You know how it's 99% disgusting to throw-up? It stinks, burns, splashes everywhere, makes your eyes water, and cramps up your stomach muscles. BUT, there is the 1%. That far corner of your mind that you don't want to admit is there in the middle of your five alarm fire of hot mess. It is the part that is enjoying the vomiting process. Hopefully, my blog is that 1% .

Friday, December 25, 2009

Merry Christmas my Ass

December 25, 1981

Dear Santa,

Well, burned again! I guess you didn’t get the letter I sent. Or the last 8 either. I am not exactly sure what I’m doing wrong. I have tried soooo hard to be a good little boy but bupkis again. Even that bully Timmy next door got a brand new Atari VCS. I try to not question your motives but even at 11 years old I still believe in you and hold out hope each Christmas that I will make your list.

Please don’t forget me again next year!

Gregory Mitchell
11 years old

December 26, 1981

Dear Gregory,

Thank you very much for the letter. Fuck off you little Jew-boy, you get shit!


Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Man jailed for eating rare tiger

BEIJING (Reuters) – A man who killed and ate what may have been the last wild Indochinese tiger in China was sentenced to 12 years in jail, local media reported on Tuesday.

Holy Shit! That is totally my bad! Look, I had no way of knowing it was the last Indochinese tiger in all of China or I never would have done it. I don’t even have a computer (I’m using my neighbor’s iMac). But, on the other hand, if he was the last Indochinese tiger in all of China, it’s not like he was gonna live forever anyway. And when you think about it, he (I know he was a dude because I pickled his penis, fucking Brad ate his testicles when I passed out from the odor) didn’t even have an Indochinese tigress to mate with because he was the last Indochinese tiger in all of China. I mean I guess he could have gotten a Visa and gone on a bender and fucked the last Indochinese tigress in all of Laos, but that doesn’t even seem remotely possible given the strong resentment of most Laotians towards China since that whole Vietnam debacle. You would think I was doing that friggin’ tiger a favor and how do I get rewarded? Twelve years in the pokie! Buuulllllllllshit! I should have been given a goddam medal. Do you have any idea how hard it is to shoot a tiger from 150 yards with a HK 417?

Monday, December 14, 2009

22 million missing Bush White House e-mails found

AP Associated Press

Okay you got me. Quite frankly I can’t believe it took this long. Do you know how hard it is to stockpile 22 million, that’s 22,000,000 e-mails in a single story craftsman? It was getting to the point where I couldn’t even close my garage door. I don’t even consider myself a hoarder, I kind of figured they had some value, even if it was purely nostalgic:

subject: Miss Ya!
March 20, 2004
to: Tony Blair
from: The Dub

Howdy Mr. B.,
Jesus, can you believe it’s been 1 whole year since we jumped into Earaq? Makes me really verklempt to think about it. We did some real good ol’ buddy! Granted we both figured it’d be “Mission Accomplished” by now, but fuck it, we’re spurring the economy and purty soon we’ll both be bathin’ in Texas Tea!

Listen has your counsel come up with any exit strategy yet? Karl and Dick keep telling me to stay the course, but I’m not quite sure what that is exactly.


Geo W.

ps you haven’t accepted my Facebook friend request yet!

I just couldn’t bring myself to hit the delete button.

Initially I thought that they were phising e-mails but as I read them, I realized they were the real McCoy:

subject: Daddy Knows Best
May 30, 2001
to: Barbara Bush
from: Dad

Barbie! What the Hell is the matter with you? Your mother and I are super-pissed off here! How the heck do ya reckon ya can pass off a fucking fake ID with someone else’s name on it and use it to get into a club when you have 2 secret service officers following you around? I mean holy Christ on the cross, this is not looking good for me and you know what I have planned for late summer. Goddamit, you better call me when you get this.

I still love you but SHEEEZ, this is serious!


I guess I always knew that I was accidentally CC’d but once they started pouring in I was addicted. I even replied directly once:

subject: Shitface
June 23, 2004
to: Michael Moore
cc: G. Mitchell
from: George UU. Bush

Man, I’m really P.O.d! Man! I mean, shit, are you telling me that I can’t do 1 fucking thing right? I know you have some biased agenda but that was one of the worst documentaries I’ve ever seen! That’s it! I’m cutting funds to FEMA and see if you can get your art-house bullshit produced in the USA again! And you better believe I’m getting the IRS so far up your fat ass, they're gonna need Mapquest and flashlights to get out! Fuck with the bull and get the antlers asshole!


June 23, 2004
re: Shitface

Um. Hi Mr. Prezident. I’m not sure how my e-mail address got copied but I mistakingly received the e-mail that you just sent to Michael Moore and I just wanted to make sure that neither you nor your administration has me lumped in with that communist prick. Keep up the good work sir!


and next came his response:

June 23, 2004
re: Shitface

Good one Donald! We still meeting at Mickey Dees for McRibs? They’re being discontinued next week!


Although many of them were redundant (roughly 3.4 million copies, probably fell asleep on “SEND” button):

re: Shitface

Good one Donald! We still meeting at Mickey Dees for McRibs? They’re being discontinued next week!


or simple variables:

subject: No Worries
August 25, 2005
to: Brownie
from: GWB

Don’t sweat Katrina, it’ll blow over. We still meeting at Mickey Dees for McRibs? They’re being discontinued next week!


He actually sent out each of the 22 million missives himself and I think it answers why W. spend so much time at Camp David:

subject: R & R
July 2, 2006
to: Pop
from: Your Boy

Hi Dad,

Listen don’t get mad but some friends and I were playing in your old study at CAMP D. and well, I broke the armoire. I know that it belonged to Lincoln but they just didn’t have good craftsmanship back then.

Any way we can blame this on Clinton?
Your loving son,

At this point, I don’t really know what to expect. Looks like I’ve got 1 of 2 options coming, I’m either going to be awarded the presidential medal of freedom or sent off to Guantanamo Bay, either way I’m glad it’s over.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

My heart's in the right place, even if my Xb isn't

Driver Gets Probation for Running Over Mother Duck.
The 25-year-old man testified he didn't see the ducks because he was distracted. He says he left the scene because he panicked.”
Fox News

Fair and Balanced my ass Fox News! Now I know how Obama feels when they bogush him. I am compelled to defend myself because it even skeeved me out when I read the headline.

You gotta understand, I like ducks as much as the next guy. It’s not like it makes me happy to see any of God’s creatures meet such cruel a fate as the belly of my Scion Xb. You think I wanted to bastardize half a dozen ducklings? Fuck no! Reading this you’ll come around to my way of thinking and I can go on about my business without the constant barrage of PETA death threats.

I have a perfectly rational excuse for the accident. First off, my Mom was on me all morning about getting some steady income or I’d be out on my ass if I came back without an application. So already, as you can imagine, I wasn’t in a good mood heading down to pick up Tommy. We were ‘possed to pick up a keg and some hot-links for the woods later and we figured we’d motor to the A&P and kill 2 birds with 1 stone, so to speak - pick up the shit and application and be on our way. Didn’t work out so simple, I never get shit right.

As I pulled into Tommy’s driveway, I wailed on the horn and he came running out pissed. Some shit about how I always wake up his Dad when I do that. Forgive me for forgetting that he sleeps all day cuz he’s some high falutin security guard pulling the graveyard shift at DeVry. I tried to apologize but this asshole doesn’t get off it the whole way to the ape. I mentally interrupt his bitching by texting Gloria about what time we’re gonna hook up. I endure about 5 more minutes of Tommy’s bullshit and as I pull into the parking lot, Gloria hits me up on the hip. I tell Tommy to STFU because Gloria doesn’t speak directly into her cell and I can never understand her. He doesn’t care, pumps up 50 Cent’s In da Club and I think Gloria is saying we need to take a break. I don’t really remember much that happened after that. Pretty sure I had a panic attack and as I came to...dead duck. I know it sounds like I’m a pussy but I think I kinda had a multi-task meltdown and just couldn’t deal. At least it wasn’t a kid I hit, that woulda been messed up.

Follow-up (in order to be thorough): Gloria wanted to know if we should “meet at the Lake” not “take a break”. Tommy’s still a douchebag but we did get fucked up in the woods. I didn’t get the job.

Monday, December 7, 2009


Ever notice how time slows to a crawl in the midst of an adrenaline rush? All of your senses are heightened and in tune. Your eyes grow to the size of hockey pucks to observe and process as much information (for example how in the hell some white-trash-farmer-tan-redneck-thinks-”I-have-culture-because-I-read-the-entire-label-on-my-bud-light-suitcase” is driving a fucking 7 series BMW?) as quickly as possible to reflexively help you survive. Like when you are behind the wheel and you realize that you haven’t watched the road for almost 1 full minute (maybe you were making eye contact with the she-male prostitute that was giving you road-head) and you look up only to realize that there is no way to avoid an accident (that’s twenty bucks you’ll never see again).

Your brain’s insistence of turning each second into an eternity is God’s cruel joke (along with making you suffer at a dead-end job with no potential for advancement because you refuse to laugh at your asshole boss’s lame homophobic “jokes” that Jerry pretends to find hysterical because, after-all, that is how he got a corner office and key to the executive lounge, while you just keep your nose down and work your ass off and consume a steady diet of Hot Pockets in your drabby, devoid-of-life gray cubicle while nobody notices. Well that’s enough of that shit, from now on, I’m just gonna thoughtfully gaze at my computer as I update my Facebook with bullshit statuses of weekends in Vegas getting comp’ed the penthouse at Circus-Circus with a stable full of fine ass slims and a mountain of coke so big I needed a Sherpa to help me reach the summit all the while pretending to work on the Gilmartin Account) of giving you just enough time to be conscious of the fact that you just shit your pants. I wonder how many people have been fatally injured in a car crash with last thoughts that their limp bodies were soon to be discovered with full loads of poop in their britches? Yoga and meditation asks us to live in the moment and I guess that these lucky crappers were doing just that.

Saturday, December 5, 2009

This Really Happened 3

You know what is really pathetic? Steel truck balls. Here’s how I learned that cold fact.

This morning I am just pimping my way, iPod shuffling and daydreaming about what might have been if I hadn’t failed the psychological profile to get into Dootson Truck Driving school - I would not be rolling the last 1984 Fiat Strada on the road in Los Angeles working for the fine people at “Rest Assured” toilet seat covers refilling peoples hopes from San Diego to Santa Barbara- when it happened: A white, Ford F-350 diesel dually catches my eye as it screams alongside and cuts me off barely missing my front fender. Just as I’m crossing the threshold of being shocked to pissed-off, I see them: Two huge steel balls swinging to and fro from his back bumper, the right one slightly lower than the left. Holy Christ, I just got tea-bagged! At this emasculated point, I was left with no options. I had to redline the Strada and give the stink eye to that cocksucker. Experience has taught me not to overreact to idiots that have wronged me on the highway. Most of the time they are completely oblivious to the fact that they were mere inches away from sending me to the sweet hereafter but I had to see what stupid looked like. I summoned all the power that 1.8 cubic inches of Fiat engineering (and a downhill) presented and pulled alongside the offending driver. I assessed by the length of his tyrannosaurus rex arms and huge head that my goateed and blue toothed new friend couldn’t be more than 5 foot 5 maybe 6 at best. Anger quickly dissipated to pity as I imagined the process: The dude goes into a Kragen Auto Parts store and gestures to a clerk for a set of the biggest baddest nuts for his big badass truck. I imagined him grabbing his tool kit and installing them with a straight face as his wife comes home from a long shift at Winchell’s, the 2 share a moment of mutual satisfaction: he proud of his sense of identity and accomplishment, she proud of her man’s competence. Then the happy couple fucks like hungry hippos and I die a little inside.

Friday, December 4, 2009

Dear Zit

Really? Are you still here? I am 39 years old and we are on day 6. At first I was flattered that you thought I was still a teenager, but don't you have somewhere else to be by now? How about on the chin of a 16-1/2 year-old dude waiting to ask a 17-1/2 year-old chick to prom. Look I haven't eaten chocolate, used steroids or masterbated ((excessively))-except for on Saturday, but it was SATURDAY!) and you arrived anyway. You have been a symetrical puss-bag on my asymetrical forehead and it is time for you to go. I have tried popping, lancing, waiting and ignoring but to no avail. Don't you know I'm a neurotic Jew and if you remain a day longer I'm going to assume you are cancerous. Last night there were 10 women at my house playing bunco and as each avoided eye contact, you may as well have been a dagger stabbing my heart. I don't think you are funny anymore. Seriously, why don't you just fuck off.

This Really Happened 2

Hi JimBob and Michelle! You Duggars sure turn out some kids doncha! Hey listen, I know that it’s none of my business and quite frankly, I would just as soon stay out of it but, I think you should probably slow down a bit. Here’s why: last night after an 1-1/2 hours of shape-shifting supersets with Ving Rhames at 24hr fitness, I needed to carbo-load and what better place than 7-11? I figured I’d grab a couple of cream-filled donuts, 64 oz of guaranteed fresh Brazilian bold java, and be on my merry way. Well, I was a little too anxious with the pour and quickly learned that 450 degrees is 7-11’s idea of perfect temperature, as I fused the inner-layer of moisture-resistant-nike-sweatpants to the inner layer of derma that was the right side of my ball-sack. Left with little choice, I shouted, “Goddamit”! To which an instant, earnest reply followed from the next aisle, “Goddam what?”
“This fucking coffee, it just changed my ejaculation strategy for the next week!”
“Okay”, and BLAMMO!! The coffee machine went up in a ball of flames. I was a little shocked and as I looked towards the voice, I knew this dude was something fierce. He looked just like Bono during the Zooropa tour (what a pain in the ass!) right down to the leather britches and annoying glasses.
“Jesus?” I asked meekly.
“No. Fuck that kid, it’s me, God!”
“Yeah, right, prove it!”
“Hey, dumbshit, I just sent the coffee machine to an eternity of Hell, just because you requested it. What else do you want?” He winked and made his glasses change colors.
“I guess that cinches it for me. Hey do you mind telling me what you’re doing in 7-11?”
“I know, it’s a little weird, but I ran out of those Hostess Coffee Crumb Cakes and..”
“Oh yeah, those things kick ass!”
“Right?” We just stared at each other for an awkward second of mutual admiration (I could tell he was digging my vibe, I’m sure he knew that I was a player), but I didn’t mind because, ya know, it was God.
“So Greg,” he started, “what do you have to say about all this reality TV they got these days?”
“Oh, it’s a buncha shit! Gimme the days of CHiPs or Miami Vice. All the stuff on today is garbage, I don’t know who’s digging it?”
God just kinda shrugged and started to look a little embarrassed. He picked up a copy of People and let out a gasp, “What the fuck?” and staring right back at him was a picture of your entire clan, 20 in all.
“I figured, you knew about them, after all they are really into you.”
God rubbed the back of his neck, “Yeah, I guess I haven’t been paying that close of attention.”
“I would say so, that JimBob dude does not know the meaning of pulling out and his wife’s legs are open wide enough to drive a Buick through.”
God looked a little confused, “Are they masochists or something?”
“No, dude, they are following your word!”
“Well, I don’t judge, but..”
“What?! you don’t judge?! When was the last time you opened a Bible?”
“Hey, jackass, when was the last time you opened a Bible?”
“Touche baby!”
“That’s right biatch, score another one for the Lord! Hey listen, Greg, do you mind doing me a favor?”
“Oh shit, this is not gonna be good is it?”
“Don’t sweat it, it’ll only take you a minute. My iMac, just took a shit on me and I don't want her vagina to fall out, soooo do you mind sending those Duggars a letter and tell Jimmy-Bob to just enjoy an orgasm and put a raincoat on? Or maybe he can pull out and come on his wife’s titties every once in a while.”
“For any other brother I would say fuck you, but I like your style, it’s done.”
So here it is Duggars, the word of God, straight from 7-11.

Thursday, December 3, 2009

An Open Letter to William Bradly Pitt

Dear Brad,
I realize that you receive countless letters of adoration from an ever growing flock of admirers. I mean you can hardly blame this legion given your body of work, or more to the point your chiseled body of work. But I digress. The purpose of this missive is not an attempt to win your favor sexually. However, if you and I did “get together”, you know just 2 dudes hanging out drinking beer and one thing led to another, say after I slipped you a Mickey, I don’t think anyone would accuse either one of use being gay. We would just do what came naturally when 2 like-minded, charismatic, handsome, experimental men get together: suck cock. We have coincidentally, led parallel lives. You: fit, attractive, acting chops, worldwide fame, 2 drop-dead gorgeous wives, strong sense of fashion and design. Me: thirty plus years of unequalled devotion to customer service at the Shack (Radio). Wow, sorry Brad. I realize I may be coming on strong and have thus far avoided the intent of my letter. I’m afraid you give me ADHD, with emphasis on the H!
I did NOT want to be the one to tell you this but I happen to be a vessel of inside information that demands to be exposed: Your character in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button was plagiarized by F.Scott Fitzgerald. I know this seems preposterous but read on and it will all make sense. Back in 1979, I attended a small community college in northern Los Angeles County and in order make ends meet, I had a part time gig guiding tours of our young campus. During the second semester of my third sophomore year I met Frankie Fitzgerald, a young Midwestern transplant with a penchant for smoking and poker (we became fast friends). But he lacked a certain social awareness and was completely ignorant of popular culture and came across as kind of an asshole. Back in those days being a nerd was nowhere near as cool as it is today and an ass-kicking awaited Frankie on a weekly basis. But boy, that bastard could write! We shared a creative writing course and while his papers came back with stickers of stars and rockets, mine were noted “see me after class.” Out of necessity a deal was struck, I would educate him on pop culture and he would help with my papers. Well, one day after class, we headed back to my 250 square foot apartment to work on both. He pulled out a notebook and I pulled out a joint and flipped on Mork and Mindy. This was the 3rd season of Mork and Mindy mind you, and as I explained to Frankie it already jumped the shark and was completely devoid of the spontaneous energy and cutting edge humor that Robin Williams and to a less extent Pam Dawber brought to the show. This was after all the year of Jonathan Winters. He played the role of their son that was born an old man and unremarkably aged backwards (sound a little familiar Brad?). In our grass induced haze, I passionately expressed my outrage at such a ridiculous premise but Frankie just giggled and took notes. Well fast forward a few decades and the next thing I know Frankie, excuse me Mr. F.Scott Fitzgerald writes this fucking short story that gets turned into The Curious Case of Benjamin Button that really should have been called Mork and Mindy, the 3rd shitty season (no offense, you really kicked ass). I am sorry Brad, I just felt you should know that you were a pawn in that pretentious asshole’s game. And if you ever do want to hook up over cocktails, you know how to reach me!
This letters shares little to nothing with reality or Wikipedia.
Peace and Love,
Greg Mitchell

This Really Happened 1

Dear Prudence, 
I have a problem that I have not seen before in your column. This morning I awoke from a blackout- naked, confused and aroused. Instinctively, not wanting to spoil my morning wood, my first priority was the shortest distance to ejaculation. After a few moments of a basic fact finding mission, I determined that I was in some sort of retail establishment, probably a Wal-Mart-there were smiley faces hanging everywhere and Extreme’s More than Words soundtracking my life. I zigged, then zagged to Men’s Clothing where I pulled some made-in-China Superman-Underoos straight off the rack and covered my Christian Parts *, when I noticed it. Apparently I granted permission to a former prison tattoo artist to leave his mark on my temporarily distended six-pack with a semi-accurate portrayal of Snoopy going at it doggie style (of course, is there any other way?) with an unwilling bald-eagle. As I marveled at the obvious majestic beauty, I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of psychotropic bender could have granted such an obviously un-American spectacle. Oh but it is not for me to ponder, who am I to question the intentions of a free partisan (the tattoo artist)? I have, after-all, prided myself on being a conduit to others’ expressive freedoms. Now to the question: Do I have to tell my wife about this latest escapade? 
Living in the Moment 

Dear LitM, 
Are you kidding me? If after such a thoroughly corrupt existence, your wife doesn’t already know what a complete waste of chemicals she wed, now is not the time to shed light on your little hobbies. At the risk of positively reinforcing such dangerous behavior, she must surely know that when you lay down with dogs, you rise with fleas. The dog being you and the fleas being incurable sexually transmitted disease. One thing does escape me though. Did you ever get to beat-off? 
PS she will probably have some idea when she sees the tat…what an asshole 

*thanks Tyler Harp