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% .

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Late for Pro-Am, Furyk Is Ineligible for the Barclays

GREG MITCHELL/Associated Press
Jim Furyk, the sixth-ranked player in the world, took full responsibility for the cellphone fiasco.
11:57 a.m. | Updated

Looks like a typical day at the office for Jim “Fuck up” Furyk with another notch on the belt for the guy that has been a major disappointment for throngs of young, impressionable followers.

Asked how in the Hell he could possibly over-sleep for a job that most people would eagerly give their left nut to participate in, Furyk responded, “Look Greg, when we were in Vegas last November did I give you any shit when you accidentally killed that albino midget with my fairway wood?”. Well, this unbiased, unflappable reporter cannot be flapped, “Sure we can make it all about me but how do explain the simple fact that because you obviously require more beauty rest than most, you lost out on a chance at a million dollar purse?”

“Sure Greg, 1 million dollars right? How about the time you complained to me after shelling out a million dollars ordering the entire inventory of your wife’s experimental vegan-porn DVDs just to get it off the open market?” Furyk moaned.

He was starting to get on my nerves. I really should never have confided in someone with such a fucked up backswing. Furyk continued, “And how about explaining last night: crashing the Furyk man-cave at 4AM hopped up on God-knows-what Jonesing for a go at my 1977 Playboy pinball machine and you didn’t even freaking leave until you got the high score.”

I have to admit I must have blacked that one out (even though it happened like 6 hours ago). And though it probably explains his late wake up, it was still a low blow.

Okay, apparently my persistence was really bumming him out but this relentless reporter was not about to relent. After all, I owe you readers answers. “Jim, do you think maybe you can answer ONE simple question without projecting unto me?”

“Fine. What?” Furyk asked while removing his Johnny Walker cap to reveal a swastika I just now remembered Sharpie’ing to his oblong dome.

“Hey, can I borrow your car again tonight? I promised Jen that I would show her what the ceiling of the Trans-Am T-top looks like. Wacka wacka.”. While pantomiming thrusting and slapping motions for emphasis.

“Fuck you Greg, this interview is over!” he snarled.

“So, that’s a “no” then?” I was genuinely disappointed.

He tossed me the keys, “Nah, I can’t be a hater”.

Well, I can sucka!

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

I'll Sleep When I'm Dead

It’s come to the point where I spend every possible moment in repose. Once free from the shackles of nagging goals and objectives, I feel completely liberated and bereft of guilt for relegating myself to life on the sidelines. I think back to all the wasted hours of daydreaming about having dreams but knowing full well it was never getting any further. Sure, I’ve tried writing, procreating, and cupcake baking but feh, I get bored even thinking about such activities let alone actually participating. My laziness has gotten to such a shallow level of unproductiveness that recently my mother bought me some new software that had her link up my brain with electrodes wired directly to my computer. All I’m doing is thinking about this entry and BLAMMO, its here. I no longer even want to put in the sustained effort that it takes to masturbate. In my heyday, I could get the job done in less than 60 seconds, now I just don’t see the point about getting all excited. Or having to clean up. My ultimate hope is to be free of thought altogether and live in the moment of nothingness, kind of like transcendental meditation without all of the hassle of thinking about breathing. Yeah nothing, I can’t wait.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

My Road to Manhood

Unremarkable Canadian birth. Apparently fell out like a champ.

Peeing on the floor in school because I didn’t want to disrupt the flow of our charismatic, asthmatic Librarian.

Getting hosed for a 20 spot buying a pack of Players for my father. Subsequent ass-kicking followed.

Watching Darren practice his haftarah for his bar mitzvah and realizing religion is a sucker bet.

Watching Darren get close to a grand opening envelopes for said rite of passage.

Playing hockey like a pacifist until I got pissed, then playing like a school girl (style remains unchanged am told).

Move to Southern California: tanning, blondeing, further reinforcement of my inner pussified disposition.

First dance. Country-Western style (thank you Placerita). Hands were respectful, can’t say the same for my erection. Sorry Nicole.

First J. Toked enthusiatically with way too much lip contact. Seeds, stems, burnt fingers. Could not stop talking about how high I was. I think it lasted for 3 days.

First car. 1982 Fiat Strada. Baby blue, spacious 82 sq.ft. interior,12” tires, London Calling on loop. Purchased for $500 from father. Overpaid by at least 400. One day as I rounded a corner, the frame cleaved, transmission made a break for it.

1st-4th base, in field home-run. Is 30 seconds considered premature ejaculation? Found an agreeable, resourceful fellow camper at an Ojai summer camp and involuntary, spastic muscle movements ruined what could have easily been a decent orgasm. Sorry Michelle.

First car accident. Lotsa shrieking and exceptionally loud undesired metal readjustments to my 1978 Firebird. I think I blacked out. I’m sure it was my fault because most trees are inanimate (unless you count “growing” but that can hardly be to blame for our meeting).

First “real” girlfriend. Co-dependent, shallow, unrequited, Workers Playtime. Left spinning and drunk. Dinosaur Jr. Sorry Melissa.

Employment. Cubically, grey floors, grey walls, grey ceiling, grey feelings. Soul crushing, creativity depriving, ass-kissing, corrupted, unethical, un-environmental, foolishness.

Marriage, kids, mortgage, debt, debt, debt. At current rate, likely retirement scheduled for 2055. Sorry Jen.

Family, friends, alcohol thank god.

Saturday, August 7, 2010


By now, dear readers, you probably have a firmly pressed thumb upon my writing “style”: stream of consciousness + vulgarity - proof reading. My objective thus far has not been to educate nor to introduce. Maybe I have passed along some opinions, judgements and opinions (proof of lack of proof-reading) that have been relatable. I don’t know, nor do I give a shit. Assuming you have stuck with this paragraph so far, you would probably like me to arrive to some type of a point. Here it is: I have no taste in wine. I have tried to develop some type of palate but my tongue must be tone deaf. I have tried, how I have tried! I even spent some time caring, all to no avail. I have friends and family members that go on and on about bouquets, aromas, vintage, year, blah blah all tastes like horseshit. I know that food pairings are vital. Decanting: crucial. Glasses: kinda important. But nothing makes a difference. Everything takes like acescence. Only after forcing too much in does it even begin to taste consumable but at that point I could imbibe battery acid. I guess the only upside is that wine connoisseurs are pretentious fucking assholes.