping for an adults intervention, but only found an empty wasteland rippling in the afternoon heat. She knew all of the other kids, even the girls who were with her, had already fled the scene; ducking behind wagons, troughs, and saloons. She hesitated for a moment, and began to speak, her voice quivering in desperation. "G..g..gir..", I stood silently, waiting for her to continue, almost as if I were daring her. Narrowing my eyes, I took a long drag on my candy cigarette. The chalk filled my black lungs like gun smoke, burning warm like the smoldering embers of an El Paso wildfire. I liked the feeling. "Well?!", I shot back, startling her.
She held her wrist nervously, and with a deep breath, she said; "Girls go to college to get more knowledge. Boys go to Jupiter to get more stupider!". Her words echoed across the barren playground.
I stood quietly in awe, absolutely shocked by the words I had just heard. I looked to Chris, his head sunk into his shoulders. I pulled the candy cigarette from my mouth and held it at my side before flicking it to the ground. I exhaled a cloud of sugary chalk through my nostrils. That was unexpected. This certainly put a damper on my self esteem, my new-found ego even. I already knew that, geographically, the opposite genders came from China and Venus. That's where boys received their penis' prior to birth, and girls acquired vaginas, whatever those looked like.. But this.. This was too much. We were in over our heads, rendered helpless by a powerful gypsy rhyme.
After a brief, silent pause that seemed as though it stretched on for minutes, I finally turned back to the girl. She was shaken, her back pressed against the balance beam, cowering, waiting to be struck by the back of my iron hand. She breathed heavily, but tried to hide it behind her brave guise. I spit on the ground and brought my fingers to the rim of my hat, removing it from my head. I studied it for a moment, then tossed it to the ground in defeat. I looked back to Chris, who was holding his against his chest, his eyes still fixed on the dirt below him. He knew it was over. I bit my lip in angst, and took one last look at the girls face. She eyed me pompously, and I gestured back with a nod. We turned and walked away.
Chris and I hung our heads as we took that slow walk back to the jungle gym from whence we came. Our dirty days as outlaws were finished. We knew we couldn't come back from this.
Life is dangerous in the playgrounds of the old west. They say it changes you. Even the greatest of men, upholders of virtue, have fallen to cold pistol grip of the savage lands. Doctors turned to killers, clergymen to gamblers.. Hell, even lawmen have turned into outlaws. But Chris and I were two of the lucky ones. We stared the untamed beast straight in the eyes, and in the end, we walked.
But now, at this time, I would like to turn the story over to a personal friend of mine - renowned black actor, Morgan Freeman; who will be narrating the final passage of this classic American fable.
"After that momentous day of discomfiture, the outlaws turned over a new wing, vowing never to return to their wild old ways. It is believed that months later, Adam's Spider-Man action figure was stolen from him, most ironically, by an actual playground bully. Adam's mother had warned him not to share the toy with brigands, and so he found himself in quite the predicament. He asked Christopher to take the wrap for this crime, and to endure a spanking after school. Christopher refused this act of good faith, and the two of them went their separate ways. All though their friendship was severed, the old legends say that on that fateful day, so many years ago, the very shadows of those two broken outlaws were framed against the land. In their moment of defeat, their silhouettes were preserved forever, for all generations yet to come. It serves as a landmark to remember the young men, and to retell their story again and again. After some time, the playground returned to its former state of peace, but the spirit of the post-lunch outlaws lives on. It lives in stories passed down by grandfather to grandchild. It lives in the ancient trees of the forest, and it lives in all of us, even you.. Always blowing.. in the warm, May breeze."
Alright, Andy Rooney. I'm pointing at you this time. The Reverend place a hit on your head and I'm carrying out the order. I've taken a bit of time to familiarize myself with your one-track mind, taking every thing unimportant on this earth as literally as your striking resemblance to Nosferatu's satchel. I'm going to clue you in on sounding intelligent, since you're clearly having a difficult time convincing the world you're even remotely credible. I know bastards as old as yourself aren't up with today's technology, living out your life in cantinas somewhere on the desert planet Tatooine, but if you're actually going to rant about something in front of millions of viewers, it's usually a good idea to figure out what the fuck you're even talking about beforehand. Hell, I'm the one calling you out and even I did my homework first. Maybe you should try approaching one of your co-workers before shooting and give him a quick run-down on the night's topic. "Hey they John! If you don't mind, I'd like to run this gem by you real quick before I make a complete ass of myself. The fact is John, I don't agree with Coca-Cola using caps to seal their bottles. If they're going to place air inside of their product, I want to be drinking clean air, not old air. Who wants stale air that's been sealed inside a bottle for a month? I sure don't.", and then John would reply, "Well Andy, the cap is actually used to seal incarbon dioxide, not oxygen.. The company dissolves the carbon dioxide into their product to create what's known as carbonation, Andy, one of the key elements that distinguishes soda from drinking water. The cap prevents the cola from going flat, and also protects the product from external debris and other potential hazards. So, with that said, you should probably take a moment to rethink your opinion and remove your Gamorrean-like anus from my immediate workspace."
Despite how much I dislike you, Rooney, I do feel that I should commend you on your phenomenal performance, where you compared your 1920 Underwood typewriter to modern computers, and then proceeded to announce that Bill Gates screwed up the way computers work. Now, I'm not a huge fan of Mr. Gates myself, but I'd like to go over a few of your complaints. First off, and correct me if I'm mistaken here.. But you feel that Microsoft designs computers so you have to purchase a new one every time there's a full moon, and also that you've had to replace your own computerseven fucking times over the last six years.. Hold your tongue, Andy, I'm not finished. If we move forward about fifteen seconds, we find that you voice your grievance over having to access the "Start menu" in order to shut down your computer. You feel that pressing the power switch should be more than enough work to carry out such a task. Well shit, Andy.. I honestly have no idea why you've had to purchase seven fucking computers in half of a decade. I guess Bill Gates really fucked that one up when you sent your hardware to shit. You are a very important man, after all. You have a two minute time slot to fill on a show nobody watches anymore. You shouldn't be expected to grasp anything beyond a 1920's Underwood typewriter. You also shouldn't be expected to put up with that dastardly "prison sentence" you're given every time you fuck something up, resulting in an illegal operation.
(Watch the full segment of Andy Rooney on Bill Gates HERE.)
But I really do agree with Andy Rooney on many accounts. I too think it's fucking outrageous that a box of lemon flavored Jello does not contain an actual lemon, and that "Betty Crocker" carries on the name "Betty Crocker", when there is, in fact, no such person as "Betty Crocker". I also feel that it's disgraceful for Newspapers to announce the rising value of platinum, because like Mr. Rooney, and I quote, "I hardly ever buy an ounce of platinum! I don't really know what platinum is! What do they do with platinum anyways?".
In case it's not blatantly obvious already, I was an interesting character growing up. I was that kid in Kindergarten with red suspenders, a ninja turtles t-shirt, and dried up snot all over my face. I was fucking awesome. I was the kid who came home from school each day to change into my Peewee Herman costume, bow-tie and all. What did I do next? I ran around in my own little reality, leaping from the couch to the love seat, and making up whatever bullshit I managed to pull out of my ass. I actually had a few alter-ego's as a child, like "Gary from the Post Office", an eccentric postal worker who carried himself a lot like Steve Urkel. I did it because my relatives thought it was cute, and what kid would turn down that kind of attention? Anybody on the outside more than likely assumed I was fucking retarded. Just picture the neighbors watching me from their living room window. "There goes Adam, that weird little shit.. Looks like he's wearing a cape and dumping dog feces into a bucket again."
But I'm damn proud of who I was. Imaginary friends and all. I think the most memorable of my imaginary entourage was the ginger kid from Captain Planet. He used to chill with me out in apple orchard on a daily basis, though I can't say where the fuck he was at on the day I nearly hung myself after wedging my head between two branches, flailing my legs about six feet from the ground. How the hell did I even get down from there anyways? Better yet, how did I even get myself into that situation? I'm not sure anybody would have even been surprised if I had died that way. They'd probably think, "Well, it was either that or he would of broke his neck diving head first into the crock pot like a Super Mario warp pipe..". Honestly, it had to of been expected at that point in time. Shit.. Did I even tell anybody about that? You guys might be the first to hear about it.
And let's not forget about Saturdays.. Holy shit were Saturday's the highlight of my week. I'd wake up at the ass crack of dawn in my standard issued "Proud to be Drug Free" t-shirt and matching tighty-whiteys, pour myself a massive bowl of Captain Crunch, and watch fishing shows on TNN until noon. But my day didn't truly progress until we drove out to my grandma's house for the weekly congregation, where I'd meet up with my equally interesting cousins. We'd run around like retards for a while before trying to dig a hole straight to hell, which usually just ended with Chris getting stuck in the fucking hole, where a huge scene unfolded and somebody would inevitably get hit in the face with a steel rake.. Do you think I'm lying? We have this all on tape. Hell, nothing went smoothly during these visits.. It was almost manditory for somebody to whip a toad at a fucking tree and turn me into a blubbering mess of sympathy and tears.. But by the end of the day, we'd all still throw a fit when it was time to go and beg our parents to let us stay for the night. This only worked about 16% of the time, but there were occasions when my grandpa had a few too many and backed us up with, "Oh hell, let 'em stay. They just want to play their fishing game!". Thanks for having our back, grandpa. I miss you every day.
But seriously, my childhood was incredible. I'd give up the world just to go back for a day, but at least I have the memories, right? I'll always remember getting bucked off of our horse while trying to impress the girl my mom babysat, and the time my dad flipped out because I referred to myself as a fartin' boy when I should have said farming boy. I mean, how many kids can honestly say they spent the majority of their days running around outside in their underwear with a fire hat and a Rhode Island Red Chicken? That's right, I had pet chicken, and I carried her everywhere.
And of course there were plenty of embarrassing moments way back when. Like the day my sibling got caught pulling his wiener behind the wing-back chair after my dad sent him inside to fetch a screwdriver, or the time my mom walked in on me naked with a shower cap and rubber gloves on my feet.. But those are probably the most golden moments of them all.. Although, there was that one day that I fell off the kitchen counter and got my sack hung up on the Lazy Susan, but... that's a story I'd rather keep to myself. I'm not sure I can live that one down.
Those were definitely the glory days, though. I'll miss 'em.
I haven't touched this blog in about year, and I'm really not sure why. I guess the shitty moments in life just caught up to me and snuffed out my positive perspective on things. Every now and then I find myself in the mood to write, but humor doesn't flow like it used to. But today, a friend of mine made a valid point. She told me I shouldn't have to be funny to write, and I should be thankful I can write at all, or something along those lines. She's right. So I'm taking a stab at something serious, something that's real, and perhaps through it, I'll find my niche again. (or maybe just a reason to bitch.)
I've been through a lot of crap in the last twelve months, some things good and others bad. For the first time I've questioned whether or not I'm a good person, having laughed when Bret Michaels almost died. I really hate Bret Michaels, but you guys know that. I've actually been asking myself a lot of questions. Anyone who knows me, knows that winter takes a heavy toll on me. It smacks me across the head with a wooden bat and leaves me crippled in the snow until that first warm day of Spring. November scuffs up my shoes while December whips out his bird and takes a piss on me. January shoves a gnarled branch up my ass and February seizes that opportunity to twist it and make off with my shit. March is pretty much just a dick who lingers over my body flicking one more cigarette butt for each day I've felt miserable. Eventually though, the snow melts, birds return, and I brush the dirt off my pants only to find that I've evolved as a person, reflecting on the things I've learned. A familiar state of well-being washes over me like a old friend, and I start exploring these warmer days. (I usually do April pretty hard once she gets here too, 'cause she's a fucking slut and doesn't mind a bit of exploring.)
But so far this year, I haven't been quite as successful. Sure, I take solace in Thursday nights, surrounding myself with those I care about and taking what advice is given to me. The weekend brings parties and good spirits, and I enjoy these things too. But soon the sun rises on a new week, and I wake up in time to see the dawn breaking over the lake. I revel in what's before me, lighting a cigarette and making my way down toward the waters edge. I'm at peace in this moment, but something is missing inside of me. I close my eyes and search for what I can't find, hoping it'll point me in the right direction. I realize I'm no closer to identifying what it is than I was before, my mind flooding with a thousand thoughts and dead-end worries. But maybe that's just it. Maybe I'm worrying too much. Maybe we all do.
In the stretch of things, I've learned a lot of lessons. You can't always have what you desire. You can't change the people you care about. You can't eat chili ramen without shitting your pants. You can't stand on top of the world if you don't give yourself the strength to climb. You'll get by with a little help from your friends. You'll get high with a little help from your friends. I could list a million things I've learned, but it's more important for me to focus on what I need to learn. I need to learn how to take criticism without taking it personally. I need to meditate on circumstances without over thinking them. I need to learn how to let go of my fears and take charge of tomorrow with an open heart. I need to learn how to grab an opportunity when it presents itself, and how to let go of those which are lost. I need to learn a lot of things, but through accepting this I've learned something more valuable than I imagined. I've learned there is little reason to be unhappy in a world with so much to learn. The pursuit of wisdom and love have always been my greatest priorities, and I've never stopped growing because of them. I like who I am.
I almost forgot how great it feels to put my thoughts into words.
(This is a blog that I wrote back in 2008, but it received zero publicity - and that's unacceptable.)
Face it, not everybody can be perfect parents. Not all of us want to be perfect parents. Take me, for example; I don't want kids now. I have too much I need to do before I make that leap, but one day I'd like to. Now, I've heard people say things like, "I'm going to be the best dad ever. I'm going to teach my kid to be awesome." - but I, on the other hand, have a different perspective on the matter. I want me kids to be unique. I want my kids to operate on a different level. I want them to be ready for anything. So here's what I'm going to do.
I'm going to tell my kids that monsters are real.
Can you imagine what kind of an impact that's going to have on my children? Think about it. I'm tucking my six year old boy in for the night. "Dad?", he asks, "There's a monster in my closet. I can hear him breathing, and I can see him peeking through the crack when it's dark. Can you get rid of him for me?". I stop for a moment to show a warm smile; then I respond, "No, son. That monster is clearly your problem, and if I open that door, he's going to become my problem; and that just doesn't seem like a reasonable thing to ask of your father." There's a short pause. "But what if he gets me?", he inquires. "Well son," I continue, "If I confront the monster, he's more than likely going to separate my torso from the rest of me. Then he's going to beat my upper half against the closet walls until I either bleed to death or endure substantial trauma to the head. What makes you think I'm willing to make a sacrifice like that, when the monster has obviously chosen you as a target, and not I?". My son begins to cry. I make my way to the door, and suddenly I stop. I realize that a mistake has been made.
"By the way.", I mumble as I walk over to unplug his night-light, "This months electricity bill was through the roof. Good night, son!"
