All I wanted to do was make us a nice, tasty snack while we watched a movie. Something a normal person should be able to do. Because I am a barely functioning, not even close to normal person however, things quickly went full-tard.
I had decided that we should start doing a Cinema Sunday because I enjoy making up theme days that make me sound like I may or may not be a douchebag. Cinema being our 11 inch laptop playing the latest movie that I downloaded from The Pirate Bay. Yes I would steal a purse. And yes I would steal a car. I’d steal a fucking ATM machine if it weren’t so heavy. And so bolted down.
Anyway on cinema Sunday I thought I’d treat us to a culinary delight from which we would normally abstain because we don’t want people to throw hotdogs at our faces in the future. Something greasy, fatty and extraordinary… like Precious. Not Precious herself, that would be gross, but something akin to Precious, something as tasty and delicious as Precious.
Even though I love to cook and am surprisingly good at it I always panic halfway through because I never time anything because I suck at math and I have ADD coming out my ass because I’m a free spirit and refuse to conform to societal norms so some stuff gets burnt while other stuff is still uncooked but then the anarchist leaves and the OCD dude comes and gets all nervous and then I’m left to go all, “Fuckfuckfuck.”
So it wasn’t really a shocker when I was putting together my Super Super Sexy Nachos Delight that I forgot to add the chili peppers until the last minute and had to rush through the preparations and improvise using my adept hands more than the knife, ripping them apart more than say, chopping them. I was like a Top Chef on crack which I’d totally be if Colicchio would just give me some crack and a white tubey hat.
Having gotten the chilli peppers in with the rest of the goulash I breathed a sigh of relief and thought I’d celebrate by taking a nice piss that I’d been holding for 10 minutes, which is like 4 hours for me. So I went down the kitchen steps to our bathroom which is outside on our terrace.
Yes, our only bathroom is outside. We practically live in Little House on the Prairie except there’s no prairie because this is Spain and it’s mostly just mountains and donkey shit. We do have kindly widowers but they are mostly alcoholic and when they start in on the wine, which is as soon as they wake up, they become less kindly and more ragey and punchy. And they spit a lot. And pee on my house. I don’t think they spit or peed outside much on Little House.
I rushed through my own urination as much I could and shook my mini tube steak vigorously. You people with vaginas have it easy, you just sit there. When you are dealing with a penis everything is complicated. After you think you’re done pissing you have to give it a nudge and you’ll be rewarded with another stream. Then, when you’re really done you have to go through a complicated series of pulling, stretching and shaking that would cause an unaccustomed observer to believe that you were strangling a small, possibly rabid, egomaniacal mouse that had attached itself to your groin and the motherfucker wouldn’t die. If you neglect the killing of the evil mouse process you will dribble down the front of your leg and that is not at all pleasant.
As I quickly zipped up and ran inside to my sizzling meat I began to feel a burning sensation. For a minute I thought that maybe the stove top was giving out a nice genital warmth. Then the rapidly spreading and escalating heat picked up a kind of frenetic momentum of increasing intensity that made me feel as if I were having sex with Joan of Arc, after she was lit. I felt like I had dipped my junk into a coffee cup of boiling sulfuric acid. I felt like Satan was giving me a blowjob and he had a really high fever due to seasonal flu.
I began letting off a series of little shrieks, de-panted, and furiously washed my penis and testicles in the kitchen sink. I don’t know if you’ve ever eaten something hot then tried to drink water to make it go away and the water makes it 10 times worse instead? It was just like that only on my genitals. My shrieks (not exaggerating at all here) began to increase in pitch, volume and intensity until I was worried the neighbors would knock on my door but I was still powerless to stop myself.
I ripped off all of my remaining clothing and bolted out the back door into the shower, shrieking and whinnying the whole time. I produced a lather that would make an advertising photographer for Dove® orgasm, and proceeding to scrub and rinse, repeating as necessary. And it was more necessary than it’s ever been.
The pain began easing off a bit and then coming back full steam, kind like the high from an Oxy Contin if you accidentally forget to chew or snort it. The pain somehow also reached my rectum which made me feel kind of nauseas and even more panicky. Finally after 15 or 20 minutes the torment was down to the feeling of a little too much Ben Gay.
As I turned off the shower I could hear Wifey coming in from giving the dogs a short walk during our intermission. When I came out of the shower I could see two of my punchy, ragey neighbors looking on with a kind of drunken fascination. As I came up the steps to the kitchen in only a towel, I could see smoke and smell crispy, black ground beef and melted chili peppers.
Not surprisingly, Wifey was more curious about the pile of discarded clothing and puddles of soapy water in front of the kitchen sink than she was about the Super Super Sexy Nacho apocalypse.
I wish I made this shit up. I really do.
If you have an incredible idea for a book but want to spend all day, every day avoiding writing it, just follow these 7 highly ineffective habits that I’ve incorporated into my daily life. *These are also ideal habits for anything else you’d prefer not to accomplish.
#1- Have OCD. I personally start out every morning in an awesome go-get-em-tiger state of mind. I make sure that I start the day positively by mentally listing everything that I’m grateful for before I even get out of bed, because I once read a book that said it’s good to do that. Now I feel like if I neglect to do this one morning, everything I love and care about will catch on fire or die. Then I’d really regret having not been mentally grateful for all that stuff and all those people because, due to my criminal negligence, they’d be all burnt up, smelly and dead.
The next item on my obsessive compulsive agenda is to read and comment on anybody’s blog who has ever, in the history of my blog, left me a comment. Because if I don’t do that every single day they will all hate me and tell the entire world what a mean and evil dick I am.
#2- Begin a dysfunctional relationship with a website. I began my affair with Rapture Ready over a year ago and it’s been a nasty ride. I used to visit because I found those freaks entertaining. Then instead of being entertained by RR I became all angry and sweary every time I stopped by, but I kept going back anyway. Finally I had enough drama and broke off the relationship vowing to never return for the sake of my very soul.
But I just couldn’t stay away. RR is like a bad drug or a really ugly girl who is really good at fellatio. Now every time I’m ready to write my book I’m all like, “Well it couldn’t hurt to just peek and see what the crazy typers are typing today.” Then by the time I get out of there I’m all angry and sweary again.
#3- Have pets. Every single time I sit down to write my book my dog puts his ball by my feet and wants me to kick it for him. Then he wants me to do it again and again forever. Or instead, my cat will look at me in an irresistibly cute way until I get his ‘stick with a string tied to it’ toy and play with him. This makes Kitty love me more than he loves Wifey, which is an added bonus.
#4- Be an exercise freak. I believe that if I don’t exercise for at least an hour a day, and sit in the sun for an hour a day I will become obese and turn translucently white overnight. Then my teeth would probably fall out too. I’m already getting old, and I haven’t exactly overachieved (like I thought I would) in my life, and am slowly going bald one year at a time.
So if I allow myself to become a pasty white, fat, toothless, bald guy, loser then everyone will hate me. People would probably find me so repulsive that they’d throw uncooked hot-dogs at my face for laughs. Every hot-dog would hit me because I wouldn’t be fast enough to block them. And they’d probably even poke me with a stick or tie me to a chair and make me eat spaghetti until I died. Then the crime scene people would have to cut down a wall of my dilapidated warehouse-like apartment just to get my gigantic body out while laughing at me the whole time.
#5- Write a blog. It’s a perfect way to make light of a serious situation where nothing of any substance or monetary value ever gets done. It’s very cathartic though, and even more so when everyone leaves comments telling me how awesome and amazing I actually am. Then I feel really proud and happy and know that I never have to change anything!
#6- Have ADD. Every time I start to do something I become distracted and immediately want to be doing something else. As soon as I start writing my book, I realize that I’m probably overdue for a blog post. Then I have to go interneting to look for some interesting material. And as long as I’m in the neighborhood, I might as well stop in on Rapture Ready. But then I realize that I’m getting really angry and sweary again so I leave, vowing never to go back.
Then I wonder if anyone has left a new comment on my last blog, or ‘OOHH I wonder if anyone ‘liked’ my last status update on Facebook or better yet left a witty comment?
While I’m already on here I might as well ‘like’ and comment on everyone I’ve ever met’s status updates to build some good karma for my future status updates!’
Then before I know it, it’s time to exercise and sit in the sun again.
#7- Have a caffeine addiction. Being the addict that I am I always think to myself, “I’ll just have 2 shots of espresso with a Red Bull chaser then I’ll be all geared up to write my book.” This only makes my OCD and especially my ADD (and possibly my hypochondria if I don’t really have OCD or ADD) exponentially worse, so I decide I’d better just exercise instead. Then I come back but am unable to sit still and write due to my exploding adrenal gland, so I decide to play with the ‘stick with a string tied to it’ toy to make the cat love me even more.
Because the cat will still love me even when I’m a pasty white, fat, toothless, bald guy. Unless the cat’s all burnt up because I forgot to be grateful for him one morning.