Disgusting

Thats me. Disgusting. It's bad enough that I'm lazy, stupid, physically disfigured, and short, but now I smell terrible and my shower is only 8 feet away from me. But, because I am a self-destructing pile of shit I don't do anything to improve my current status. Originally by making a decision to not do anything, I think that my situation cannot get any worse, but actually all that it does it allow my current problems to fester and multiply. Way to go!

I Need A Haircut

My fat pasty stupid head looks like shit. I haven't shaved my head for awhile and now I look like I belong in a home for the mentally challenged. I am a waterhead who is walking amongst the rest of society pretending to be one of the regular folk. I need to go buy some diapers to keep myself from soiling my stonewashed jeans with the elastic waists. I also need to get some plastic kids car keys because I keep putting real car keys in my mouth and I feel sick from swallowing the blood thats leaking down my throat from my cut gums. I like to spend my evenings smelling my farts and smashing my stupid face into the wall in my living room.

I Am Disgusting

I woke up on my greasy, dirty, gross-ass shit brown couch today and realized that I would have been happier getting murdered in my sleep than facing another miserable day in my fucking useless life. So today is Saturday and I have a mammoth fucking pimple on my head. (I'm gross)
I didn't accomplish anything today. I think I tore my left tit off at the gym on Sunday. Because of this demoralizing physical setback I now am drowning my already shitty attitude in every possible form of obesity-inducing junk food that I can get my pasty, fat, sweaty hands on. My hands look like Jimmy Dean sausage patties with sausage links jutting out of them.

I'm a pile of shit.

Unfortunately I saw my face in the mirror today and because of this traumatic experience, I then stuffed myself with piles of food so I was barely able to take steady breaths as I drooled onto my fat stomach that was spilling over my soiled, smelly sweatpants.

I just took at break from writing because I had ordered a Stinger and needed to dump it down my chubby, unattractive grease-oozing face. A Stinger is a steak and chicken finger sub doused in barbecue sauce and blue cheese. Like I said, I'm fucking gross. I want to take a sharp knife and stab myself in my swollen, white gut and dig out all the hideous piles of cholesterol and fat that have entrenched themselves around my waist. Ugh. I'm near suicidal with self-loathing at this moment. Why couldn't I be victim on a home invasion and slaughtered by a pack of savages? 12 minutes until UFC 94 starts!

Why I Am Not A Father

I hate children. They have these fucking disgusting, sticky little claw-like hands that are always trying to touch you or your clothes, or the food you are eating. I swear if a fucking kid tries to touch my face with their fucking sickness spreading fingers I wont be able to restrain from throwing their stupid, oddly shaped, soft skull into a fucking wall. Chalk up another retarded waterhead who shits themselves and smears it on the window. Kids fucking suck! I hate the sight of them. No matter where I am, if one of those booger faced piss factories are nearby I instantly get angry and just want to put my size 12 through their stupid face. They fucking ruin everything. If they start fucking crying then that's it. I FUCKING HATE THEM! I want a vasectomy. You are not cute. Your little clothes look stupid. Tie your own fucking shoes you little fucks! I want to smash you with my truck. I just want to pick you up around the waist and smash your dumb drool covered face into the floor like I was hammering nails with your ugly head. Your toys are stupid. Here's some battery acid, go ahead and drink it. Enjoy your stupid little coffin. Everyone in your kindergarten class hated you anyway. You're a bitch. Jesus hates you. Santa wishes you were dead. Your mother's a prostitute and no one knows who your dad is. Who the fuck would admit to producing you anyway. You're a fucking disgrace. Come over here I want to shit on you.
Seriously keep your fucking kids away from me. I want to know how far my fist will go into a kids face if I propped them up against a wall and punched them as hard as I could. Parents, if I hear you speak in "baby talk", I'm going to snap your stupid kids neck. Well, that's all for now. Have as nice day. Blow it in her mouth and we won't need to have this talk again. Kill Yourself.

Eat A Bag of Dicks

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Lick My Ass

Eat Shit and Die you fucking miserable cunt. Next time I see a man who is shorter than me puffing his chest out and sauntering (that's right, I said sauntering) around the gym with his poorly dyed hair and light gray sweatpants that are one size too small, I'm going to nail his fucking retarded old ass into the fucking floor with a 100 lb. weight. You aren't fooling anyone! You are a chubby, middle-aged, Viagra popping loser! I swear just because you are divorced and hang out at bars doesn't mean that you are a "catch"! Fuck Off! Take you flaccid old penis and shove it in your own ass you saggy boobed bitch. Even worse is the fucking creeps with "rugs" on their bald heads who look like a fucking character from The Muppets. YOU ARE PATHETIC! I Love watching you try and dance at night clubs with your tapered jeans and your light brown leather braided belts with matching loafers. You are a complete fucking bag of shit. By all means buy all the 20 year old whores drinks all night and watch them come home with me. Guess you shouldn't have taken that 100mg's of Levitra after all you faggot. Enjoy your heart attack with that useless boner. I got a better idea go get tickets for the Eddie Money concert, sip a Heineken, get into your Corvette and smash into a gas station and blow yourself up. I Fucking Hate You. Eat a bag of dicks you cocksucker.

I'm Going to Drop A Barbell on Your Greasy Face

AAAAAAAGHGHGHGHGH I am so fucking pissed right now! I thought writing was supposed to be a way to release undesirable feelings and relieve stress? Maybe I should just eat another buttermilk biscuit and go on a shooting rampage. By the way, here's a message to that Arab dude at my gym who wears really small t-shirts so that I can see the supple shape of his gross, fat man boobs and takes a bath in cologne before he comes to the gym, and walks around like we can't put his arms down, and uses horrible technique when he lifts and wonders why he's still the same fucking scrawny- yet chubby pussy who should be dead; I FUCKING HATE YOU! This fucking nut sucker WANTS to "look" like a gym rat in the worst way. The absolute worst thing about this fucking crotch drip is that I need him to be there. Why? Because when this piece of shit is at the gym I notice that I walk out of there having experienced some very satisfying workouts. It's because I get so fucking mad at this dude that I workout like Ted Bundy running around an all female nudist colony.
I really mean that I fucking hate this fucking creep. By the way, I go to the Fitness Factory which is easily the best gym in Western New York in terms of old-school weightlifting. Now the vast majority of members at this place are the perfect type of people that I like to see in the gym. They come to lift weights! There is no fucking yoga, spinning, or aerobics. Those fucking classes just ooze estrogen and I can't fucking handle that. I used to go to a great hardcore place in Lockport. It was in this old shitty warehouse and it was exactly what I was looking for. Until the fateful day when a granola-breathed creep that was teaching yoga in the newly constructed aerobics room came up to me and told me that when I dropped the weights on the ground it was making it difficult for his "students" to concentrate. Are Ya Fucking Kidding Me? Bye-bye!!!!
I thought to myself when I pulled his heart out of his puny, pathetic, underdeveloped chest how easy that had just went and if only he actually ate read meat like a fucking man and lifted some weights maybe his stupid little bitch ass wouldn't be lying in a 140 lb. little fag pile on the floor in front of me. What is it these days with the little fucking pussies that fucking prance around in their size zero girl jeans and their cum-filled hairstyles? I'll be so much happier when I'm dead.

In A Perfect World......Fuck You

With the modern turmoil that surrounds our economy, I have taken notice to a small grouping of words that is constantly being bantered back and forth amongst us dreamers and thinkers; IN A PERFECT WORLD.
Even though I almost completely lack listening comprehension unless the topic being spoken is one about me, I did actually notice that after the above mentioned saying is voiced, people then speak of what would make their world, in fact, perfect.
Now to give you an idea of how worthless I am, if our present form of currency was toilet paper, I would have a bright red shit rash on my ass right now. But that doesn't mean that I am not eligible to share with you bags of balls my perfect world. Now, my perfect world is not really one that envelops all living beings. Just mine. (see what i mean by self-centered!!!!)
AAAHHHH!!!!!(stretching in preparation) Let's Begin.

I'm going to paint a picture for you. A picture so magical and breath-taking that you will masturbate to it every single day of your remaining life and teach your children to follow suit with passion and vigor. My Home will make Bruce Wayne's home in Batman (the one with Michael Keaton) look like a fucking shanty that was constructed by Helen Keller and some guy with no arms. Also, I will have a set of powers that make the combination of, The Force, Superman's powers, and all The Fantastic Four's powers look like a shitty card trick. Now my personal wealth will have Bill Gates trimming my toenails with his teeth and drinking my urine straight from my penis. (NO HANDS I SAID!) I addition to these minor embellishments on my life, I also believe that I have the sweet remote control that Adam Sandler (what a fucking bitch) used in that fucking visual abomination of a movie (Click). Obviously without all the bad parts. Also, I do feel Christopher Walken is a cool guy, but because he took that role in that movie, I feel in my perfect world that I will be allowed to legally kill him. Night night Deer Hunter.
Moving on. I will have the ability to have absolute control of the weather. If I want it to pour freezing cold rain over a single person no matter where they go, then it shall be! I decide who wins the fucking Lotto! My motorcycle will change shape, color, sound, and ride quality according to my mood at that moment. If there is a traffic jam on the road, it is perfectly acceptable for my friends and I to drive Monster Trucks over your fucking petty, minuscule forms of transportation.
YAWN! I'm going to have to continue tomorrow, but I am going to add below a little unfinished piece of writing that Rocket liked. So here's a little bonus.

Rocket's Bonus story:

I have a serious problem with keeping a few things to myself. Now before I get started, I am sharing with everyone that I am a worthless excuse for a human being and if anyone of my readers disagrees with anything that I put into a blog, remember I don't even like myself!
I do not like anyone that starts "small-talk" with me. Leave me the FUCK alone. I was getting gas in my truck today and I was dressed in my work clothes which means I looked like a fat, uneducated, piece of dirty, loser, white trash. Now I already am upset just because of my physical appearance alone. Unfortunately, my anger was not allow to solely feed off of my own self-loathing. A complete fucking parasite looked over towards me and at this very instant I knew this fucking scummy, jerky breathed, Nascar watching, "tricked-out" 1995 Dodge Neon driving, Judge Judy watching, Bills Super Bowl shirt wearing creep was going to feel the need to shit out a bunch of poorly enunciated, garbled, words towards me in hopes of starting a "conversation" that would make even Corky Thatcher's I.Q plummet. I now present to you this verbal exchange.

Shit-Bag: "Better fill-up before the weather gets bad."

Me: (Silence)

Shit-Bag: "Had enough of this winter?"

Me: (Silence)

Shit-Bag: "It's gonna get cold tonight." (Keep in mind it's 19 degrees when Shit-Bag is telling me this)

Me: "I wish I was deaf."

Shit-Bag: "HA HA HA. Me too! But only when my wifes talking!..........Or my Boss! HA HA HA

Me: "Please stop talking to me."

Shit-Bag: "What's the matter? Rough Day?"

Me: "I wish you were fucking burning to death."

Shit-Bag: "Hey buddy, watch it!"

Me: "If you utter one more word, I'm going to your mother's trailer park and raping her."

SCENE

Molly's Pub and my First Fattie

Just so everyone knows, if I offend anyone with what gets thrown down upon this short bus of a blog well, I have got to tell you that I hope you get an inoperable malignant tumor intertwined amongst your spinal cord nerves, and that your children are born with spina bifida. Which means it will have to walk on its hands. Fucking Die!
I keep using this sugar-free syrup and it gives me the worst fucking farts. They don't smell anything like the artificially sweetened sticky liquid heaven that I slather on my marginally edible pancakes, but rather, moldy, soiled, wet diapers that are peeled off a recently deceased senior citizen at a poorly-maintained retirement home. But hey, at least it cuts down on my carbs. (And now I smell as bad as I look)
I remember going to this complete shit hole called Molly's Pub on Main Street in Buffalo. Obviously it got shut down. But the beauty of this dump was that they had a drink special once a week that was too great to pass up. 25 cent draft and 50 cent well mixed drinks!!!!!! This was the greatest excuse in the world to go out with your friends when you had little to no money to spend. Now this fucking cyst of a bar was packed with kids who were not of legal drinking age and of course one particular evening I found that a certain girl who was cursed with a combination of a slow metabolism and an under active thyroid,(read: fucking fat) had taken a liking to me. Now please remember that this was at least 5 years ago and I had spent at least 15 dollars on myself that night(read:I was a complete puddle of shit) So as fate would have it myself and this girl whom I will coin Fattie McFatTits, began to do a little something I like to call; "eating each others faces." Now I made the fatal error of doing this in front of at least a half dozen of my friends but her big fat girl titties kept me from utilizing rational thought that evening. Hang tight, things get worse.....much worse.
So after a good half hour of this disgusting display of public affection towards one another. The general consensus between the two of us was to go back to Fattie McFatTits apartment which was nearby. Now I wrestled this baby hippo into my car which at the time was a Cadillac Seville STS, (plenty of room for a obese whore) and we were on our way. Now because i've had so much to drink it was taking 110% of my concentration to keep my Caddy between the lines, but while I was doing this I felt a pair of fat girl eyes burning a hole in the side of my drunken skull. So I look over and sure enough Shamu's staring at me! She then opened her big, chubby, food entrance, and started a conversation that I wish I could forget, but I know that I never will.

FMFT(Fattie McFatTits): "I bet I know what you are thinking right now."
Me: "Alright. Shoot."
FMFT: "You're thinking about fucking my brains out!"
Me: "Riiiight."

At this point she reached over and undid my jeans and bent over to start doing what I call, "foreplay." It was at this point when I noticed that no matter how hard I pushed the gas pedal down on my Caddy that the car would not go any faster. Now this particular car had a floor shifter and even though the foreplay had already begun, a wave of nausea washed over me because I had just discovered what the automotive trouble was. Fattie's huge gut had completely engulfed my shifter and shifted my car into neutral! I had to peel her sweaty flesh off my leather shift knob to put the car back into drive!
Now I understand that this was a pretty gross story and if you don't want to know what happens next, I understand. But if you do, then here you go.

We arrived at Cholesterol Queen's place without further incident and to the bedroom we went! It was here that she flopped down upon her industrial-strength, steel-reinforced bed and I decided that I would not follow suit. I decided to stand next to the bed and just pull my pants down to my shoes and proceed to close my eyes and hope for the best. After a few minutes of me thinking I was somewhere much better with someone much better looking, I drained the poison, pulled up my jeans and I disappeared into the night like a ninja. Kill Yourself.

Drunk at the Jim Norton Show in Cleveland, and my 2nd Favorite Bar!

Well how bout a fat shit sandwich for me today! I fucking can't stand my pasty and fat-injected stumpy-ass shit stain of a body that should have been fucking aborted. What the fuck! I would love to just get run over by a giant lawn mower and be fed as chum to the whales at SeaWorld. Good times.
So last year I went to see Jim Norton (I'm a huge fan!) do a stand-up act in Cleveland, Ohio. I went with my brother-in law Mike and one of his friends, who I will call Baby Huey. Just kidding, his name is Derek. (I don't know if I spelled his name right, but really who gives a fuck?) Anyway, before we even got into the show to see lil' Jimmy, we were already completely fucked-up and shouldn't have even been admitted into a soup kitchen, let alone the comedy club. Jimmy's set was incredible and I liked it so much that I screamed enough distasteful and offensive material of my own to even be mentioned on the Opie and Anthony show the next day. After the show let out and Mike, Derek, and I slithered out into downtown Cleveland to find a place that spoke drunk. We fell into Flannery's and immediately felt at home.
Now at Flannery's we went about drowning ourselves in liquor. (Jack Daniel's for me) As the night continued we felt the need to loudly voice(read: scream so loud the deaf could hear us) our opinions about the rest of Flannery's patrons. Derek felt it especially important to let a woman know that because she had a tattoo on her chest, she was obviously and without question a whore. Derek so eloquently pronounced it so that the emphasis was on "who" and came out sounding as if it was spelled like this; whoo-wes. Also, and I'm sure there if a front row spot for me in hell for this one, but a man who had cerebral palsy came into the pub with a nice, shiny set of aluminum crutches and before he could even "walk" into the pub, (I'm awful) I screamed, "Faker!" and immediately hid myself into my pint glass of ole' No.7. Needless to say when Flannery's poured out last call, it was definitely time for Derek, Mike, and I to find some fat drunken sustenance to soak up our protruding tubs of booze that we call stomachs. Now Mike did a great job in getting us a very large, and very nice room at the Embassy Suites. This was a horrible mistake by the Embassy Suites staff because I immediately volunteered myself to go on a scouting mission throughout the hotel for food. In a drunken stupor, I broke into the closed kitchen of the hotel and rid the place of their ample bacon, french toast, pancake, and egg stores that they possessed. In the morning after a long evening of engulfing pounds (literally, POUNDS) of stolen breakfast treats I awoke to a almost innate urge to vomit it all back up into the pristine bathroom of the Embassy Suites. As we excited the room and headed down the hallway towards the elevator, a very distinct trail of bacon and pancakes was sprinkled across the hotel floor and even in the elevator. Ah, Cleveland! Kill Yourself.

Because Bars Are Where I'm Most Comfortable

I am procrastinating going to the gym and making an effort to deter the inevitable apple- shaped physique that my family tree is laden with. So I think the logical idea is it stop denying my true identity and bring forth what I consider would be the easy (read: wrong) choice for my future.
I can see myself being a red-faced, mildly sweaty, and drunkenly jolly alcoholic that frequents TRUE drinkers saloons. I have some very foggy, but also very fond memories in my favorite bars some of which are still standing and sadly, some that are not. Also, I have thought about the people that I spent those drunken moments with and while some I still am close with. sadly some I am not. I'm now going to try and assemble a poorly thrown together list of my favorite bars and attempt to include some stories that I can remember and who was involved in them.
DISCLAIMER: Please keep in mind that anytime alcohol is involved in my life nothing good becomes of the events that follow immediately after. Also, I do not encourage anyone to do the things that I have done in these stories.

Favorite Bar #1 The Barrel House, Buffalo, NY
Unfortunately the Barrel House is no longer in business. It was sold and while it technically is open, it's called something else and I haven't been back since. Back when I was working in the downtown bar scene before it was ran into the ground by college kids and shitbags, the Barrel House was the place for bar employees to go drink at when they weren't working at their own bars. This place was open every day and every bartender that worked there was a PROFESSIONAL drinker. I mean this with all seriousness. PROFESSIONAL!!!!! No matter what time or what day or no matter how long they had been there for, they KEPT DRINKING! I never seen another bar go through as many bottles of Crown Royal as the Barrel House.
I hazily remember going there on Tuesday nights with a core group of friends that included Rocket, Bodenburg, and Metcalf. Now some weeks we could be found there almost every night, but we religiously made our appearance on Tuesdays to visit our friend and the bartender on duty; Chuckie Pockets.
One particular evening I believe it was in the winter season and our group of drunken losers were at The Barrel doin shots of "liquid gravel" (Crown Royal) when in walked these two older women who were well dressed and didnt exactly fit the usual Barrel House customer profile. Now at the Barrel, there was something that the bartenders called "Asshole Tax". This tax was applied to customers who were not following the code of ethics that was put forth by the Barrel. (Trust me. there was nothing ethical about this unwritten Code of Ethics) Basically a normal bottle of beer was aroung 2 bucks, but if a drunken asshole was not tipping and being a fucking moron then that price was quietly raised to around 4 or 5 bucks. Hence, "Asshole Tax". Now these women wanted martini's and I swear the music in the bar came to a screeching halt! Fuck that martini bullshit. This is the Barrel! Crown Royal or Die! But Pockets made them their drinks and we went about our business of throwing peanuts at the drunken bums at the end of the bar and then hiding behind one another. At the end of the evening the 2 bitches who explained that they were in town for some business meetings were hungry and wanted to know where they could get some food to cap off their stupid girls night out. One of the morons in our group (maybe even me) drunkenly pointed across the street and slurred, "Sssteak Out!" They thanked us and left to venture for some fattening drunk people grub across the way. We then noticed that they had left Chuckie Pockets no more than about 40 cents on the bar for a tip on a bar tab that was over 50 dollars! This type of slap in the face does not go unpunished in the Barrel! Pockets immediately called Steak Out on his phone and explained what the cheap-ass whores had done. Pockets advised our friends in the kitchen to do their worst!!! When the skanks had left with their greasy food the cook ran from across the street and described a scene that still haunts me to this day. Inside the tacos prepared for the unsuspecting customers was a large amount of spit from the entire kitchen staff, as well as boogers and pubic hair. While this alone is vile, what follows can only be described as utterly sickening. The kitchen staff then pulled their prep tables away from the wall in the cooking areas and using metal spatula's scraped off decade-old mold from the corners of the kitchen floor and sprinkled it liberally into the meal's! Yak! All this was done while giggling like a bunch of children. Some thing to be taken from this is to please be courteous to whoever serves you your food and drink. Remember always tip well!!!

Last night I went out with Rocket, a girl who can't be mentioned, my sister Susan and her husband, Mike. We went to a bar not far from my house and I proceeded to drink an entire bottle of Jack Daniel's. Now before I stepped out of the house to join my friends and family at this meeting place for drunks, I snatched up my digital camera to throw onto the bar. I feel that if someone brings a camera to a public outing no matter how boring or formal it may be, having that camera out for everyone to see and/or use and having plenty of alcohol present, leads to a GREAT night out. Unfortunately, I got so completely shit-faced that I needed that camera to piece together what actually took place. Also, I puked my ass out of my mouth and had to army crawl around my house because if I made an attempt to stand I would have smashed my fat, ugly face off whatever was within reach. So, another wasted day and tomorrow I will continue with my list of Favorite Bars and horror stories that go along with them, Kill Yourself.

The Dirty Cooch

Well, unfortunately I did not die in my sleep last night so I have to face another day of complete hatred of my being. On my way home from my dads shop this morning, I stopped at my older brothers house to bother him for a bit. We used to live together in the house I live in now, but he and his wife wisely moved out soon after their wedding. He immediately told me to shut my fat noise hole when he met me at the door because his wife was sleeping. Trust me it was for the best. I immediately helped myself to a cup of his coffee and this led to me having to speed home to unleash hot, burning, liquid feces from my anus. But now as I make some egg whites and a yam for myself (trying to lose some bodyfat because I'm gross), I find I am ready to pick up from where I left off yesterday.
I used to work at a strip club that from here on out I will refer to as The Dirty Cooch. My roommate and I have worked at night clubs and bars in the past, and the manager of The Dirty Cooch was this awesome chick that used to bartend at one of the bars we worked at. She offered both of us jobs as bouncers at the strip club. Personally I was very excited to work at such an establishment and jumped in feet first (and genitals). It is at this point that I can introduce to you my very good friend and brother from another mother, Knuckles. Now after a few nights of working at The Dirty Cooch and getting a feel for the place (and some of the dancers), I found that one of the other bouncers (Knuckles) was actually a neighbor of mine and from here on out we forged a childish and often criminal friendship. Now Knuckles was a little more than 10 years older than me and was married with a couple teenage kids. But one day when I was pissing in the utility sink behind the bar and he was filling a bucket of ice a connection was made. Knuckles was a rather burly guy who had these large mitts for hands that looked more like bear paws. As we began to spend more time at work together we began trying to outdo each other as if we were back in high school.
A particular instance that remains in my mind was when a customer was rude to me right before he stepped outside to have a cigarette. Now I noticed that he had left his bottle of beer on the doorman's table at the front entrance of the club. The attire that the bouncers had to wear at the club was black dress pants, a white tux shirt and a black tux vest (Read: whipped cream on shit). Now after wearing those clothes all night I had built up a decent amount of swamp ass and thought this could be one of those rare chances where I could put something bad like swamp ass to good use. I told my roommate to pay attention to what I was about to do. I scooped up a handful of beverage napkins off the bar and started to undo my dress pants while standing in the club. I undid them enough to be able to reach my hand (and napkins) in between my ass cheeks to sop up some off that festering juice. Now I got those napkins all the way around my asshole and even a little bit IN it to ensure I had acquired enough "goodness" for what I needed it for. I then took my noticeably soiled napkins and proceeded to wipe them in and around the opening of the man's beer bottle. Yum! The smell of shit was radiating off the this customers beer and i then threw away the napkins and waited for his much anticipated return into The Dirty Cooch. The story ends with Rocket (my roommate), Knuckles, and I pulling up chairs to watch this man enjoy his shit garnished beverage. Now Rocket and the rest of the staff were completely taken aback by this disgusting act of terrorism that had just taken place, but Knuckles and I just felt it was all in a days work. I will be mentioning some of The Dirty Cooch, Knuckles, and Rocket in future blogs.
Once again my ADD infected brain is having trouble allowing me to keep writing todays entry(Can you say, Trouble Focusing). So until next time, Kill Yourself.

New Year Same Old Shit

With the dawn of 2009 shining into my foul-smelling and poorly furnished apartment, I ask myself what could possibly change for the better in this shitty world I live in? After just eating a grease injected lunch at an "authentic" Greek restaurant and proceeding to shit it out a mere 20 minutes later, I wallow in my memories of poor life choices and find myself fervently depressed.

Today is Thursday January 1st and it is a balmy 18 degrees on a sunny afternoon. I did not go out last night to partake in the swilling of alcoholic drinks with people that could care less if i died. I sat on my brown (read: fucking ugly) couch and ate a pile of carbohydrate-rich food and washed it down with the domestic light beer that was from my near empty refrigerator. With my already horrible metabolism and piss-poor genetics, I awoke this morning another step closer to being completely unattractive. Don't get me wrong I am still capable of finding stupid-ass women to make a poorly thought out leap into my fart-scented bedroom for an evening of mediocre physical contact. But, I have noticed lately that at the age of 26 that the back fat and umbilical donut are becoming much more stubborn and resilient then in years past. I have so many things to do today that include; paying fines that I have accumulated over the span of the past year, a large and filthy smelling pile of dirty laundry that starts next to my bed and stops down in the basement next to my silent washer and dryer, overdue scheduled vehicle maintenance of my vehicle that I don't want anymore but am still making payments on, and dozens of additional tasks that are just as unpleasant. Why don't I just run out in front of a fast-moving garbage truck you ask? Hmmm, good question!

I currently work for my father who has done a tremendous job at creating a successful general contracting company. (It is at this point that I notice how disgusting my dirt and oil encrusted keyboard is. Well, thats never getting cleaned.) Working for my father pays me a more than decent wage and I owe him for putting up with my self-destructive behavior and long list of fuck ups. But I have always felt that I am one of those people thats destined for greatness. I have also felt that if I was taller, smarter, better looking, more motivated, better organized, and more endowed, that I would be the worlds greatest professional football playing doctor that does adult films. Please everyone I have been diagnosed with ADD and haven't taken my medicine for some time now. Seriously.
Tomorrow morning I will drive out to my father's shop and jump into one of his work trucks that carries a 100 gallon diesel fuel pump in the back of it. I will then drive out to one of his job sites to fuel up the generator and heavy equipment that is being used there. Now I must be let onto the fenced-in work area by a woman who works for the environmental services company that oversees our work to ensure we properly remove the contaminated soil from the ground (the site is an old gas station). I don't find this women who I will call Safety Vest, to be particularly attractive. I do know that she is married and has a young son with her husband. This reason I bring Safety Vest up is because even though I don't think she is hot or anything, I still want her to get sopping wet over the mere notion of my presence. Tell me thats not fucked up! I started noticing back in high school that I had this need to have women want to fuck me more than anyone else even when I didn't even want to sleep with them! Safety Vest falls into this category. If this is something that other people do please tell me because I haven't found anyone yet who shares this sad, desperate quality with me. OK enough of that shit.
In addition to to the already mentioned employment with the family business, I have a completely scatter-shot job history that proves my inability to just stick to one fucking job and move towards the future. My absolute favorite job without a doubt was my stint as a bouncer at a Buffalo-area strip club.
Now, if you want to find out the do's and dont's for working at a strip club, please get out your notebooks because this is where I pick up my next post from. Happy New Year. Kill Yourself.