It’s over!
Shit, piss, cunt, fuck, cocksucker, motherfucker, tits.
People keep mentioning the “Seven Dirty Words” but nobody actually says what they are. Being fond of those words, I thought I’d put them up here.
Also, fuck. George Carlin was one funny fucker.
Finally, I’ve always liked this song because it succinctly incorporated those seven words, plus the three words Carlin later added as auxiliary words, and the tune is kind of catchy.
So I get onto an elevator and there’s already a little kid with his mom on there. The kid is carrying a plastic bag with crayons and a coloring book, and is dressed kind of crazy. Like, bathing suit, t-shirt, cowboy belt over shirt.
We ride a floor or two in silence. I notice the kid is wearing an eye-patch too.
“Have you found any buried treasure lately, matey?”
The woman grabs her son and pulls him closer. “My son has a corneal abrasion. He’s not wearing this patch for fun.”
I got off on the next floor.
This morning I saw quite possibly the dumbest thing I have ever seen in all my years of driving. Spectacularly, amazingly, awesomely dumb. Dumb in a way that I don’t even think you can comprehend. You might be thinking, “Well, there was that one time I saw those fratboy douches in college give each other grain-alcohol enemas before seeing who could put their tongue into the electric socket the furthest,” and I’d say, “Wow, Jesus Christ, that is pretty fucking stupid. You win, your story about stupid people is way more full of stupid than mine is,” but the problem here is that none of you ever saw that. I just made it up. So, still, I win. Anyway, I’m pretty much a few sentences from jumping completely off the rails here, so let’s rein it in and get back to the original story.
I was at an intersection near the airport where the Light Rail crosses my commuting path, and sometimes blocks my path if the train is coming past. The MTA, in all their wisdom, saw fit to paint a giant “Don’t fucking stop your car here or you’ll get hit by a fucking train you slop-faced pickle-fucker” box in front of the tracks so you wouldn’t get too close to the train. Within that box descend two railway gates that have blinking red lights on top of them so that even if you miss all the giant blinking red traffic lights, maybe you won’t miss the ones that are at eye level on a giant red and white arm in front of you. The one thing they didn’t think of, though, was that some idiot would drive all the way up to the edge of the tracks and park under where the gates are supposed to come down.
Here, let me show you. Feel free to click around until you get a solid understanding of what happened here. I’ll wait.
Shawty say I lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-look like a lollipop
She say I lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-look like a lollipop
Lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-look like a lollipop
She say I ….. like a lollipop
Shawty wanna thug
Bottles in the club
Shawty wanna hump
And ooo I like to touch ya lovely lady lumps
You’re back? Great. What a terrible, horrible, stupid song.
So this idiot is parked directly under the place where the traffic gate needs to come down. And guess what happens when, much to my schaudenfruede-laden glee, a train needs to come by? The gate just comes right down on top of this fuckers car.
Yes. Yes. It was awesome.
The guy was flipping out. The arm was just kind of resting on his car all the way up by the windshield, so he starts backing up and there’s this horrible grating sound as the arm slids down the contour of his hood, a huge “thump” as it bounces onto his bumper, and then free of his car, bobs delicately in the air for a few seconds. So this cock-smock decides that now, as a train is about to drive by and as he stands in the middle of the danger zone, would be the perfect time to check out the damage. So he gets out of his car, and he’s got one hand on his head, and another hand on his hip, and he’s kind of looking around like he can’t believe what just happened, and that’s when the train went by.
Normally the train conductors will give a half-hearted “blaatt” of the horn before the get to the intersection, but I must admit I’ve been startled in the past to hear a triumphant “BWAT” from the horn. Today we were all in for a special treat as the conductor must have seen what happened from around the bend. Just before he reached the intersection he leaned on that fucking horn like he’d just found out that pressing it gave him money.
BRAAAAWAAAAAAATTTT
The guy nearly jumped out of his skin. He must have totally sprayed the inside of his pants with the partially digested remains of his breakfast, because I was kind of expecting it and it made me jump. He dove back into his car and resumed waiting for the train to pass like the rest of us. When the gates went up and the light turned to green, he proceeded on his way, and I went mine. I can only hope he was going someplace to sterilize himself, but I can’t be sure since he turned left and I went straight.
If there’s one thing I’m going to miss about this website, it’s how far you all will run with a joke in the comments. Cracks my shit up, for reals.
Anyway, bravely onward to paramount mediocrity!
I am not a doctor. Or, if you’re into the whole brevity thing, IANOD. Ee-an-odd? Eye-an-odd? Ay-nod? Nevermind. Let’s just say I have as much doctoring experience as a monkey with a stethoscope, which is to say, lots. Despite that, I’m am not licensed to practice medicine, design pharmaceuticals, or, thanks to a court order, get within 500 feet of Christopher Walken.
However, I still know that rinsing your hands, rather than washing them, does as much to remove germs as blowing on them. So why is it, in this day and age, that I can walk into the bathroom and see someone walk away from a urinal, or exit a stall, rinse their hands under some water, dry their hands, and leave?
I bring this up only because I saw one of the most egregious violations of social/health rules in our bathroom at work. As I was walking in a guy was walking up to the sink. Let’s assume that he was just in for a short visit, and not a long one. He approached the sink and thrust one hand under the automatic faucet, letting his hand linger long enough to be touched by the water, and then pulled his hand out again. The entire process lasted for less than two seconds. He used his other hand to get some paper towels, and then he dried off his hand and left.
I was, of course, flabbergasted. Was he so self-satisfied with the hygiene he applies to his own genitalia that he thinks that germs couldn’t POSSIBLY be transmitted from his dangly parts to his hand? Or does he think that if there are germs on his junk, they couldn’t possibly be that dangerous? And if that’s the case, why “wash” his hands at all?
One thing is certain: I’m now treating any and all communal objects in the office as if they’d actually had his balls resting on them, and I’m treating all communal food like candy dishes and bowls of popcorn, as if they were just big bowls of other people’s scabs. Because for serious, that is some nasty shit.
Sweet magical Jesus with pockets full of fudge. I have been redonkulously busy. I didn’t even have time to use the INTERNET on Monday OR Tuesday. How effed up is that? I mean, I know kids are starving in Africa and shit, but I couldn’t get my fix of bad Flash-based games and narcissistic blog posts. For reals. But you don’t want to hear about all that stuff anyway, so I’ll move on. I just need to generate a transitional sentence to move me to the next paragraph.
Shazaam!
Hmm, not so much a sentence as an ejaculation, but it’ll have to do.
We’ve recently been having interviews for an available position in our office, a process in which I find no end of personal amusement. For example, we were halfway through a conference call with one potential candidate (who we ruled out after five minutes of the worst interviewing I’ve ever heard) but she wouldn’t shut up. She just kept talking and talking, so I decided to mess with her.
Because she wouldn’t admit to having any flaws or having ever done anything wrong incorrectly ever, I decided to ask her what stresses her out.
“Nothing. I don’t really get stressed. I guess if I had to pick one thing though, it would be blah blah blah blame other people for my shortcomings blah blah I’m clearly a harpy you’d hate to work with blah blah blah”. It was truly awful. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone interview so poorly for anything, and that includes tryouts for American Idol.
Another interviewee was actually pretty good, but she was all nerves. Her voice was shaking and cracking, and more hilariously, she was breaking out in hives throughout the entire interview. It started at the base of her neck and slowly spread up to her chin, and then another bit started at her ear and spread down toward her chin. I had a little celebration in my head when the two hive-waves collided on her jawline.
As the interview went on I watched the hives take over everywhere from the neck up, except for a small part at the center of her neck. No matter how flustered she got, or how red the rest of her face became, that one spot on her neck remained-hive free. It was slowly, slowly closing in as the interview went on, and part of me wanted to drag out the interview just to see if we could complete the hive-scarf on her neck, but my boss closed the interview and it didn’t happen.
So yeah, hope you never have to interview with me, because the sociopathic tendencies start to rear their ugly, uncaring heads.
Two posts while I’m out of the office?! You should be honored bonered honored.
The other day I had to head into Baltimore for a quick all-day meeting, so I figured I’d just take the Light Rail near my house rather than messing around with parking and driving home during rush hour.
I needed to be in Baltimore by 11, so I showed up at the train station at 10, planning on catching the 10:30 train into the city. Lucky for me the Maryland Department of Transportation had no interest in taking my money efficiently, unless it was for a wallet-fucking sum of money.
All I needed was a $3.20 round-trip ticket, but only 1 of the 5 ticket machines available was selling round-trip or single-fare tickets. 3 of the machines were only selling weekday passes for $16.50 or something like that, and one of the machines was broken. So I got in line at the only machine that was working, along with everyone else, and waited. And waited. And then waited some more.
The ancient douchebag at the front of the line, who was probably so old that he retired so he could spend more time yelling at dinosaurs to get off his lawn, was apparently buying 34 single fare tickets, and was paying for them completely with nickels. And rather than select “multiple tickets” from the menu screen, the old dust-fucker insisted on buying them one at a time. I was tearing my eyeballs out with frustration. By the time he was done it was 10:20 and the train had pulled into the station.
Then the next douchebag in line, or, I should say, family of douchebags, approached this quizzical machine and pondered at it for a good minute before pressing a single button. Finally, while I was trying to figure out how I could push douchedad’s baseball hat through the bottom of his jaw, he finally presses a button, only to be harangued by his shrewish wife.
“You can’t buy a student pass! You’re not a student.”
“She is!” he said, jerking his thumb over his should to indicate his daughter. “I’m not paying an extra 30 cents for a regular pass for her. It’s a waste of money!” So they continued to fight as the minutes crept on, and the guy in front of me and I slowly lost our minds. Putting it much more succintly than I ever could, the guy in front of me said, “God damn motherfuckers… this is some bullshit.”
The douchedad bought his other two tickets and the machine spit them out just in time for him and his entire douchey family to get on the train as the doors were closing, the next train not scheduled to depart for another 30 minutes.
“God damn cracker motherfuckers!” my new best friend yelled from the ticket machine at the departing train, “You motherfuckers are some bitches!”
And indeed they were, motherfucking bitches, each and every one.
If one’s body is a temple, my god has long since died. In fact, I drowned him myself in a baby-pool filled with bacon drippings, tequila, and liquid cheese.
This year hasn’t been a good one in the health department of ACW Industries Inc. (our motto: The Finest Hand-Knitted Folk-Art/Autoerotic Asphyxiation Equipment money can buy!). I made some decent headway during the winter break between classes. I’d climb aboard the elliptical machine each evening after work and stir up the various crumpled balls of discarded wrapping paper until that corner of the living room looked the snow globe of a compulsive hoarder’s fever-dream.
Then the semester started and my grandfather died, and everything around that was enough of a false start to put us far enough behind that we were never really able to get to a point where exercise looked like something we feasibly had time to do. Most days consisted of coming home, doing homework and making dinner, eating in front of the TV for 30 minutes, then more homework/chores. It was really kind of ridiculous for a month or so there when we had to decide if we wanted to clean dishes or clean clothes and had to figure out which we needed more of for the next day.
So when I found myself at the Demolition Derby shoveling about 8 pounds of congealed cheese and potatoes by the handful into the gaping garbage disposal in my face, I shouldn’t have really been surprised the next day when I stepped on the scale and the weight read, “You are a fat bitch.”
Because I’m an adult, and I know how to control myself, I looked down at the scale and said, “Fuck you scale! You’re not the boss of me!” and then proceeded to spend all day Sunday food-fucking my face with all the dignity and quiet-reflection of a prison riot. And then when I woke up with Monday-morning indigestion for the humpty-billionth time this year, the collective stench of the day’s ingested offal seeping out of my pores; gas created by who knows what kind of super-resilient gut-bacteria blasting from every orifice in my body; with no one to blame but myself and my own inability to put down the fucking spoon and the fucking mayonnaise jar and go for a walk outside.
So here’s to cutting a few years off of my life span by living for 5 months as a hedonist, and here’s hoping I can put it back on by getting a little exercise every day. And I’d be remiss if I didn’t offer a heartfelt goodbye to the bacon, egg, and donut smoothies, garnished with Cheetos. You will be missed my steadfast breakfast buddy.
The happy hour last night was pretty cool. As usual, there’s never enough time to get to really talk to everybody, so there are some folks that I would have liked to talk to that I didn’t really get a chance to talk to. To those people I say: your loss.
Also to those people who ridiculed me for having to leave early to feed my cats, I’ll have you know that since Wookie was starving she ate so fast that when she threw up a few minutes later I could see that she hadn’t even chewed any of her food. Her vomit is on YOUR hands.
Finally, Charissa wanted me to tell a story about how I saw a little kid with poop on his face jump out of a car or something. This is what she thinks my blog is about. Well, besides it being a lie, because everyone knows I would NEVER lie, the thought of a kid with poop on his face actually kind of grosses me out. Apparently Charissa is into that short sort of thing.
Let’s commence with the narcissism!
My favorite event on Wii sports is bowling. But like everything in my life that I enjoy, once I begin to enjoy it I also try to start finding a way to measure it. Unluckily for me the Wii measures how good/bad I am at bowling for me, so I’m constantly playing games as fast as I can just to see if I’ve improved rather than slowing down and enjoying the game for what it is: a distraction from the restraining order issued by Zack Efron and the entire cast of High School Musical that keeps me out of New York. Wait. What? That’s not even close to accurate. What I meant to say is that the stats distract me from playing the game as a game.
So I’ll try to keep that in mind as I slow down and try to have more fun with game until I don’t get a strike and find myself screaming at the remaining pin, “Go down you fucking slut! FUCK YOU!” and then angrily mumbling to myself about how the game cheats.
Then I usually switch to boxing so I can punch the bejesus out of a goofy looking cartoon boxer and alleviate some frustration. It’s a nice healthy workout.
Before we get to the moist, throbbing awesomeness that is my post for the day, there’s some business we have to attend to:
blah blah blah happy hour blah blah tonight blah blah 6pm blah blah
Dougherty’s Irish Pub
223 W Chase St
Baltimore, MD 2120
(410) 752-4059
blah blah blah blah whatever blah be there, or be somewhere else: I know I will.
Anyway, on to the nonsense!
The night of the bachelor party I was actually hemorrhaging man points because I wasn’t actively engaged in the act of pickling my liver with as much alcohol as possible. In fact, I unfortunately spent the entire night maintaining a fine balance on the line between sobriety and mild buzz.
“Why,” you ask rhetorically because actually speaking to the computer is more than a little crazy, “would you deprive yourself of the sweet inebriating nectar that the gods themselves saw fit to excrete from their magical alcohol-producing organs so many Tuesdays ago for the benefit of all humankind?”
Because I was waking up early the next morning to go wait in line to buy a Wii. There. I said it. Are you happy?
Mrs. ACW and I have wanted to buy a Wii for some time now, but due to their relative scarcity we’ve been unable to procure one. Actually, we would have been able to get one a long time ago for about $600 on ebay, but Mrs. ACW refuses to sell her body on the street, and I just can’t bear to do another half-dozen equine-related porn movies. (I’m half-proud and half-nauseated to say I was second-assistant director on an official Harry Potter porn spinoff- More than a Man: Fisted by Firenze) Plus, let’s all finally admit that ebay is pretty much the squalid back alley of the internet, and that we want as little to do with it as possible.
The guy at Target told me to get there about an hour early because they expected there to be a line, and at 7am I was the only person waiting in line. And at 7:20am, I was the only person waiting in line. Thanks, Target guy, you unmitigated doucheface.
So I went home, fed the cats, jettisoned the previous evening’s mountain of snack food, had something to eat, and then went back to Target at about 7:45am to find myself the second person in line. Not too bad. A cold and boring quarter of an hour later and I was on my way home, not at all hungover but so exhausted that I may as well have been.
It wasn’t until many hours later that I was awake enough to actually set it up, and once I did I was immediately happy with our decision. It’s simply a fun gaming system. One of the things that surprised me is that you can even give your Wii a nickname, so I’ve dubbed ours, “The Wiiner”, which leads to hilarious conversations like this, “Have you played with the wiiner yet tonight?”
“No, not yet. I plan on working up quite a sweat later with the wiiner.”
“Excellent. The wiiner will definitely get you sweaty.”
And so on. For that reason alone I think everyone should get one.
Let’s see, what else did I do this weekend? Oh yeah, I threw out some of my clothes. Sounds boring, right? Not the way I tell it.
Mrs. ACW and I live the life many people dream about. We get home at about 5pm on Friday, cook turkey burgers and asparagus, eat them, and then do homework. Yes, many people are out, spending heaps of disposable income on drinks, food, drugs, and whatever genitalia makes their upper lip sweat and quiver (hey, I’m not here to judge; whatever tickles your pickle or frosts your cookie is fine by me), but none of them have the wrist-slitting joy of staying home and doing homework for four hours at the start of the weekend while not drinking or seeing any genitalia or putting any coke up our noses.
And the cherry on top of all of it? Mrs. ACW is on a diet, so she’s not eating any sugar, and since we don’t have any sugar free candy in the house, we had to go out the grocery store to insert ourselves amongst the other social superstars that can be found wandering the grocery aisles at 9pm on a Friday; frozen pizza in one hand, pint of ice cream in the other, bunny slippers on the feet and a loosely tied robe that leaves so little to the imagination that I may as well have his lumpy, asymmetrical baby-maker tattooed on the inside of my eyelids.
Less than thirty minutes later we’re home, have given up on homework, and are each a few pieces of sugar free candy deep into Hot Fuzz. An amusing hour and thirty minutes passes with nary to mar the occasion except a sudden onset of gas on my part that’s so violently offensive that I think I can feel hairs being singed off of my dangerous but exquisite backside.
After one particularly boisterous expulsion Mrs. ACW remarked that it sounded “hearty” or something along those lines. I had to agree. It was if I’d been grabbed around the torso and squeezed by the hand of a giant. It was as if I was completely out of control of my own body and it was venting pressure of its own accord. I learned a few seconds later what little control I actually had.
After a mad dash to the bathroom to learn that yes, I had in fact shat myself, I realized I was a twenty-seven year old man with no apparent control of his bowels. I immediately threw away my underwear and shorts, much to the bewilderment of everyone who has already heard this story.
“Why didn’t you just wash the clothes?” they ask, puzzlement clouding their faces.
Look, if I ever become so cavalier and casual with shit that I can look upon a beshatted object and think, “Hey, it’s just poop I guess,” please kill me, because I don’t want to live a life so well acquainted with the substance that our bodies forcibly eject on a daily basis.
I also jumped in the shower and gave the entire lower half of my body a complete surgical scrub down, because, once again, shit is gross.
Then I spent the rest of the weekend completely gun-shy because I didn’t want to fart and have to check and make sure my socks were still dry, so every time I felt a little pressure I had to get up, go to the bathroom, and make sure that the “football” didn’t make it into the “end zone” on a “quarterback sneak”, if you may allow me a football metaphor.
Lesson learned: not only does beef wreck me, but so does sugar free candy.
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