Many of you have asked me why I don’t drink. I could say that it is because pills are so much better but that would only be half the answer. The other half comes in hundreds, maybe thousands, of individual reasons. The Cake Incident is but one of those reasons.
Costa Rica is a lush subtropical paradise replete with an amazing array of wildlife, beautiful jungles with lush flora and fauna and white sand beaches that boast the best surf in Central America. It was in this idyllic setting that I almost either became a political prisoner, minus the politics, or became Jaguar kibble and bits. And bits. And bits. –Sorry, that was probably an OCD thing where I had to type all that because that was how it sounded in my head and if you all didn’t ‘hear’ it the way I did then the world would suffer a zombie apocalypse. And I didn’t want to be the cause of that.
We had been there for a week, surfing, almost dying while surfing, doing coke, playing with the monkeys and drinking excessively. Well I had anyway, my wife pretty much lay in the sun and did respectable people’ things. By this time I could tell that my hard vacationing lifestyle was beginning to take its toll and make her irritated and ragey. I figured it out by the way she was yelling at me and telling me to go pet the poison darts frogs and feed the coral snake. Because I’m perceptive like that.
I decided to go down to the beach and have a few more vodkas while I ate my dinner of the little green olives that came with my vodkas while I figured out how to make her stop wanting to kill me. Not drinking was too easy, it never would have worked. After a few more drinks I forgot what I was trying to figure out and went home in a ‘spectacular’ mood. By ‘spectacular’ I mean obliviated. But when I got home Wifey was all murdery again just because it was 3am, like I’m somehow responsible for the linear qualities of time and space. – I wasn’t responsible for that but I don’t think she ‘understood’ that.
That’s when it dawned on me like a cartoon thought bubble, “She loves chocolate and she loves cake! Both chocolate and cake seem to make her more happy and less murdery! If I could find her an amalgamation of the two, a chocolate cake if you will, she’ll be powerless against the delightful concoction! Not only will she forget about murder but she’ll probably turn into a motherfucking leprechaun and lead me to a basket of blood diamonds!” –I’m not really sure why I thought the last part; I get weird and delusional when I’m that drunk. Then I realized that I had seen such a cake while I drank vodka and she ate dinner the day before, and so I knew I had my solution.
It was without word or warning that I set out upon my quest to subdue Wifey with a chocolate cake, and possibly find a cashe of ill-gotten diamonds in the process. The only problem was that due to my inability to manipulate time it was now past 3am and I had very little motor control or brain power left in my arsenal.
I made my way through the jungle paths that connected our cottage with the rest of the hotel and the restaurant. After getting lost a few times and falling down a few times I finally found the open air restaurant. It was pitch black and completely deserted. This didn’t faze me at all. I simply climbed the little fence that separated the kitchen from the restaurant, fell down, climbed it again, then fell down on the inside part. I rummaged through a few refrigerators until I found the ‘forgiveness cake’ for Wifey and a bunch of cooked hamburger patties for me. I was already stealing food; I might as well have a bite too, right? So I sat on the kitchen floor and ate hamburger patties covered in ketchup until I started to feel sick. I then threw the cake (which was in a box) over the fence and somehow managed to get back over it myself.
I tried to make my way back to Wifey with my noble gesture but I got lost and felt sick, so I decided to fall into the weeds of the jungle 10 feet off the path and pass out until security from the hotel found me.
My plan worked to perfection. They also apparently knew how I’d come upon the crushed box of cake on my chest as well, due to the well placed and monitored security cameras throughout the property. After yelling at me in Spanish they brought me to my cottage and made Wifey promise not to let me out again that night.
I’m really lucky that they found me at all and even luckier that they didn’t have me arrested but they’re probably used to drunk people trying to steal cake for their pissed off wives. They didn’t let her have the cake though, even after all my effort. I’ll bet they were ‘on the take’ and ate the crushed up cake and that’s why they let me off, now that I think about it.
Afterward she seemed twice as murdery for some reason. Probably because she got screwed out of her cake by the dirty security men and it made her bitter. So in the spirit of compromise I promised to cut down a little, and did, for the rest of the trip.
That’s one reason that I don’t drink anymore; because it severely impairs my ability to steal cake.
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.
I think that these awkward posts are popular with many of you because, as I’ve gleaned from your comments, many of you can relate and empathize with me. However, if this one has the same effect and resonates with more than a handful of you then I’m either not half as crazy as I’ve always assumed that I was and that judge’s ruling was criminally incompetent which is ironic because that’s almost exactly how that bitch described my mental state… or the world really is going to end in 2012 which would be fine with me since it would both fit into my five year plan of success and also allow me to accomplish my goal of having lived my whole life without once ever having been a real adult with a real job.
Anyway, let’s do the damn thing.
I keep a mental scorecard of every relationship that I enter into no matter how casual. I don’t know if it’s because I’m half Italian and half Irish, or just because I am batshit crazy, but I can hold a grudge, even a grudge based on self delusion as well as a bearshark that has been sexually molested by a mackerel. –In case you don’t know, bearsharks can hold grudges against fish for a long, long time, and they especially hate mackerel.
Anyway, I am a petty, passive-aggressivey, douche baggy asshole and I’m aware of it, and I hate myself for it, and I try so hard to not be that way, but I just… Can’t…. Stop… Myself.
If I happen to grace a store clerk with one of my patented sideways grins on two separate occasions without it being reciprocated then you can guarantee that from then on underneath my cool exterior (not really) I will be mentally scowling and cursing the ungrateful peasant fuck until they make amends to me in a majorly serious way. And a head nod/have a nice day/wave isn’t going to cut it. I’d need something along the lines of a free Twix. Did you write that down Mrs. 7/11 lady from 1998?
This personal issue which is a minor problem in real life is exacerbated 10 fold in the virtual world because A) there is now a public record, so in my warped perceptions everyone else has taken note of my public dissing and B) I, like the complete asshole I am, can go back and count things. Like how many more times I returned your Facebook messages versus how many times you’ve returned mine. Or maybe I wished you a Happy Birthday and you didn’t wish me a drunken St. Patty’s day. Or since this blog thing, how many times you haven’t commented on my posts versus how many times I’ve commented on yours.
It doesn’t bother me so much with people I don’t like because I’m allowed to dislike/defriend/murder in my mind those people. But I drive myself crazy when it is people that I actually like and respect. But if I comment on their posts and/or status updates and they continuously ignore mine then I simply can NOT allow myself to continue. I can’t just become a virtual doormat. I’ll end up being covered in virtual dogshit.
I feel even worse about the situation when it was a long time commenter/friend and they suddenly stop commenting on my posts or cut down to an average of 1 out of every 3 or 4 posts and yet I see them around these here interwebs commenting on other peoples shit and I wonder what the fuck(?) suddenly happened to make me not worth the two minutes it would take them to say something about how awesome I am?
It’s even worse for me when this sort of thing progresses (only in my mind) and I begin to get so mad I can’t even see the person’s name without feeling a kind of seething resentment which turns my brains into mashed potatoes that Glenn Beck ate three days ago and just expelled into a port-o-potty. Or sometimes my OCD makes me feel like I have to comment anyway and will win out over my murdery anger, which allows my passive aggressive nature to shine forth brilliantly. If this happens I tell myself that I’ll be the bigger person and stop this war of attrition (which again, is only in my own mind) by just leaving a comment on their post. But it will be a short and not at all funny comment, damnit. If after my humble gesture of goodwill they still fail to reciprocate, then I will be forced to mentally repudiate them and I’ll unsuccessfully try to ignore the heartburny pain I feel when I see their name.
Unless of course they are nice to me again by telling me how awesome I am. If that happens then the whole retarded cycle will usually be put on reset.
Another ridiculously juvenile thing that I’ll do with both blogging and Facebook is the Hate-Compare. I’ll read bloggers that I can’t stand just to re-verify how lame I think they are. Also to make damn sure that they don’t receive more comments than I do, because if they did then I would seriously just have to quit. (As I read my own writing I am realizing that I’m much closer in emotional maturity to an eleven year old girl than to an adult male. Fuck me.) And if their Facebook page isn’t private, I’ll even check on old high school hates in the sick hope that their life isn’t going according to their old high school plans. (I thought you were going to be a big shot actor one day Brad. How’s that been working out for you?)
I’ve even went and physically counted birthday wishes (once) to make sure that I got more than my ex’s new flame got. I did, and they were way better too. Mine were more sincere, way funnier and I had more hot babes (you could tell from their profile picture) wishing me a happy birthday. So I fucking WIN!
I know in the rational part of my brain that my thoughts and behavior are asshole-like, and I’m not an asshole…or maybe I am but I don’t want to be… but it’s my very asshole-like, scorecard-keeping nature that prevents me from being able to stop being such an asshole.
I obviously wrote this post tongue in cheek. Unless I didn’t. But don’t just assume that I’m writing about you because I’m honestly not. I’m not that much of an asshole.
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.
Holy crap! In true Robert Langdon fashion I’ve just puzzled out the major mysteries of the bible, and all in one day. It just came to me like manna from heaven. All my life I’ve wondered about the inconsistencies of the bible and have tried to reconcile the idea of a loving god with some of the, quite frankly, clinically insane instruction that can be found in the west’s favorite holy book.
And I’ve finally figured it out…..God can only talk to crazy people. Not moderately crazy people like the old, homeless woman who throws cats at you when you try to give her a bologna sandwich. Not even the tortured artist, ‘mail an ear as a Secretary’s Day gift’ kind of crazy is crazy enough. The big Dude can only talk to the foamy lipped, danger to themselves and others kind of crazy people. They must be the only ones who can hear his gentle, elegant, singsong-y pitch.
Because of this communication barrier with the world, God’s messages kept getting all muddled up with the insane ramblings of lunatics throughout the ages. And the variety and scope of mental illnesses were as varied then as they are now. Although to me it seems that God happened to use people with debilitating OCD more than any of the other mental defectives. What I figure happened is this; God took his messenger up on the mountain or sat him down in the front seat of a 78 Cadillac with the stereo blaring (to avoid the feds listening in) and told him (it was always a him because it takes ‘man crazy’ to hear God) a really simple message. Then by the time that person relayed the message to the people it was completely discombobulated.
God was probably just trying to warn mankind that womankind has a tendency to get cranky during auntie Flo’s monthly visit. By the time it got passed down to the common folk there were all the ritualistic rules about who to ostracize and how much hand sanitizer to use when one accidentally came into contact with a menstruating babe.
Maybe God was actually trying to warn us about eating genetically modified grains and how fugly and regrettable polyester would come to be when what got interpreted were the super-OCD rules not allowing two crops in the same field or people to wear mixed fabrics. Or would those rules be more indicative of Asperger’s Syndrome? Maybe he was just warning us that some people may be allergic to shellfish and that overindulging in pork can lead to obesity when we got the abomination here and the hand washing (and wringing) there.
Even now, the catholic faith practices strict OCD adherence with their 10 Lord’s Prayers and 50 Hail Mary’s for swearing….I should know. Now I’m also wondering about the Ten Commandments. I’ll bet there were 7 or 9 or something and Moses just HAD to make it an even, round number. And although OCD seemed to be the most prevalent affliction of the messengers, there were also many others with far worse conditions. I don’t think that anyone who is familiar with biblical history would argue my assertion that Paul was a megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur or that John was a paranoid schizophrenic with violent hallucinations.
It’s still happening today too. I’m sure that the God of Islam (which I think is supposed to be the same God as the God of the bible, just with a different, maybe darker, complexion…?) just wanted to warn the Iranian women of the dangers of skin cancer, but when he told the Iranian clerics, they got it all screwed up and decided to start arresting women for being tan. What a kerfuffle. I’ll bet poor God’s having a LOL.
I think the whole world will be better off if we all start paying really close attention and try to really hear what God may actually be saying. Otherwise we might come out looking like we are all fucking nuts.
#1 because I have a feeling that this is a topic I will come back to endlessly, it’s just too good. After already having established my affinity for reality shows I thought I’d share some of my more innovative ideas for the future of reality programming. I have tried pitching some of these ideas to the major networks but I’m still not positive that it’s a go. It’s really hard to communicate with a restraining order. Yes, I’m talking about you NBC.
Anyway here are a few…
~Amsterdam After Dark.
I know what you’re thinking, but no, nothing too pornographic. We would follow a cast of 7 principle ‘characters’ through their lives and misadventures in Amsterdam’s red light district. After meeting an explicit criteria based casting call that is sure to have the freaks lining up around the corner, 12 lucky contestants will be chosen based on their experience. The call will go out for prostitutes, club promoters, dancers, sex show performers, cops (preferably a little on the shady side), coffee shop owners and ecstasy dealers. One or two from each category will move on to the next stage – a chance to not only appear on TV at their worst, but also to be able to show off their chosen lifestyle to thousands of enthralled and confused viewers. Oh, and a chunk of change, enough to at least pay for a rehab, medical care, or commissary in the event of incarceration.
We’d get to know these people intimately and thoroughly through their ups and downs, highs and lows, no pun intended. Maybe the most entertaining of all would be the chance to ‘meet’ the side characters on the periphery of society that could only be found in Holland (or Florida). The characters in the sex clubs alone would be worth the price of admission. I’d have to do something about the background techno beat though, I hate that shit. It would be like a drugged up, sexed up, European version of ‘Housewives of Orange County’ except without the housewives. Ok, nothing at all like that show, but you get the gist.
A harmonious combination of the violence of MSNBC’s ‘Lock up’ and the mystery and violence of ‘Lost’. This quality program would probably have to air at night on HBO, Showtime, or even pay per view, due to what might be a whole lotta blood. We would take the worst of the worst type prisoners, guys so evil and violent they can’t even function in prison, guys who are in the shoe for life, and offer them an ideal alternative. The alternative is of course being dropped on a tropical island in the middle of nowhere with 50 like minded contemporaries. Surround the island with underwater electric fencing. Fill their side of the sea with sharks, eels, barracudas, box jellyfish, and whatever the hell Brook Shields stepped on in ‘Blue Lagoon. Add some hidden cameras and presto, prime time magic baby. Magic! Then if they got themselves on track and sorted out and the show became a little boring, you could throw in some tigers, cheetahs, and maybe to give it a ‘Lost’ feel, a few polar bears. If I could do a smoke monster I would, but that’s just not an option in real life, unfortunately. It would be a win/win for everyone, they wouldn’t have to rot away in a box for centuries, and we would be provided with at least a couple hours of entertainment. If this one sounds a little mean, I apologize but there is absolutely nothing worth watching on Tuesday night.
~Big Brother OCD.
The worst part about OCD is when you feel that you have to do some compulsion, but you know that you’re being watched, and you have to do it anyway. Then you feel like a freak, but you’re not a freak damn it, it’s just that if I don’t tap my right arm against my right leg while silently mouthing the Family Guy theme 4 times in a row, then my father will probably die in a sub-prime, credit crunch induced freak accident. Oops..breath…..ok, that was what the doctor calls a slip. So as far as debilitating mental illnesses go, OCD is by far one of the most amusing. So the show would be like regular Big Brother but with obsessions and compulsions. The HOH competition would consist of games like who can walk by a light switch without having to flick it 17 times. Who can shake the most hands in a row without running to the bathroom in tears to apply the compulsory hand sanitizer. Lots of fun and games like those. We would put people in the house with conflicting compulsions as well. There will be one person who has to polish every piece of silverware in the tray and another who has to rewash anything that’s been touched by someone else. They would either kill each other or just get over it. They would just get over it, trust me I know. If need be we could add a physiatrist and meds as rewards. See the show does have some redeeming social value as well.
I personally guarantee that these would be some of the top rated shows in television history. (I feel that we would win all resulting lawsuits as well.) I don’t understand why the network execs refuse to acknowledge my genius. Anyway, due to my perseverance and optimism I’m still filming and doing research in Amsterdam. My dedication to excellence in broadcasting is inexplicable, even to myself.