Slow Down, Enjoy It!

During a meditation class this summer, we were taught to slow down and enjoy all aspects of life, both negative and positive. While I agree with certain principles from the class, when it comes to nightmares, I do not believe this is what Buddha meant.

I've been plagued by nightmares lately and these damn things suck.

In the last week, I've woken up in the middle of the night soaking in sweat twice, punching the air violently once and swearing through a disoriented dream/not-really-a-dream haze more times than not.

Whether it's stress, too many pretzels, too little meat, the change of the season, too much dust from the raked leaves, the mating habits of ducks or just regular insanity, my sleep has been the equivalent of a roller coaster armed with hobos throwing handfuls of shattered glass at its' riders and another set of hobos throwing handfuls of salt.

My skin hurts, my neck hurts, my mind is scrambled and I'm beginning to question whether I wouldn't be better off in some type of good ole fashioned insomnia trance. Just like the good old days where I stayed up way too late and didn't dream because I never had enough time to slip into REM sleep.

But that shit doesn't work either. It just causes me to end up jittery, disconnected and dazed. It also causes wicked diarrhea, cramps, mood swings, bloating, gigantism, bread making, increased levels of swearing and a propensity to sing only Randy Travis songs.

I've had nightmares in the past, but this is the longest stretch I've experienced. It's like being trapped in the entire seven season run of Designing Women—it's just awful, humorless and it smells like an Aquanet convention. Yes, my dreams smell.

Maybe I need to go back to the Peddler's Mall and buy this dreamcatcher to rid myself of these nightmares.

(Seriously, I took this picture at a Peddler's Mall)

And while I usually dream in color, I don't dream about people of color. (Sorry. Please don't take offense, this is actually, probably a good thing.) Knowing I dream of only white people would probably make the Ku Klux Klan member who made this dreamcatcher very happy.

Ultimately, I'm not sure what this dreamcatcher is supposed to catch, but at this point I'll employee any member of any organization that can make whatever demon is tap dancing inside my skull at night stop. I wouldn't join their organization, but I'd at least sit through one of their "Free Timeshare" meetings if they can make this shit stop.

Swallow.

Today's photo comes courtesy of Tha Funky Headhunter, Matthew Hornyak.

As we round the corner and head for Thanksgiving, I question why we still celebrate this holiday.

It's the same damn thing year after year.

Same turkey.
Same pies.
Same vegetables.
Same horrific dish brought by that one Aunt who is 99% smell deaf.
Same conversations.

It's like watching reruns of Gilligan's Island for 35 years straight.

Shouldn't we do something to make this holiday fun? Something that makes this Thanksgiving one to remember, something that busts up the regular, mundane bullshit?

Here's my list of things we should all attempt:

1. Yell, "Swallow My Kids Bitch" at Grandma.
2. Bake an old pair of underwear into a green bean casserole. 
3. Include a pants down Penis Windmill as part of your victory touchdown dance when your team scores.
4. Call your aunt, Hitler. But not not in a normal voice, in the kind of voice you would talk to an infant or a dog to, "Ooooohhhh look at your new purse you cute little Hitler."
5. Shot for shot White Rain contest with Uncle Mitch.
6. Start complaining that your right arm has been numb for three days then replace your normal glass with a dribble glass.
7. Give yourself pink eye then touch your eye before you put your finger in the middle of every dish.
8. Wear a raincoat. That's it. Don't remove it. Just wear a raincoat.
9. Fill your plate with nothing but butter. Refuse to share it with anybody.
10. Upon arrival, turn on the sprinkler or hose. Upon leaving do donuts in the front yard.

Cat. I hate you.

Anybody who knows me, knows I have an fat cat. Appropriately named Fatty.

He actually is a former fat cat.

He is a secondhand cat and when I got him this obese bastard weighed 36 pounds. That's right, he was bigger than most 3 year old humans. He now weighs 13 pounds. (The Cat-kins Diet worked for him!)

Right off the bat this fucker was a nightmare.

First week I had him, he shit yellow diarrhea all over my condo. The second week I had him I thought he escaped the condo and had fled to the streets of Chicago. I came home late one night and thought I saw a frightened, morbidly obese pile of orange hair meowing underneath a Hummer with a Gay Pride Mickey Mouse bumper sticker.

When I pulled him out, he scratched the shit out of my face, my ears and my back.

He then ran off. This left me in the streets screaming, "Fine, you fat fuck, fuck you, have fun living in the streets! I hope a rat eats your eyes!"

A half hour later, as I was peroxiding my wounds, a giant fluffy orange mess emerged from under my bed. Seems there was another fat fucking orange cat in the neighborhood I had picked up that destroyed my northern torso. Or this fat fuck has a time machine or invisibility or some kind of ability to walk through walls.

Then, the second month I had him, his bladder got blocked from eating too many carbs. So they roto-rootered his pee hole out and charged me $1100.

Since then he has been on special food, which most days, costs more than human food costs.

He has shit on furniture. Peed on the carpet. Puked on everything. Destroyed the carpet on my stairs, which I won't replace until he dies—and they are threadbare at this point.

One time I watched him have what I like to call "Instant Oil Barron Diarrhea". For example, in "There Will Be Blood", there's a moment when oil erupts from the ground and there's a look in Daniel Day-Lewis' eyes that says, "I'm rich bitch!" Replace the ground with my cat's asshole and the look in my eye with one of impeding vomit and there you have "Instant Oil Barron Diarrhea".

His newest thing is a cross between insomnia mixed with dementia. I have the insomnia, he has the dementia. Most nights I have to get up, stumble to the basement and reassure him he is not lost which usually quails the screaming, bloody, cat raping murder tones he's fond of making, usually at a blank wall.

This will be the last cat.

He is too daffy, too needy and way too much of an asshole for me to want another.

Sure he has his sweet moments like when he jumps on my chest and claws my nipples. Or when he goes apeshit and scratches the dog for no reason. Or when he poops outside the box. But this is it. No mas gatos.

Fuck. I need sleep. Hopefully tonight will be caterwauling, cat rape scream free.

Fuck you Fatty.

Art Tuesday—Drunk, Stoned & Bike Riding Slimer

I'm calling this Drunk, Stoned & Bike Riding Slimer.

BTW, I have no idea what the artist was going for here. I guess it could be a green football with arms and eyes.

Or it could be a really tired, radioactive kidney bean who like cigarettes.

I have no idea. Go, Go, Ghostbusters!

Anybody else have any guesses?

Trash!

I've met a lot of trash in my life.

Here's a list of the biggest pieces of trash I've met in no particular order.

1. The pregnant woman I had to cut off from drinking Budweiser. Funny the bar I was working in didn't even sell Bud. She snuck it in, in her purse. She then used that purse to hit me in the head when I kicked her out of the bar.

2. My college neighbor. He was 40. He would drop acid during the day, eat uncooked canned goods and would steal from our neighbors and try to sell their stuff to me and my roommates. I bought CDs off him once. I turned down a Mongoose mountain bike though. Damn, that was a nice bike.

3. Flash. I don't know his last name. He was a camp cook the summer I taught boating. He was on work release. He got caught in a field with $2 million in marijuana, which is why he was on work release. He still grew pot on the campgrounds, not so secretly. Had a cocaine stash and once got put in solitary confinement for calling a rather short prisoner, "a sawed off midget".

4. My cousin. After getting arrested 3 times this summer, mostly marijuana related, he had the nerve to essentially steal a car from my grandparents.

5. Dale the Whale. Kid I grew up with in my neighborhood. He would beat his parents, they were significantly older, until they bought him the toy he wanted.

At one point my mom told me she didn't want him in the house because of his trashiness. So one day we were playing baseball and he asked if he could use the bathroom. I said no because of my mom's comment. So he then took his shoe off and peed in it.

Last time I saw him, he was in working at a convenient store. I didn't buy anything at that convenient store.

6. Mailroom Stacey and his sidekick Mailroom Gary. At one ad agency I worked at we actually had a mailroom. Why it took two guys I don't know. But both guys smoked a SHIT TON of pot. Numerous people would actually buy pot off them. One time we traded a crate of M&M's for a dime bag. (I was just around for the transaction.) Stacey wasn't so trashy. But Gary would wear denim shorts, ball exposing denim shorts. Not cutoffs mind you. Just really short denim shorts.

7. Anybody from North Middletown, KY. If you've never been there—GO! It's the perfect cross section of hog incestuites, dirty nailbedded shit farmers, perm wearing white trash female vagabonds, and slack-jawed, pickled livered fuck ups. It gets my vote for worst town in Kentucky.

8. Steve. (I won't use last names, he was trash but he was kind of a good friend.) He was a rather large fellow with even larger nipples. I mean these fuckers were like coasters and will haunt me until I die. His appearance wasn't helped by the purple shirt that he wore that made him look like Grimace.

He only became "trash" when he got drunk. Which usually led to him punching dorm fridges, kicking out windows, convincing us that his uncle was currently murdering his aunt, throwing up on dressers and not cleaning it up the next day and streaking. He had baby dick syndrome, it wasn't pretty.

9. Cheryl from Wisconsin. Met her through a friend of a friend. She had scabies.

I understand, people get scabies—dirty, trashy, hill people, but still they are people. What made Cheryl trash was how she got scabies.

She worked second shift, as her second job, at a Pizza Hut. One night she gets a call from a dude in a convenient store who wants a pizza. (Why he didn't eat something in the store, I have no idea? Something like, I don't know Pizza?) Her delivery driver was out, so she took it upon herself to deliver the pizza. When she got to the convenient store, she decided to blow the guy behind the counter at the convenient store.

THIS is how she got scabies.

10. Tina. She was a waitress at this hotel I worked at. What made her trash was the fact she broke into an old man's house, tied him up, beat him and robbed him of several thousand dollars of silver and jewelry.

She somehow got work release out of this.

Maybe I need to know less people on work release.

Someone, somewhere.

"No matter how hot she is, someone, somewhere is sick of her shit."

Usually when somebody hands me a loaded gun, I shoot myself in the foot.

Today I'm just going to post this here and leave it at that.

Loves Cock, Hearts Pink Floyd

When you're on the road you see some things. For example, Pink Floyd now has one confirmed male fan who also loves cock.

Pink Floyd to me has always sounded like hot vomit being thrown at an oscillating fan.

Sure there are people out there when you ask them if they like Pink Floyd say, "Sure, they're okay" or "Yeah, I like them." But the weird thing is, I can't fucking find one Pink Floyd Super Fan.

I know people who have collectibles, posters, bumper stickers and t-shirts for other bands like Pearl Jam, Black Sabbath, KISS and even Dave Matthews Band (how does he have any fans left?).

But I can't find one person who has a room dedicated to Pink Floyd. I don't know anybody who has tattoos of lyrics from Division Bell on their arm. I don't even know the last time I saw anybody with a Pink Floyd t-shirt. Hell, Roger Waters played Louisville in June and I don't know one person who went. Nor was a big hubbub raised when he slid into town.

So how does this band still seem to have this mass underground following? Is this one of those bands that only appeals to nerdy high school seniors/college freshmen and 55 year old dudes? If that's the case, is this some kind of weird regression that happens at 55? Do we grow out of Pink Floyd at 21 and the next thing you know we're 55, overweight, sweat pants wearing, Krystal Burger eating, basement dwelling, mouth-breathers headed to midnight showings of The Wall?

Who the fuck is Pink Floyd fan? And better yet, who is the one, the only one, that loves cock too?

Cupcake Dump

Today's photo again come from the amazing Teresa Lasky. It too is from the Bat Bar in Austin. 

Follow Teresa on Twitter at @laskyt.

It's Friday and I have no idea what the hell this means.

Cupcake dump? Were the cupcakes bad?

Why are we Selling Billy? Shit. I am so confused.

Okay, I have no energy for a rant today. It's been too long of a week and I've already typed too many words.

So have a good weekend and hopefully you don't choke yourself out.

Life Lesson

Today's reader submission comes from Teresa Lasky, all the way from the Bat Bar in Austin, Tay-haas! 

Follow her on Twitter at @laskyt 

I've been saying this for years! Ask anybody that knows me. It's my mantra.

I'm glad somebody finally put this on a bathroom wall. Can we get t-shrits made? 

Maybe I should start offering screen printed t-shirts of each post—minus the copy, because nobody would really read that anyway.

Alright, work calls. 

Everybody, get back to smoking and eating!

Fuck That Shit Friday!

Sorry, I haven't posted in a week.

To make up for it, I'm deeming today, "Fuck That Shit Friday!" A national holiday where, I at least, am going to air out a bunch of things that have been pissing me off.

Feel free to add to the list in the Comments section. Without further ado, here we go...

1. Lesbians on energy cocktails—Recently, I got into it with a roided up lesbian at the gym. She yelled at me about a TV not working and then later she proceeded to bump me while I was walking to get a drink of water. I also think she was foaming at the mouth and howling like a wolverine. The next time I see her, I'm going to, well I'm not going to do anything, because she's a woman. I can't hit her or even insult her.

Fuck That Shit.

2. Piss soaked rental car seats—Sure. You say your cars are clean Enterprise. But guess what? That ring stain in the back seat that smells like piss—is piss. Maybe next time at least try to cover it up. Oh and also, never ask me again when you show me a car with piss soaked seats, "So do you want it."

Sure, because I love driving around in piss. Next time can you mix in some ejaculate?

Fuck That Shit.

3. Elephants—We get it, you're large, your skin is thick and you never forget anything. Not even that time my mom caught me masturbating. Thanks for bringing that up you dick!

Fuck That Shit.

4. The designers of my Jeep—Hey fuckos! It shouldn't take 35 minutes to change a fucking tail light. Really? A 15/32 socket is the only socket that will fit those fucking bolts. The ones you crammed in about a 14/32 space. Who the fuck just has a 15/32 socket laying around? Yeah, they're real common.

Fuck That Shit.

5. The chairs at the Hyatt—For 5 hours yesterday, I sat in a chair that has left my spine crooked and combusted. It feels a hobo has been kicking me in the lower back with his supermarket feet for days. I mean, shoes and socks off and his filthy feet just whacking away. Then midway through his trouncing, the fuck left a toe nail embedded in my spine.

Fuck That Shit.

6. My Dog and My Cat—The dog has started peeing in the basement. Why? I'm not fucking sure. Jealously? She also got her own treat from the Cat Shit Salad Box Bar this morning. The cat is just a bitch. He hates it when I am in the shower and proceeds to yell at me the entire time I'm in there. Look you tubby bitch, either get in here and wash where you balls used to be or shut the fuck up.

Fuck That Shit.

7. Penn Station Subs—I've never felt worse after a meal. Don't get me wrong, it tasted great. It just left me feeling like a sawed off midget had poured concrete down my throat for a day and a half. Fuck. I think I'm still sweating cheese.

Fuck That Shit.

8. The bitch who can't count at Speedway—Guess what. Your bill was $2.73. The $3 you handed the cashier covers that. There is no need to dig in your purse for an additional 52¢. And you know what, fuck the cashier for not telling her that her bill was $2.73 before she spent three minutes digging past the Depends, chapstick and Judy Blume novel in her purse unnecessarily.

Fuck That Shit.

9. White People—There's no way a black man came up with the concept of Applebee's.

Fuck That Shit.

10. The Chicago Cubs—Somebody told me this week that their relative just passed away. Said they were life long Cub fans. Never got to see them win a World Series. The fucking longer I'm on this planet, the fucking less I think my chances become of ever seeing this happen. One more season down the fucking drains.

Fuck That Shit.