Archive for March, 2011

Why When I Get Married My Wife Will Never Have Any Harmful Thoughts About Me

March 31, 2011

As stated before in my other blog I have flaws. We all do. A flaw of mine right at the moment is that I’m full ambien mode which means the points I make to be funny will be serious and the ones where I want you to take me seriously will be about kittens getting caught in  a picnic basket with expensive jellies and jams and mini cookie cracker things.

But to get this out of the way before I start saying things that really make no sense, I would make a great husband. I’m nice. I’m cozy and quiet but also up for fun and frisky. If I were to die suddenly you would be able to preserve your own much more important existence using only my now dead body. In fact, as I bring you into the honeymoon suite and lay you on the bed I slip a pamphlet explaining the ways to tay alive by eating your now dead husband. If I am to die. Which I don’t will be happening any time soon. But it’s good to be prepared. And let me say that the Keith Cook Book is made up of hundreds of usues of my body; from the edible aspects to being able to use me to go through the car pool lane on your way to work, to heating your home by using good old me. Hair burns well, and while it does have an offputting odor I come handy with various scents of your choosing to mask the smell of burning death.

But enough about the what if’s of the relatiosnhip. We’d go for walks. On a spring or summer day we could go paddleboating down at the ol’ lake and watch the ducks land and take off in their gracefulness. We could collect flowers and wonder what names we would give our children if we felt the need to bring beautiful children into this world. They would of course be beautiful because they came from you and I.

We would go on adventures around the world. Visit far off ports and dive in unchartered seas. We’d dine in lavish castles and go horseback riding through lush countrysides, stopping by local villages to purchase a tiny trinket or to pick up a native secret as to remember our time among these people. And when the day was done we would find comfort in our warm cozy home. And life would be lovely.

How could anyone kill someone in a situation like that? No hate could exist in a place like that. Only love. And love there would always be. Because we will worship the same God and have same skin color.*

*I’m kidding. Translucent isn’t really a color. More a…something else.

Why When I Get Married My Wife Will Murder Me

March 30, 2011

I’m not a bad guy. There’s no reason why anyone would really want me dead (besides the obvious reasons). When I’m with a woman I treat her with respect and for the most part I’m a good guy. Sure I’ll sometimes be a dick, but we all are at times. I maintain good hygene (that looks like I spelled it wrong but I’m not sure and I’m too lazy to check). I enjoy cuddling and I also enjoy Steel Magnolias. So you’re probably wondering why anyone would want to murder such a stunning marginally attractive guy. Well, here’s why.

Marriage is something that takes time. It’s kind of a big committment (even if it seems like less of one as time goes by). I really think that my wife will get bored with me. At the tender age of 35 (I’m actually 22) I already show the signs of dementia. I already repeat stories and start stories and finish them sometimes hours later. Usually interrupting a current story I’m telling. I’m pretty sure that by the time I reach the age of 43 (meaning 27, the coolest age to die) I’ll be muttering mathematical equations that have no basis in any reality that humans know. I’ll also be doing my rambling while wearing a reusable diaper (by choice of course).

There’s also little things that I do that will most likely make someone, even someone who loves me, want to butcher me in my slumber. For instance, I crack my knuckles a lot. I’m not sure why and until science definately tells me that this will cause me to have mutant ferrett paws I am not giving it up. I also bite my finger nails for no other reason than I hate them. I’m not sure why I hate them, but I do. Sitting there on my finger tips acting like they’re owed something. Just because some creator (God, a scientist, nature, Dolly Parton) decided that they should be there. Well I say no. And I will use my teeth to show my nails that I mean business.  I also have a habit of making my room unbearably cold. This means my window is wide open during the dead of winter and I have a box fan in the window blowing in snow and wintry sadness into my dwelling of sadness. While this cold is coming in  I am huddled in a ball under my covers. I imagine that one day, if my wife doesn’t kill me, I will be found frozen in my bed in the position. And there will be a mystery and my body will be sent to museums and I’ll be labeled an idiot for the having the fucking fan on full blast in below fucking zero weather.

Now these are just a few things that would possibly cause someone to poison my kashi bar at breakfast. There are more and if you’ve spent any time with me you probably know them. Some I’m not even aware of. 

There is an easy way to avoid this whole thing. I could simply not get married. That’s a very possible possibility. Lonliness has its attraction. For instance, that whole diaper thing seems like it would turn less heads in my home if I’m by myself (I’ll only keep the windows open on school days and will thus never have to buy candy for tricker treaters). But let’s be reasonable, loneliness sucks. And after the romantic  alcoholic tendencies and pre-Hemmingway head trauma it stops being nice. I’m 22 and already tired of it.

But hey, maybe you reading this could be the one to make that all go away. Sure, you’ll probably end up murdering me, but we can have a beach wedding if you want. And I’ll get you a ring that will turn your other fingers green. With envy that is.

God I’m loveable.

Rebecca Black (and why people who threaten others online are cowards)

March 23, 2011

Since the sassy 13 year old, Rebecca Black, blessed my ears with her wonderful song Friday I have been pretty much wishing that everyday was friday. I kind of want to say that I hate the song, but I’d be lying if I said that. Mostly because this is exactly what a pop song should be. It’s been stuck in my head for days and I really don’t think it’s going to out stay it’s welcome. But I don’t want to talk about the song and how it sends a shiver up my leg. I want to talk about the incredibly mean comments that poor Miss Black has had to endure all because she was in a music video that is less than stellar.

I’ve written before about people who call from a private number just to harass others and how the people who do this are just cowards and all around awful people. I take the same stance when looking at the youtube videos and the blogs and comments that Rebecca Black has received. If you’re taking your time to say despicable things over the internet and from the comfort of your bedroom, you should probably be punched really hard in the kidney.

It’s so easy for people to say things when they know that there are no repercussions for saying them. It’s easy to hide behind a screen and it automatically makes you a douche bag when you do. I never really understood some of the vitriol that people are able to pump out of their mouths (and fingers). I just don’t get why something so insignificant like a song by a 13 year old girl could cause someone to sit down and tell people how they wish that the 13 year old girl would die. It makes no sense to me. Usually I would count the inability to make sense of something up to my dumbness, but when it comes to this that’s not the case. It just doesn’t make sense to behave in this manner.

Now, it’s kind of hypocritical of me to say that people who do something as insignificant as litter the internet with thoughtgarbage (it’s a word I just made up) should get punched in the kidney. But there is a difference. I’m not wishing for death on anyone, just a bruise and a second thought. And when I’m writing about people in a negative light I tend to do it in  a light-hearted manner. I’m not vicious about it (except for the kidney thing). These people are vicious. They seem like they really care about what they’re saying. They really care about this song and music video.  This, for some reason, has really affected them. Something I really can’t grasp.

So I guess the moral of all of this is that you should think twice before you say hurtful things about things that don’t really matter. If you don’t you may get punched in the kidney. Or no one will like you because you’re mean. Or even worse, that guy from the Rebecca Black music video (who apparently likes to party with really young girls) will find you and make you regret the day you were born. Don’t let his silly sway dancing fool you. He’s one tough mother fucker.

Why You Should Never Give Your Number Out On the Internet

March 22, 2011

Yesterday (meaning Sunday even though it’s technically Monday because as I write this it’s Tuesday) my attention was grabbed by a commercial where a female is singing about a website that helps you find colleges. I’m not really sure why I was looking for colleges since I don’t have a desire to go to one at the moment, but a free matching service seemed to appeal to me (for the record, it’s sad that I have completely forgotten what the site I used is. It’s been a day and I’ve forgotten. I suck). So I go to the site that I can’t remember and fill out a rather broad questionaire. So I answer these questions and then give my email and phone number and hit submit. As I was doing it I knew that I would regret it, and how right I was.

The next day I was awoken by my cell phone buzzing violently by my side. The number was one I didn’t recognize (the area code was 600 or something odd like that) and I decided to let it ring instead of dealing with whatever. The call stopped and I went back to bed. 10 minutes later I got another call from a number with another strange area code. I did the same thing and went back to bed. 5 minutes following that I got another call from another number with an even stranger area code. Being a creature of habit I proceeded to let it ring and went back to sleep. Again. Well, the calls kept on coming and it was just awful.

See, I’m used to never getting calls. Really. My phone is pretty much quiet all of the time. This sort of sounds depressing but it’s really not. When a person gets phone calls they are being bothered. Sure being bothered feels good when the people who are bothering you are not a bother in your mind. But if it’s between having my phone ring all the time or my phone never ringing, I might have to go with the latter. Sure feeling lonely sucks, but so does never feeling like you’re alone.

Anyway, I keep on getting these calls from God knows who and I’m just wishing that I never gave out my number. I don’t want to take online classes or try to fix my non-existant credit or become a nurse or get a better auto-insurance rate. I’d rather my sleep not be disturbed. I’d rather you not interupt me while I’m watching the television. Or when I’m reading a book.

That’s the problem with telemarketers. They just don’t understand the joy that being a recluse brings.

My Dream of Airheads and the Purchasing of Them for Another

March 22, 2011

So I had a dream the other night. It was a simple dream. In it I went to a convience store (that sort of looked like a a rest stop I went to in Ireland) and found myself walking around the large ‘U’ shaped counter and admiring all the candy that was beeing sold in the bins that surrunded the bottom half of the counter. I was amazed when I saw that there were several different flavors of airheads. Of course I know that there were multiple flavors of the delicious treat, but there were some flavors that were only reserved for the realm of sleep. For instae, take the banana flavor that I saw in my dream. This doesn’t exist and I’m not sure why. The bright yellow wrapping and the punch of banana flavor was simply wonderful. Which is why it was in my dream, because sometimes the best things in life are only capable of being in a dream.

But that wasn’t the end of my dream. Being the kind person I am (especially in dreams) I decided to buy some airheads for some female. I don’t know who this female was, but I’m sure that she was pretty awesome if I was willing to spend my dream dollars on several fist-fulls of airheads for her. In fairness to the dream girl she did try to give me money for the candy but I brushed her kindness off and motioned to her that it was on me. So I bought the airheads and as I was leaving the corner store I woke up.

This bothered me. It was a good dream. As of late I’ve been having a string of bad or mundane dreams. They’ve either been depressing or they’ve been boring. Just extensions of my waking life. I prefer them to the dreams that just bum me out, but some cool dreams where things that could never happen in the real world happen would be nice too (I guess I think that they’ll never be a situation where I buy airheads for a female).

The other reason I was bummed out that the dream ended was that I wanted to see what happened next. Was this airhead loving girl the girl I was destined to meet? Was I to discover that true love is best represented by a taffy-like candy? Was I about to discover some hidden meaning of life? Would I find out that I should open a candy store? Or that the best way to achieve love is to bribe others with airheads? I’ll never know. Because I woke up. Which sort of sucks. Especially when you wake up to an empty bed with no airheads near by.

Nothing To Write About (so let’s quickly talk about Japan)

March 15, 2011

I’m not sure why exactly, but it feels as if the creative side of my mind has decided to shut down as of late. To me this is a troubling thing and to you it’s probably not a matter of concern. But considering that I have a blog and I like to write I should probably just try to write and not bother with if it’s any good (when I have something to write about it’s never any good anyway).

The sad thing to me is that there is plenty of things I want to talk/write about. To be honest, I just don’t know what to say about them. It’s been a troubling time in the world (with the earthquakes and ensuing tsunami and nuclear catostrophe and muppet looking dictators killing his own people while wearing a dress) and I don’t have anything new to add to the conversation. It’s as if everything that could be said has been said. With that being said I’ll do my best to add something to everything.

I find it interesting that a few days after I wrote about how earth is equivalent to a woman on the rag, the world saw the horrific images of towns being destroyed in a matter of seconds. It looked like a scene from disaster flicks and it gave you the feeling of the world being on the brink of the end. Especially after we learned about the nuclear plants in Japan failing. It certainly is scary stuff. But ya know what? We’re still here. And we’re going to be for a long time.

If anything, seeing the destruction of Japanese cities made me feel even stronger in my belief that this world won’t end. We go through awful events and we always have. The main difference is that in the past you didn’t have footage of people dying in real time. We didn’t have the luxury to go online and google Japan earthquake. Now we do. We see everything and seeing things can really suck.

But there’s a plus side to seeing things, too. I don’t know about you, but watching cars been swept away in flood waters makes me sort of value life a little bit more. It makes me think that if the world can gobble me up just because it’s grumpy or some shit, I might as well go down smiling. And that’s hard to do. Because smiling can also really suck, especially when you think about all the people who can’t smile anymore. We can get caught up in things that don’t really matter. Or things that matter but won’t be solved by simply brooding.

I hope if anything good comes from this disaster it’s that we as people will start focusing on all those things that we sometimes forget about. Whether that means treating yourself to a good meal, telling someone you love them, or masturbating furiously (I feel like all of those things are tied together somehow). Unfortunately, I know that these thoughts of what really matters in life will fade. Sooner than later probably. We’ll all go back to the way we were and wait for another harrowing event to get us to remember it again. Soon we’ll all go back to skipping meals to get work done, or tell someone we love them but only out of habit, and our bodies will tell us to slow down a bit (we’ll respond to that by saying “no”). And life will go on like it always does.

Because that’s just the way things tend to go.

The World Will Never End

March 9, 2011

Doesn’t that suck?

Through out history, people have always talked about how the world was ending. In my short life, we’ve gone (or are going through) 3 large end of the world pandemics. The first being the thought that the end would come in 1994 (wrong), the Y2K scare in 2000 (wrong), and the Mayan apocalypse set to take place in 2012 (it’ll be wrong).

Whether you believe in a God or not, it is widely assumed that one day the earth will end and humanity will cease to be. This is reported to be a fact by science. Well, I say that science in this case is lying. There is no proof that the world will end. Ever. And why is this? Because the earth hates you.

Look, it’s nothing personal. It’s just that the world is constantly churning out new ways to make sure you die no matter where you are. It doesn’t care what you’ve done with your life and how many people you’ve helped, it jsut cares that you’re here. And it hates that you are.

This is partially why I am all for mankind destroying the earth through pollution. No one has ever been able to take down the mighty world, but maybe we can. And all we have to do is drive gas guzzling smoke fuming cars and throwing our trash in rivers.

But you know what? Eve if we do all these things to the planet, we’re still going to be hanging around on this ball floating in the vast universe. We can’t destory the earth and the earth won’t destroy us and it’s things like that which cause depression among people. We should stop pretending that we are large enough to destroy the planet and that we are small enough to fade into nothing. We’re neither large nor small; we’re just average. And this awful place is stringing us along just for it’s amusement.

While I usually respect and agree with people who are loosely associated with Legends of the Hidden Temple (meaning Olmec), I just can’t get into the Mayan belief that the world will end on the 21st of December, 2012.  I also don’t think there will be any amazing positive change. It’ll just be a day full of nothing and everything, like ever other day.

So rest your worried hearts those of you are worried about the impending apocalypse, it’s not going to happen. And for those of you eagerly awaiting this world to go ka-boom, you’re out of luck. We’ll go on with all our stupidity for ever. So in the end, which never comes, mankind and the planet are tied. Better luck next time, I suppose.

Charlie Sheen and the Emptiness Within Emptiness Which Is Ultimately Something Troll’s Can Only Dream Of

March 8, 2011

The other day I was doing an online radio show with everyone’s favorite strung out star, Carlos Estevez, when Bree Olson (google image search her name and be saddened to know she lied to you about you being her first) came into the room with a bottle of thick red liquid. I asked what was in the bottle and Charlie Sheen proceeded to tell me that it’s easy for him to win. That clearly didn’t answer my question, but I just went with it. After all, me and Charlie have a lot in common.

For starters, we’re both unemployed; addicted to drugs (him cocaine and me love), and full of some undesirable desire to continue to speak when we have nothing really to say.

Now, I know that you’re going to tell me that Mr. Sheen has plenty to drone on about. He’s living with two former adult film stars (which sort of seems excessive), is a millionaire (and can blow money on drugs), portrayed everyone’s late 80’s hero Rick Vaughn (the best performance ever on film), and is related to the coach of the Mighty Ducks. But there comes a point where you become a parody of yourself and I’m afrain Sheen will soon wear out his welcome (kind of how Napoleon Dynamite wasn’t as funny with everyone in every high school class quoting it).

How can anyone be winning so much in life you wonder? Well it comes down to that red liquid that was brought to Sheen: tiger blood. Tigers are beautiful creatures that are known for their striped coats and Detroit snarl. That’s pretty much all they have going for them. Which kind of makes me wonder why Sheen is drinking their blood. I assume it’s because 3 species of tiger are extinct and the other 6 are endangered. This means that by murdering tigers and drinking their blood you become really fucking cool. It’s true.

The other upside of drinking the blood of a tiger is that it gives you a sense of purpose even if you don’t really have one. The research I’ve conducted (which includes a 20 year blind study with tigers and baby pandas who drink the tiger’s blood) shows that the void of everyday life can be filled by the ingestion of tiger blood. It could be only the sense of being full since tiger blood is full of nutrients that a person needs, or it could be because of something entirely else.

See, when a person feels that they’re life is empty they turn to various things in order to fill that gap. The thing that we have learned by watching Charlie Sheen fall apart is that when we turn to something to give us a sense of purpose can lead us to realize that the very thing we have clung to feels cheap. It’s kind of the idea that we as human beings always want more. We want what is just out of a reach. It drives us along, sure, but it also can make you sit by yourself and feel even more empty. The realization that all that you’re doing is trying to compensate with the lack of something else is a frightening experience. Sheen is simply doing a lot of the things he is doing right now because of 1) his drug abuse, and 2) his kicking of the drugs. Now that he is no longer (if you believe that he is in fact clean) doing lines of coke, he needs to fill that void with his awful web shows and constantly putting himself out into the media’s eye by saying the things that he says.

So in a way he is showing us that the emptiness within the emptiness you’re feeling is what breeds winning. The equation looks like this: CIE + SIE2 / TB = W (cocaine induced emptiness plus sober induced emptiness divided by tiger blood equals winning).

Now the trolls that Sheen has taken as his mortal enemy could never understand what he is saying because they do not drink tiger blood. The drink the urine of a house cat. Apparently this doesn’t give you the same super hero abilities that tiger blood can. The trolls have tried tiger blood on a few occasions. They found it to be not nearly as good as house cat pee. Sheen snapped when he learned about this. In his mind he can’t understand why anyone wouldn’t want to live his bi-winning life style. Sheen is a God from greek times where Zeuss would turn into a goat just sleep with the maiden of his choosing (I hope he at least changed back to a God before having sex). Why a llowely troll wouldn’t want this glory is beyond him. It’s a swipe at him and Charlie doesn’t take swipes very well. Unless he’s swipping a card for some cigarattes and chopping up some fine Columbian direct cocaine.

Personally, I’m glad the trolls aren’t jumping into his life style. I just don’t think they could. He’s a God, them a meager troll. Would never work out right. Never.

My Picnic With Justin Bieber* (*)

March 7, 2011

I first want to point out that the age of consent in New Jersey is 16. I would also like to point out that me and bieb machine (my nickname for him) have only traded baseball cards and eaten freshly prepared sloppy joes in a dimly lit warehouse in Fairfield New Jersey. I would also like to say that Selena Gomez was welcome to come along for the fun, but as the bieb machine knows, no girls allowed.

So anyway, I was sitting at home flipping through Jean Racine’s Phedre and my phone vibrated. I looked and saw that it was the bieb cat (my other nickname for him). He wanted to know if I wanted to go out and play off the wall down at the school in my town. I told him I had to ask my parents. He said, cool. So I went to go ask but my parents weren’t there! So I thought I’m going to go and play off the wall with Bieber and and just tell my folks about it later. So I texted him and said that I would be there in 10 minutes. He said, cool.

So I get to the school and realized my phone was ringing. Sure enough it was beaver bieber (another nickname for him). So I answer the phone and he tells me that he’s at the old abandoned warehouse. I asked why. He said, cool. So I decide to go over to the old abandoned warehouse which used to be a Sears and meet up with my young friend.

I get there and take off my vintage Cosby themed sweater and notice that Jeffrey Ross Jr. (my other nickname for him) is busy slapping sloppy meat on hamburger rolls. To be quite candid, the prepared ground beef smelled wonderful and I was more than happy to accept the freshly made sandwhich. This is when things got kind of weird. JRjr took out a little plastic sandwhich bag that had some little pieces of paper in it. He asked me if I wanted to be cool. Of course I said yes. I mean, when the king of cool (Robert Frost) offers you drugs, you accept. I figured that Bieber, while not nearly as cool as Frost, is considered quite cool (and dreamy) by teenage girls and therefore I would be col and dreamy too if I went along with his growing up.

So we put the tabs underneath our tongues and hung out for awhile talking about what we want to be when we got older (him a dog trainer and me dead). Then the walls started to move and we started to giggle and we listened to Tom Petty and just couldn’t believe how much the music made us feel significant. After listening to Tom Petty for awhile while looking at some art work by Tool band member Adam Jones, bieb beetle (my other nickname for him) pulled out a handheld mirror. We went our separate ways and looked into the mirror for a little bit, to see our true selves or something like that. When I looked into the mirror I saw my face turn into a bowl of tapioca pudding and within the pudding the face of Bill Maher being punched by a big fisted Winston Churchill.

I’m not sure what Justin saw when he looked into the mirror at himself (probably something cool), but when he looked at me I guess he saw Selena Gomez cause he tried to kiss me. It was right after he tried this that I told him I had to go. He looked sad and asked me not to tell anyone about our little adventure. I told him I wouldn’t and gave him the finger and giggled.

All in all, it was a pretty fun time. That JB is an alright guy if you take him for what he is: a drug taking, gay teenage heart throb.

* I hope that my blog gets more attention seeing that I’m slandering the name of a famous person.

(*) Miley Cyrus playing Justin Bieber on SNL is hot. I’m not sure if my infatuation comes from the oddly feminine features of Justin Bieber, or the delightfuly feminine features of Miley Cyrus.

A Question From A Concerned Parent

March 2, 2011

While doing one of my rounds of clinical duty at the local VFW lounge and rib shack, a parent with a small child, not yet old enough to drive yet old enough to out drink me, cornered me and complimented me on my dapper appearance. I was wearing my classic Laurel and Hardy trousers that I bought off of the probably gay duo of American Pickers. I thanked her for the kind words and saw her eyes grow sad. This is when she told me of the problem with her adorable baby child. He was perfectly healthy, but had developed what could only be described as “furry feet”. She asked me if she should be concerned. I gave her the answer in the back of a friends Honda Accord, but I’ll give you the answer here in a much more professional manner which doesn’t involve masking tape and my sweet tears.

Furry feet is a very dangerous ailment to have. It is believed to be caused by the disgusting cross breeding of Hobbit and common city folk from the rural north woods of lower East Orange New Jersey. Now, the idea of having hairy feet doesn’t seem like much of a problem at first, but it can become one. The only reason human beings have hair is due to evolutionary traits that have happened to keep us warm during cold weather. A small child with a small brain will no doubt run out into blizzard conditions with their furry feet and feel warm. Their stupid baby brains won’t realize that their feet are only warm because of the offputting fur on their feet. This will lead them to run and play in snowbanks and eventualy freeze to death. There bodies will be ruined yet their feet great for the lining of a coat.

So if you see that your child has furry feet please take them to your local butcher right away. They’ll know what to do. The jar of pickles will cost extra, of course.