Invisible online and offline.

"If I can't be beautiful, I want to be invisible."- Chuck Palahniuk.
 
It is odd to hear friends away from the computer call me "hurl".  It is weird when someone I've known for twenty years comment my wall and call me "hurl".  I simply chose the name "hurl" online because the former stoner side of me is still paranoid and is not comfortable having my real name associated with my own words and pictures on the internet.... because once you post something online, that post, those words, those pictures live on forever.

I look at Facebook like I look at my seventh grade yearbook.  Sure, at the time, it was fun to hear your friends wish you a great summer.  Certainly, it's funny to look back and see how goofy you looked back then.  Of course, it's fun to open that yearbook and show the woman you currently love the picture of the girl who first taught you to appreciate breasts.

Yearbooks are fun.  But the best part is once you are done reminiscing, you can throw the yearbook into an old box; you have the ability to pick and choose who gets to see that awkward year of your existence.

With the internet, we are not afforded that luxury.  If we choose to use our real name, everything we say and do is forever the property of everyone.

I had to laugh last week when some crazy internet person claimed I hide behind a fake profile.  It's this debate that should be fodder for philosophy college courses.

I thought about this accusation.  "Am I hiding behind a fake profile just because I don't use my real full name?"

I don't believe so.  I am exactly who I am on here as I am in real life.  The only difference is I choose not to use my real name.  My former pot smoking paranoid self would prefer the government believe that someone named "Hurl Ramone" hates them and not (insert real name).  Hell, I would prefer my future wife not find some blog I wrote years ago about another woman and then have to listen to her whine that I may have used the same words on her as I did someone else.

Maybe I am just hyperanalyzing.

My favorite accusation came awhile back when a clearly insane individual claimed I don't post pictures on here because I must be extremely ugly.  It's fascinating to hear a man in his 40's wonder if I am attractive.

I could have defended myself and relayed my concerns with giving out too much personal information on the internet.  I could have told him that my vanity is reserved for the one woman I love.  I could have overreacted.

Instead, I just agreed with him.... "Yes, because I don't post current pictures, it means I am extremely disfigured.  And yes, the reason I don't use my real name is because my past is checkered with felonies and worldwide espionage."

But really, this isn't about this ridiculous debate of what constitutes a fake profile.

It's about feeling invisible.

I read this status from a "friend" last night.  Her cancer is back.  She's having financial problems and is also unable to get healthcare.   What interested me most about her status was the obvious hopelessness she was dealing with at that moment and her desperate plea to be heard.

From my vantage point, it appeared she was screaming to be heard.  She desperately needed some comfort at that moment.

As the hours passed, I, like everyone else, said nothing.

I am selective in my sympathy not with my empathy.  I felt terrible for her but couldn't pull myself to say something.

In seventh grade, when a classmate asked me to write in their yearbook; if they weren't really someone I considered a close friend, I would be courteous and just scribble, "Have a great summer".  I wouldn't dare tell them what a great friend they are or how much I care about them.  In my mind, it makes the words I tell my true friends less meaningful.

I live my online life the same way.

I live my real life the same way.

But I couldn't stop the empathetic side of me.  I know she was feeling invisible at that moment.

When one knows what it's like to feel invisible, that person will tend to always recognize it when someone else is feeling the same way.

It might be the worst feeling in the world to feel invisible.  To speak and not be heard or to be heard but not listened to or listened to but not acknowledged.

All of our feelings and thoughts matter.  When we are at our most vulnerable moments, those are the moments we should be taken the most seriously; especially by those we believe love and care for us.

My favorite moment on Myspace occurred after I poorly executed a blog on beauty.  It was one of those cliched "beauty is in the eye of the beholder" blogs.

After writing it, this 17 year old girl wrote me a message.  She told me how much it made her cry.  She spoke about how she walks the halls of her high school and always stares down.  She told me that she always thinks about suicide because she believes she is ugly.  Seeing how beautiful everyone around her was made her feel invisible.

My words of encouragement were few but I said what I believed to be true at the time.

It was one of the best conversations I've ever had online. It was also the most humbling experience I've had on the computer.

That word "invisible" was striking as she used it.

We came to a mutual understanding that this feeling of being invisible is not reserved for those who may look different.  It's a universal feeling...

The so-called beautiful people complain about feeling invisible because noone takes a moment to actually get to know them as people.  The so-called unattractive complain because they don't get attention because visually they aren't as appealing.

I know the power of not feeling significant or worthy.
Everyone can relate to feeling invisible.

After that long conversation with that 17 year old girl, I did not hear again from her until a year and a half later.

She wrote me a small message which read, "I met the love of my life.  He treats me so well and always tells me I am beautiful.  He proposed to me and we are getting married this summer."

A little confidence goes a long way and so does positive reinforcement.

My response to her was....

"Congratulations.  Have a great summer."

I meant it.

Lessons from an Unwanted Dog

It’s been a long time since I’ve been to the pound.  Like most people, I avoid this place because I cannot handle looking at the faces of all of the unwanted dogs.

Last time, I was there was probably 15 years ago or so.  I remember the day clearly.  It was the day I bought my last dog; a black lab, I named, Buddy.

As I was walking the aisles of the shelter, dogs were whimpering; some were barking and some were just laying in their cages with that “I have given up” look on their faces.  It was truly heartbreaking.

Like any soon to be dog owner, I had a specific type of dog in mind:  I wanted a puppy.  It had to be cute.  And it was NOT going to be a small ankle biter dog.

Eventually, my search led me to Buddy; who ended up being the most unique best friend in my life for 9 years.  

Buddy and I instantly connected.  I knew the very second I placed my hand on his head that I was intended to be in his life.  That dog made certain I would not reject him.  When released from his cage to meet his possible new owner, he sat politely at my feet and licked my hand.  When I bent down to pet his soft head, he calmly stood up and jumped; staring at me with that “please take me home” look in his eyes.

He won me over.

On the ride home, he sat in the front seat next to me; just staring at me in awe as if I was his Savior.  Little did he know, that the relationship we would quickly form would evolve into him becoming my Savior.

For 9 years, Buddy was diligent in his job to be loyal and consistent in his affection for me.
I learned so much from that dog from the moment I saved him from the most certain cruelest of fate that becomes of all of the other unwanted animals in those shelters to that most agonizing moment when I carried him into the vet’s office to be administered that final needle to spare him the pain that cancer was ravishing on his frail body.

He was three months old when I bought him.   In a span of 9 years, he went from being an unwanted puppy into a dog that I would have given my life for.


A lot of us are struggling with a few things in our lives.   Sometimes, we feel like an unwanted dog sitting in a cage at the pound; just hoping someone will take a chance on us.  We are full of confidence but the cold reality, sometimes sets in… that not all of us get exactly what we want.

The beautiful part of life is when we meet the person we are intended to be with.  There’s a beauty in the equality of two people who simply care about the other.

No person ought to be our Savior or treated as such.  Our happiness can never be dependent on another human.  But it happens.

It happens because sometimes meeting that intended person is like filling in that last piece of a puzzle that took you years to solve.  There’s a sense of relief that we do have a purpose and we are indeed wanted. And there’s a sense of profound loss when that puzzle is knocked over and those pieces become displaced.

No one should ever feel unwanted.  Rejection is a bitter pill.

Lucky for us, rejection does not lead us into a dark room being laid on a cold sheet of metal with a needle being injected into our arms so we can be disposed of.

We should always fight to live.  We should stare down every single person who walks by us and chooses not to accept us.  We should bark like those unwanted dogs at the pound;  even whimper just so we are noticed.

And sometimes, we may lay in the corner of our cage with that “I have given up” look.

But at the end of the day, we should fight to be loved. 

Life is so fucking short.  We should not waste a single day without trying to complete this unsolved puzzle known as our lives.
  
When the day comes and our bodies are too weak to continue on, I hope we all exit this life with no regrets.

And those are the lessons I learned from the once "unwanted" dog I came to know and love, named Buddy.
 

Grocery Shopping Tips‏

Last week, I made a trip to the local grocery store.  Because my refrigerator was completely empty, it was time for me to stock up.

I admit I suck at shopping.  I have no idea how to use coupons.  When the bag lady asks me "paper or plastic", I always think it's a trick question.  In fact, when asked if I prefer paper or plastic, I always stutter and it takes me about 2 minutes to decide.

*Quick thoughts that go through my head when asked the paper or plastic question:
Plastic supposedly pissed Al Gore off and kills polar bears.
Paper kills trees.
Plastic is easier to carry.
Paper bags are traditional.
Anyway, shopping is confusing to me.  I have no clue what is a good price.  I never even look at the prices. 

So, last week at my grocery store, I was standing in the frozen food aisle grabbing a box of bagel dogs when all of a sudden, I heard some young woman start laughing.

I looked next to me and a fairly attractive girl was laughing and she says, "Obviously, you are a bachelor."

"Why do you say that?" I replied.

"I can tell by everything in your cart that you have no idea how to cook, eat or shop".

For the duration of the 30 minutes of my grocery shopping, little Miss Know it All followed me around the store; being entertained by my lack of shopping skills.

By the end of my grocery shopping activities, I had the last laugh.  Little Miss Grocery Store Whore was taught by me exactly how to shop.  I will share my tips here:

1.  Shampoo:  Do you know how women will see their man watching a football game and start rooting for the team with the prettiest uniforms?  That's how, I shop for shampoo.  I buy the prettiest bottle I see.  Most of the time, it's a green or purple bottle.  And don't ask me the name brand because I have no clue.

2.  Beverages:  I always stock up on Pepsi, Orange Juice, Milk, Hawaiian Punch and for good measure, I usually throw in a nice $3.00 bottle of wine or tequila.

3.  Things I never buy:  Condoms and vegetables.  And I know they go hand in hand because I've seen those sex education teachers put condoms on bananas.  And yes, I know bananas are fruit so I avoid those, too.

4.  Crackers and Ketchup:  Because everything I eat involves one or the other, I always keep my house stocked up on these.

5.  Nutritious Foods:  Obviously, it's important I don't just eat red meat.  So, I always make sure I have fish sticks and microwavable chicken nuggets in the house.

6.  Dessert:  No meal is complete without an after dinner treat.  Starbursts, Red Vines and of course, cheetos are always on the shopping list.

7.  Bread:  I never resist one of those fresh bricks of french bread straight out of the oven in the bakery section.  The only problem with the bread is it is rock hard within 24 hours.

8.  Exotic Foods:  I do like being culturally aware of other foods.  So, I usually buy a pack of frozen chimichangas to appease my mexican side.  Also, I usually buy those Pepperoni Hot Pockets for my Italian tastes.

9.  Meat:  Most of my shopping time is spent in the meat section.  I always buy ground beef, brats, lunch meat and steaks.

10.  2:00 a.m.:  Usually, I try to do my grocery shopping after midnight to avoid crowds and overly concerned grocery store whores like the one I met last week.   

Most of my shopping is done at the local grocery store depending on my mood.  Also, I do some of my shopping at Costco because they sell giant bags of Starbursts and a pack of 60 razors.

You're welcome.

 

Good Father

One day during my lunch break, I sat in the drive thru of a nearby Burger King.  I was just minding my own business; waiting my turn to order something.

Something changed my life that very moment.
 
In front of me in that drive thru was a brand new Rolls Royce; probably the only one I have ever seen in person.  It's quite a thing to see a Rolls Royce in a fast food drive thru.  

What really caught my eyes on this brand new $200,000 car was its' bumper sticker. 

"Why would any man tarnish a car like that with a bumper sicker?  Most men treat their cars better than their women."  I had many thoughts in those brief few seconds before I actually read the words on that misplaced car decal.

Then, I read it.  Then, I couldn't help but choke up.
My daughter was killed by a drunk driver!

Those were the words.  Believe it or not.  It changed my misinformed opinions on what makes a man.

All vanity aside.  With no regards to that Mona Lisa of a car he was driving.  Nothing but love.  Love and anger.  All spelled out for the rest of us "less fortunate" ones to read.

This man wasn't looking for pity from those of us who had adoration and envy in our eyes because of what he was driving.  This man wanted us to know that this prized possession of his; meant nothing to him compared to the love of the daughter he lost.

That's how I saw it.

I was witnessing that great love that only daughters and good fathers speak of.

That's how I saw it.
 
See, I hate my dad.  I never knew him, never met him; didn't learn anything about him until a few years ago.  I hate him for who he wasn't.  A good father.  One who loved me; thought about me or was there for me.

But see, I also love my dad.  I am better off now than I would be if I had been raised by the man he is.  I love him for who he was.  A selfish father.  One who believed drinking and beating women would pave a better future for me.  A father whose genetic code is so vile and nasty that my own DNA has rejected all that he stood for.  I love that man for leaving and never returning.

I used to want a boy when it came time for me to be a dad.  I wanted to be who I never got to know.  Baseball, fishing, talking about girls, learning to pee standing up; with him applauding me as I succeed, watching sports with, discussing politics and God... it's how I imagine a good father to be.

I used to want a boy like me. 

I think it was that day at Burger King when I decided I want a girl.  Maybe, it happened recently after looking over my real life friends list and realizing that most of the women in my life came from a broken home.  Or maybe it was a combination of that bumper sticker and the hundreds of conversations I've had with women who grew up abused or abandoned or touched inappropriately.

Maybe it's because the woman I love admires her father so much and his finger prints are all over her; marked in kindness, strength and love.  Maybe I envision my daughter having her eyes and smile.

Maybe, it's because I was a handful as a boy and a girl would be an easier challenge.

Or maybe, it's just because I have a narcissistic need to be Superman and protect those who need protection the most.

Maybe, it's all of the above.  But I want a daughter.

Or a son.

I do believe the greatest acheivement in life for a man is to be a good father.

Drunk Blog about Gay Kids

So, my friend, who is a single mother, has a son.  She is concerned he might be gay.  He's six.

Yesterday, she asked me to ask my gay friend when he knew he was gay.  She's not worried because she equates gay with abnormal.  She is just concerned that she might be smothering the boy or making him into something he's not.

She wants to reassure him that if he is gay or ends up discovering his gayness later in life that he still is loved.

Now, first of all, he's a good kid.  A normal boy.

Because I was raised by a single mom without any real positive male influences, she figured I would be an expert on gay kids or at least, some ideas on what single parent boys need.

So, I obliged.  I spoke to my gay adult friend and then shared with her my opinion on such gay matters.

Her son.  He whines a lot.  He only wears skinny jeans and has a passion for pink socks.  His latest request is for mommy to buy him some tight T-shirts.  Let me remind you that he is six years old.  A bit eccentric.  A bit gay.  A bit of a boy who just wants to fit in.

But mom is concerned.  She wants to be prepared in case he does wake up one day and finds himself wanting to play Annie on Broadway.  (because i am straight i know nothing about broadway so I will stick to the Annie reference).

So, I ask my adult gay friend the infamous question:  "When did you know you were gay?"

He replies, "At five, I knew I was different.  Around ten, I knew I liked boys and not girls."

So, I relayed this information to said mom of the alleged gay son.

Mom then asked, "What do you remember as a kid that set you apart from other boys?"

My gay adult friend replied, "Well, I used to LOVE to brush my mom's hair and pick out her clothes to wear."

Said mom of alleged gay son, "Shit!"

Apparently, her son has a lot in common with gay adult friend of mine.  As far as childhood goes.

Let me remind you that her son is a good kid.  She's a FABULOUS mom.  She just wants to make sure she is being a good mom and reassures her alleged gay kid that normal is relative and that she will love him always.

So, as I always do when asked for advice, I draw on personal experience.  As an awkward and confused kid at 12, I wrote Dear Abby.  The letter, I am paraphrasing, went as follows:

Dear Abby,

I am a 12 year old kid without a dad.  I like girls.  But because I don't have a dad and only have a mom, will I be gay?

Signed,
Potentially Gay

She answered me:

Dear Potentially Gay in Arizona,
Statistics show that boys who grow up without dads do tend to grow up gayer than those boys with two parents.  But don't worry, homo, it's no big deal.

Signed,
Abby.

Anyway, because I liked girls I wasn't too worried.  But still, I was afraid I might grow up "abnormal" and end up liking boys instead.

Turns out I didn't.

A lot has changed since back then.  Fag used to be okay to say.  Now, it's considered offensive.  Gays were nothing more than a small minority group.  They were ostracized but considered fascinating.... until you started to actually think about gay sex.  Lesbians, even the hot ones, were considered just as "abnormal".

A lot has changed in society.  Gay is just as fine as being mexican or black.

I don't really know if her kid is gay or will end up gay.  I don't even think it matters nor does she.

I couldn't tell you with full conviction if you are born gay or not.  I'm thinking, you most likely are, but I really don't know.

What I do know is that pink socks are tacky.  Skinny jeans are gay.  And brushing your mom's hair seems boring.

Cougars, Pigs and Dogs. Oh My.‏

I get home from work, turn my computer on and this is the first thing I see:

I was shocked when I read the accompanying article.  I was expecting to read about some poor peasant lady who works overtime as the maid at the local Motel 6 and how she recently won the lottery.  It turns out this lady is actually a world famous pop star named Mariah Carey.

Who knew famous people sometimes go without makeup?

As I read this article, I later learned that this 40 year old pop singer is married to a 27 year old actor who is famous for being on Nickelodeon back when he was in his teens.

In our contemporary society, women like her are known as "cougars".

Being an avid watcher of the Animal Planet, I have never quite understood why older women who chase younger men are called cougars.  Sure, cougars are stealthy cats who surprise their prey prior to attacking them and killing them.  But there is nothing stealthy about a desperate older woman chasing a younger man.

In fact, no one is more obvious than a needy older woman in search for her fountain of youth by chasing someone half her age.

And why do women who chase younger men get called one of the animal kingdom's most prolific hunters while older men who chase younger women get called one of the animal kingdom's most notorious slobs?

Women are cougars and men are pigs.

Not fair.

Ironically, it is the older women who are calling the older men who chase younger women, pigs.

Not fair, again.



Anyway, I don't really care about the dating habits of people.

But I do care about the animals and their dating habits.

My last dog, Buddy, lived 9 years; that is 63 years in people time.  He died a virgin. 

The closest he got to getting laid was the one time, he attempted to make sweet love to my leg.  The reason he did not succeed is because he went about it all wrong.

There I was standing in the kitchen making some delicious Hamburger Helper.  He was sitting by my side, drooling and waiting for me to drop something.

Then, out of the blue, he jumped on my leg and started humping it.

He didn't bother to lick my leg to get it in the mood.  No compliments on how firm my leg was looking.  No flowers. 

He just impulsively jumped on my leg and started to hump it.

He was stealthy; kind of like a cougar.

Which gets me thinking; wouldn't a rapist be more of a cougar than some horny older woman?

Within 5 seconds, I pushed him off my leg and scolded him.  He whimpered and walked slowly into the living room, with his tail between his legs.

Never again did Buddy try to have sex with my leg.

I really have no point. 

Women, date who you want to date and let men date who they want to date without you taking it personal.


 

What Congress works Hard On

A bill has been introduced into Congress to ban TV commercials for Viagra and other boner pills between the hours of 6:00 a.m and 10:00 p.m.

In other words, Congress hates boners.

My first reaction to Congress's latest attempt to put more government control in our lives was WHAT THE FUCK?  Why does Congress not want the bonerless to become bonerable? 

Old people are in bed by 10:00 p.m.  What would be the point of airing Viagra commercials after that hour? 

Personally, I don't start watching TV until late at night.  The last thing I want is the image of two old people having sex.  Because the Pharmaceutical company that makes Viagra would be forced to only air commercials after 10:00, it is safe to assume that boner ads would rule the airwaves during MY prime time viewing.

But.....

If I had daughters, do I really want to explain the boner to them?  The very last thing I would want to deal with as a father would be having a daughter ask me what erectile disfunction is.

But...

Since I am not a father nor do I have boner problems, I have to look at this legislation subjectively.

So...

I will.

If Congress gets their way with limiting these commercials, where do we draw the line?  What else would they consider banning before 10:00 p.m.?  Tampon commercials?  Condom ads?  Douche commercials?  Toilet paper?  Preparation H?

Why not Nyquil ads?  The coughing, aching, sneezy, stuffy headed medicine is no more or less offensive than something that assists a different part of the body.

But...

Once again, should a 10 year old girl have to learn about boners from a TV commercial? 

I was not even aware that this was an issue.  I have never heard a parent complain about this.

Viagra ads do not air during episodes of Hannah Montana because preteens are not the target audience.  However, Viagra ads do air during episodes of Wheel of Fortune.  Why?  Because the impotent are more likely to be watching a game show than a kids show.

Unless...

The impotent happen to be pedophiles.  But if a pedophile is unable to get it up, what is the point of them watching a show aimed at preteens?

Either way, it's a non-issue for me.

Maybe Congress should spend more time worrying about the actual TV shows that precede the commercials for Viagra.

Or...

Maybe Congress should worry more about lessening the stress that this shitty economy is putting some of us under.

Less Stress= More Boners.

More Boners= Less need for Viagra

Less Need for Viagra= Less Need for Viagra ads.

So....

What do you think?   

 

Sir Shits A Lot‏ the Emo Dog

I came home from work yesterday only to find a huge ass dog waiting for me as I entered my house.

Our lady of compassion and good Samaritan, a.k.a my mom, decided to volunteer me to dog sit.

It's fine.  She's done it before.  Mom likes to make easy money.  When she's not busy cleaning houses or taking care of old people or selling MY stuff to pawn shops, mom has a dog sitting business.  The way her business works is she brings the dog over to my house and says, "Son, remember how people used to help us when you were a kid?  Well, I need you to help someone and watch their dog while they are out of town."

She's the master of manipulation.

Like always, I agree.  I watch the dog.  She gets paid for it.  And then life goes on.

Last night was just another typical day in her part time dog sitting business.  She picked up some lady's dog, dropped it off at my house, left a note with instructions when to feed and walk the dog and kindly left me alone to take care of it.

When I woke up today, this was the scene in my dining room area:

Apparently, Ms. Manipulation forgot to tell me I am dogsitting an animal with the bladder of an 80 year old man.

Eight hours and 7 piles of dog shit later, I have officially retired from the dogsitting business.  Shit, I wasn't getting paid anyway.

Because I was so angry and my house was smelling like dog shit, I called Miss  "I love to dogsit as long as my son does the actual dogsitting" aka my mom and demanded that she come pick up the dog immediately.

One hour and two more piles of dog shit later, she showed up.

Before removing the dog from my home, mom decided she was now a dog whisperer.

For 20 minutes, she kneeled next to the dog and asked him some questions:

"Sir Shits A Lot, are you sad?  Do you miss your mommy and daddy?  Are you nervous staying in someone else's house?"
*The dog's real name is Shadow.  I have renamed it Sir Shits A Lot due to it being black, fat, and of course, the obvious reason: It shits a lot*

So, mom sat there next to the dog and psychoanalyzed it for about 20 minutes.

When they were done talking or whispering or whatever the hell it's called when a crazy old woman has a conversation with a stupid dog, mom turns to me and says, "Shadow is just depressed.  He needs you to hug him and he will stop shitting everywhere.  It's a cry for love."

"Great, I am dog sitting an Emo Dog", I thought silently.

 Mom tried everything to manipulate me into keeping Sir Shits A Lot, the Emo Dog, but I was in no mood to dogsit anymore.

Mom finally gave in and took Sir Shits A Lot back to its regular home. 

As for me, my house smells like shit.  I have shit stains on my carpet and I am in a bad mood.


 

Desparios

I found irony in a bowl of Cheerios.
It was my last meal for 11 days.
Maybe, there should be a cereal for depression.

Desparios.

Just a thought.  One of many, I had for days.

I felt like Pearl Harbor.
But I shouldn't have.
I knew it was coming.

I found comfort in the mockingbird.
Better to be laughed at than ignored.

Found out who my friends were.
Never knew Judas was among them.
He wore pink ribbons in his hair.
I wore a crown of thorns.
Proudly.

I found irony in a German Shepherd.
Those fucking Nazis and their pure bred dogs.

Just a little misguided hatred.  I had plenty to spread around.

I felt like Jesus Christ.
But not the iconic Savior of mankind.
I felt like the soiled name Hollywood has made it.

I knew it was coming.
I was Louisiana.
And she was Hurricane Katrina.
From the rooftop of my own broken heart, I watched her wash my dreams away.
Our dreams.

I found irony in my selfishness.
Who could hurt worse than me?
And I painted myself the victim
but the truth is
the truth was
I was to blame.

Just a momentary lapse of reasoning.

I found irony in a bowl of Cheerios.
One year later.
With a stir of my spoon
and my anxieties quietly put at ease
Off in the distance, I hear

I miss you.

And the storm has passed.

Now hiring: Private Investigators

I was watching a show on TV called Cheaters.  The basic premise centers around suspicious people in a relationship who believe their significant other is cheating on them.  So, they hire a private investigator to follow the suspected cheat around and videotape all illicit acts noticed.

It's brilliant entertainment.

I started thinking... Why wait until after we commit ourselves to someone to hire a private investigator?  Wouldn't it be better if we do it beforehand to see what kind of woman we are getting involved with?

1.  Blowjobs:  Does she give them?  And most importantly, does she enjoy giving them?

Women will give an obligatory blowjob in the beginning of a relationship in order to reel the man in.  It is important she enjoys it so they don't stop after 3 months with her or worse, after you marry her.

The PI will take pictures of her in the act.

If she makes this face after performing oral sex, she is not worth pursuing:

2.  Facebook:  A PI will be needed to hack into her accounts and check all of her communications with men.  It is important to find out if she is one of those women who carry on countless relationships with men online; leading each of them on, sharing nudes and intimate messages.

Also, if you met your potential spouse on the internet, do not be surprised if they leave you for someone from the internet.  

3.  Lottery:  A PI will be needed to pose as Ed McMahon and show up at her house with a GIANT FAKE check for Five Million Dollars.   

Then, the PI will need to follow her around for a few days "while paper work is being done and before the check can be cashed" to see how many friends this newly rich woman disowns.

Since some women are notoriously superficial, it is important to find out if the woman of your dreams may end up leaving you one day for money or worse, YOUR money.

4.  Sex toys:  A PI will be needed to break into her house to check out her toy collection.  If she owns any dildos or vibrators that are bigger than your own genitalia, move on.    Trust me, move on.

All in all, the idea behind Cheaters is brilliant but if we were to hire PI's before marriage, I suspect we wouldn't need them after marriage.


It's just a theory.
 

 
  

Perceptions Across the Globe‏

Last night, I watched part of a show on Animal Planet called Whale Wars.  Basically, it's a show about a bunch of hippies that yell at Japanese ships for killing whales.  On occasion, they will throw a rock at the Japanese whalers to convince them that whaling is evil.

Like most people, the thought of a whale being slaughtered disturbs me.  They seem like such happy and friendly animals.  

Japanese people have really never made sense to me.  Their porn is ridiculous.  They love Pokemon and Hello Kitty.  Culturally, they are weird.


As I watched this show, I started thinking about how the rest of the world perceives us, Americans.  The Arabs are always complaining that we stick our noses in everyone's business.  Europeans call us fat.  And I suppose the Japanese aren't too happy about us throwing water balloons at their whaling ships.

Everyone is right; we are fat and we don't mind our own business.


Here are some recent obesity statistics per nation:

# 1	United States:	30.6%
# 2	Mexico:	24.2%
# 3	United Kingdom:	23%
# 4	Slovakia:	22.4%
# 5	Greece:	21.9%

Yes, we are indeed the fattest nation on earth.  According to these statistics, 30% of Americans have a Body Mass Index over 30.  In other words, 30% of our country is obese.

I'll break it down even more:  One-third of your friend list here on facebook is fat.

Statistics don't lie.


Just the other day, a couple in Georgia were arrested for child cruelty.  The couple's five year old daughter is 158 pounds; 90 pounds overweight.

We are fat and our kids are fat.

But on a brighter note, 70% of our country is not fat.

The number one TV show of all time in Germany is Baywatch.  David Hasselhoff is their hero.  Germany's perception of America is this:

While some perceive us as nothing but lazy, fat and arrogant Americans, others perceive us as all being beautiful.

As I was watching Whale Wars, I wondered what the Japanese whalers were thinking as the hippies were yelling at them and flipping them off?  Do they have cameras aboard their ship?  Are they filming a TV show from their perspective called FAT LAZY AMERICAN HIPPIE WARS?
 
America might be the only country that has reality shows based on judging other people, cultures and beliefs.  It's almost like we believe we are at the top of the evolutionary pyramid and everyone else in the world is sub-human. 

We definitely are arrogant in our approach with other people.  It's almost as if we are constantly being programmed to believe we know what's best for the rest of the world.  Maybe, it explains why we have been at perpetual war with nations since the early 1900's and very few people speak up.

Either way, our perceptions of other nations and their perceptions of us are rarely anywhere close to reality. 







 

Rick Springfield Moments

So, I hate Rick Springfield.  Always have, always will.


Some might claim he is no longer relevant but the truth is he is to blame for certain behavior patterns I exhibit in relationships.


It started in 6th grade.  My girlfriend at the time was named Judy.  Judy was one of those 7th graders that could pass for a highs chooler.  She had big boobs, was almost the same height as me and was obviously somewhat experienced when it came to boys.


Me, I was awkward, shy, inexperienced and truly oblivious to most things.


I had many suspicions that the whore was cheating on me.  I didn't have proof but there were little hints here and there that she had another boyfriend or two.


Most of our dates occurred at the park.  On occasion, she'd come over to my house but it was only when it was convenient for her.  I could sense that there was someone else.


One Saturday, she invited me over to her house to watch an all-day marathon on MTV of Michael Jacksons' "Thriller" video.  I was excited.  Since I didn't have cable, I was truly excited.  I was excited to watch music videos and to spend a whole day with my big breasted girlfriend.


This was the day that forever changed and ruined my life all because of a prick named Rick Springfield.


So, there we were, Judy and I... sitting on her couch eating fruit rollups and watching "Thriller" over and over.


She was sitting next to me on the couch, playing with my hands and occasionally kissing my face.  It was annoying.  Sex wasn't on my resume yet nor did I really have an interest in it.  I was all about music videos and eating snacks.


During a commercial, Judy invited me to her bedroom...


Then it happened.  My suspicions that she was cheating on me was right there; staring me in the face.


On her bedroom door was a sign that said, "I love Rick.".  On her walls, were pictures of some old dude with a mullet.  Rick's name was everywhere with hearts drawn around it.


I was outraged.


How could this bitch flaunt her boyfriend in front of me so callously?


I was so angry. Once I was able to catch my breath, I asked her, "Who the hell is Rick?  Why are you cheating on me?"


She then explained that Rick was Rick Springfield; "the world's greatest singer and actor".


It still didn't click.  I had never heard of him.  I didn't have cable.  My musical tastes hadn't expanded into pop music.  Hell, I was a kid that believed most music was of Satan.  I even had plans to do a rock seminar proving that if you played certain songs backwards you could hear "i love the devil" somewhere in the lyrics.


It was kind of ironic that I didn't find Michael Jackson's music video of zombies to be satanic.


Anyway, I was so angry that I demanded that Judy give me Rick's phone number or address.  I was prepared to kick his ass.  I didn't care that he was a lot older than me.  I was going to teach him a lesson for trying to steal my girlfriend.


She spent a lot of time that day showing me issues of Teeny Bopper Magazine or whatever they were called.  She showed me pictures of him, made me read interviews he did and she even played some of his songs on her cassette player.


She did everything possible to prove to me that he was not her boyfriend and that there was absolutely no possible way he ever could be.


I didn't believe her.


I was a jealous kid.  As an only child, I've always demanded the whole spotlight because well, that's all I knew.  I don't share affection well.  I sure as hell refuse to be defeated by some asshole celebrity when it comes to my girlfriend's heart.


It's funny because I'm still the same way to a degree.  I'm not overly possessive nor am I the type of guy that tries to control the woman I love.  But I am highly suspicious of everything and I do tend to feel left out if I'm not treated like I am "special".


We call it my "Rick Springfield moments" when I am bothered by certain things.


Now, that the internet exists, I am tempted to google "Rick Springfield and Judy, 1985" to see if they actually were together.  I still have my doubts that she was telling me the truth.

Keep Away

Clutching my cell phone like it is the last morsel of food for an expected cruel winter, I wait for a call.  I wait for a text.  I wait for any sign of life outside the bubble I inexcusably created.

And it doesn’t come.

So, I lay my weary head down on my cold pillow and stare at the ceiling above my head.  Insomnia, my new best friend.  Sleep is cruel when the subconscious reminds you why you are in the current state you find yourself in.

And so it goes.

The sun rises to the sound of laughing children.  I take a peak outside my window just to feel its warmth and to bask in a happiness I once knew.  And just like it was for me as a child, the laughs outside my window turn to cruelty.

And so I observe.

Three boys.  Two, much better off than the third.  A line is formed.  The two luckier boys play a not-so-friendly game of keepaway.  The third boy considered not so normal finds himself at the mercy of two he once considered friends.  Back and forth, the two boys toss his treasured possession as the third boy hopelessly tries to regain what is rightfully his.  And the two boys just laugh at his feeble attempts.

And so I empathize.

But for me, the two boys represent God.  And the treasured possession represents something I value more than an actual concrete possession.  And it is God that takes something I once held proudly and now plays keepaway from me.  I grab the air; hoping to recapture what once was mine.  I feel the laughter at my expense.  I sense the futility of the moment.

And so I accept my fate.

And I move on.

Clutching my cell phone like it is the last morsel of food before an expected cruel winter, I rest my weary head on my cold pillow.  And sleep finally comes.  And the dreams stop.

Mid-sleep, my phone rings.  Eyes spring open.  My heart begins to race.  Could it be the moment I spent restless nights and days waiting for?  So, I answer the phone with the excitement I hadn’t known in months.

And it is the wrong number.

And God and I share another laugh.

And so it goes.

Those who cannot relate tell us we are being tested.  The clichés drip from their mouths as if comfort can be found in a sentence.  But I know they mean well.  And I know they mean well.

And we all mean well.  We always mean well.

And we move on.

Because that is life.

I kissed a girl and she hated it

One thing I wish I had done when I was younger was keep some type of journal or if the internet had been around, I would have loved to chronicle my teenage angst.  But since I neither kept a journal nor was the internet around, all I have is what I remember.

When I read certain blogs from those in the same age bracket as me, it's almost like having a front seat to the premier of my own life story.  As different as we all are, it's almost like we all experienced the same things prior to turning eighteen.  Then high school graduation comes and suddenly, we all find our uniqueness.

One thing I have enjoyed here is finding those people I shared my youth with... those friends I partied with or those girls I once wanted to marry or those douches I hoped would die or just those random people I knew or watched from a distance.

About a week ago, I found the profile of the girl who was the unlucky recipient of my first real kiss.

There she was... with her glorious blonde hair sitting next to some dude,I am guessing it's her husband as he is sporting a 1978 mustache and 4 kids to their side.  She sure looks a lot different from when I last saw her.  Certainly, she isn't as pretty as I remember but she looked so happy in her picture and that's what really matters.

I wanted to friend request her here but there's something that always stops me from pushing that button when I see a happily old married friend.  It's almost like I feel like I would be intruding.  And really, what am I going to say to her if she does accept my request?  "Hey, remember that time I felt you up.  Babe, you had a great rack."

But seeing her on facebook did take me back to that Sunday night in front of the library....

This girl was the envy of all girls and the desire of all boys at the time.  She was notorious for making out with everyone.  It was 9th grade and finally, I was next on her to do list.  She liked me.  I couldn't believe it.  She liked awkward 9th grade me.

We got out of the suburban, just her and I.  She leaned into me; ready for me to kiss her.

Then it happened... it was like I mistook her lips for a piece of fried chicken.  I opened my mouth as wide as I could and proceeded to try to swallow her face.  She jerked back politely and then leaned back in to give me another chance.  This time, I simply stuck my tongue out and licked her mouth.

I had no clue what to do.

She was intimidating.  I knew her reputation and I also knew she was always making out with guys.  Sure, I kissed girls in junior high and even before that but none of those girls were her.  It was like I thought kissing her had to be a cinematic moment.

I failed.  I was embarrassed.  She never laughed or said a word.  Our brief love affair was over as quickly as it began.  All that remained was a shameful memory and a gallon of my saliva left on her face and in her mouth.

A year later or so, I did get my chance at redemption.  Apparently, she always had a crush on me.  I suppose she decided to wait a year or so to give me a chance to catch up with her in my making out skills.

One day when I was 16, mom spent the summer in California and I was living alone.  This girl shows up unannounced.

She made it no secret why she was there.  I finally had my chance to kiss her right.  She sat on my bed with that kiss me look on her face.  Because I remember my past failure with her, I ignored her look.  I just rambled on about music and other nonsense.  She tried everything;  hand on leg, accidental touching of parts and so on.  I played coy.

Eventually, she gave up and went home.  I blew it.  Twice.

I don't remember much about her.  I remember her long blonde hair.  I remember she was adopted and never really felt normal like the others.  I also remember that she seemed sad all the time.

Apparently, since those days, she's had several life saving surgeries and various health problems.  But seeing her so happy with her new family was really a great thing for me to find.

I do wonder if my kiss in 9th grade is what almost took her life years later.

But I am pretty sure that if I had kissed her correctly, I would probably be the dude with the 1978 mustache standing next to her in her picture.

Banana Jesus Loves Me this I know‏

In a couple of weeks, I will be leaving for my company's annual meeting in Portland. 

It was just one year ago that I spent my weekend rooming with Creepy McCreeperson.  Creepy was this crazy, psychotic and creepy (obviously by his name) guy, we all worked with.

Everyone was scared of him.

He was the guy in his mid-30's lving in his parent's basement plotting his revenge on the world.  Everything about him was beyond weird.

That weekend in Portland, I was forced to be his roommate in the fancy hotel we stayed at.

Luckily, I survived.


Mr. McCreeperson was my first experience with an actual crazy person.  Sure, I've seen them on Jerry Springer.  I've read about these types online.  But never had I actually spent time with one so closely.

Since then, I have become a crazy magnet.

I can't escape them.

I see them here on Facebook.  I deal with a few at my job.  My own mom has increased her crazy behaviors over the last year.

Crazy seems to be the new fad.

As the new year is about to begin, one of my resolutions is to rid myself of lunatics.  (Sorry, mom.  Your son is now putting himself up for adoption).

As I was sitting at work today considering how I can eradicate all the crazies around me, I realized it can't be done.

In fact, I am beginning to think that sane people are the new minorities and insanity is the new caucasian.  (If that makes sense).

So, I jump on the internet to try to get my mind off all the craziness I have recently had to witness.

And what do I find?

Judy Swinton.

I have no idea who this woman is.  All I know is she crazy.  I don't have to know anything about her to be able to diagnose her as being "one of them".

Ms. Swinton recently went grocery shopping.  As she was picking out fruit, she came across this:

That's right, Banana Jesus.

Ms. Swinton is convinced she sees the face of Jesus on her banana.  In her warped little mind, she believes the Lord and Savior of many believers is stamping his face on phallic shaped foods across this land.

Me, I see Michelle Obama on the banana but that's because I think Jesus is a better looking man than Michelle is.

Anyway, look. she sees Jesus.  I see Michelle Obama.

The truth is... it's neither.

It's a fucking banana with markings on it.

Rational people know the difference.


Ironically, tonight, I decided to eat some wheat thins for a snack.  As I was eating cracker after cracker, guess who I found on one of my wheat thins?

That's right, Jesus.

I see Jesus on my wheat thin!

As I was talking to Him and discussing my wish of eliminating crazy people from my life in the new year, Jesus said nothing. 

He just frowned at me.











 

God is a hater?

Everyone is speaking for God.

I've got a black friend.  Did I mention I have a black friend?  Oh, and I have a gay friend.  I have a friend that loves his own gender but not the kind of love reserved for puppies and chocolate ice cream.  I am talking about that kind of love that generates those feelings; those feelings that lead to sex.   God might love my black friend.  God just might love me.  But I'm not sure if God loves my gay friend.

But just in case, I have a straight friend, too.

One thing Sunday School taught me was that "God loves the little children".  The key word is little.  God hates BIG children.  It's not just judgmental adults that hate obese children.  God does, too.

So, as I was trying to decipher who God loves and who God hates, I found these LITTLE children:

Little children, whom are loved by God, are now telling the rest of us whom God hates.

Another thing I remember from Sunday School is that "blessed is the nation whose God is the Lord."  Yet, I see a sign held by a LITTLE child that says GOD HATES AMERICA.  BUT isn't America the most blessed nation on Earth?

So, I am conflicted.

And it dawned on me, maybe adults have placed these signs into the hands of their children... Sort of a twisted kind of indoctrination; the kind you only see in countries like IRAN.  In Iran, children are taught that GOD HATES JEWS.

I've got a friend who is HIV positive.  He doesn't have AIDS.  He has HIV.  He might be gay.  He may not be.  It doesn't matter.  God will hate him the day, if that day comes, when his HIV becomes AIDS.

God's punishment for gay sex is AIDS?

 
And His punishment for being black is Earthquakes?

And His punishment for being Asian or Muslim is a Tsunami?

I was starting to think that God hates everyone who isn't straight and white until a simple basketball game changed my opinion.

There I was watching the end of a Boston Celtics/Orlando Magic playoff game.  Immediately after winning the game, Dwight Howard, a black player for the Magic declared, "I just want to thank God for this victory.  Without Him, we could not have done it."

So, now God hates the Celtics.  Or maybe He just hates the Irish.

So, now I am conflicted.  God hates gays, America, the Boston Celtics, fat children, Jews...

And most of all, God hates signs.

I think that is the only thing any of us should agree on.

Please stop speaking for God.
    

 

Father of the Millenium‏

Let's get married
have a baby
and name her World Peace
And when she grows up
she will be Miss America
When the judges ask, "If you had one wish, what would you wish for?"
My daughter, World Peace, would simply say....

WORLD PEACE.

The headline in the next day's paper would read
WORLD PEACE WINS THE BEAUTY PAGEANT

I can't think of anything more beautiful
than World Peace.

She'll have her mama's eyes
all the boys will say
they've never seen anything greener

World Peace will be a dreamer
She won't settle for those boys and all their lies


And when I have a son
his name will be Charles Manson
He will be the sweetest boy
and hopefully somewhat handsome

I will be the father of
World Peace and Charles Manson

When they grow up
they will change the world

And I
will win Father of the Millenium.

Let's get married
and not have kids.

Twisted

Sometimes I wish I could be an inanimate object
Like a statue
or a mannequin
Just so I could watch you
So I could laugh at you
So I could learn the truth
And you couldn't hurt me
anymore.
Because I can't handle the thought of you with another, lover.

Sometimes I wish I was an atomic bomb
to be dropped on an unknowing city
Just so I could depopulate
and decapitate the world
from itself
Just to prove that man is its own worst enemy
Just to prove there is a devil
which would prove there is a God
Because you can't have one without the other, brother.

Sometimes I wish I lived in the zoo
Like a monkey
or a lion or even a pink flamingo
Just so I could be the star attraction
as I live in a cage
Just like those other celebrities
So I could look down at you
So I could feel important to you
And you couldn't hurt me
anymore.  
Because I will never be okay with thinking of her like a sister, mister.

Sometimes I wish I was a tornado
or even a tongue twister
Maybe, a volcano
or a twisted transistor

Sometimes I wish I could be
Anyone but me, baby.

Defiant

Woman Woman, what’s your hurry

You’re always out of breath

Don’t you know that too much worry

Will lead to an early death?

Mister mister, what’s this cause

That keeps you occupied?

Don’t you know that counting flaws

Is short of suicide?

Woman, woman, can you see the finish line?

Tell me love, what you’re looking for

And I will see if I have the time

And if I have the time for this

Will you catch your breath?

I think you know that one deep slow kiss

just might save you from an early death

Mister, Mister, what’s the matter

You seem to have lost your touch

You once held her, you once felt her

Don’t you know yesterday never matters much?

Woman woman, can’t you see

What stands in front of you

That thin red line of self-hate and ambiguity

Is always a shade away from blue

Tell me love if you’ll be more pro-life

In this pro-choice world

Because mister mister is out of breath

Without his rested girl

And if all things are never meant to last

Including sunshine and it’s rain

I promise you that this too will pass

As defiant as that eternal flame

Disposable

I believe my first experience in empathy involved a sparrow. 

Like that kid in A Christmas Story, I got my Red Ryder BB Gun.  It was on my 8th Christmas.  Like any child with a new toy, I was in a rush to play with it.

By mid-afternoon that Christmas, my BB gun was no longer of interest to me.

I'm not a born hunter, I suppose. 
Maybe, just maybe, for a brief moment, I believed a sparrow is just a disposable animal.
Possibly, I wanted to prove to all the other 8 year olds that just because I don't have a dad, it did not mean I was lacking in testerone.
Maybe, I just had no idea how it would affect me to shoot and kill something as insignificant as a sparrow.

What I do know is that on that specific Christmas, I aimed my new BB gun right at a sparrow and shot it from the tree limb it was perched upon.  As it tumbled through the air and onto the ground by my feet, I laughed.

As the other boys kept laughing, I stopped.  Something about seeing a little bird twitch and chirp until its' tiny lungs could no longer function had a profound effect on me.

It's too much guilt for an 8 year old to have to bear knowing he needlessly shot and killed something as majestic as a bald eagle.

But it was just a sparrow.  As if that means it's less significant than our nation's symbolic bird of prey.

I don't think in terms of disposable.  Not anymore.

To me, that sparrow was a bald eagle.


It's that mentality of disposable that bothers me.

Master vs. Slave.  Slavery was based on one group of people being more disposable than another.

Six million Jews were the poster children of disposable.

It is that mentality that allows a society to label unborn children as a choice.

It's the mentality behind every bully that carefully chooses his target.  And we all laugh until that disposable victim takes his or her own life.

It's the battlecry of "Nuke em" everytime a small group of small minded people attack us; all because we don't equate all people as all being human. 

Sub-humans.  White trash.  Nigger.  Faggot.  Beaner.  Gook.  Right wing religious fanatic.  Left wing fascist pig.  Whore.  Retard.  Hippie.  Welfare mom.  Handicapped. Fat ass.

I'm watching some show called What's Eating You.  It follows some 80 pound girl around as she binges and purges.  She thinks she's fat.  She says she likes being skinny.  She's starving herself.  On purpose.  Because being fat makes her less significant.  Because being healthy does not equate to self-worth.

 She's a sparrow.  Unless, she starves herself.  She believes that.

Then, I find myself watching some show called Tiaras & Toddlers.  Beauty pageants for 3 year olds.  Spray tans, hair extensions, makeup, swim suits... with judges judging who the prettiest 3 year old is on stage.

Three year olds who are simply preparing themselves for their next TV appearance.  The one that will occur in 10 years called What's Eating You.

Sometimes, I find myself watching this show with fat people trying to lose weight.  It's called The Biggest Loser.  It's a play on words.  They're trying to lose weight.  I get it.  But lets not pretend that we don't notice that the word loser is intentionally leading us to believe that an obese person is a loser.

But I will admit that those Taco Bell commercials that come on during The Biggest Loser do cause me to spend some of my disposable income on fast food.

So much irony in disposable people helping me spend my disposable income on those things that made them disposable.  Think about it.


I don't know when exactly we all learn about empathy.  For me, it was around 8 years old.

Who teaches us that one group of people is more significant than another?  Who invented this idea that some people are disposable?

When is our empathy replaced with some self-absorbed narcissitic quality that determines we are better than someone else?  

Who among us believes they are a sparrow and who believes they are a bald eagle?

Then, tell me the differences.

I don't see any.