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Friday, January 17, 2014
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Sunday Quick Hitter: Words that make me laugh
Just popping in on a lovely Mother's day evening to give a list of five words that never fail to make me laugh:
1) Schlong - A rarely used word to describe your junk. Randomly refer to your "thing" as your schlong and someone in the room will surely give you a high five!
2) Grundle - Old, white people call it your taint and medical folk call it your perineum. Grundle is easily the top choice. Much like the area between your nuts and hole, the word just sounds nasty, its a little obscure and makes any conversation that much more awesome!
3) Shart - A word used way too much on this blog. Simply stated, no hidden meanings. What you see is what you get - a shit fart.
4) Wenis - lol I can't even type this without laughing. Apparently meaning the extra skin of your elbow, I really don't buy that, but dammit will use that word for the rest of my life. Calling someone a wenis.. is that mean? Are you being nice by not calling them a penis? Did you even mean to say that? What is it you are trying to say? The obscurity just makes it more awesome!
5) Women's sports - LOL
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Being a Fully Functional Human After College
In my current job I have the luxury of working with the brightest college students in the country, maybe the world. That's not an exaggeration. These are kids that are 4-8 years younger than me and are easily 45x smarter than I will ever be.... and most of them AREN'T Asian, WTF?!?
Despite being humbled by their brain power on a daily basis, I find myself being very appreciative for the gift of social awareness and how to be a functioning human in this world. Some of these kids are smart enough to code the next social media phenomenon or manage a multi-billion dollar hedge fund, but don't know use an ATM machine or use public transportation. Granted, those things can be tough especially to some of my international students. Well, let me break it down a little further then. How about when someone looks at you in the face and says "Hi, how are you?" you fucking respond! Or when there is a sign on the bathroom door that says, "lock is broken, please knock" you ummmm I don't know, KNOCK, and not just barge in like you're fucking John Wayne.
Now, I don't want to pick on my kids because they're awesome and make my job easier. Instead, let's talk about some things that everyone who leaves college should be smart enough to do/know/have!
1) Resume: Having a resume that doesn't look like fucking Tommy Pickles and Angelica put it together. It is really amazing how many resumes I have seen from my employees, former employees, randoms that look like some doo-doo sauce. Here's an easy check for that. Look at your resume, Google wtf a resume should look like, and if yours looks like the JV version of anything you see on Google, then it probably sucks. Even better, let another person look at it. Good formatting and aesthetically pleasing-ness is literally 75% of the battle!
2) Cargo shorts: Remember in Superbad when Jonah Hill said that no one has gotten a hand job in cargo shorts since 'nam!? That's not true. No one has gotten a hand job in cargo shorts...ever. The only people who need cargo shorts: _________. Nope still got nothing. Even the adventure hikers or outdoorsmen who claim a practical need for the extra pockets... nah, I don't buy it. I'll admit I had a cargo shorts phase in high school. Don't blame me, blame Old Navy. Now hear this: THE ONLY EXCEPTION to the cargo shorts rule is for novelty purposes. Examples: cargo jorts or camo cargo shorts. Note: A full blown blog entry about post-college males and shitty things to wear in public COMING SOON!
3) The difference between being punctual and being an asshole: Whether it is an interview, a meeting, a meal of food, punctuality is important. Punctual, it's English, American freakin' English, for arriving somewhere at an agreed upon time. Being late is tad different of a subject (SEE #5). Obviously giving yourself more than enough time is important, especially if you are compensating for traffic, parking, weather, etc... The key is if you show up for, let's say, an interview twenty minutes early, sit in your car, sit in the lobby and play Angry Birds. Whatever you do, don't go up to the person you are meeting and try to shit-nose your way by making it a point that you are a third of an hour early. I hate when people are early for things like interviews and meetings with me, especially in my office. If I'm enjoying a delicious Lean Cuisine, well dammit, I'm going to finish it. I'm not gonna risk burning my mouth or throwing away a $2.99 treat because some dick wanted to prove a point by being early. Early =/= punctual.
Here we go, this picture seems accurate for me in my office. Well-dressed minority, eating sushi:
4) Writing an email like someone who is older than 13: Even if you work for AOL and AIM (r.i.p) it probably isn't acceptable to write emails like an a-hole. You won't believe how many emails I see where the writer doesn't capitalize, use anything that resembles punctuation or signs their emails. Normally I wouldn't care about signing your emails, but when you are 20 years old and still use your hotmail account from 2001 that is something like xxxsoccerQT69xxx@hotmail.com, wellllllll guess what? I have no idea who this email is from! I don't want to dwell on this topic or else I'll just get straight pissed. Just leave out the wink faces and LOLs, write like an adult, and you're in business.
If this bitch was typing, she'd simply say: "SMDH"
5) Showing up on time: Managing a group of 60-80 college kids is a lot of fun, really. The only times I get really, really irritated are when these donkeys show up late with no excuse or without calling or emailing in advance. NEWS FLASH - showing up late in the real world is not cool. In college, walking into a lecture 7 minutes late, strutting your nuts like you're fucking Zack Morris, yeah that's cool. Walking into the office late because your McCafe took a little longer than anticipated at the drive thru... FIRED! So next time you want to be like Zack, pull out your huge fucking cell phone and let someone know you're running late.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
"Guys" You Should Have
Well, well, well. Long time no see! Sorry it's been nearly two years since the last time I posted. If I said I've been really busy, I'd be lying. It's more like, I've been really lazy and have been spending way too much time on Twitter. It takes a lot less effort to rant and bitch in 140 characters.
Since my last blog post in 2010, I've changed jobs, moved to California, gotten married and learned a lot more than four years of college could offer. Being out in California with just my wife and dog, I've learned the importance of having a "guy" for all things important.
You know when you watch tv or a movie, if someone has a need or an issue, the rich white person seems to always have a "guy" for that. Before I moved to California, I never really had a "guy" for anything. Now I have a "guy" for almost everything.
First off, let me define "guy" before you guys think I moved to California and totes went gay sauce. Your "guy" is someone that is not only your go-to for that need or service, but a person you develop a close relationship and someone you, without hesitation, recommend if someone you know is in need for that service your "guy" provides. This truly is a person that you become dependent on for your life to be awesome. Other terms may include: "go-to mother fucker," "my dude," "my mans."
Let me go in detail about my "guys" out here in California.
1) Steve, my dog watching "guy" - As the West Coasters would say, Steve is "hella gnarly." Steve runs the kennel that we take our dog Frank to when we go out of town. Steve earned the title as being my "guy" for a number reasons. First off, he wasn't the first or only person we've left our dog with out here in California. He just happens to be the only one who wasn't a total dipshit. Steve drives a Mini Cooper, so he's either really Euro or loved the movie The Italian Job. My dog Frank is a dachshund, so he's German and it would make sense that him and Euro Steve get along. Steve mentioned that he grew up with a dachshund so I know Frank gets the attention that needy pup wants. So now when we drop Frank off at Steve's and he runs out of the car excited (like a total asshole who is disregarding his owner's feelings) I feel confident in knowing that Steve's my "guy" and there ain't shit to worry about.
2) Bowen, my Asian mechanic "guy" - Cars. Cars can be a big pain in the ass. You know what's even worse than cars? Fucking mechanics. No offense to any mechanics or family members of mechanics who are reading, but my gosh. I see a mechanics mouth moving and all I see are $ $ $. Bowen is my "guy" because he is the epitome of what all mechanics should aspire to be. Bowen runs a shop right off the main drag so you know he's making sweet dough. I've quickly learned that the key to Bowen's success, like most Asians, is efficiency. Bowen is a no bullshit kind of guy. He doesn't want to cheat people out of money, because mother trucker doesn't want to do any more work! Why do more work than needed? Shit Bowen, I been saying that my whole life!
Bowen and I were connected by fate. One day I took my car to the dealer and homeboy said I had cracked engine mounts and needed x, y, z replaced all for the low, low price of one month's rent. I looked at this guy in the face and said biiitchhhhhhhhhhh! (makes more sense if you watch this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5LGEiIL1__s ) Then I went to Bowen, per Yelp reviews. Bowen stuck a camera in the engine and basically said ah skeet skeet skeet to everything the dealer had said. Ever since that day, any small mis-hap with my whip and Bowen is on speed dial. Bowen, my Asian mechanic "guy."
3) Sandy, my Asian haircut "gal/guy" - One thing I didn't know before I moved to California was that the only things that are not expensive in California are liquor and haircuts. I moved here and drove around seeing signs for $7-$10 haircuts. At first I was like, "what the fuck? Are these signs from 1997?" Then I quickly learned why haircuts are so inexpensive. Apparently the only pre-requisite for being able to cut hair in the Bay Area is being able to speak clunky ass Vietnamese and .... welp, that's about it. For anyone who has ever seen me in real life any time after 2005, you would know that I've had the same haircut. A shaved head. Nothing crazy, just a shaved head. This past year, I've been spicing it up with a subtle line-up in the front. Again, nothing crazy. You wouldn't believe how hard it was to get this achieved. No bull, I went to about 10 different people before finding Sandy, my Asian ride-or-die chick. Not only does she give a great cut for $9 pre-tip, but she doesn't talk (to me or at me), she shampoos my head every time without charging me $5 and she doesn't call me Brian like my old lady did - Asian Tina. Asian Tina still gets the luxury of doing my pedicures, but she doesn't make the cut as one of my "guys."
My honorable mention "guys":
- Jose my cafe "guy" - Jose works at the cafe in my office building. He gives me student rates for things. He doesn't make the cut because I feel like he works so much that he could be everyone's guy.
- Pedro my maintenance "guy" - Well, maybe quotes weren't needed. He's the maintenance guy at our apartment complex. It is nice to have a friendly relationship with the people who service your home. Pedro misses the list because much like Jose, there's really no choice involved.
"Guys" I would like to add to my list:
- A golf "guy - someone who can hook me up in all things golf. I feel like all rich, white people have a golf "guy." Share them!
- A bartender "guy" - I think it might be from watching too much How I met your Mother, but I want to be able to have a go-to place with my go-to homie ("guy") that can hook it up!
- A cab "guy" - Always good to have one of those.
Who am I kidding? The ultimate answer is having a rich, white guy. No quotes needed. If I had one of those around, I can just mooch off his "guys."
Although these all seem like a basic person that everyone has, it's important to let your "guys" know that they're your "guy." Don't be afraid of commitment! Committing to your "guys" can sound wrong in so many ways, but lead to a great relationship, lead to less worry and stress, sweet deals and best of all, if you are in an unfamiliar place like me: a familiar face to see occasionally!
Since my last blog post in 2010, I've changed jobs, moved to California, gotten married and learned a lot more than four years of college could offer. Being out in California with just my wife and dog, I've learned the importance of having a "guy" for all things important.
You know when you watch tv or a movie, if someone has a need or an issue, the rich white person seems to always have a "guy" for that. Before I moved to California, I never really had a "guy" for anything. Now I have a "guy" for almost everything.
First off, let me define "guy" before you guys think I moved to California and totes went gay sauce. Your "guy" is someone that is not only your go-to for that need or service, but a person you develop a close relationship and someone you, without hesitation, recommend if someone you know is in need for that service your "guy" provides. This truly is a person that you become dependent on for your life to be awesome. Other terms may include: "go-to mother fucker," "my dude," "my mans."
Let me go in detail about my "guys" out here in California.
1) Steve, my dog watching "guy" - As the West Coasters would say, Steve is "hella gnarly." Steve runs the kennel that we take our dog Frank to when we go out of town. Steve earned the title as being my "guy" for a number reasons. First off, he wasn't the first or only person we've left our dog with out here in California. He just happens to be the only one who wasn't a total dipshit. Steve drives a Mini Cooper, so he's either really Euro or loved the movie The Italian Job. My dog Frank is a dachshund, so he's German and it would make sense that him and Euro Steve get along. Steve mentioned that he grew up with a dachshund so I know Frank gets the attention that needy pup wants. So now when we drop Frank off at Steve's and he runs out of the car excited (like a total asshole who is disregarding his owner's feelings) I feel confident in knowing that Steve's my "guy" and there ain't shit to worry about.
2) Bowen, my Asian mechanic "guy" - Cars. Cars can be a big pain in the ass. You know what's even worse than cars? Fucking mechanics. No offense to any mechanics or family members of mechanics who are reading, but my gosh. I see a mechanics mouth moving and all I see are $ $ $. Bowen is my "guy" because he is the epitome of what all mechanics should aspire to be. Bowen runs a shop right off the main drag so you know he's making sweet dough. I've quickly learned that the key to Bowen's success, like most Asians, is efficiency. Bowen is a no bullshit kind of guy. He doesn't want to cheat people out of money, because mother trucker doesn't want to do any more work! Why do more work than needed? Shit Bowen, I been saying that my whole life!
Bowen and I were connected by fate. One day I took my car to the dealer and homeboy said I had cracked engine mounts and needed x, y, z replaced all for the low, low price of one month's rent. I looked at this guy in the face and said biiitchhhhhhhhhhh! (makes more sense if you watch this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5LGEiIL1__s ) Then I went to Bowen, per Yelp reviews. Bowen stuck a camera in the engine and basically said ah skeet skeet skeet to everything the dealer had said. Ever since that day, any small mis-hap with my whip and Bowen is on speed dial. Bowen, my Asian mechanic "guy."
3) Sandy, my Asian haircut "gal/guy" - One thing I didn't know before I moved to California was that the only things that are not expensive in California are liquor and haircuts. I moved here and drove around seeing signs for $7-$10 haircuts. At first I was like, "what the fuck? Are these signs from 1997?" Then I quickly learned why haircuts are so inexpensive. Apparently the only pre-requisite for being able to cut hair in the Bay Area is being able to speak clunky ass Vietnamese and .... welp, that's about it. For anyone who has ever seen me in real life any time after 2005, you would know that I've had the same haircut. A shaved head. Nothing crazy, just a shaved head. This past year, I've been spicing it up with a subtle line-up in the front. Again, nothing crazy. You wouldn't believe how hard it was to get this achieved. No bull, I went to about 10 different people before finding Sandy, my Asian ride-or-die chick. Not only does she give a great cut for $9 pre-tip, but she doesn't talk (to me or at me), she shampoos my head every time without charging me $5 and she doesn't call me Brian like my old lady did - Asian Tina. Asian Tina still gets the luxury of doing my pedicures, but she doesn't make the cut as one of my "guys."
My honorable mention "guys":
- Jose my cafe "guy" - Jose works at the cafe in my office building. He gives me student rates for things. He doesn't make the cut because I feel like he works so much that he could be everyone's guy.
- Pedro my maintenance "guy" - Well, maybe quotes weren't needed. He's the maintenance guy at our apartment complex. It is nice to have a friendly relationship with the people who service your home. Pedro misses the list because much like Jose, there's really no choice involved.
"Guys" I would like to add to my list:
- A golf "guy - someone who can hook me up in all things golf. I feel like all rich, white people have a golf "guy." Share them!
- A bartender "guy" - I think it might be from watching too much How I met your Mother, but I want to be able to have a go-to place with my go-to homie ("guy") that can hook it up!
- A cab "guy" - Always good to have one of those.
Who am I kidding? The ultimate answer is having a rich, white guy. No quotes needed. If I had one of those around, I can just mooch off his "guys."
Although these all seem like a basic person that everyone has, it's important to let your "guys" know that they're your "guy." Don't be afraid of commitment! Committing to your "guys" can sound wrong in so many ways, but lead to a great relationship, lead to less worry and stress, sweet deals and best of all, if you are in an unfamiliar place like me: a familiar face to see occasionally!
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Rock Bottom cont... Bomb Night
Yeah yeah yeah, I am aware that I am adding this post a lot later than 2 days later.. its more like 3 months. Whatever!
Anywho, Bomb Night was a sacred ritual that happened every few months in my fiancee's apartment. Bomb night was usually a hit for me because it usually consisted of about 30-50 sorority girls, 2 random boyfriends or so plus me and either my roommate, a friend or two, or my fiancee's broski.
Bomb night was always themed. This particular Bomb night which is going down as one of the lowest moments of life was to wear Pink. Like any heterosexual man would, I dug deep into my closet and opted for some Ralph Lauren pink linen pants. Nothing says "this guy likes to party" like a pair of pink linen pants.
I was fortunate to have a buddy come up that evening. For privacy reasons we will call him Tory. Tory came up after I was about 6 beers in, as well as 2 slices of cheese pizza in. The slices of cheese pizza play an important role in this story because if you are dunce do not recall my other 5 posts about shitting and poo, I am lactose intolerant.
Tory and I were hanging out, drinking some Natty Bohs like any other 23 year old should when they are 2 years removed from college. We were simply standing against a wall, watching 4 shorties play each other in beer pong and all of a sudden, I passed gas. It was followed by immediate stench and an awkward moment of eye contact between Tory and me. I apologized immediately and said yikes that smells. He replies " yeah, you smill like shit." That was pretty normal, especially for our relationship. So we thought nothing of it and walked away, leaving the girls with the smelly delight.
Our night carried on, we put down some more bombs, and slowly punched one way tickets to blackout city. The night continued with us going to a few bars, where I did the Bruised Banana usual, which includes grinding on and getting grinded on. We got back home, had some chicken from the random Mexicans who always cooked on their mini grill at 2am in front of finacee's apartment and I called it a night... on the futon.
The next morning I wake up, full clothed and roll over and walk to the bathroom. At this point my buddy who was sleeping on the couch next to me says "dude what the fuck is on your pants?" I replied, "I have no fucking idea, what is it?!" He then starts giggling, then laughing, then convulsing. I freaked out and ran into my fiancee's room and woke her up. "What the fuck is on my pants?!"
Then the words that will haunt me for the rest of my life "YOU SHIT YOUR PANTS OH MY GOD YOU SHIT YOUR PANTS!!!"
At this point my roommate who was sleeping in the other bedroom was awaken up by all the ruckus and comes out and sees that there is literal shit on the back of my pants. No, it was not there because I sat in something. It was there because that smell fart next to the beer pong table during bomb night happened to in fact be a SHART. Yes that happened.
The next hour, literally an hour, was filled with non-stop laughter and for me, laughter included with tears. Tears of embarrassment and well, what the fuck joy, because now I had a story to tell for the rest of my life... if I chose to share.. and well obviously I am choosing to share.
My buddy called his cousin up to come look at my pants. So he showed up. For the next 2 weeks my roommate provided me with random picture messages of my shit stained pants as well as random texts during the day, whether I was at work or in the room with him, with messages such as "hey remember when you shit your pants" or "hey sharter, what's up."
A couple days after, I returned back home and brought the pants with me. I opened the door and yelled, "mom, guess what your very mature son did!?!?! Can you help me get a stain out please??" As instructed, she did. And I was able to wear the same pants to the 1 year anniversary of that pink bomb night. And guess what? I didn't shart this year. Yay!
The following is a picture of the stained britches and under britches. This is your OFFICIAL WARNING. Don't look if you are easily disgusted!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Anywho, Bomb Night was a sacred ritual that happened every few months in my fiancee's apartment. Bomb night was usually a hit for me because it usually consisted of about 30-50 sorority girls, 2 random boyfriends or so plus me and either my roommate, a friend or two, or my fiancee's broski.
Bomb night was always themed. This particular Bomb night which is going down as one of the lowest moments of life was to wear Pink. Like any heterosexual man would, I dug deep into my closet and opted for some Ralph Lauren pink linen pants. Nothing says "this guy likes to party" like a pair of pink linen pants.
I was fortunate to have a buddy come up that evening. For privacy reasons we will call him Tory. Tory came up after I was about 6 beers in, as well as 2 slices of cheese pizza in. The slices of cheese pizza play an important role in this story because if you are dunce do not recall my other 5 posts about shitting and poo, I am lactose intolerant.
Tory and I were hanging out, drinking some Natty Bohs like any other 23 year old should when they are 2 years removed from college. We were simply standing against a wall, watching 4 shorties play each other in beer pong and all of a sudden, I passed gas. It was followed by immediate stench and an awkward moment of eye contact between Tory and me. I apologized immediately and said yikes that smells. He replies " yeah, you smill like shit." That was pretty normal, especially for our relationship. So we thought nothing of it and walked away, leaving the girls with the smelly delight.
Our night carried on, we put down some more bombs, and slowly punched one way tickets to blackout city. The night continued with us going to a few bars, where I did the Bruised Banana usual, which includes grinding on and getting grinded on. We got back home, had some chicken from the random Mexicans who always cooked on their mini grill at 2am in front of finacee's apartment and I called it a night... on the futon.
The next morning I wake up, full clothed and roll over and walk to the bathroom. At this point my buddy who was sleeping on the couch next to me says "dude what the fuck is on your pants?" I replied, "I have no fucking idea, what is it?!" He then starts giggling, then laughing, then convulsing. I freaked out and ran into my fiancee's room and woke her up. "What the fuck is on my pants?!"
Then the words that will haunt me for the rest of my life "YOU SHIT YOUR PANTS OH MY GOD YOU SHIT YOUR PANTS!!!"
At this point my roommate who was sleeping in the other bedroom was awaken up by all the ruckus and comes out and sees that there is literal shit on the back of my pants. No, it was not there because I sat in something. It was there because that smell fart next to the beer pong table during bomb night happened to in fact be a SHART. Yes that happened.
The next hour, literally an hour, was filled with non-stop laughter and for me, laughter included with tears. Tears of embarrassment and well, what the fuck joy, because now I had a story to tell for the rest of my life... if I chose to share.. and well obviously I am choosing to share.
My buddy called his cousin up to come look at my pants. So he showed up. For the next 2 weeks my roommate provided me with random picture messages of my shit stained pants as well as random texts during the day, whether I was at work or in the room with him, with messages such as "hey remember when you shit your pants" or "hey sharter, what's up."
A couple days after, I returned back home and brought the pants with me. I opened the door and yelled, "mom, guess what your very mature son did!?!?! Can you help me get a stain out please??" As instructed, she did. And I was able to wear the same pants to the 1 year anniversary of that pink bomb night. And guess what? I didn't shart this year. Yay!
The following is a picture of the stained britches and under britches. This is your OFFICIAL WARNING. Don't look if you are easily disgusted!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Friday, April 9, 2010
Rock Bottom
So I won't start this post by making excuses for why I haven't blogged in a long while... truth is, I am lazy as hell.
Going through everyday life can be adventurous for some, boring for most, and totally fucked up for lots of people. Do you ever do something or have something happen to you or force yourself to do something that ends with the thought, "what the fuck did I just do? this is definitely rock bottom." Don't lie to yourself, you have had a few rock bottom moments in your life.
For some people it is basic high school and college moments that stain your memory forever:
To get some things off of my chest, I will enlighten ya'll on 3 moments of my life that I consider my Rock Bottom moments.
1) The Italian Water Bottle
A few years ago, 2 of my best male friends were dating each other and studying together in Florence, Italy for a semester abroad (how romantic, I know!). For privacy reasons we will call them "Pete" and "Korie." Like any normal friend would do, I took 10 days off of school during the semester and went to go visit them in Italy. Conveniently, I went the 10 days before spring break started at school so when I returned, I returned to spring break. If you are wondering, I went to exactly 3 days of class in the month of March in 2007. And there goes digression #1.
Anyway, Italy was awesome, one of the best trips I will have ever taken in my lifetime. Unfortunately there was a dark moment that will haunt me for the rest of my life.
As I mentioned, my friends were there, dating, and taking classes. One morning they left to go to class and I was left home alone for about 3 hours. I enjoyed the 3 hours to myself. I went through their shit in their closets and desks, tried to read their personal stuff on their computer, ate whatever food was in the pantry, and snooped through their roommates shit. After that, I did what any normal man does within their first hour of being awake- I went to go take a good ole' American dumpski.
Keep in mind, I had been eating some bangin' Italian food, all sorts of meat, gelato and... cheeses. Now if you recall from previous blog posts which probably made you gag, I am lactose intolerant. For those of you who are stupid, I am intolerant of lactose products. Unfortunately, I am also the most hard-headed, ignorant, M-Fer alive so if it's delicious, I will eat it, regardless of the battle I will be fighting in the restroom.
Basically there I was, in my favorite, yet most vulnerable of positions. Leaking out fine Italian mess into their toilet located in the hallway bathroom. It came to the end and I look over to the roll of toilet paper and notice nothing but brown cardboard. I start scrambling from my seated position looking for any extra rolls. Who the fuck doesn't have extra rolls! I was helpless. I had no one in the apartment, no cell phone to call someone, nothing. I then got desperate. I started peeling off the remnants of the last roll and was left with literally a piece the size of my index finger's finger print. It was useless, so I had to get resourceful.
I looked around the bathroom assessing my options. I debated on using one of their roommates wash cloths. Nah, that's fucked up. I debated on using my underwear, but where would I put it afterwords, and I would be wasting underwear. Then in the trashcan I saw it. I saw my savior. It was an empty 1-liter bottle of water. No I didn't rip the label off and use that. I actually leaned over and grabbed it, turned on the sink and filled it up. The next part is what has haunted me since.
For some reason I thought it would be a bright idea to lean over and turn this thing into a homemade bidet (google it if you don't know what I'm talking about you uncultured mess). I literally leaned forward like I was about to do a ski jump, pointed the opening at Mr. Balloon Knot and squeezed the bottle as hard as I could. This process repeated 3 times. Having my whole backside drenched, I sat there completely embarrassed with myself. Drenched, I had to sit there and now drip dry for a solid 15 minutes. Then like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs, I slowly put my shorts on and walked out of the bathroom. Even though I was home alone, that my friends was a walk of shame and a Rock Bottom moment of my life.
2) The Turkey Trot
Now for those of you who don't know me, I am fat. I have always been fat. It's a fact. Now I am also really into sports and one of the most competitive people you will ever meet, regardless if it is something athletic that I am inferior in, a statistics test, racing at the urinals, whatever.
Flashback 1999. In middle school before Thanksgiving break, we would do this ridiculously stupid mile run in gym class called the Turkey Trot. It was way too cold out and they would put us in our sweet school-issued sweats (mine were probably an adult XL) and make us run a mile. Usually I am okay with just chilling in the back, possibly just walk the whole damn thing but one year I decided to let my ego take charge.
With everyone lined up and ready to start this stupid ass run, as soon as the whistle blew, I decide to take off in a dead sprint. Sprint? Yeah, I don't know why, it didn't last longer than 11 seconds.
So here I am busting my ass in a sprint, holy shit I'm in front of everyone! Then before I could even turn around and yell suck it to my friends, I was on my face eating sand.
What the fuck happened? 1 second I am sprinting and am in first place and at the blink of an eye I am in the long jump pit chewing on grains of sand. You wanna know what happened? Well, apparently my intimidating jump off the line was a little much for someone to handle. I won't mention names because this person, if not in jail, would probably kill me now. This unnamed person had taken advantage of being directly behind me, by pulling down my pants while I was running. Not only did this person take down my sweat pants, but magically got a good enough grip that he pulled down my gym shorts which were under my pants and my fucking UNDERWEAR!
Now imagine this. A fat, yellowish brown Asian kid running at what he believes is 100mph and seeing him get shanked to his bare essentials. What made it worse was that since I was running, the shank had caused me to fall and roll like I was being tossed out of a moving car. Not only did I roll but I rolled into the long jump pit! Now take your now half-naked fat Asian kid visual and picture him tripping and rolling into a big pit of sand.
The motion of getting up out of the sand of the long jump pit, realizing I am completely naked from the underbelly down to my ankles, and then having to pull my pants back on and run a fucking mile, was the exact definition of ROCK BOTTOM.
3) Bomb Night(s)
Now, not many people were as fortunate as me when it came to post-college social life. A lot of people when they enter the work force are really limited when it comes to their social interactions. It's harder to make new friends when you work with all 40-60 year olds. It's harder when you don't have 5 classes of 100+ people every semester, you get the point. Well lucky for me I was into the young stuff and was dating a girl, who lucky for me is now my fiancee, who still had 2 more years of college left after I graduated. Even better, not only did she go to school close to where I lived, but she was, and still is, in a sorority. Basically what this means is college was extended for me for another 2 years and I get to hang out with hot chicks every weekend.
One would think that a man who has already finished college would have the ability to keep up with a bunch of college kids when it came to boozin, right? Well that's what I thought, but now I know I am wrong.
My fiancee has had 3 parties at her apartment which have been labeled as bomb nights, and all 3 have been exactly that... 2 especially. What separates bomb from a regular party is a number of things: a theme, a corresponding costume, liquor in bomb form, a mind-erasing evening with a morning filled with "what the fucks?"
Unfortunately the first 2 bomb nights have not ended as I desired. Let's start with bomb night #2. Bomb night #2 was going great. My future brother in law was up having a great time, hooking up with a random Indian girl, getting some fo sho. My buddy from home was up to bomb it up, it was awesome. And then the light switch flipped off for my mind. The proverbial "black out" switch turned off or turned on I should say, around 10:30pm. My next memory came at about 8am when I woke up with the angriest girlfriend in the world. Her first response when I woke up was "go in the living room and look what you did." I then saw the aftermath of my bomb night. There was throw up on the futon, the floor of the futon, just the floor. The kitchen trashcan was in the middle of the floor but the throw up was on the trashcan, not in it. The bathroom had throw up everywhere but in the toilet. Everything was a mess. My $85 shirt was used as a saliva rag.
Everything was disgusting. And then it happened. My ole lady gets a text saying, "remember your bf throwing upon Meagan?!" Then I hear from the other room, " YOU THREW UP ON MY FRIEND!!" Right there, I was afraid that was Rock Bottom. Unfortunately the after effects of that night carried on because I was due by 12noon to be at work for a Holiday Party. Not only did I need to be at the Holiday Party, I need to be hosting the party because I am the boss.
So now I am wearing my girl's ugg slippers, shorts and a hoody. I smell like vomit and I can't keep my life together. I make the 1hour drive to work, driving 40mph the ENTIRE way there. I get to the Holiday Party and lucky me, it's a full house with 45+ employees there. I spent the entire party sitting in a chair with sunglasses on. It was like Bad Santa just I didn't talk at all. What made it a Rock Bottom moment was the 4 breaks I took during the Holiday Party to go into a back room and throw up into a trash can.
Unlucky for me it was also my birthday that weekend and someone thought it would be a great moment to get everyone there to sing happy birthday to me. So while I sat in my chair, in my fragile state, I had 45+ of my subordinates staring at their still-drunk, vomit-covered boss in UGG slippers, singing fucking happy birthday. At the end of the song I could not even thank them, I gave 3 slow claps and went back to the backroom to vom again.
Once everyone left, I literally stayed at work for 4 more hours doing nothing but throwing up in a trash can. ROCK BOTTOM.
Now there is a continuation to the BOMB NIGHT part, but it deserves it's own post. If you are lucky and people actually read this post, it may come with a visual. So check back in a day and you will be able to find out what could possibly be worse than wiping my ass with a water bottle, being naked in a long jump put or throwing up on a girl and at your work holiday party.
Check back in a couple days dammit!
Going through everyday life can be adventurous for some, boring for most, and totally fucked up for lots of people. Do you ever do something or have something happen to you or force yourself to do something that ends with the thought, "what the fuck did I just do? this is definitely rock bottom." Don't lie to yourself, you have had a few rock bottom moments in your life.
For some people it is basic high school and college moments that stain your memory forever:
- Accidentally drinking someone's dip-spit cup
- Unintentionally fantasizing about a family member or best friend of the same sex
- Making love in your grandparent's car
- Drinking a floater in your apartment .... from the night before
- Sex with a ginger
- Cooking the ramen noodles, mixing it with ketchup and adding in cut-up pieces of hot dog and calling it spaghetti n meatballs
To get some things off of my chest, I will enlighten ya'll on 3 moments of my life that I consider my Rock Bottom moments.
1) The Italian Water Bottle
A few years ago, 2 of my best male friends were dating each other and studying together in Florence, Italy for a semester abroad (how romantic, I know!). For privacy reasons we will call them "Pete" and "Korie." Like any normal friend would do, I took 10 days off of school during the semester and went to go visit them in Italy. Conveniently, I went the 10 days before spring break started at school so when I returned, I returned to spring break. If you are wondering, I went to exactly 3 days of class in the month of March in 2007. And there goes digression #1.
Anyway, Italy was awesome, one of the best trips I will have ever taken in my lifetime. Unfortunately there was a dark moment that will haunt me for the rest of my life.
As I mentioned, my friends were there, dating, and taking classes. One morning they left to go to class and I was left home alone for about 3 hours. I enjoyed the 3 hours to myself. I went through their shit in their closets and desks, tried to read their personal stuff on their computer, ate whatever food was in the pantry, and snooped through their roommates shit. After that, I did what any normal man does within their first hour of being awake- I went to go take a good ole' American dumpski.
Keep in mind, I had been eating some bangin' Italian food, all sorts of meat, gelato and... cheeses. Now if you recall from previous blog posts which probably made you gag, I am lactose intolerant. For those of you who are stupid, I am intolerant of lactose products. Unfortunately, I am also the most hard-headed, ignorant, M-Fer alive so if it's delicious, I will eat it, regardless of the battle I will be fighting in the restroom.
Basically there I was, in my favorite, yet most vulnerable of positions. Leaking out fine Italian mess into their toilet located in the hallway bathroom. It came to the end and I look over to the roll of toilet paper and notice nothing but brown cardboard. I start scrambling from my seated position looking for any extra rolls. Who the fuck doesn't have extra rolls! I was helpless. I had no one in the apartment, no cell phone to call someone, nothing. I then got desperate. I started peeling off the remnants of the last roll and was left with literally a piece the size of my index finger's finger print. It was useless, so I had to get resourceful.
I looked around the bathroom assessing my options. I debated on using one of their roommates wash cloths. Nah, that's fucked up. I debated on using my underwear, but where would I put it afterwords, and I would be wasting underwear. Then in the trashcan I saw it. I saw my savior. It was an empty 1-liter bottle of water. No I didn't rip the label off and use that. I actually leaned over and grabbed it, turned on the sink and filled it up. The next part is what has haunted me since.
For some reason I thought it would be a bright idea to lean over and turn this thing into a homemade bidet (google it if you don't know what I'm talking about you uncultured mess). I literally leaned forward like I was about to do a ski jump, pointed the opening at Mr. Balloon Knot and squeezed the bottle as hard as I could. This process repeated 3 times. Having my whole backside drenched, I sat there completely embarrassed with myself. Drenched, I had to sit there and now drip dry for a solid 15 minutes. Then like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs, I slowly put my shorts on and walked out of the bathroom. Even though I was home alone, that my friends was a walk of shame and a Rock Bottom moment of my life.
2) The Turkey Trot
Now for those of you who don't know me, I am fat. I have always been fat. It's a fact. Now I am also really into sports and one of the most competitive people you will ever meet, regardless if it is something athletic that I am inferior in, a statistics test, racing at the urinals, whatever.
Flashback 1999. In middle school before Thanksgiving break, we would do this ridiculously stupid mile run in gym class called the Turkey Trot. It was way too cold out and they would put us in our sweet school-issued sweats (mine were probably an adult XL) and make us run a mile. Usually I am okay with just chilling in the back, possibly just walk the whole damn thing but one year I decided to let my ego take charge.
With everyone lined up and ready to start this stupid ass run, as soon as the whistle blew, I decide to take off in a dead sprint. Sprint? Yeah, I don't know why, it didn't last longer than 11 seconds.
So here I am busting my ass in a sprint, holy shit I'm in front of everyone! Then before I could even turn around and yell suck it to my friends, I was on my face eating sand.
What the fuck happened? 1 second I am sprinting and am in first place and at the blink of an eye I am in the long jump pit chewing on grains of sand. You wanna know what happened? Well, apparently my intimidating jump off the line was a little much for someone to handle. I won't mention names because this person, if not in jail, would probably kill me now. This unnamed person had taken advantage of being directly behind me, by pulling down my pants while I was running. Not only did this person take down my sweat pants, but magically got a good enough grip that he pulled down my gym shorts which were under my pants and my fucking UNDERWEAR!
Now imagine this. A fat, yellowish brown Asian kid running at what he believes is 100mph and seeing him get shanked to his bare essentials. What made it worse was that since I was running, the shank had caused me to fall and roll like I was being tossed out of a moving car. Not only did I roll but I rolled into the long jump pit! Now take your now half-naked fat Asian kid visual and picture him tripping and rolling into a big pit of sand.
The motion of getting up out of the sand of the long jump pit, realizing I am completely naked from the underbelly down to my ankles, and then having to pull my pants back on and run a fucking mile, was the exact definition of ROCK BOTTOM.
3) Bomb Night(s)
Now, not many people were as fortunate as me when it came to post-college social life. A lot of people when they enter the work force are really limited when it comes to their social interactions. It's harder to make new friends when you work with all 40-60 year olds. It's harder when you don't have 5 classes of 100+ people every semester, you get the point. Well lucky for me I was into the young stuff and was dating a girl, who lucky for me is now my fiancee, who still had 2 more years of college left after I graduated. Even better, not only did she go to school close to where I lived, but she was, and still is, in a sorority. Basically what this means is college was extended for me for another 2 years and I get to hang out with hot chicks every weekend.
One would think that a man who has already finished college would have the ability to keep up with a bunch of college kids when it came to boozin, right? Well that's what I thought, but now I know I am wrong.
My fiancee has had 3 parties at her apartment which have been labeled as bomb nights, and all 3 have been exactly that... 2 especially. What separates bomb from a regular party is a number of things: a theme, a corresponding costume, liquor in bomb form, a mind-erasing evening with a morning filled with "what the fucks?"
Unfortunately the first 2 bomb nights have not ended as I desired. Let's start with bomb night #2. Bomb night #2 was going great. My future brother in law was up having a great time, hooking up with a random Indian girl, getting some fo sho. My buddy from home was up to bomb it up, it was awesome. And then the light switch flipped off for my mind. The proverbial "black out" switch turned off or turned on I should say, around 10:30pm. My next memory came at about 8am when I woke up with the angriest girlfriend in the world. Her first response when I woke up was "go in the living room and look what you did." I then saw the aftermath of my bomb night. There was throw up on the futon, the floor of the futon, just the floor. The kitchen trashcan was in the middle of the floor but the throw up was on the trashcan, not in it. The bathroom had throw up everywhere but in the toilet. Everything was a mess. My $85 shirt was used as a saliva rag.
Everything was disgusting. And then it happened. My ole lady gets a text saying, "remember your bf throwing upon Meagan?!" Then I hear from the other room, " YOU THREW UP ON MY FRIEND!!" Right there, I was afraid that was Rock Bottom. Unfortunately the after effects of that night carried on because I was due by 12noon to be at work for a Holiday Party. Not only did I need to be at the Holiday Party, I need to be hosting the party because I am the boss.
So now I am wearing my girl's ugg slippers, shorts and a hoody. I smell like vomit and I can't keep my life together. I make the 1hour drive to work, driving 40mph the ENTIRE way there. I get to the Holiday Party and lucky me, it's a full house with 45+ employees there. I spent the entire party sitting in a chair with sunglasses on. It was like Bad Santa just I didn't talk at all. What made it a Rock Bottom moment was the 4 breaks I took during the Holiday Party to go into a back room and throw up into a trash can.
Unlucky for me it was also my birthday that weekend and someone thought it would be a great moment to get everyone there to sing happy birthday to me. So while I sat in my chair, in my fragile state, I had 45+ of my subordinates staring at their still-drunk, vomit-covered boss in UGG slippers, singing fucking happy birthday. At the end of the song I could not even thank them, I gave 3 slow claps and went back to the backroom to vom again.
Once everyone left, I literally stayed at work for 4 more hours doing nothing but throwing up in a trash can. ROCK BOTTOM.
Now there is a continuation to the BOMB NIGHT part, but it deserves it's own post. If you are lucky and people actually read this post, it may come with a visual. So check back in a day and you will be able to find out what could possibly be worse than wiping my ass with a water bottle, being naked in a long jump put or throwing up on a girl and at your work holiday party.
Check back in a couple days dammit!
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The Guinea Pig Generation
I know it has been a hot minute since my last post. Don't think I quit on you! Life has been busy but no one likes a quitter. That's why I still eat 20-30 pieces of chocolate a day...I'll never quit.
I do not know if people realize what we are doing to ourselves. I have taken classes and sat in presentations regarding our generation (thank you to the older crowd that is reading the blog, you can feel young again and lump yourself into our generation group). Some refer to us as Generation- Y or if they are cool, Gen-Y. Some people refer to us as Generation Next, the Echo Boomers, or the newest sensation, Millenials. Those are all fitting names in one capacity or another, but I have another one to throw into the hat.... Generation Fucked.
Generation Fucked? You must think I am an idiot. How could we be Generation Fucked with all of this great technology and advances in every field? That reasoning is the reason why we are all fucked. We are essentially a shit load of guinea pigs for future generations.
With Black Friday upon us, you are probably getting wet thinking about what piece of technology you are going to add to your collection. Let me put it like this, during our lifetime, we have seen the invention of the cell phone, laptop computer, ipod, digital camera, gps system, etc... Basically we have set ourselves up for futures with 6 eye balls, 2.5 ears, and a sack of grape-looking tumor hanging off of our faces.
How are we to know the long term effects of all of this technology and "waves" we are throwing at ourselves at an exponential rate? Cell phones and PDAs are the closest thing to magic out there. Through the air from all parts of the world you can receive a message, an e-mail, a picture, a pornographic picture, and possibly, if the person is not lazy, you can actually talk to someone. But the fact that it can happen THAT easily means there is some magic wave out there that is going to your brain.
Now I know for a fact that probably 75% of you nasty cell phone users shove that shit in between your crotch when you drive. Sure it feels good when it vibrates! Sure it feels even better because it hits you randomly! But what the fuck! A cell phone next to your reproductive organs?? I don't give a shit what kind of research has been done saying its "OK." You know why? Because there's no research that says a cell phone adjacent to your cock is OK for 40 years!
Please don't get me wrong, I am not here to try to come off as some crazy fucking conspiracy theorist, I am simply sharing my opinion of why we are putting our bodies in a position to be totally fucked in the future.
Now besides cell phones. Think about laptops. I am sitting here with one on my lap, warming up my balls. That's all.
Yet even with things like the expansion of the internet, we have all been exposed to some strange ass fucks that can too be ruining our future. Besides the whole technology and crazy waves entering our bodies, the expansion of the internet and internet media will simply fuck people up physically. Take for instance, eating shit and throwing up in another person's mouth (2 girls 1 cup). Or getting butt fucked by another guy and letting your junk spin around in circles (meatspin). Maybe getting fucked in the ass by a horse (2 guys 1 horse)? Now when I say things like Lemon Party or Goatse you giggle because you know what I am talking about.... and for those of you who don't, I know you are going to google these things... just DON'T DO IT AT WORK lol.. seriously! (Peter)
Because of the internet people do the most ridiculous shit that is NOT OKAY!! Then people do more ridiculous shit to try to top the next person. The next thing you know, eating shit and throwing up in someone's mouth will be considered tame and weak sauce. Because of the internet, the future for fucked up shit is endless.
Back to the technology piece. There is no research that shows the long term effects. It is going to be like STDs and different forms of diseases... sure they knew about that shit a long time ago, but lately there are new forms being discovered, things that were not imaginable years ago. 50 years from now people are going to be like Holy shit! They only had 2 testicles back then! I can't believe how fucked up humans used to be!
I don't know if there is a moral to this story. Because I know that I for one will not stop using my blackberry or stop operating in front of a computer 16 hours a day. I will use my ipod at the gym and my navigation system to drive across the street. Shit, I'll even stop reading books and use a Kindle. But nonetheless, technology is booming and we have no idea what it will do to us. But in a way, we are in this together! And in 50 years I will be shaking one of my 4 fists and saying to everyone who will listen, that "I Told ya so!!"
I do not know if people realize what we are doing to ourselves. I have taken classes and sat in presentations regarding our generation (thank you to the older crowd that is reading the blog, you can feel young again and lump yourself into our generation group). Some refer to us as Generation- Y or if they are cool, Gen-Y. Some people refer to us as Generation Next, the Echo Boomers, or the newest sensation, Millenials. Those are all fitting names in one capacity or another, but I have another one to throw into the hat.... Generation Fucked.
Generation Fucked? You must think I am an idiot. How could we be Generation Fucked with all of this great technology and advances in every field? That reasoning is the reason why we are all fucked. We are essentially a shit load of guinea pigs for future generations.
With Black Friday upon us, you are probably getting wet thinking about what piece of technology you are going to add to your collection. Let me put it like this, during our lifetime, we have seen the invention of the cell phone, laptop computer, ipod, digital camera, gps system, etc... Basically we have set ourselves up for futures with 6 eye balls, 2.5 ears, and a sack of grape-looking tumor hanging off of our faces.
How are we to know the long term effects of all of this technology and "waves" we are throwing at ourselves at an exponential rate? Cell phones and PDAs are the closest thing to magic out there. Through the air from all parts of the world you can receive a message, an e-mail, a picture, a pornographic picture, and possibly, if the person is not lazy, you can actually talk to someone. But the fact that it can happen THAT easily means there is some magic wave out there that is going to your brain.
Now I know for a fact that probably 75% of you nasty cell phone users shove that shit in between your crotch when you drive. Sure it feels good when it vibrates! Sure it feels even better because it hits you randomly! But what the fuck! A cell phone next to your reproductive organs?? I don't give a shit what kind of research has been done saying its "OK." You know why? Because there's no research that says a cell phone adjacent to your cock is OK for 40 years!
Please don't get me wrong, I am not here to try to come off as some crazy fucking conspiracy theorist, I am simply sharing my opinion of why we are putting our bodies in a position to be totally fucked in the future.
Now besides cell phones. Think about laptops. I am sitting here with one on my lap, warming up my balls. That's all.
Yet even with things like the expansion of the internet, we have all been exposed to some strange ass fucks that can too be ruining our future. Besides the whole technology and crazy waves entering our bodies, the expansion of the internet and internet media will simply fuck people up physically. Take for instance, eating shit and throwing up in another person's mouth (2 girls 1 cup). Or getting butt fucked by another guy and letting your junk spin around in circles (meatspin). Maybe getting fucked in the ass by a horse (2 guys 1 horse)? Now when I say things like Lemon Party or Goatse you giggle because you know what I am talking about.... and for those of you who don't, I know you are going to google these things... just DON'T DO IT AT WORK lol.. seriously! (Peter)
Because of the internet people do the most ridiculous shit that is NOT OKAY!! Then people do more ridiculous shit to try to top the next person. The next thing you know, eating shit and throwing up in someone's mouth will be considered tame and weak sauce. Because of the internet, the future for fucked up shit is endless.
Back to the technology piece. There is no research that shows the long term effects. It is going to be like STDs and different forms of diseases... sure they knew about that shit a long time ago, but lately there are new forms being discovered, things that were not imaginable years ago. 50 years from now people are going to be like Holy shit! They only had 2 testicles back then! I can't believe how fucked up humans used to be!
I don't know if there is a moral to this story. Because I know that I for one will not stop using my blackberry or stop operating in front of a computer 16 hours a day. I will use my ipod at the gym and my navigation system to drive across the street. Shit, I'll even stop reading books and use a Kindle. But nonetheless, technology is booming and we have no idea what it will do to us. But in a way, we are in this together! And in 50 years I will be shaking one of my 4 fists and saying to everyone who will listen, that "I Told ya so!!"
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