After reading your latest blog and then hearing the TO news, I think
it’s more like this with your girlfriend from the analogy: you’re at
the party with your girlfriend, and she asks you to go upstairs to an
empty room. She says she’s going to cover herself with bologna and
let you eat it off her naked body, after which she will call her new
best friend Jenna Jameson to join you.

Then when you get to the room, it turns out your girlfriend’s ex is
there waiting for you, and her ex is William Hung. Then they tie you
down and make you watch while William Hung does anal on your
girlfriend, while Jenna simultaneously rubs his balls. Then William
finishes her off, gets up and urinates on you, and calls you a pussy.

I’m a Giants fan, but if I were an Eagles fan like you, that’s what I
would feel like right now.

This is not good news.

Someone please call 911.  I think I’m having a heart attack.

Looks like she’s banging the ex in the bathroom (see analogy below). 

Fuck me.  Fuck me indeed.

but I’m not that short.  Also, depending on how fucked up I was, either my penis would be exposed or I’d be carrying a torch and threatening to set cars in the parking lot on fire and accusing the bouncers of taking my virginity. 

And any good internet celebrity-type knows it’s about unique visitors, not page views.  Dumbass.

(sent by Andrew at dockgoose.blogspot.com)

- Thank you for all the feedback that you’ve offered on the site; please keep it coming.  And don’t be afraid to really lay into the new set-up, because both Brendan and I are aware that we are amateurs at this, and we take criticism fairly well.  However, if you hurt my feelings, so help me god I will burn your fucking house down.  Test me – I dare you, cockass. 

 

[For techie stuff, email Brendan at Brendan@jasonmulgrew.com.  For any other suggestions or if you have an extra slice of pizza, email me at Jason@jasonmulgrew.com.]

 

- Speaking of email, boy – you guys are really digging that new email page, eh?  I’m sorry if I haven’t gotten back to you yet, but I promise to do so as soon as possible (not that I say anything particularly clever when I respond to emails; maybe “So what’s your favorite number?” or “What do you like better: pooping or peeing?”)

 

- The “Spread the Word” page: please use this page.  Not only because I want you to spread the word about the site, but also because you have no fucking idea how long I spent crafting an automated message that worked and was both funny to me and safe for work email.  We’re talking hours here people, working harder on this than anything I’ve ever worked on anything.  And sure, I could have done better if I was allowed to curse or use words like “mons pubis”, but I feel pretty good about the result.

 

[And Brendan says that any email addresses you enter into the "Spread the Word" page will not be shared with anyone, but I would share these in a heartbeat for a good piece of cheese.  Fortunately for you, I don't really know how to access these emails, so no cheese for me I guess.]

 

- I will change the quotes in the intro every three weeks or so to keep it fresh, and will note it on the index page when I do so.

 

- You guys should use the “Bookmark This Site” function at the bottom of the index/homepage so that you don’t have to view or skip the intro each time.  Or if you want to bypass both the intro and the homepage, bookmark the “Everything Is Wrong With Me” tab, since that’s the meat of the site and most similar to the old site. 

 

- Thank you to the less than 1% of you who made a donation.  You are truly special people.  The other over 99% of you are on my shit list.  Assholes.  Either way, I’ll keep this link up until after the holidays.

 

[I mean, less than 1%?  Sure, I knew that everyone wasn't going to donate, and I was hoping only for maybe 5%, so that I could possibly stop eating fingernails for dinner.  But less than 1%?  Geez people - thanks a lot.]

 

To my friends who keep making donations to me for one cent or a nickel or ten cents and writing “Anal” or “2^nd Place: Semen-Eating Contest” in the memo section of the donation, please stop.  I get it, it’s funny – I get an email from Paypal saying that I have a donation, I get all excited, and then I see that it’s from one of my douchebag friends for two cents and “You are a fat bitch” is the memo.  You are hilarious.  FYI: Paypal has a fee, so I don’t even get the two cents, as it takes both of them as its fee.  So stop already.  Assholes.

Well, I got my Christmas bonus today and it’s not exactly what I was hoping for. I know I shouldn’t complain, because a lot of people don’t get Christmas (sorry to my non-Christian readers, I should say “year-end”) bonuses, but I was counting on this in a Clark Griswold kinda way. Only instead of putting in a pool, I was planning on pinning down some of the massive debt that living in a city where vodka tonics are $7 a pop can accumulate for a manic-depressive alcoholic.

So it’s going to be a sad Christmas as I start looking around my apartment for things to give my friends and family:

Brother: “Oh wow, five VHS porno tapes that you’ve had since 1996! Thanks!”

Dad: “Oh great! Two half burned candles and a pair of pants that doesn’t fit you anymore and won’t fit me either! Great gifts!”

Sister: “A pack of matches, delivery menus for New York City restaurants, and some pens that don’t work? All for me? This is a best Christmas ever!”

Friend: “Nice – a bunch of crumpled pieces of paper that have jokes about Puerto Ricans on them and a pair of scissors that you stole from work! And all I got you was that $50 Barnes & Noble gift card. I feel like such a douche.”

(Oh, and remember how I was talking about taking nine credits next semester? Well I now can’t, because I don’t have the money. Which is good, because I really didn’t want to anyway. But which is bad, because I’m just going to spend the money that I don’t have for the class anyway, probably on something very necessary, like a $400 set of poker chips or $250 worth of frosting)

Merry Fucking Christmas.

********************************************

Speaking of the holidays, I have eight (eight?) holiday or birthday parties to attend this weekend (well, two were last night). I don’t know how this is possible, considering I have about four friends.

[And what's with all the December birthdays? I didn't know March was the month for procreating. Is this all the work of St. Patrick's Day? Another thing we can thank the Irish for, along with tiny genitals and alcoholic rages.]

So there’s going to be a lot of bar-hopping this weekend, which means I’m probably going to spend over $100 this weekend on cabs alone. This is where I curse myself for being obese, because I can’t run from these cabbies (Christ, sometimes I get out of breath drinking water).

And now I really want a hoagie. Fuck – such a vicious, vicious cycle.

********************************************

I know I should probably let this go, but I can’t get over the Coors Light commercials where they brag about having the “coldest-tasting” beer.

Am I the only one bothered by this? How has there not been a public outcry against this ad campaign? “Cold-tasting” doesn’t even fucking make sense. Cold is a feeling, not a taste. Would anyone ever say, “Man, this dorito tastes like warm” or “This is the hottest-tasting raisin I’ve ever had”? No, because it doesn’t make sense.

America, please do not allow yourselves to be duped by the Coors company. “Cold” is a feeling, sensation, or temperature, not a taste. If you put Coors or Bud or Miller in a freezer, they’re all going to freeze at the same temperature. Coors has not developed a beer that defies the freezing point, allowing you to drink it in liquid form at 15 degrees Fahrenheit, while Bud and Miller turn into ice at a pansy-boy 32 degrees.

“Cold-tasting” beer does not make sense. And the beer tastes like shit anyway. That is all. Thank you.

********************************************

Speaking of commercials, these commercials for the new Adam Sandler movie “Spanglish” are driving me crazy. This is mostly because I refuse to take Adam Sandler seriously, and he delivers this cheeseball line in the commercial, saying something to the effect that, “Worrying about your kids is sanity, and that kind of sanity can drive you nuts!”

Adam, remember this?

You see that shampoo bottle now stick it up my ass
Push it in and out at a medium pace
Talk about your old boyfriend’s dick and how big it was
Now shave off my pubes and punch me in the face

Yeah, so do I. And once you write something as raunchy (and extremely hilarious) as “At A Medium Pace”, it’s gonna be really tough for me to take your acting seriously.

[Whoa - am I seeing into my own future? After countless jokes about semen, pooping, and more semen, will the Academy take me seriously in my Oscar bid in 2009, after starring as the title character in "Fat Boy Eddie", a heartwarming film about a fat retarded boy who becomes a boxing legend? We shall see...]

********************************************

I’m getting a pimple. Right now, it’s nothing more than a slight hue of red that’s sensitive to touch on my nose, but I feel like this is going to be a good one. Of course, it will remain a red hue until exactly 5:30pm, when it will transform into another face trying to grow out of my current face, just in time for happy hour/weekend festivities.

I’ve always had pretty good skin. I’m not thankful for this, because really, it was the least god could do for me. After giving me man-boobs, extreme body hair, a tiny penis, poor posture, and a high speaking voice, it was almost like St. Peter finally pulled him off me (like the guys did to Michael Bolton vs. the printer in “Office Space”) and was like, “Dude – take it easy! Enough already with the physical flaws! At least give him relatively clear skin!”

But about twice a year I will get a monster zit right smack on my nose. When I say it’s like another face growing out of my face, I’m not kidding. Once, in October of 1995, I could make out an arm growing out of the mass. In June of 1997, while I was falling asleep, I swore it said “hey fuckface” to me.

But anyway, it’s coming. And this is gonna be a big one, just in time for the weekend. Fucking sweet.

********************************************

Typical guy moment for me that my female friends are enjoying making fun of me about (ok, so I don’t have female friends, but that my really effeminate guy friends are enjoying making fun of me about):

Forever (and this may be a little gross) my second toe and my third toe have been rubbing up against each other in my shoe, basically making those toes are red and blistered and the skin irritated. This is pretty uncomfortable, but I didn’t think anything of it, and have been dealing with it for the past six months or so.

One of my female friends (ok, I have some) recently saw me walking with a slight limp, and asked me why I was doing so, and I explained the situation. She said, disdainfully almost, “Why don’t you just but some band-aids on your toes?”

Heeding her advice I did just that and – wouldn’t you know it – in two days I was completely healed. Wow! It never occurred to me once in six months to solve this very irritating problem by using a band-aid. I guess you learn something new every day.

********************************************

Six Songs:

- “Lately” Jodeci
The live version of this Stevie Wonder cover from MTV’s “Uptown Unplugged” makes me cry. I never thought that two black men would touch me so deeply, but I was wrong.

- “When I Goosestep” The Shins
What a happy-sounding lil’ song, lasting just two and a half minutes. I kinda like this band. Does that make me cooler?

- “Memories Of You” Ryan Adams
Another tear-jerker. Listen to at your own risk, and do so sober. If you haven’t had sex in over a year or are getting over a break-up, do NOT listen to this song. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

- “All These Things That I’ve Done” The Killers
An inspirational song. I too have soul, yet I am not a soldier.

- “Rocket Queen” Guns n’ Roses
How is it that the first half of this song sucks but then second half is awesome? Couldn’t they have just made two songs so I don’t always have to fast forward? Assholes.

- “Streets Is Watching” Jay-Z
If someone said, “Hey Mulgrew, what would be your theme song?”, I’d pick this.

Public apologies to the families of those caught up in my street
But that’s the life for us lost souls brought up in the streets
The life and times of a demonic mind, excited with crime
And the lavish luxuries that just excited my mind
I figured, ‘Sh*t why risk myself I just write it in rhymes
And let you feel me, and if you don’t like it then fine’

I mean, did I write this? It’s like the exact story of my life. I think I said this verbatim my mom the other day on the phone when she was giving me shit about my dangerous lifestyle and this blog, without realizing that Jay-Z also wrote it. So, so weird.

I’ve been watching a lot of “American Justice” and those type shows on A&E or Discovery or whatever, and man, they are riveting. I’ve learned a lot from these shows (other than Bill Curtis is an American treasure and he’s definitely going to mc my wedding) about the law and how to break the law and how it always seems that dumb people commit murders.

What strikes me most about these dumb people is how they adamantly profess their innocence though they are obviously guilty:

Woman who killed husband after she found out he was having an affair with an 18 year-old girl: “You know, eight people say they saw me stabbing my husband Bill in the chest with a kitchen knife, but there are almost 3000 people in the county, so 8 out of 3000 ain’t a lot. A lot of people didn’t see me stabbing Bill. Over 2000 people in the county alone didn’t see me stab Bill, and that’s a fact. So I don’t know about how they can convict me based on what 8 people say they saw me do.”

Interviewer: “But what about the letter that you sent to twenty of your friends, inviting them to come to your home on April 19, 1994, the night of your husband’s murder, in which you wrote, ‘Please come to my house that night to say goodbye to Bill because I am going to murder him with a knife that night. Bring potato salad or pie.’”

Woman: “That was just a joke. My friends and I and Bill always joked like that. I mean, it’s funny, ain’t it?”

Bill Curtis Narration: “But the prosecution had a trick up their sleeve: in addition to the eyewitness testimony, they produced a tape from a security camera which showed Betty Hanson repeated stabbing her husband Bill. After the brutal stabbing, which was captured entirely on film, Betty looks at the camera and shouts, ‘This is me, Betty Hanson. I just murdered my husband. My birthday is June 12, 1950, my social security number is 112-04-0875, my mother’s maiden name is Demme, I love ponies and Hershey’s syrup, and I just killed my husband. My fingerprints are everywhere too.’ Despite this overwhelming evidence, Betty claims that she was framed.”

Woman (Betty): “To be honest, I was framed. Or I was hypnotized. I’m not really sure, but you would be amazed at what science could do these days. But I am innocent. [staring off] Man, I wish I was smarter about killing my husband.”

Hear me now – if I ever get convicted of a major crime (which should happen around May 2007), I’m not gonna go down without a fight. There will be a long, drawn out trial in which I will represent myself and do so without a shirt half the time, call as witnesses people who have nothing to do with the case but are famous people that I want to meet (“Your Honor, the defense calls to the stand Mr. Bruce Willis”), and give a closing argument that does not discuss the charges against me but rather extols the merits and many uses of hot dog relish.

And when I am found guilty for said crime I obviously committed, I will stand up and start a slow clap for the jury, congratulating them on their work and rightly adjudicating the case. How much more interesting would trials be if the defendant, after having been found guilty, said, “You know what? I did it. So whatever.” Wouldn’t it have been great to see Scott Peterson standing at the little table and yelling, “You’re right – everyone one is right. I totally murdered her. C’mon – it’s completely obvious!” (per AGU’s insight)

So you can expect to hear me say when I’m found guilty, “Congratulations. You guys did a helluva job, and I admit, I did it. Provided I didn’t know she was 8, but I thought she was 16, not 18, so I am guilty. And guess what? I’d do it again. I love you Li-Li! Not even death can keep us apart! And good luck on your geography test – remember, there are seven continents! Seven!”

Trial of the fucking century.

********************************************

Because I can’t keep a secret, there’s gonna be some big changes ’round here pretty soon (which may or may not involve me having sex on film and putting the mini-movie on here for everyone to see). Stay tuned…

What do the following three people have in common:

- Celine Dion

- Donald Trump

- Antonio Banderas

No, they don’t all have penises (like me, Trump lost his penis in a vicious bear attack in Vancouver in November 1989 – we were actually in the same tour group, but it was different bears).

And no, they are not the three people I’d most like to sleep with (but it’s close – if you take out Celine Dion and put in Rod Stewart, that’d be my trifecta).

No, these three people all have a fragrance. For some reason, they believe that because of their celebrity status, people will buy their fragrance because people want to smell like them.

To me, there is no greater unintentional comedy in Hollywood than people putting out perfumes. I can not express how funny I find this, and most likely will fail miserably here in trying to do so, so maybe you should just stop reading and come back tomorrow. Asshole.

There is something about putting your name on a fragrance that is fascinating to me. How does this even work? Did Antonio Banderas’ agent call him and say,

Agent: “Hey, Antonio, I have an idea that would really help your career. Are you ready for this? A fragrance. A fragrance that captures the essence, the raw sexuality and the Puerto Ricanness of Antonio Banderas. What do you think?”
Banderas: “I’m not Puerto Rican.”
Agent: “Really?”
Banderas: “Yes.”
Agent: “Well, you’re something not American, right?”
Banderas: “You’re fired, but I’m going to take the fragrance idea and run with it.”

My roommate Brian and I saw the commercial for Antonio Banderas’ “Spirit” earlier this week and it stopped us dead in our tracks. In it, Antonio walks onto a dance floor, mingles with some sexy ladies, and walks off. Antonio Banderas’ “Spirit”. Now I know what I’m getting everyone for Christmas.

[Actually, I was sort of dating a girl last year when commercials for Celine Dion's perfume started coming out. Her birthday was approaching and we had just started hooking up, so to avoid the seriousness of the "new girl birthday present" situation I got her the Celine Dion perfume as a joke (as well as another, real gift). She did not get the joke and shortly after we broke up. Last I heard, she was riding the rails somewhere in the Midwest, writing folk songs 'bout a lover with man boobies she had a ways back.]

As for Trump, well, despite the fact that we both lost our penises in horrifying bear attacks, we don’t like each other much. I don’t like him because I think he’s a phony, and he doesn’t like me because, long story short, I hit him with my car (well, it was a stolen car actually).

And his fragrance…good lord. The ads are being plastered all over men’s magazines featuring him and his fiancée, Millennium. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I can’t say that I’ve ever thought to myself, “You know what? I really want to smell like Trump.” However, I have thought to myself, “You know what? I really can’t stand Koreans.”

So, in order to further enhance my quasi-celebrity status, I am pleased to announce Jason Mulgrew’s “Dick”, the scent for men who have bad facial hair, bad intentions, small ambitions, and even smaller (or no) penises. A strong musk, it combines sagewood with a variety of deli meats and just a hint of semen. It’s guaranteed to make you completely resistible to any woman that you meet, even if she is unconscious.

Jason Mulgrew’s “Dick” – coming Spring 2005.

It’s been about four or five months that the press began calling me an “internet quasi-celebrity” (and by “the press”, I mean “me”, and then under duress and through bribes my roommates and friends, and then, you know, a lot of other people).

I’ve been content with my title, and still am. Being an internet quasi-celebrity means that I can live my life in peace, but still enjoy a modicum of fame. For example, I can go to my local video store whenever I want and rent black-on-white gay porn without having it plastered all over the tabloids. I can drink myself into oblivion in any bar in NYC, stumble out into the streets and kick a stray dog before exposing myself without getting shit from my manager. And most of the times when I hit a woman no one hears about it, especially because most of the women I hit can’t speak English anyway [too much?].

That is not to say that I don’t enjoy the “fame” aspect of my minor celebrity status. Every once in a while, I’ll be introduced to someone who reads the site and feel all warm and fuzzy inside when after a while they say, “Man, you stink in real life, but let me buy you a drink anyway.” Many times I’ll get emails from readers who recommend to me new and awesome porn sites. And of course, having this fame allows me to tell everyone woman I meet about it in the hopes of seeing how well-groomed their pubic region is, although this has not been successful to date.

But enjoying my internet quasi-celebrity status does not mean that I don’t occasionally think of making a move to drop the “quasi-” from my title. I think this could be accomplished fairly easily. Below I have delineated five steps through which I think I can transform myself from a “quasi” to a full-fledged celebrity.

1) Make a sex tape.

People think that Pam Anderson started this phenomenon, but those with longer memories know that it was Rob Lowe who kicked it all off. Of course, Pam’s made a much bigger splash, since, well, who wants to see Rob Lowe getting it on (confession: me, please)? Since then, we’ve seen Pam-Brett Michaels, Vince Neil-Janine, R. Kelly and an assortment of “women”, shit – even Bam Margera has a sex tape (see it here – warning, not a work-friendly link – sent by Mark at http://spangler.allreal.net).

But Paris Hilton was the one who used the sex tape to her advantage. Two years ago, she was an unknown to anyone outside of NYC, and known only to those in NYC because of her Page Six “I’m stupid, drunk, rich, and hot” escapades. And today Barbara Walters has named her one of the most fascinating people of 2004.

[Now, I don't want my meaning to be misconstrued and have you all think that I believe Barbara Walters is the single determining factor of who or what is fascinating, but I have to ask: Paris Hilton, fascinating? Really? Hot, ok (though too thin and with too small boobs for me). Dumb but in a manipulative way, yes. Rich, very. But fascinating? Are you sure? Do you want to think about this some more?]

So I needs to get me a video camera and make me a sex tape. I dare not ask for volunteers without first saying that copious amounts of narcotics will be involved. And I don’t use the word “copious” often, so you know I really mean it. I’m thinking something along the lines of a tastefully done shower scene, because when my body hair gets wet I look like Bigfoot and I just want the whole world to see it. However, this is open to discussion.

2) Start practicing kabbalah.

I know very little about kabbalah (or is it the kabbalah), other than it’s a form of Jewish mysticism, everyone wears a red bracelet, and you’re supposed to donate a lot of money to it, and, oh yeah, a lot of famous people do it. Sounds completely crappy to me. So I went to the Kabbalah Centre website and read:

Imagine if there was a miraculous source of power so profound, so powerful, it could totally heal and transform your life and genuinely change our world for the good – forever!

Ok, I’m listening. Keep going…

There is. It is called Kabbalah, and it is the oldest, most influential wisdom in all of human history.

Doesn’t this sound like something Will Ferrell’s James Lipton would say? “Kabbalah is so wonderful that it is like bowling a 300 game, meeting Jesus Christ, winning the lottery, and receiving oral sex for the entire female cast of ‘Baywatch’ rolled into one, and extended forever throughout time and space until the end of time and beyond and into infinite space forever.”

Kabbalah reveals all the spiritual and physical laws that govern the cosmos and the human soul. It answers questions. It provides solutions. It unravels puzzles. It decipher codes.

What? “Physical laws that govern the cosmos”? Really? And it deciphers codes? Sheesh – I’ll this time I’ve been Catholic all I’ve gotten is predatory priests and incredible feeling of guilt if I commit even the slightest offense, like lying or arson or the murder of two teenage boys in Laramie, Wisconsin in January of 1986.

It gives you practical tools to effect change. And, it creates order out of chaos. And, if that isn’t enough, Kabbalah answers the ultimate questions of human existence: Who are we? Where did we come from? Why are we on this earth?

I spent the next twenty minutes on the website trying to find the answers to those questions, but I stopped when it started talking about a twenty-three volume book about “light” and requesting $20 for two classes I’d have to take to learn more.

But none of this matters – Kabbalah is hot right now. So, so hot. And if I want in to the celebrity party, well, sign me up for volume one.

3) Go to rehab.

Do I even need to talk about this? I’m planning on doing this this summer anyway, having filed the leave of absence papers with my employer just last week, regardless of celebrity (just…can’t…stop…huffing…).

4) Get married and divorced quickly.

This is the one I’m most looking forward to. Those who know me know that I love weddings. Those who know me also know that I love to steal inconsequential things from friends’ homes.

I don’t have a particular person in mind for this whirlwind, drug-induced, six- to eighteen-week long marriage, but I do have some credentials:

1) She must be reasonably famous, and be willing to use another person to achieve more fame;
2) She will have no actual talent;
3) She will probably be foreign;
4) She may have a penis;
5) She will not be speaking with her parents;
6) She will have incredible breasts

If you or someone you know fits this description, my email address again is eiwwme@gmail.com.

5) Get about 1.2 million more people to read this site.

Dude, I’m working on it. Don’t be such a douche.

Two short notes:

1) Bob Dylan is on another level.

Good lord. That interview with “60 Minutes” last night was…intense. For a man who’s not comfortable the mantle of genius, he sure goes about trying to shed it the wrong way.

Ed Bradley: “I read that you wrote ‘The Times They Are A-Changin” in ten minutes…is that true?”
Bob Dylan: [five seconds of intense silence]: “Probably.”
Bradley: “You’re not sure?”
Dylan: [another five seconds of intense silence] “No.”

So, you don’t remember writing one of the most important songs of all-time? I can remember what I had for dessert on March 12, 1996, and you can’t remember writing “The Times They Are A-Changin”? WTF?

When Bradley brings up Dylan’s importance as the voice of a generation:

Dylan: “My stuff were songs, you know? They weren’t sermons. If you examine the songs, I don’t believe you’re gonna find anything in there that says that I’m a spokesman for anybody or anything really.”
Bradley: “But they saw it.”
Dylan: “They must not have heard the songs.”
Bradley: “It’s ironic, that the way that people viewed you was just the polar opposite of the way you viewed yourself.”
Dylan: “Isn’t that something.”

Later, when asked by Bradley why he still performs, Dylan said, “It goes back to that destiny thing. I mean, I made a bargain with it, you know, long time ago. And I’m holding up my end” inferring that he made a deal with god (or God or G-d or whatever Dylan’s flavor of the week is) so that he could be “Bob Dylan.”

Intense indeed.

Bob, if you don’t want people to think you’re a genius and a prophet, give TV interviews more than once every 19 years. Also, when being interviewed, don’t speak so slowly and intensely, so intensely that it seems that you’re operating on another plane from the rest of us.

If you want people to stop thinking you’re a genius, start playing covers of Britney Spears songs. Tell everyone how much you love hot dogs. Use the word “crap” in every sentence. When you eat, smear shit all over your face. This is how you get people to think you’re an idiot. Trust me – it’s worked for me for the past 25 years.

2) E-A-G-L-E-S EAGLES!

If the Philadelphia Eagles don’t make it to the Super Bowl, I’m not going to make it out alive. I can not stress how serious I am about this. There has been much heartbreak in the past, but after manhandling arguably the second best team in the conference yesterday, the Eagles look better than ever.

You know what? I have to stop writing about this, because I don’t want to be responsible for any sort of jinxing. But hear me now – it will be very bad news if the Eagles don’t at least make it to the Super Bowl.

(Ok, seriously, I’m stopping talking about this right now. This post is over. Done. See you later.)

Hello,

Though I spent most of the night staring lasciviously at you, I don’t think we ever properly met. Actually, I know we didn’t properly meet, because if we did so, it would have been the greatest moment of my otherwise wasted life. My name is Jason Mulgrew, and I want to make you my wife so I can touch you all over.

When I first walked into the bar on that Friday evening, I did not think I would fall in love. No, my main focus was getting as many pitchers of beer into my body as humanly possibly, so that I could end the night in a haze, eating some delicious pizza and perhaps throwing a Snapple bottle at a taxi cab. I also wasn’t feeling too well because I had a nasty case of the runs at work that almost caused a major disaster on the subway ride home.

But then I saw you, and I knew that I would never be the same for as long as I live. I promised right then and there to love you until the day I die, or until I see a hotter girl. To use the word “striking” to describe the way you looked in your little black dress does not do you any justice, so I am forced to create a more fitting adjective to describe how great you looked by combining a number of words that all mean “attractive”: foxagorgeohot. You looked absolutely foxagorgeohot on Friday night. So, so foxagorgeohot.

To be honest, you are the perfect woman. Sure, we didn’t speak, and for all I know you could have knifed someone to death later that very night, but I am willing to look past any imperfections you may have, no matter how severe, because you are just that hot.

I am enchanted by your ethnicity. Your half-Asian side appeals to my unquenchable Asian fetish, but at the same time you are not so Asian that you’d be friends with a bunch of nerdy guys who are awesome at math and econ. Your half-Euro side gave you those green eyes and, more importantly, breasts so bounteous and a waist so small that it looks as though your body was drawn up by one of those geeky comic book guys.

And if I’m not mistaken, I feel like you felt a little something for me too. I’m not sure if it was the first time or the twelfth time you caught me looking at your ample cleavage, but when our eyes locked, I felt a twinge deep in my heart. The next day I learned after an EKG at St. Vincent’s that this was the beginning of a mild heart attack, but medical science be damned – this boy knows love when he feels it, and he feels it when he looks down your shirt (or at your heinie).

The climax of the evening for me was our slight but enchanting interaction. I was making my way over the bathroom, and noticed you in my path standing and talking to some bar patrons. As I came closer to you, I pulled out my cell phone, and (this is embarrassing) pretended to talk to someone on it. I stopped just behind you, and spoke loudly and at length about my job and my upcoming bonus, and how I think it would be extremely large. I then shouted about how I would be donating most of my bonus to charity, because as I had just signed a mega book/music/movie deal, I would not need this money, and would like to help out starving children all over the world. You appeared to become annoyed and said “Asshole” before walking away, but I want to let you know that I’m down with the game, and if you want to play hard to get, that’s fine.

One thing I wasn’t able to mention on my fake cell phone conversation was that, well, I’m kind of famous. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the internet, but long story short I have this thing called a “blog” which thousands and millions (and possibly even billions) of people read. I’m not sure if you’re the type of girl who thinks it’s important for her man to be a household name, but if you are, well, you’re in luck.

So I ask you to think about where you are in your life and consider choosing me as a life partner. I have a promise ring on hand that I can give you immediately, which will serve as a symbol of your commitment to me and my testicles until a more proper ring can be acquired. In the meantime, I will continue masturbating to the fantasy I have constructed in which you dance all sultry-like for me as I smoke pot and eat rice pudding while Cream’s “Strange Brew” plays in the background. After I am finished the rice pudding (this takes a while, because there is a lot), I put down my J and put on the “Dirty Dancing” soundtrack and we make love all night long, or at least for four minutes until I fall asleep because I am tired from all that eating.

I look forward to your reply. Please say yes, or, well, I don’t think we need to get into that now.

Love eternally,
Did you come here to play Jesus,
To the lepers in your head,
Time held me green and dying,
Though I sang in my chains like the sea,
I am,

Jason MJPAE Mulgrew, BA, MA (candidate)

[Non-sports people: I'm sorry, but this post is about sports. I've been trying to keep it to a minimum and believe I've been doing a good job of this, but this news was too big to pass up. I've tried to make the post as non-sports person-friendly as possible, and I invite you to check it out. Or, come back on Monday. If not, what the fuck do I care? I'm fucking (quasi-)famous.]

Wait a minute – you’re telling me that Barry Bonds has admitted to a grand jury that he used steroids? No, I don’t believe you. It can’t be. This is a joke, right? You’re kidding, right?

You really think it’s strange that a guy who at 28 in 1993 hit a career-high 46 homers shattered the single-season home run record eight years later with 73 at age 36?

(73 home runs at 36 years old? WTF?)

You’re trying to tell me that these number breakdowns are not normal?

Ages 21 – 33: 31 home runs per season – one home run every 16.1 plate appearances
Ages 34 – 39: 49 home runs per season – one home run every 8.4 plate appearances (!)

You’re also trying to tell me that after age 34 careers can’t take off into rarified air without the help of performance-enhancing drugs? That men over 34 can’t naturally increase their muscle mass (and the size of their head) exponentially? That very good numbers can’t suddenly be made gaudy and awe-inducing without some serious juicing?

…

Ok, in case you can’t tell, I’m laying the sarcasm on pretty thick. “Barry Bonds Used Steroids”. What a “duh” headline. Tomorrow we’ll probably see:

“Jason Mulgrew Eats Two Double Whoppers, Hershey Sundae Pie, Shits Self”

or

“Mulgrew Leaves Bar Alone, Eats Whole Pizza, Toddler”

or

“Jason Mulgrew Gets High, Beats Off In Shower, Shits Self”

Everyone knows that Barry Bonds was on steroids. Even animals know that Bonds was on ‘roids. You could go back and time, grab a 15th century English peasant, transport him to the present and show him a picture of Bonds, and he’d say, “Damn, that mother fucker’s on the juice! Look at his fucking head – it’s huge!”

But apparently Barry didn’t know he was taking steroids. This is my favorite part of this saga: Bonds’ excuse that he didn’t know that what he was taking was steroids. Come on – did he think it was cough medicine that was tripling the size of his biceps? Was it allergy meds that left him feeling all strong and cut, perhaps? “I didn’t know” is the easiest excuse of all-time.

Ivan the Terrible: “I didn’t know that beating and repeatedly stabbing my son could kill him.”

Neville Chamberlain: “I didn’t know Hitler would turn out to be such a dick.”

Harry Truman: “I didn’t know an atomic bomb could cause so much destruction.”

My roommate Ben: “I didn’t know I was going to get caught masturbating on Jason’s bedroom floor.”

My father: “I didn’t know that by not going to his Little League games my son would turn into such an incredible pansy.”

Me: “I didn’t know that starting a blog would make me both unemployable and (even more) sexually undesirable.”

So that’s it: the jig is up, Bonds and Giambi juiced, and there’s to be more name-dropping in the coming days. I’m not gonna get into the whole “black eye for the sport” thing, because you can read that on ESPN. Also, I don’t really give a shit if it’s a black eye for baseball. I’ll still watch, and players and owners will still make millions.

What do I think of all this? It’s fucking awesome. Steroids have done wonders for baseball. How great was it when Jose Canseco became the first 40-40 man? How many people cared about baseball until McGwire and Sosa showed up and started crushing baseballs? Isn’t Barry’s pursuit of the Babe and Hammerin’ Hank great for the sport? Don’t you think a steroid controversy is going to increase ratings two-fold?

I think Major League Baseball should legalize steroid use. The potential is astounding. We’d have three people hit 100 home runs in a season. Pitchers would be hitting 120+ mph on the radar gun. Bench-clearing brawls would turn into orgiastic “Braveheart”-esque battle scenes, with players routinely losing their lives.

(Could you imagine if Dom Zimmer charged at a juiced up Pedro? Pedro is already crazy as they come. If he were juiced, he would have ripped off Zimmer’s head, ate his face, and shit down his neck. Awesome television.)

Can you imagine what legalized steroids would do to fantasy baseball? Sure, they’d be a lot of conversations like this:

Me: “Dude, put on Sportscenter.”
My buddy John: “I can’t, I’m not a home. Why?”
Me: “Well, Frank Thomas slid into second and collided with your Derek Jeter, Jeter mouthed off, and Frank Thomas murdered him, right there on the basepath.”
John: “Are you fucking serious?”
Me: “Yup. So congrats on taking Jeter third round.”
John: “God damn it. Frank Thomas – fucking murdering prick.”

I can see it now – pre-draft scouting reports would look like:

Bret Boone looks to rebound from a pathetic year last year, his first clean year since 2000. Sources tell Fantasy Baseball Weekly that Boone has been doping up with a new, more powerful steroid, usually reserved for elephants who have had hip replacement surgery. Since he started using the drug in January, Boone has regained the twelve pounds he lost last year, and has added a total of twenty-one pounds to his 5’10″ frame. Early indications are that his swing looks better than ever, and his competitive nature has been rekindled. According to teammate Jamie Moyer, “I think Bret’s going to have a breakout year this year. He looks great, and he’s really fired up. In last week’s exhibition game against the Indians, a fan interfered with a foul ball Bret was chasing, and he got so pissed off he shot her in the heart – twenty-something times. When he was done, she looked a pile of ground beef. And this was only an exhibition game!”

Fantasy Baseball Weekly’s prediction for Bret Boone: .364 average, 68 home runs, 163 RBI’s, 2 first-degree murder charges, 3 second-degree murder charges, 12 manslaughter charges. We recommend you take him somewhere in the fifth round, ahead of Jeff Kent, but after Michael Young and Alfonso Soriano.

So in conclusion, bring on the ‘roids. I don’t see how anything bad could come from them, except I hear that they shrink your balls. This is why I personally don’t take them, as I don’t need any more shrinkage in that area. Seriously, my balls are like two peas on the end of spaghetti strings (thank you, I’ll be here all night).

[Have a good weekend.]

I just read it over, and how creepy do I sound asking for a little black kid for a photo shoot? Good lord. And I’m actually serious about it too. I can’t divulge my reasons right now, but I promise you that it’s 100% non-creepy. Promise.

But wow – I feel like I need to take a shower after that. My goodness.

(Translation: stop sending emails saying “Ew, gross” and the like. Instead, send emails saying, “I bet your penis is much bigger than you make it out to be” or “Hey, check out how big my boobs are!” Thank you.)

Last night, I watched “The Freddie Mercury Story” on Ovation (yes, I know, I’m super cool and very manly – would it be better if I told you that while doing so I was repairing a transmission and getting a blow job from a sexy college coed? Does that help? Anyone?).

Turns out, ol’ Freddie had a very interesting life, and by the end of the “Story” I was willing to consider that maybe, just maybe, he was a musical genius. Remember, Queen was never nearly as big here in the US as they were in the UK and Europe, as evinced by the giant copper bust of Freddie Mercury that sat on the vanity of the hairdresser who cut my hair at the £5 haircut place on Tottenham Court Road in London.

But what struck me about Mercury was how incredibly flamingly homosexual he was and how none of his fans knew it. None (well, maybe some, but very few). And I’m tempted to say “hindsight is 20/20″, but after looking at some of those costumes and his behavior, I don’t even think that expression applies here. Good lord. Provided, this is coming from a guy who, when he was younger, didn’t realize George Michael was gay and thought he was the manliest of men with his leather jacket (a la the “Faith” video) and cool beard, but in my defense I was like 8 and didn’t even know what “gay” was and Freddie Mercury blows George Michael out of the water in the flamboyant.

My roommate Brian and I were mesmerized watching this documentary. The hour was filled with gasps, chuckles, and a lot of “Wow” and “Oh my god”. I wondered if Brian May, the guitarist for Queen, ever turned to Freddie and said something like, “Freddie, we know you’re gay and we support that – hell, the band’s called ‘Queen’ – but do you think you could maybe turn down the gayness just a little bit? We’re not asking for a little, but you’re at like a 14 on the gay-meter; can we bring it down to a 9 or so? What do you think?”

All in all, very entertaining and highly recommended. Very sad ending though, made worse by the fact that I was high out of my gourd (hey – it’s been a tough week at work), so don’t say I didn’t warn you.

************************************************

I am very particular about my deodorant, probably because I sweat more than any human being should. I wear anti-perspirant, and am proud of it. Leave that deodorant and clear-stick to the pansies – I need the flaky white stuff to clog my pores and prevent my ass from sweating – just fucking cake it on there, baby.

And I’ve never understood “clear gel” deodorant. I don’t know why anyone would wear this. I don’t even know how this got made:

Clear Gel Deodorant Creator: “I have created a new type of deodorant. It’s a clear, gooey, cold gel, that when applied to your armpits, makes you feel sweaty and gross. In addition, it offers nowhere near the protection of normal deodorant, makes you sweat immediately after applying it, and has you stinking in under five minutes. What do you think?”
Deodorant Company CEO: “Let’s do it.”

I just don’t understand it. Not at all.

************************************************

Riding the subway during rush hour in NYC can be quite an experience (this deserves its own post), but yesterday I experienced my two biggest pet peeves during the subway ride:

1) The group of tourists. I love tourists. I love tourists because I travel a lot, so I try to be nice to tourists here in NYC for the karma, so that one day in the future when traipsing around the streets of a foreign city, drunk and looking for some hard and fast love at a reasonable price, a native will come up to me and offer a room for the night, complete with hand relief and a five-egg omelet in the morning.

But what a lot of tourists do on the subway is stick together. Really together. Example: the best standing spot on a subway train is just inside the doors. On the train I take home, only one side opens its doors to let in/out passengers, so if you stand by the doors opposite that side, you have a little nook for yourself where you can stand undisturbed for the whole ride.

Yesterday on the way home, I happened upon a relatively uncrowded subway car. Though they were seats, I took my favorite spot by the non-opening doors and settled in, rocking out to some Vanessa Williams. At the next stop, a group of six Southern tourists got in, and proceeded to cram into my little area. The entire rest of the car was open for standing, in addition to some seats being available, but all six came right over to my area, one standing directly in front of me, with his butt no further than six inches away from my balls and such. It was completely ridiculous, as other people stared at them yapping away in the very uncrowded car, a see of Southern standing around a pissed-off dude with a bad beard.

People, spread out. Sit down. Relax. You’re not going to miss your stop. And I know it’s New York City, but someone’s not going to get murdered if they move from your three feet radius. Get your ass away from my balls and such, and let me be. I’ve had a hard day at work, and I just want to listen to my early ’90′s adult contemporary. Thank you.

2) The pole hog. This is much worse than the tourists, because these people know what they’re doing. These are the people who on the crowded subway train decide to grip the subway pole in a hug, so that those standing around said pole either have no place to put their hands, or have to place their hands very high or very low on the pole.

I think that violent crime was invented to be used against these people. At the very least, pepper spray must have been invited after the inventor took a crowded 6 train from 96th Street to Union Square, swaying uncomfortably all the while while some fat dude leaned his fat back against a subway pole, leaving said inventor without a grip.

If you don’t have the presence of mind to realize that those around you would only like to stabilize themselves while you hog the entire pole, you are a terrible person and I hope your children get eaten by dogs. Angry, diseased dogs with huge balls.

I have to talk about something else before I do something I might regret.

************************************************

Casting call: I need an African-American child, age between 4 and 7, for a photo “shoot”. I say “shoot” because that word sounds professional, when really it’s just going to be a couple of pictures with a digital camera. I’m being completely, 100% serious here. If you know any 4-7 year old black kids in the NYC area who would like to make $50 for 15 minutes worth of work, please email me at eiwwme@gmail.com.

[Seriously, I mean it. This is not a joke.]

************************************************

Six songs:

- “I Throw My Toys Around” No Doubt & Elvis Costello
Elvis Costello could shit in his hand and eat it and I’d still think it was genius, but this is a very well-written, clever, and catchy song.

(Ugh – I just grossed myself out thinking of Elvis shitting in his hand and eating it. I can’t believe I’m single. Did I mention I’m 25?)

- “Who’s Johnny” El DeBarge
From the “Short Circuit” soundtrack, I can not express how much I loved this song as a kid. And I can’t imagine the horror and pain it must have caused my poor father. I’m sorry dad. So sorry.

- “Breaking Your Fall” Chris Whitley
I don’t know if this is country, or country-rock, or whatever, but it’s got an ambient, country-cool feel to it. Excellent.

- “Little Willy” Sweet
Is he talking about his dick? I think so, but I’m not sure. Actually, I am pretty sure he’s talking about his dick. Too bad this song’s been stuck in my head for about a week and a half.

- “Someday” The Strokes
I’m sure that a cadre of supercilious hipsters will say that I’m a little late on this, and definitely not thin/cool enough to like this song, but I don’t care. It’s a hell of a song, and I don’t even like this band very much. So fuck you, assholes.

- “Tearz” Wu-Tang Clan
This first thirty seconds sounds exactly like the Mulgrew house at 11:03pm on Christmas night, 2002.

[Please download this song, so that this joke can work. I've been writing this blog for almost ten months, and this may be the funniest thing I've ever written, as it has kept me cracking up ever since I thought of it (and I don't often pat myself on the back like this either). It really does sound exactly like Christmas night in 2002 in my parents' house. Uncanny.]

************************************************

Oh, and if you want to see pictures of Lindsay Lohan’s Thanksgiving, knock yourself out. She’s only in a couple of them, but you can tell she’s absolutely fucking insane.

So hot.

Registration for spring semester classes at Hunter is quickly approaching (for background info, see 10/22 and 9/10). I don’t know this because I looked it up, but rather because a classmate said, “So, which courses are you taking next semester? And can you please stop rubbing yourself under the table? It grosses out everyone in class, and no matter what you say, no, it is not sexy.”

So far, grad school has been ok. Yes, just ok. I thought that by taking classes for my master’s in History, I would be reinvigorated – I would attack the subject matter with a fervor I reserve only for high school girls and deli meats, impress my professors with my breadth of knowledge on the subjects and my ability to arouse myself under even the harshest conditions, and ace the whole damn thing. Also, I’d bang some chick from class, or at least a very feminine guy.

But alas, ’tis not to be. Instead of rising to the challenges of academia (which, I might add, have yet to be very daunting), I have retreated into a shell of self-loathing and self-love, ensconced in laziness and apathy, and so far have done basically nothing for the class, aside from some cramming around the mid-term. Nor have I become part of the campus community at all (meaning I haven’t banged any chicks from class yet, but I did have an intense mutual masturbation session with some not-so-feminine looking male student, and by “male student” I mean “security guard at the White Castle in Spanish Harlem”).

But as registration for spring approaches, I feel emboldened with a new vigor. I’m having “those thoughts” in my head. I don’t mean thoughts say, “Hey, why don’t we take a bunch of codeine and kill a prostitute?”, but thoughts like, “Why don’t you get your shit together and become serious about academics? Look at you – you’re 25, you spend all your time working, getting fucked up, and making racist jokes with your friends. What the hell kind of life is that?”

Heretofore, I thought that this kind of life was pretty fucking awesome, but since I took a couple of weird pills this morning that I bought on the subway, I feel like yes, I should get my shit together, and become serious about academics.

To this end, I plan on taking nine credits next semester. Right now, I have one three-credit course in Russian history that I do nothing for. Next semester, I plan on taking the second half of this course for three credits. And I’m also planning on taking a six-credit intensive introduction to the Russian language (I took one semester of Russian at NYU before, but this is Russian I & II crammed into one semester).

Why am I telling you this? So that I can go on record as saying that this will be one of the worst decision I’ve ever made. I have no idea what I hope to accomplish with this, besides making myself even more miserable. That and, oh yeah, it’ll cost about $2000 (at least), which will go on my high-interest credit card (you didn’t think I was actually going to pay for it now, did you?).

As of now, I have one class that requires me to leave work early on Monday. This bothers me, because I have to get into work early, and by the time class is over, I’m falling asleep and miserable. Next semester, I’m going to have to come into/leave early work on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, and I’ll be spending those Tuesday and Thursday evenings from 5:30 until 8:30 with some intensive Russian. I don’t know what could possibly be worse than this, other than leaving work early to go sit through nine hours of footage per week of my brother masturbating (oh my god – I just threw up everywhere).

So, really, why I am telling you all this? What’s the point? I need something to keep me from doing this. Maybe a hobby perhaps? Help me find a hobby. Perhaps I could start hunting. Hunting always seemed kind of cool, what with all the guns and killing and such, but it seems messy with all the blood and I was never a big fan of the whole being outdoors thing. I mean, can I just drive to the woods, get out of my car, shoot something to death, and leave? Can someone look into this for me?

In the same vein, fishing might be cool, but it seems kind of boring. Sure, you can get drunk on a boat while waiting for the fish to bite, but I can also get drunk in the comfort on my home without worrying about sunburn or the boat capsizing and getting eating by fucking sharks and shit.

Joining a sports league is out of the question. It’s not just that I’m a terrible athlete (which I’m really not), but I can just imagine the type of guys who do that kind of stuff as being ultra-competitive and yelling at me when I run out at halftime to grab a milkshake.

Volunteering? You’re telling me that I can “help out” in some menial capacity and the only thing I get in return is feeling good? You know what else feels good? Getting high and eating a big-ass pastrami sandwich with your shirt off while drinking a half gallon of chocolate milk. So forget it.

I need something and something fast. Otherwise, I’m going to drop myself further into debt and make sure my January through April is as bad as it could possibly be (without losing my genitals – if I lost my genitals, things would be much worse).

2:17
The last time I saw on the clock last night before falling asleep, despite being in bed for two and a half hours. I was unable to fall asleep because when I am alone in the dark I become a psychopath (and not the cool kind). I spent that time worrying about such topics as:

- “Am I having a heart attack?”
- “Did I turn off the burners on the stove?”
- “Man, I really need to get going on these Christmas cards.”
- “Did I set my alarm?”
- “I really need my Christmas bonus to be huge, or otherwise I am fucked.”
- “I should have put that chicken breast in the chilli tonight and let it marinate. Fuck.”
- “Seriously, I think I am having a heart attack.”

4:51, 5:41, 6:22
Times I saw on my clock as I woke up intermittently throughout the night, worrying about the above topics. I’d like to take this time to go on record to say that six months of therapy for my sleeping problems worked wonders.

Therapy flashback:
Therapist: “How are you Jason?”
Me: “Really tired. Can I get some sleeping pills?”
Therapist: “No. Now tell me again about your parents’ divorce.”
Me: “Didn’t we talk about that last week, and every week before it?”
Therapist: “Yes, and let’s do so again.”
Me: “I really don’t think that’s the problem.”
Therapist: [interrupting] “So you say the problems at home started in first grade…”

7:16
Time I eventually got out of bed (I usually get up at 7:45)

8:40
Time I got to the elevator on my floor and pushed the “down” button.

8:51
Time I finally got to the lobby, after waiting for the elevator for ten minutes. Surprisingly, another elevator is broken in our building. After each of the three was shut down for a week for repairs, causing incredible homicide-inducing delays, there is another problem. This time, one of the elevators has a loose cable. And, of course, it’s going to take a week to repair it, because that’s the minimum amount of time it takes to repair any problem in an elevator that services 1200 people. I’m expecting next to see a memo from the management saying:

“Please be advised that elevator #2 will not be in operation for the next ten days. The button for the 19th floor does not light when it is pressed, and we will be repairing this faulty button during this time. We apologize for the huge inconvenience this will cause, and how it will basically ruin every day for you for the next ten days. Thank you for your cooperation and fuck you.”

8:53
Time I got to the subway at 96th & Lexington.

9:03
After just missing the previous train, time the next subway train finally came.

5
Time, in minutes, the train sat in the station, with its doors open and packed with people, before moving. Five minutes may not seem like a long time, and it isn’t a long time when you’re catching a beejer or getting a lap dance. But five minutes trapped in a cramped train, after you’ve already waited for your elevator and said train for over twenty minutes, standing next to an extremely fat woman who’s breathing through her mouth and doing so VERY loudly – that can be a very, very long five minutes.

28
Time, in minutes, it took me to get from my apartment into a moving train.

4
Time, in minutes, this should take.

17
Time, in minutes, it took me every day to get from my apartment door to my office building when I lived on the Lower East Side.

(Can you tell I’m still a little bitter about moving to the wasteland that is the Upper East Side? Because I am. A lot.)

8.8
Level of hatred, on a scale of 1 to 10, I felt for a (different) morbidly obese woman sitting in front of me (as I stood) on the train, reading the paper no more than two centimeters away from her face. Seriously, the paper had to be touching the tip of her nose. This got me very pissed off and led to this fantasy exchange:

Me: [breaking down] “God damn it! Why do you have to read the paper so close to your damn face?!?”
Fat Woman: [sad] “I have bad eyesight!”
Me: [getting angrier] “Well maybe if you didn’t eat so many fucking hoagies your eyesight wouldn’t be so bad, you fucking truck!”

25
Minutes late I was to work

3
Number of times I was corrected by co-workers or superiors in our Tuesday morning status meeting for misstating what I was working on, misstatements due to ignorance, incompetence, exhaustion, and anger.

…

WORST. MORNING. EVER.

I am going home at 6pm and getting $12 worth of Taco Bell, eating a pint of Haagen Dazs Vanilla Caramel Brownie, getting high in my tub, rubbing one out, and then going to bed at 8:30.

Thank you.

Did you miss me? Well, I missed you. And yes, in that way. It’s good to be back.

Well, actually that’s not true at all – it’s not good to be back. I’ve spent the last five days overeating, drinking, and eating my dad’s prescription painkillers like jellybeans (sorry dad). When my alarm went off at 7:15 this morning, I nearly pissed myself out of anxiety, and my commute this morning took over an hour, during which I nearly shat myself because my stomach is not ready to digest foods that do not contain at least a half stick of butter or a cup of heavy cream. So it’s actually horrible to be back. Absolutely fucking horrible. Thanks for asking.

Three things of note which have been sorted out in my post-gorging haze:

1) Way too many of my family members read this site.

I should note that “way too many” family members reading this would be one, since I don’t think any aunt or cousin or whatever wants to hear about me masturbating with a Santa hat on or getting fucked up and nearly choking to death on a sausage.

Knowing that my family reads this makes me very uncomfortable. The first thing my uncle said to me when I got to his house on the afternoon of Thanksgiving was, “So when are you coming out?” (referencing Tuesday’s post). Sure, my mom and dad do not read it, but I told them if they ever do to read it to lie to me and say that they haven’t/don’t (following my old relationship axiom: “If you cheat on me, just don’t tell me, because otherwise I’ll murder you”), so I guess I’ll never know.

But really, is this not my fault? Did I not start this using my real name, and even passed it on to some older cousins? Did I not think that this would come back to haunt me?

The question is whether the price of fame is worth it. I am ok with everyone in my family knowing intimate (and I don’t mean “intimate” in the pretty, making love slowly while listening to R&B way) details of my life, as long as I have internet quasi-celebrity status and all its accoutrements? The answer: I guess. I only see my family rarely, so I can deal with it. As far as the accoutrements of internet quasi-celebrityness, there are none. Definitely not in the “free and easy beejers” department. Definitely not there.

2) I am the worst poker player in the world.

In addition to being drunks, my family are also gamblers. This is a relatively new phenomenon; I remember after Thanksgiving (and Christmas) of last year playing poker around my aunt’s house until the wee hours of the morning and taking everyone’s money. I was on fire – at one point I stepped outside to get some air, and three hot chicks showed up out of nowhere and blew the shit out of me. Seriously. Ok, well, not seriously.

Last year, my family seemed new to the whole poker thing, but that didn’t stop me from brutalizing them and bragging about it (“Well, I have 2 Kings here, but then – wait a minute – what’s this? Oh, that looks like a third King. And something else is here in this pile of cards that I have before me – can anyone make this out? It looks to me like 2 Aces. Can someone please check this? My eyesight is poor. Is that 3 Kings and 2 Aces? So I win? Oh good. I am going to donate this Church, first thing in the morning. Also, you guys suck. I’m ashamed to be related to you. I haven’t seen a beating this bad since my last girlfriend threw out my Oreos because they were stale. One.”).

But this year, my family really upped the ante. As Thanksgiving was drawing to a close, my uncle pulled out a full set of poker chips, and we began to play (first Texas Hold ‘Em, then 7-Card Stud).

And boy, was I off. Like, really, really off. I said before we even started that I was due for a loss, since I had been playing some most excellent poker. Of course, realizing this did not stop me from talking a good game, calling my cousins (both male and female, ages 16-22) “chumps”, “losers”, and, as I got drunker, “cockasses”.

The bad karma came back to haunt me, because I was cold. Ice cold. It was as though some of the cards I was getting were in another language, and not even part of a standard deck. By 2am, I think I had once gotten dealt a 14, three of my cards seemed to be in Russian, and one just said “You suck at this, fatass.” It was awful.

Also, we were playing dealer calls wilds, so that means the person dealing while dealing could say, “Ok, in this hand, 7′s are wild”, so that any 7 could be any suit, any number or face. And in about twenty hands, I think I got maybe three wild cards. And each time this happened, a competitor would have five of a kind or a royal flush. Not good.

But I’m happy to report that I battled back at the end, and after seven hours (!) I left with my $20 buy-in back and an extra $20, which went straight up my nose the next night. Good times, and I’m looking forward to playing again on Christmas, when I hope to be a little more lucky, and a little more high.

3) Home improvement projects in my house are never announced.

My dad realizes that his two sons are failures. Sure, we’re both good at reading and stuff, but I can barely turn on a light and my brother uses the tool set my dad got him before he went to college as cooking implements and utensils. This causes much distress to my dad, who I have mentioned, has tattoos and loves only two things: fixing shit and cigarettes (oh, and Bad Company – he loves that fucking band).

Also, my brother and I are incredibly lazy. I remember growing up I’d do anything to get out of doing some home improvement-type project, and to this end I’ve faked numerous maladies, including but not limited to diarrhea, a hamstring pull, seizures, and a drug overdose that got me out of redoing the basement for a whole week (score!).

But my dad still needs us for home improvement projects, because at the very least we can lift things or hold them in place. Sure, we may not take orders well, like when during the last project he asked me for an allen wrench and I handed him a picture of a puppy that I thought was cute, but at the very least we’re bodies with hands.

Because my brother and I avoid home improvements projects like women avoid me after I’ve had thirteen drinks or whenever or all the time, they are never announced. This was the case this past week, when my dad called my brother over to his house (where I was staying), and when he arrived my dad said only to my brother and I, “I need yous to take a ride with me.”

“I need yous to take a ride with me” is the death knell, the phrase that sets off the alarm in my brain that screams, “Manual labor is imminent! Manual labor is imminent! Avoid at all costs!” My brother and I have learned to recognize this phrase instantly as the beginning of something terrible. We learned very early that when my father said this, he wasn’t planning on taking us to get ice cream or to the flower show. No, that usually means a trip to Home Depot or the hardware store or I don’t know – some other manly place with tools and shit.

And so we went to Lowe’s to get twelve feet of flooring for my mom’s kitchen. My dad explained that the project, which would be undertaken the next day, would be easy. Nothing about moving a refrigerator and stove and “tracing the measurements” and “making cuts” sounded easy to me. So what did I do? I left Philly, and came back to NYC that night. Instead of helping put in a my floor in my mom’s kitchen, I got into NYC at 10pm on Friday night so my roommate Brian and I could sit in our living room pounding Bud Lights, going through them so quickly and being so lazy about it that instead of getting up and getting a beer, we were grabbing two at a time and sitting them on the table in front of us, because we are the laziest drunks in the world. And, oh yeah, we’re awesome.

In my defense, I did call the next day to see how the project was going, and my dad said it was going quite well, thanks in no small part to the fact that I was not there to fuck it up and say things like, “Can we take a break? I really want some coconut cream pie” or having exchanges with my dad like:

Me: “Dad, my arm hurts. Is it supposed to hurt like this when I hold this cutter-thingee?”
Dad: [smoking] “Jase, you haven’t even done anything yet, except stand there, complain that your legs hurt from standing, and read your sister’s US Weekly.”
Me: [screaming, then storming off] “Why can’t you accept that I’m not like you, dad?!? You just don’t understand me!!!”
Dad: [smoking, shaking head] “Christ.”

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And so another Thanksgiving is in the books. And now, the shit show begins, as Christmas rapidly approaches. One word: bring on the egg nog!

[And yes, I know that's five words. I'm trying some new cerebral humor on you guys. Hope you like it!]

Ah, Thanksgiving: the holiest day in the Christian calendar and my personal favorite holiday.

Many non-Christians don’t know this, but in the Christian faith Thanksgiving celebrates the day in 1961 when Jesus Christ beat Satan in the now infamous “Shake ‘Em Down, Break ‘Em Down” arm wrestling match in Santa Ana, California. Historians and theologians alike are still debating about the exact circumstances and sequence of events, but what most agree on is that Satan had way too much sangria before the match and was not at the top of his game and Jesus was saying really, really racist things (apparently, two days prior, a group of African-American youths had stolen His car, a sweet cherry red ‘vette that He had picked up at a state auction only three weeks before, and He was very upset about this).

I’m not quite sure how “pilgrims” and “Indians” got involved in Thanksgiving, since historical research has proven that the pilgrims actually never left mainland Korea and Indians, just like the unicorn, the phoenix, and women who aren’t completely fucking nuts, are a myth. I blame the bastardization of the Thanksgiving holiday entirely on the Jews, who have had it out for Christ for over 4,000 years and have been trying to take the “Christ” out of “Thanksgiving” since at least the early 1980′s, possibly even before then.

[I'm really coming out firing today, eh? In two paragraphs, I've made fun of Christians, blacks, women, Native Americans and Jews. Do you see what the holidays do to me? What kind of stress they put me under? I knew I should have waited until January to stop taking that damn Lexapro.]

Also, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, for fairly obvious reasons. Any day on which all I have to do is wake up and eat until I throw up is ok with me.

Thanksgiving, which is often held on a Thursday, gives rise to the night before Thanksgiving, which is the “biggest drinking night of the year.” The entire American population, knowing that they have the day off work the next day and only have to overeat, spends the night before Thanksgiving getting bombed. Yours truly has a Thanksgiving Eve ritual which involves a $10 all you can drink draft special for five hours, followed by an evening-ending Reuben and bowl of French Onion soup at 3am, and a drive to check out the hookers at 12th & Locust to see if Touchy Heather is around (I never loved anyway like I loved Touchy Heather. Let’s talk about something else before I fucking lose it.).

In addition to the traditional Thanksgiving activities – eating, drinking, trying to ignore the smell of marijuana smoke wafting from the bathroom after Uncle Teddy and his new girlfriend Starla come out of it – my family has its own unique Thanksgiving tradition: gambling about whether this is the year I finally come out of the closet.

Yes, it’s an age-old tradition in the Mulgrew household. This lil’ game started in 1997 during my senior year of high school after my dad caught me singing, “Everything I Do (I Do It For You)” to a poster of Johnny Depp. Two months after that at Thanksgiving dinner, I had fallen asleep after my third slice of pie and fourth Percocet, but as I drifted in and out of consciousness, I overheard my family talking about the following five topics:

1) Jason is gay, right?
2) I don’t think so.
3) No, I’m pretty sure he is.
4) Yeah, you’re right.
5) When do you think he’ll tell everyone?

I vaguely recall (the Percocets were very delicious) that many of my family members chose 2004 as the date that I would come, nay, hop, skip, and jump out of the closet, and there’s like a $400 pot at stake here.

So to any family members reading this, for a 40% cut, I’ll tell everyone I’m gay. Seriously, I really need the cash. Just make sure you talk to me about this before I hit the egg nog, because you know what kind of terrible drunk I am when I get all filled with alcohol-laced dairy.

In the meantime, it is very important this time of year to be thankful for what we have. So below I have whipped up a short list of what I am thankful for, in no particular order (but the last one is my favorite).

I am thankful for:

- baked macaroni and cheese
- the push-up bra
- easily spreadable butter products (i.e. Country Crock)
- fat women who don’t care that they’re fat and really know how to have fun
- the live version of Elvis Costello’s “Motel Matches” from “Goodbye Cruel World”
- getting letters in the mail
- ice cold cans of Natural Light
- the Pill
- having my own bathroom
- a really fucking good cheeseburger
- my iPod
- $3 shots at Blue & Gold
- the lovely Hispanic women who do my laundry for me
- really, really gay men
- potatoes au gratin
- Terrell Owens
- pooping
- Alprazolam
- slow dancing
- dads with moustaches
- taking egregiously long hot showers
- women who tan
- VH1 Classic
- my bookcase which makes me look really smart
- my job (seriously)
- Red Bull
- when women wear blouses and they move a certain way that the fabric between buttons collapses and you catch a glimpse of their boobies
- creamed chipped beef
- growing a beard
- Otis Redding
- Sam Smith’s Nut Brown Ale, Guinness, Newcastle
- baked ziti
- throwing the old pigskin around
- King Charles II
- hotel rooms
- my family and friends and blah blah blah
- breakfast meat
- Adriana Lima (good lord)
- Luden’s Wild Cherry cough drops
- sour cream
- Glenn Tilbrook’s live performances
- being hungover on a Saturday in the fall when it’s 47º and rainy and staying in bed in the cold sheets, blankets and pillows until 3pm
- Citrico Gatorade
- my beard/pubes/chest hair/back hair trimmer
- when women wear skirts
- old people who curse a lot
- fat black women who can really fucking sing
- keg beer
- Bloomsbury, London
- getting high and listening to Beulah’s “Hello Resolven” fifty times in a row
- watching people beat the shit out of each other
- Bill Murray
- Limewire and the entire Gnutella network
- you all passing on this site/linking me on your sites so that I’ve obtained a modicum of “fame”, which in turn has gone straight to my head and when my roommates ask me to do the dishes or clean up causes me to yell, “Do you know who the fuck I am?”
- cleavage

[I won't be posting for the rest of the week, since I will be out of work and home in Philly resting. And by "resting" I mean worsening my relationship with my family by refusing to wear pants. Have a happy and safe Thanksgiving, and for those not in the US, have a good rest of the week.]

Nothing to post today. I actually have something, but it’s only about 80% done, and I’m not going to be able to finish it. And I can’t give you something that’s only 80% done; that’s like making yourself a nice chicken parm dinner, but being so damn fat you can’t wait until it’s fully cooked, so you take it out of the oven before it’s done and eat it anyway, and wind up giving yourself Salmonella food poisoning and spending the next two days with your head over your toilet throwing up and your ass in your tub shitting because you can’t do one without doing the other.

I know, I know – I let myself down too. But I’ll get you tomorrow. Promise. And I don’t mean that in the “Daddy’s just going to the store and he’ll be right back Jason” way, I mean it for real. Promise.

Hugs and kisses,
Jason

R. Kelly is quickly becoming the most hilarious celebrity on the planet. I’m sure that many of you have heard, but another R. Kelly sex tape has surfaced. Though this one doesn’t have any pee or underage girls involved (we don’t think), it purports to be a threesome between R. Kelly, the wife of NY Yankees’ outfielder Gary Sheffield, DeLeon, and an unknown woman.

This came to light after a self-proclaimed minister in Chicago contacted Sheffield’s representatives and asked for $20,000 to “counsel” Sheffield’s wife and to make sure the tapes were destroyed.

Well.

I’m not really surprised by this: another R. Kelly tape is like the latest installment of the Bond films, so it was only a matter of time before something popped up. What does surprise me is the fact that Sheffield, a notorious headcase, is being so supportive of his wife. His exact comments were, “I have not seen the alleged videotape, nor do I care to…I love my wife, and I vow again to stand by her through any trial or tribulation.”

I refused to believe that Gary Sheffield said this, since the guy eat steroids like I eat dumplings (read: a lot). This is what his reps have spun for the media, but I’m sure his reaction was actually closer to, “I’m'a kill you bitch!”

But of course in any situation like this, there are a litany of humorous quotes or media clips. On of my favorites comes from Sheff’s wife’s mother, courtesy of that bastion of journalistic integrity, the NY Post, who says,

Richards [Sheffield's mother-in-law] admitted to The Post that her daughter had a relationship with allegedly kinky crooner Kelly. But she said the affair was so tumultuous it drove her into the arms of another man — Jesus Christ.

“Right after that episode she was saved,” she said of her daughter, who has been a gospel singer since she was a 3 years old.

Right after she dated R. Kelly, she was saved, but she was a gospel singer from age 3? What, was she doing gospel because she just really dug the music? Also, do you think that a traumatic event, like say, recording a sex tape threesome, led her to Jesus Christ? Also, what does Jesus Christ think about getting R. Kelly’s sloppy seconds?

Three things we have to take away from this (our lives depend on it):

1) R. Kelly, stop making sex tapes. Just stop. I read somewhere (and I may be completely making this up) that a lot of celebrities film sex acts in order to prove consent – it’s a lot easier to dispute a rape charge if you have a video of your accuser asking you to stick three fingers in her butt. I understand that, and after hearing that I have since set-up a secret camera in my bedroom, but all I have so far is hours and hours of me beating off. But really R, the tapes have gotten out of control. Do us a favor, and stop. Or, do me a favor, and do one with Angelina Jolie in it. I’m more than ok with that.

2) Remember my marriage dealbreakers? How I can’t marry a woman who smokes, won’t take my last name, has fooled around with a friend, or has small boobs (by the way, this has haunted me more than I could ever have imagined, since I get plenty of (ok, one) emails like, “Well, I’m hot, and young, and really want to marry you, or at least have sex with you, but I smoke, so you’re out of luck – asshole”)? I think we need to add a 5th:

5) I can’t marry a woman who has been in a sex tape with anyone, especially R. Kelly.

This is absolutely non-negotiable. Good lord – I get fits just thinking about it. I have a hard enough time when any girl I’m dating is not a virgin; if she’s been on a sex tape -

You know what? I can’t even talk about this, since I feel like I’m going to throw up. Let’s move on.

3) The “unknown woman” has already inspired a number of jokes between my friends and I:

My roommate Ben: “I just wish you would wash the dishes after you use them.”
Me: “Well that’s funny, because I just wish your mom would own up to being the unknown woman in the R. Kelly/Mrs. Sheffield tape.”

or

My roommate Brian: “Dude, you have a voicemail message from your mom on the machine?”
Me: “Oh really?”
Brian: “Yeah, she said that since you work at a law firm, she needs your advice, because she’s ready to admit to the public that she’s the 3rd woman in the new R. Kelly tape.”

R. Kelly. What a terrific person. I now promise to name my first son “R”.

*******************************************************

In my capacity at work, I have to talk on the phone a lot to people who I don’t know. Sure, I still do way more personal phone calling, but believe it or not, yes, sometimes I use the phone for more than talking about how fucked up I’m going to get tonight or how hot that waitress from Brother Jimmy’s was.

Anyway, there’s this one girl who I talk to fairly regularly, and she has the sexiest Southern accent I’ve ever heard. Don’t get me wrong; I hate the South. I’ve been quoted at saying the only two things they have in the South are heat and racism, but man, this accent is something else.

The thing is, it’s so disarming that I can’t even articulate properly. I’m usually calling about some big financial deal, and when she answers the phone with that sweet, sweet voice, I find myself stumbling, “Hi, um, Shannon. This is Jason Mulgrew, from, um, well, that’s not important. I’m calling to see, well, how are you? That’s rude of me, isn’t it? Here I am going on and on about me, and I haven’t even asked how you are doing. So, uh, how are you doing? You know, I can neither see nor smell you, but I’m sure you look and smell great today. Not that I don’t want to see or smell you. Do you have any plans to visit New York anytime soon? Have I ever told you that I’m kinda famous on the internet?”

This is not an exaggeration. It’s getting to the point where I think she’s starting to screen her calls, because I’ve been getting her voicemail a lot recently.

So great. I’m scaring women who I haven’t even met yet. Nice.

*******************************************************

Over the past, oh, four months, I’ve been slowly reading Fast Food Nation. See, grad school has killed any leisure reading I used to do. I don’t do the assigned reading for school, so when I read a leisure book, I start to feel guilty and think to myself, “Man, I really should be reading my school stuff instead. God I feel dizzy from all the apple pie.”

The funny thing is that I’m currently at the part talking about the e:coli outbreak at Jack-in-the-Box in the ’90′s, and I actually find myself craving a cheeseburger. Not Jack-in-the-Box, because I’ve never had one of those, but rather an In-and-Out burger, which I haven’t had since July 2002.

Mmmm…e:coli burgers.

(Did I really need all those hyphens?)

*******************************************************

Why does Brian Cashman, GM of the New York Yankees, always look like he’s coming down from a week-long coke binge? Seriously, look here. And here.

Good god, man. Take a nap or some shit.

*******************************************************

Six Songs

- “Pride and Joy (Acoustic)” Stevie Ray Vaughan
Unbelievable. I never thought an acoustic, 12-string guitar could sound like this. I makes me happy in my pants.

- “Badge” Cream
Eric Clapton is really lame nowadays. He’s all old, and clean, and really, there’s nothing cool about being old and clean. Cream is where it’s at. The solo in this song is so amazing perfect, I actually cry when I hear it.

- “We Will Become Silhouettes” The Shins
I like this band, mostly because it’s very cool to like this band. And this is a very cool song, and real foot-tapper with nice harmonies.

- “Piece Of Clay” Marvin Gaye
You wanna talk about crying when you hear a song? Good lord – this one gets me. Big time. I have to talk about something else.

- “Marry Me” Drive-By Truckers
Good ol’ fashioned Southern rock, this song makes me wanna fuck, fight, and, oh yeah, get married, all at the same time.

- “The Chokin’ Kind” Joss Stone
Joss Stone’s new album, Mind, Body & Soul, stinks. She tries to be way too diva, and fails. Fortunately, “The Chokin’ Kind” is on her first album, which is filled with smooth R&B covers. The #1 album I copied and gave to girls I wanted to bang in 2003. Alas, it didn’t work.

*******************************************************

Update your address books bitches, because we’ve changed our email address. I don’t know why it took me so long to realize lycos sucks, but from here on out send all email to eiwwme@gmail.com. I tried to keep it to “eiwwm”, but your username as to be at least six letters, so that’s why we have “eiwwme”.

And now that we’re using gmail and its massive storage space, you can send me those nudey/booby/compromising pictures without it filling up my inbox! Ain’t life grand?

*******************************************************

[Also, not posting tomorrow, as I'll be out of the office. So have a good weekend or something.]

I suffer from terrible, terrible heartburn. I think this started in the summer, but I don’t remember much of the summer, since when the temperature rises above 80 degrees I consistently feel faint and regularly lapse in and out of consciousness, as my body hair causes my body temperature to rise to well over 130 degrees. I was actually dead from heat stroke from August 8 – 12. Seriously, check the archives.

At any rate, I constantly have terrible heartburn. This is not surprising, giving my eating and drinking habits, which most doctors would call “not good”. Other doctors may call them “I can’t believe you live like this and you’re still alive – it defies medical science. Also, you have herpes. Big time.” But come on – sure, maybe one time I ate a live firecracker because someone stuck it in my pile of mashed potatoes, but really, who are they to judge? Assholes.

But just because it’s deserving doesn’t mean it’s any less debilitating. Actually, it really sucks ass. It feels as though fire has borne a hole through my esophagus, which makes eating and swallowing very difficult. I burp a lot, but they’re not like normal burps. Imagine getting ready for a big, loud-ass burp, posturing to force it out, but instead nothing happens. Rather than letting out a giant one to inspire your friends to say, “Sweet dude”, you’re left with a momentarily paralysis of breath and a fireball that tastes like this morning’s mozzarella sticks tumbling up your throat. Not too much fun.

But truth be told, I don’t really give a fuck about this most of the time. Sure, it’s acutely uncomfortable, but I have other things to concern myself with (i.e. lunchmeat, boobies, hot dogs, breasts, etc).

The problem is that the heartburn adversely affects my drinking. This is not good. I’m not a doctor, but if you’re suffering from painful heartburn, it’s probably not best to come home and have some red wine, then some white wine, then a few beers, then a few vodka-diet cherry 7-Ups, then some more beers, then finally two slices of pepperoni pizza and a chicken roll, which is what I did on Friday night (and yes, ladies, I am single).

Thus Saturday was not my finest hour, what with the hangover and the heartburn and the whole “I peed in my bed in my sleep” thing. Since I’ve never been a big believer in “medicine” or “condoms” or “treating people the same regardless of their race”, when Saturday evening rolled around, I started drinking again. Some say laughter is the best medicine. To them I say, “You guys are gay. Have you ever had three martinis in an hour? You don’t feel anything at all, except warm.”

My “drinking through it” plan of action has worked through numerous illnesses: the remnants of hangovers, stomach bugs, that time I got malaria in Guadalajara from either a mosquito, the two prostitutes I made love to (though there was no love at all in what we did) or that guy Ted who I made out with in the pool after he gave me all that free coke – whatever.

But with the heartburn, the “drinking through it” plan just doesn’t cut it. It actually, not so surprisingly, makes it worse. Each sip feels like it’s taking another layer off my esophagus. Each burp (or near burp) feels like my stomach and throat is on fire. When it gets really bad, each sip of vodka causes me to have a mini-spasm and bolt upright, wince in pain, and paraphrase the old guy from “Braveheart” and say in my best Scottish accent, “That’ll wake you up in the morning.”

I talked to my doctor about this. My doctor is very cool. When I went it for an STD test, his first question was, “So do you have anything weird on your dick or your balls?” (using that language). He prescribed some Nexium, which works sometimes, but he also said that I’d have to change my lifestyle if I wanted the heartburn to go away (I also asked if he could prescribe some Percocets for me, but he told me to get the hell out of his office).

This was confounding for me (the need to change my lifestyle, not the refusal of Percocets, although both were pretty confounding). As a relatively spoiled person who, despite being in terrible shape, considers himself nearly invincible, I said to my doctor, “Um, no. I don’t want to change anything. Can’t you just give me a pill or a shot or something and make it go away? No? You’re telling me we can put a man on Mars, but we can’t cure heartburn? We can create super babies that are capable of flying an airplane, running a marathon in under three hours, and building giant robots that in one fell swoop can easily destroy a whole city, but you can’t cure my acid reflux? What do you think I am, some kind of jerk? You know what? Fuck you. How about that? Did you like that? Because here comes another – fuck you. Wait, hold on, I think I hear someone coming. Oh, here it is: fuck you. Fucking asshole.”

…

I’m realizing now that I’ve been writing this for a while and I don’t really know where I’m going with it, so let’s get to the point. The point is that this weekend was the first time in a while that yours truly has not been able to imbibe his favorite beverages unencumbered by pain, and it was certainly the worst ever. The results of my failed “drinking through it” plan have still lasted until today, Wednesday, as I still feel discomfort, most likely remnants of the boozing this weekend. Or maybe I’m just having a heart attack.

But hear me now: if I can’t drink at my own volition, there are going to be serious problems. Not problems like, “Damn it – I just made pancakes and we’re out of syrup” problems, but problems like, “Daddy, who is at that large man running up and down the halls of our apartment building with a flaming ax? And why is he stopping so often to put down the flaming ax to try to rip off his pee-pee?”

I don’t have much, but I have my booze. Take that away from me, and all I’ve got left is a lot of back hair, a dick the size of a wine cork, and two roommates who are constantly masturbating in my bed when I’m not at home. God and Heartburn: Do not fuck with me. You are entering a world of pain, betrayal, anger, lust, and borderline homosexuality. Slowly back away now, and everything’s cool. Advance, and do so at your own peril. But if you’re gonna bring it, you’d better bring it all. [pausing for dramatic effect] Because I will not lose.

[Well, I probably will lose, but I just said that to sound tough. And I don't even think it worked.]

All I’m going to say is that the Terrell Owens signing was very good for Philadelphia, as a city and a football team. That’s it. I’ll take his celebrations, his complaining, his tantrums – whatever – since he has 12 touchdowns and the Eagles are 8-1 (well, I could have done without the terrible “Desperate Housewives” intro, but his acting was so bad he redeemed himself).

Shit, TO could knock up my sister and I’d still love him. Well, actually, I would love him if he knocked up my sister, since that means we’d be rich, so that joke doesn’t work. How about: he could kill my sister, and I’d still love him. Does that work? Or am I going to get an email from someone saying, “Dude, not cool – my sister really was murdered by TO”? Whatever.

Anyway, some terrible fucking commercials, while I sit here rotting and waiting for an ad agency to hire me:

1) The Dr. Pepper commercial with Smokey Robinson and B2K.

Smokey, simply put, you are a legend. One of the founders of the Motown Sound and one of the most distinctive voices in American music, you have written and sang countless hits that millions of people around the world know by heart.

So I ask you: do you really need the money? I have to say “yes”, because I don’t know what the hell else would possess you to do this terrible commercial with that awful group B2K. I don’t even know what the hell “B2K” is, and yet you’re acting all chummy with them and carrying on like a god damn asshole. At first, I was angry. Now, I’m just embarrassed for you. Either get a new agent, or give me a ring. I don’t have much money, but I’ll give you a couple of bucks if it means maintaining your dignity.

[However, props to the ad wizards at Dr. Pepper for putting this woman in a commercial. I have no idea who she is (apparently, she's famous in Mexico or one of those Mexico-type countries), but I will be standing outside her home shortly, acting sketchy and planning to do something criminal.]

2) All Sprint PCS commercials, but especially one with the cowboys.

I don’t know how to tell you this, Sprint PCS, so I’m just going to come out and say it: you fucking suck. I don’t even know how the Better Business Bureau allows you to run these commercials in which you talk about your good reception, because you have the worst reception, by far, of any of your cell phone company. I’m pretty sure that there are cell phone companies run by Gypsies that have better reception than you guys.

In one of your recent commercials, your boneriffic spokesman talks about how cowboys, who are on the road a lot, can easily send pictures from anywhere. Let me tell you something: I live about a mile and a half from Times Square, an area many would call the world’s center of entertainment, and yet I have to stand in strange positions (on my toes, holding a hanger, with one finger in my ass) in my bathroom tub in order to get clear reception on your service. I work a baseball’s throw away from Wall Street and the New York Stock Exchange, an area many would call the financial center of the world, and yet my cell phone is so useless it’s basically a shiny piece of glass and plastic that lights up.

And you’re going to create a commercial in which you brag that cowboys in the middle of nowhere will have no trouble sending pictures? Sending pictures? I can’t make a call in Manhattan that’s longer than thirteen seconds before my reception goes out, but a cowboy in Idaho going to have the three minutes it takes to send a picture? How do you sleep at night?

You have terrible reception. And you stink. You fucking stink. I hate you.

That is all.

3) The State Property ads currently splayed all over NYC buses and subways.

I don’t have a picture of this ad; I spent a good hour or so today on the web looking for the one that is currently on the MTA’s busses and in subway cars, but, much like when I tried to start eating mac and cheese with utensils rather than my hands, I failed, so linked above is the artist bio from Roc-A-Fella records.

It stinks, because I really wanted to be able to show you all how terrifying these guys look in this ad. I don’t know if the current ads are for music or clothes or whatever, but I do know that they’re why white people are really, really scared of black people. Seriously, the ad shows a bunch of very intimidating black guys standing around, looking very angry and tough, staring back at me on the subway as I lick the cheese that fell from my from my bacon, egg & cheese bagel onto my jacket during my morning subway ride.

But good lord – there have been times when I’ve seen this ad on a bus, stopped in my tracks, thrown my wallet in front of the bus, and ran screaming in the opposite direction. It’s that scary, and I don’t scary easily, unless a werewolf is involved. Or bugs – I hate bugs.

[God, I really am terrified by bugs. Now I'm going to have a nightmare tonight. So thanks.]

Once again, I have survived unharmed. The IT people have come and gone, my computer is (apparently) fixed, and I am still employed. Sure, I spent the morning sitting in the chair opposite my desk in my office, staring at the IT guy as he went through the nooks and crannies of my computer, sweating like a fucking monster, rocking back and forth, and saying novenas, but I made it – unscathed.

The lesson? I can’t be fucking touched. I just can’t. Everything always works out for me. And yes, I am concerned I might be jinxing myself, but I’d prefer to not think about that very much.

Some things we learned since last Friday afternoon:

- Scott Peterson is guilty. Like, even the law say so.

I was on the phone with my roommate Brian when the Scott Peterson verdict was read. Brian works for an entertainment news show, and we just happened to be talking when 4pm rolled around and the verdict was announced (seriously, it was a total coincidence and not because I am secretly a media/gossip whore who regularly buys US Weekly).

When the foreman said, “Guilty”, I could hear the yelps of joy from Brian’s co-workers, but Brian and I were silent, totally shocked. This isn’t because we thought he was innocent; we couldn’t believe he was actually not going to get off for it.

[silence for a five seconds, listening to Brian's co-workers yell in joy and high-five]
Me: “Well, he is guilty.”
Brian: “Oh god yes.”
Me: “I mean, they shouldn’t have even had a trial.”
Brian: “Who goes fishing on Christmas Eve, leaving his wife, who is eight months pregnant with their first child, home alone?”
Me: “Also, after doing that, who dyes his hair and tries to goes to Mexico with $10,000 in cash and four cell phones while awaiting trial for his wife’s murder?”
Brian: “You know what pisses me off most about this? They tried to blame the Satanists. Everyone’s always shitting on the Satanists. Just because they worship Satan doesn’t mean they’re murderers.”
Me: “I’ll tell you – this is why I hate the media. But you know what else stinks?”
Brian: “What?”
Me: “Now there is a precedence in which someone who committed a high-profile crime actually paid for it. If Peterson were to have gotten off, that would have basically been my green light to go on that shooting/arson rampage that I’ve always wanted to go on.”
Brian: “The one you told Ben and I you were going to start after the New Year?”
Me: “Yeah. Because, you know, it’d be sensational, and since I’m an internet quasi-celebrity, I’d get a high-profile attorney, and the media would be all over it, but I’d get off, even though the evidence against me would be overwhelming.”
Brian: “Pubes and other body hair scattered everywhere…”
Me: “Empty packets of Taco Bell mild sauce scattered around my victims’ bodies…”
Brian: “Photos of you standing naked in the burning buildings masturbating and drinking vodka-cranberry out of a giant pot…”
Me: “Exactly. But now, I have to rethink this. Which sucks, because I was really looking forward to it.”
Brian: “You should buy a gun anyway. We drink and curse way too much not to have a gun in our apartment.”
Me: “Well, now I know what I’m getting myself for Christmas!”

- Old Dirty Bastard is dead, passing his moniker to his 13 children, heretofore known as Young Probably Cleaner Than Their Father Bastards.

Well, I can’t say I didn’t see this coming. The father of 13, who’s had just about every meltdown possible and who has been in jail for drugs and has been in a shoot out with police, succumbed to something on Saturday. I really hope when the autopsy comes back it shows that ODB died of something lame, like instead of “fatally high levels of crack cocaine found in bloodstream”, it says, “asphyxiation due to cheese doodle caught in trachea”, or instead of “heart failure (abnormally large heart) due to drug use”, it says, “cerebral hemorrhage due to fall while trying out new roller skates”.

What is hilarious is that many people in the press are calling ODB (also known as Big Baby Jesus, Dirt McGirt, Osirus) a “genius”. Good lord. At least when Christopher Reeve died and was lauded as the Greatest Man And Actor The World Will Ever See And Know And He’s So Good He’s So Much Better Than Jesus And Jesus Doesn’t Like Him Because He’s So Damn Jealous, he wasn’t shot twice, and almost charged with attempted murder.

I would call Albert Einstein a genius. I would call Stephen Hawking a genius (and a prick – long story). I would call the inventor Burger King’s Hershey Sundae Pie a genius.

But I would not call Old Dirty Bastard a “genius”. I would call him “some fucking crazy-ass black dude”.

But still, let’s give him a proper send-off, and recall what he sang in the international hit the Mulgrew Family likes to listen to every Christmas Eve before being tucked in to bed, Wu-Tang’s “Dog Shit”:

You’re the type of bitch don’t appreciate shit
Never had shit, so you won’t be shit
That pussy there, couldn’t satisfy a hair
On my body, treat me like a lolli and slob me down
*SLURP, SLURP* I’m Doo Doo Brown! [laughter]
Tossed salad, oh you in some shit now
Callin me a dog, well leave a dog alone
Cause nothin can stop me from buryin my bones
In the backyard, of someone else’s house
Ol Dirt Dog, but I’m not dog out
Here comes Rover, sniffin at your ass
But pardon me bitch, as I shit on your grass
That means hoe, you been shitted on!
I’m not the first dog that’s shitted on your lawn

May he rest in peace (and god help the choir of angels).

- I can’t be left alone when there is alcohol in the apartment.

On Friday night, my roommate Brian and I were sitting in our living room, drinking wine, and watching tv. Both of us had plans for the night, and we quickly plowed through the red wine, then moved onto the white wine. Soon, that was gone. At that point, Brian left to go meet some friends, leaving me alone. I started drinking beer. Then “Braveheart” came on. And the wheels came off.

“Braveheart” is one of my favorite movies ever. But it is not a good movie to watch drunk and alone.

So I sat alone in my apartment, drinking, watching “Braveheart” and getting very emotional. This was not helped by the invention of a new drink. Once the beer ran out, having no tonic or cranberry juice or Red Bull immediately available, and realizing that if I were to drink vodka straight while alone I might as well just end it all, I mixed the vodka with the only thing left in the fridge: Diet Cherry 7-Up.

Well.

Diet Cherry 7-Up is a very good mixer. So good that you don’t even taste the vodka. So good that you don’t even realize how much vodka you’re putting in your drink. So good that you may or may not get a little teary over “Braveheart”. So good that after watching “Braveheart” you download “The Electric Slide” to cheer yourself up, listen to it 20 times in a row, and actually do the Electric Slide on the last eight or so listens. Also, on the last three times, you take your pants off, grab your penis, and make your penis do the Electric Slide with you. And yes, you are single.

At any rate, I eventually met up with my friends, who were at a party in the West Village. Everyone who came to the party was asked to bring a dessert. I didn’t know the hostesses of this party, but wanted to make a good impression, so I brought a half-eaten can of Cool Whip, straight from my fridge. I thought this was a great idea at the time. I still think it’s a great idea. The hostesses, not so much.

I don’t remember much after that. I remember the party, and then going to a nearby bar. I remember getting up to take a piss, and while doing so, thinking “Holy shit I’m fucking drunk”, then going back to the table and whispering to one of my friends, “Holy shit I’m fucking drunk – I need to leave”, and sneaking quietly out into the pouring rain/sleet. I don’t remember this at the time, but – surprise surprise – when I woke up, there were remnants of white pizza (i.e. crust) on my bedroom floor.

Thus, Saturday was a tough day. I almost checked myself into the hospital on three separate occasions, convinced I was having a heart attack. Instead, I went to the grocery store to buy some vegetables, shampoo, and Gatorade (total cost: $65.82), and promised myself that this week I was going to start going to the gym again, first thing Monday morning.

…

I didn’t go to the gym this morning.

But hey – the important thing is that I still have a job (for now).

And the important thing is that, well, I can’t think of anything else. I’m just so glad I didn’t get fired. So I’ll stop now.

Well, the shit is hitting the fan. Searchmiracle has rendered my work computer essentially useless. The internet is barely working, slowed, stalling and crashing every five minutes, I can’t get access to work stuff and databases that I need to access to do my job, and I’m getting super pissed off and I really have the runs (thank you Taco Bell leftovers for breakfast).

After speaking with the IT people this morning for almost an hour, the Big Dogs are being called in and they’re going to do some major shit to my machine. So that means it’s a matter of hours before I am unemployed.

Of course, after I lose my job because of this site, I will no longer be posting. Instead, I will spend hours aimlessly walking around Central Park, saying to myself, “You asshole – did you have to use your real name on a website about being a complete deviant? What the hell were you thinking? And really, you invited the IT people to come check out your computer? Are you fucking serious? You download at least three porn clips a day on your computer, and spend the rest of your time making stupid jokes about overeating and the homeless and overeating the homeless on a website. You are an asshole, a complete and total asshole, and you deserve to be unemployed. Now whose dick to I have to suck to get some pizza around here? I’m fucking starving already.”

So that’s all I got for today. I may try to post later (thought it’s already almost 3), after the heat dies down, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to.

If I don’t, have a good weekend. And, if I never post again, have a good life. If you see me outside your building, scruffy and dirty and taking a piss on your wall while humming the “Ghostbusters” theme to myself, give me a fucking dollar, or at least a little bit of a massage, will you?

My roommate Brian and I always ask thought-provoking yet completely absurd questions of each other (see 8/24). It’s sort of a psychological exercise in which we can jump right into the core of each other’s beings, hopefully without wearing any pants and having “forgotten” condoms.

Last night I was feeling a bit wishy-washy about love. I occasionally get a little wishy-washy, as I am a Cancer, so I guess that means I’m emotional. I also have trouble not pissing myself when I do coke; whether or not this has to do with being a Cancer, I’m not sure.

But mostly I was emotional last night because another holiday season is quickly approaching and that means one thing for me: masturbating in front of the mirror with a Santa hat on.

[Man, today would be a really bad day for my parents to start reading this. Gay sex with my roommate, doing coke, and watching myself jerk off. My god, I'm sorry.]

Anyway, the question was, “Brian, would you give up everything for a woman?” Brian, who at the time was smoking a cigarette, took a deep drag, looked off into the distance, and finally said, “Well, it depends on how much I have.”

Very true.

For example, right now I don’t have much going on. Sure, I have a good job. However, I don’t have any money. I blame this not on my terrible spending habits (“Even though mine works perfectly fine, I think I’m going to buy a new iPod, since it’s only $400″) but on the fact that NYC is entirely too expensive. Also, I’m addicted to alcohol.

I don’t have many friends, and I don’t especially like the ones that I do have. I’m pretty sure my friend Greg tried to poison me three weeks ago (because of current legal issues, I can’t get into the details at this time).

My family, which for years has thought that I have potential, is getting impatient waiting for me to capitalize on this potential (I don’t know how – starting a business? running for office? starting some sort of espionage syndicate?). But they are learning each day that this “potential” was really just laziness well-concealed by constant self-aggrandizement. Therefore, they are turning against me. Although not entirely positive, I’m pretty sure my mom tried to push me down a flight of stairs last time I was home. Also, my dad stabbed me in the shoulder. Three times. Well, twice in the shoulder, once in the upper arm.

Other than that, what else do I have? I’m going to school, but “going to school” is the best way to describe it, since all I’m really doing is showing up, sitting there, leaving, and then not thinking about it again until the next class. I have this website, which is nice and good and all and gets me the occasional booby picture (thanks again Kevin), but it has made me both undatable and unhirable, once I get canned when my employer finds this.

So yes, I would give all this up for a woman. And it doesn’t even have to be a particularly attractive women. I would prefer a woman who isn’t a paraplegic, but if not available, I’ll make due.

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For those in NYC: if you like Thai food, you have to go to Sea, on 2nd Ave between 4th and 5th (there is also a much fancier one in Williamsburg, but that’s in Brooklyn, and, well, you know).

The food is absolutely amazing. Well, I shouldn’t say “the food” is amazing, because though I’ve been eating there for three years I’ve only ever gotten one entree: chicken pad thai. But it’s unreal, and they give you about two pounds for only $8. To go with it, get the Tip-Tum Fritters. At least 29% of the reason I’m moving back to the neighborhood (in June – ugh) is to be in the delivery area of this restaurant.

Now I’m fucking STARVING. And when I use all caps like that, you know I mean business.

**************************************************

Three shows that have changed my life this week but I will probably not watch again: “My Big Fat Obnoxious Boss”, “Rebel Billionaire”, and “Wife Swap”.

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Speaking of tv, the Victoria’s Secret commercial about their new push-up bra (without padding!) should not be allowed on television. Seriously. Every time this comes on when I’m eating, I immediately spit out whatever food is in my mouth, for fear of choking from having a seizure looking at those gorgeous mags*.

…

I’m sorry, but I have to stop writing about this.

[*mag is a derivation of "maggies", which is a derivation of "saggy maggies", meaning, literally, large, cumbersome and unattractively saggy breasts. However, my friends and I have devolved the term from its original definition so that mags means large, and more often that not, wonderful breasts. As in, "My god, look at the fucking mags on that broad! Holy shitballs!" So there.]

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The nicest thing any other bloggers who read (and for some reason enjoy) this blog can do is to link me on your site. That is the bestest compliment in the whole wild world. You don’t need to ask if you can link me, because you absolutely can. Seriously. I don’t care if your site is trying to raise funds for your local neo-Nazi candidate; if it’ll bring be more readers, and one of those readers happens to be a woman of ill-repute who after too many shots of Jager is willing to stick her hand down my pants, well then that’s perfect.

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Cool term: refractory period. Generally, it is the time of various biological processes, but sexually speaking it is the recovery phase after a man has an orgasm during which it is physiologically impossible for him to have another orgasm. In layman’s terms: the time between blowing loads.

Women, though they unfortunately have to deal with pregnancy and menstruation and making out with guys thing, do not have a refractory period, and are capable of having repeated consequential orgasms (I don’t really believe this, since everyone knows that women being able to have orgasms is a total myth, like Sisyphus and black people being able to vote).

I don’t really know where I’m going with this, except to say that when I was younger and had first discovered the joys of masturbating, my refractory period must not have been longer than five minutes. I was a machine (sadly).

But I think all that self-love at such a young age has taken it’s toll, since now we’re looking at a refractory period of at least four to five days, and longer in summer. My goodness – it’s almost like I have to go straight to bed after beating off because I’m so exhausted. There have been times when I beat off before bed, then almost called out of work the next day because I couldn’t get out of bed to go to the bathroom, let alone masturbate again.

[Man, I really hope my parents aren't reading this. I don't know what's gotten into me today.]

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Six songs:

- “Heroes And Villains” Brian Wilson
When I listen to this song, I can’t even tell which sounds are being made by voices and which are being made by instruments. The whole album, Smile, is amazing. A cappella: cool when Brian Wilson, Boyz II Men, or anyone else famous does it, not cool when you do it.

- “To The End” Blur
What a pretty song, all about getting wasted, arguing with your lady, and having a terrible break-up (right up my alley). Can someone please tell me what she’s singing in French? Please?

- “Natural Born Killaz” Dr. Dre and Ice Cube
Arguably (ok, very arguably) the greatest rap song of all time, and at the very least the most influential for me. My dorky friends and I used to roll up to high school football games blasting this song. And yes, we were virgins. “You never sleep, ’cause every time you doze/You catch blows to the mutha fuckin’ nose”. Does it get any better?

- “Two of Us” The Beatles
Arguably (ok, very arguably) the greatest love song of all time. I just want to listen to this in a country house with a beautiful woman on a warm spring afternoon. And then we’ll have sex. And then she’ll order me a pizza. And then she’ll have her friends come over, and they’ll all have sex while I watch a football game. Also, the pizza will have chicken fingers on it.

- “Around The Way Girl” LL Cool J
A true urban love poem. I listened to it recently and was suprised how dated it was when I heard the line, “Perm in your hair or even a curly weave/With your New Edition Bobby Brown button on your sleeve.” Damn – that was like eighteen years ago!

- “Put A Little Love In Your Heart” Jackie Deshannon
If you can listen to this song without singing along, you are an ice-cold robot Communist asshole and you’re going to hell. When you get there, give me a ring – I’ll swing by to say hello and give you a high-five.

[No time for introductions]

Mustaches

[Or is it "moustache"? I think the more common spelling is mustache, but I prefer moustache, so that's what we're gonna go with from here on out.]

There’s a guy who works in my building. I don’t know him personally, but I’ve seen him around. I suppose he’s an attorney, but I’m not entirely sure; he may be a firm administrator. At any rate, he’s well-to-do. He’s white, of average height and build, a little thin on top, but seems to be otherwise very vibrant and healthy (and no, I don’t have a man crush on him).

The thing is, over the past month or so, he’s been rocking a moustache. He never had any facial hair before, and now he has this weird moustache thing going on.

At first, I thought it was a joke. He seems like a funny guy, so I thought he was either doing it on a dare or had a lost a bet, which should tell you how ridiculous it looks on him. But that was over a month ago, and he’s still rocking the ‘stache.

My comment is this: for white guys, there has been an unspoken moratorium on moustache growing since 1989. Effective on January 1 of that year, if you had a moustache prior to that date, you could keep your moustache without fear of repercussion, reprisal, or reprobation. After that date, you were/are not allowed to grow a moustache, unless either a) it’s a joke; b) someone dared you; or c) you lost a bet. This is entirely non-negotiable.

Two qualifications:

1) Race. This only applies to white guys. Black guys can grow a moustache at any point in time and look cool. I went to high school with a black guy named Derrick who I am convinced had a moustache from at least age 6, possibly earlier. The same applies to Hispanic guys, especially those with the pencil thin ones (still, no one has explained to me how they do this – I think I would look most totally fucking excellent with a paper thin line of hair outline my overly chubby cheeks).

Asian guys are a little more difficult. On the one hand, the average Asian can never grow a moustache, and rocks the “I have 20 long hairs on my upper lip” look, also know as the “Jason Mulgrew in 9th grade” look. But on the other hand, the Asian people are responsible for one of the greatest moustache incarnations of all-time: the Fu Manchu. Verdict? Asian guys can grow the moustache whenever they like.

2) Totality of facial hair. This only applies when the moustache is used as a stand-alone facial hair look. This does not apply if the moustache is part of a goatee, beard, or some other crazy concoction. My favorite crazy concoction is the mutton chops look, sported here by George Westinghouse, founder to Westinghouse Electric Corp, the precursor of CBS. It is also rocked by George’s descendent Kenny Westinghouse, shown here after just finishing off his thirteenth can Coors Extra Gold.

An example of when it’s ok for white guys to grow the ‘stache: when I was a sophomore in college, one of my roommates, the recently married Mike, had a brother, Eustace, who at the time was a senior. We worshipped Eus and his roommates, because as soon as we came in as freshman, they took us under their wing, invited us to their parties, got us drunk, etc.

During their senior year, they decided to have a moustache party, meaning any guy who wanted to get into the party had to grow a ‘stache. They hung signs and huge banners all over the campus, saying mysteriously, “Got ‘Stache? 2/12″.

The party was a huge success, but I missed it. At the time I was dating a girl long-distance, so I presume I went to see her to do my best to convince her that no, I was not making out with other girls at bars after they’d had too many kamikaze shots, and that no, I had never and would never pay for sex (surprisingly, our relationship ended).

But seeing those guys around campus pre-party with their moustaches was absolutely fucking hilarious. I’ve been trying to convince my roommates to have a moustache party, but unfortunately they are almost completely hairless (so much so that we call my roommate Ben “Baby Ben”, because naked he looks like a big baby, although not as hot).

At any rate, them’s the moustache rules. I don’t make them up; I just follow them.

[Well, technically I did just make them up, but whatever]

Engagement rings

I work with a lot of women, whether they are administrators, associate attorneys, or partners. And let me tell you something, the rocks on these women’s fingers have to be worth upwards of fifteen lives in any third-world country.

Good lord – I consider myself a stalwart of heterosexuality, a true man’s man who doesn’t know how to wear a scarf, says things like, “How hard can it be to plan a wedding?”, and would rather eat his own poo than go shopping for shoes. But there have been times when I’ve walked into these women attorneys’ offices and been distracted by the glare coming off these rings.

Two things to discuss here as well:

1) The fact that all day long I see engagement rings that are larger than at least three of the moons of Saturn is really going to warp my perception of the whole “buying a ring” process. How am I supposed to go to a jeweler with a bag full of nickels, a Sega Genesis, and some old Playboy’s and expect to get a decent-sized ring?

I’ll tell you what’s going to happen – one day, far, far away from now, when I dupe a woman who has just the right amount of low self-esteem and psychosis into marrying me, I’m going to wind up mortgaging my life away for a giant fucking ring. I know this. I can be a sucker for perception with this kinda thing, and I know that I’m going to spend the first ten years of my married life making Christmas presents out of construction paper and popsicle sticks and eating bologna at every meal because I went $30,000 into debt to make myself look good to get my lady some bling-bling.

Damn it all to hell.

2) The reason that these women have giant rocks is that they’re fiancées are all very successful. I’ve never heard a very successful woman in my profession (or around my profession) say, “My fiancée is a social worker” or “My fiancée is a graphic designer, but he also waits tables.” No, they all say, “My fiancée is head of equity research at Morgan Stanley” or “My fiancée is vice general counsel at Merrill Lynch.”

On top of that, it’s sort of par for the course for older men to date younger women. Many of the women I know in their late 20′s have serious boyfriends/fiancées/husbands who are in their mid to late 30′s, possibly older. This bothers me, but also offers me hope.

It’s gross for me to think of any of my female friends dating anyone over 30 (and we’re only 25!). I don’t know why…but it just does. Why would a 25 year-old girl want to date a man who’s…well, old? Why would a 25 year-old girl not want to date, say, me instead? I certainly have less hair (on my head) than most 30 year-olds, so what gives? Is it because I’m impotent? Look, the doctor said that Cialis isn’t right for everyone. I’m working on this – trust me.

On the other hand, it makes perfect sense to me why an older man would want a younger woman. I don’t even need to explain this, but if I were 35, single, and rich, you’d better bet that I’d be trolling the bar scene, looking for some hot, dumb 22 year-old to buy gifts for and tote around town. As a matter of fact, I’m currently doing close inspections of middle/junior high schools in and around the Upper East Side, just so I get dibs on any up-and-coming hotties as early as possible.

(Too far?)

(Oh well)

(You know, I’m just gonna quit now before I fall too far behind)

I usually like to do email posts at the end of the week. I don’t know why, but it just feels right. What better way to end the week than by sharing some of your feedback? That is, aside from going to happy hour with your co-workers and trying to make out with the pregnant one?

But I’ve been really dragging my feet recently in this department (the emails, not the trying to make out with pregnant co-worker – she shouldn’t be at happy hour anyway).

I don’t want to give the impression that when I do an email post, I sit back and let you guys do all the work. On the contrary, it’s very hard for me to do these posts, as I have formulate answers to the serious questions posed to me, like, “What gives you the runs more often – Chinese or Mexican?” [Chinese] and “What’s the best method of birth control?” [Fucking a dude] and “I just turned 18, my breasts are too large and wonderful for my slim waist, and I really want to meet a quasi-celebrity. What should I do?” [Cash the $8000 check I'm sending you and move to NYC to live with me so we can spend all day and night slow-dancing].

I’ve tried to do this post on the past couple of Fridays, but I’ve been out of the office (at least partially) for four of the last five Fridays. So you’re getting it on a Tuesday, because I finally have the goddamn time.

Also, I’ve been terrible at managing emails. It’s just too damn many. I’m not saying this to impress you, I’m saying this to both apologize for my delayed responses and also to get you to stop, damn it (unless nude/compromising pictures are involved – WOMEN ONLY). Until an intern is hired, I’m afraid I’m going to be a very bad emailer. My apologies.

So anyway, onto the emails.

The first comes from Jessica Labowitz from my hometown of Philadelphia. She writes:

I decided to e-mail you 1) because I felt sorry for you, and 2) because you made a mention to Point Break today in your blog.

As most of my friends know, I am damn near obsessed with Point Break. I agree Keanu is hardly the actor he is paid for, but the Keanu-Swayze combination is cinema gold. It’s like ebony and ivory, living together in perfect muscular harmony. This movie, for me anyway, is a perfect visual masturbatory display of golden tans and cropped football jerseys and dark brooding eyes. I have, at some point in time I’m sure, watched this movie and felt something, down there, in my pants. With no stimulation required. It is fabulous, and is certainly the best $6.99 I ever spent. And we all know women are much harder to stimulate visually than men are. Am I a sexual oddity? Perhaps. Am I glad I found my cinematic G-Spot? Definitely.

I’m sure you understand how I feel – I’ll bet a movie about a stray dog eating a twinkie out of a dumpster can get you all hot and bothered. If you have any similar experiences, I would love to hear about them.

First, Jessica’s email address goes to the highest bidder. We’ll start the bidding at $25 and a six-pack of Molson.

Second, after reading Jessica’s email, I have to agree: the Keanu-Swayze combo is gold. I personally believe, however, that this has less to do with wooden but admittedly sexalicious Keanu Reeves than the modern-day legend that is Mr. Patrick Swayze.

The Outsiders. Red Dawn. Road House. Ghost. I could go on for ages. I would be remiss if I didn’t confess that I, like Jessica, felt a little something down in the basement when my dream came true and Patrick Swayze finally (finally!) dressed in drag in 1995′s To Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything! Julie Newmar, thus single-handedly making 1995 the greatest year of my life.

I need to take a deep breath here.

…

Ok.

Thirdly, as far as similar experiences of cinematic arousal (non-porn category), three examples come immediately to mind:

1) The Michael Douglas-Demi Moore sex scene in Disclosure. It must have been in about 1996, when I was 16 or 17, and this movie came on late night at my house. I remember seeing that scene, and thinking, “Well, this changes everything.” Good lord. It’s very hard to get over Michael Douglas being involved, as he is a total goober, but wow. Her boobs…just…incredible…can’t…type…must…play with…self…

(Moving on)

2) The pie-eating contest in Stand By Me. Something about a bunch adolescent boys, eating a bunch of pie, and then throwing up – I don’t know, it just gets me.

3) The scene in A Bronx Tale in which Sonny says to the bikers, “Now yous can’t leave” and the Italians stomp the shit out of the bikers. Nothing gets me like Italian machismo baby – nothing!

And if such a movie exists in which a stray dog eats a twinkie out a dumpster, please send me the title as soon as possible. Thanks.

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Kevin from Tucson sent me arguably the greatest email I’ve ever gotten.

On August 23 you posted how you got wasted and told a girl that you were the Predator in Alien v. Predator. Personally, that’s the funniest shit I’ve ever heard and knew that if one night I got the proper amounts of booze and weed in me, that I would undoubtedly perform these lines on the most-sober looking girl I could find. Amazingly I managed to recite your lines verbatim and with a straight face. I then threw in: “Yeah, my Dad works for Warner Bros. and was a producer for Forrest Gump. I was the kid on the bus who wouldn’t let Forrest sit down”.

We then had “one of those” conversations which lasted for a solid half hour in which I can’t remember a fucking thing. Later on that night she apparently got extremely shit-canned, and well… showed us her cans.

The picture is attached.

Kevin, someday, when I am Pope, and you die, I will make you a saint. I’m not sure how that whole process works, or how I’m going to actually become Pope, but I will make your canonization my life’s mission.

Lot of emotion on this email. First, pride, knowing that although I am completely unable to score, I have helped someone, even in some small way, see some boobies.

Second, arousal, since the boobies are, frankly, spectacular. They have to be fake. And I am totally ok with that.

Third, sadness, in the “Why the hell can’t this happen to me?” vain. I thought of the damn line! It’s my damn line! Is there no justice in this world?

And finally, hunger. I was rushed this morning and only had some oatmeal, foregoing my usual oatmeal-mozzarella sticks-bologna trifecta, and I’m dying for a sub right about now.

Kudos Kevin. Kudos, you magnificient son of a bitch.

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This one’s from Jennie in Chicago:

This past weekend I was at a party here in Chicago with about 35-50 people present. I’m sitting there with my old college roommie drinking and your name came up. We then spent the next 30 minutes discussing you and your quasi-celebrity status. At the mention of “quasi-celebrity status” some guy we don’t know turns around and says “Wait, what’s the chance that you’re talking about that blog guy Mulgrew?” Yep.

Only problem is he wasn’t remotely attractive at all, but yet he thought this connection was huge and pointed to the fact that we (either of us girls, cause as you often point out and he apparently agreed with, any girl will do) should talk all night and maybe exchange numbers or emails at least. I only wish I had your email with me and had given it to him saying it was mine…he could have been writing you dirty provocative emails making reference to what we could have done on the swing hanging in the loft where the party was, which you might have enjoyed.

First off Jennie, you should have definitely put out for him. Any guy who not only reads this site but is also confident enough to actually approach women about it at a party has balls of steel and will be a success someday.

[Seriously, can you imagine the balls? "I don't know you, but I overheard you discussing a website that discusses such topics as pornography, obesity, and alcoholism and in the process uses a wide variety of swear words. I would like to say that I also read this site, and let you know that it is my sincere hope that perhaps I can get you drunk, take you home, and give you mouth babies." Balls. Fucking balls.]

Second, have we learned nothing from this site? You write, “Only problem is he wasn’t remotely attractive at all.” Isn’t this site all about getting past the superficial and getting to know and love a person for what they are on the inside?

That even if a man is so morbidly obese that his doctor has informed him that no, he is not healthy enough for sexual activity, he is really good to animals and should be given a pity beejer?

That even if he looks like Meatloaf (as Bitch Tits in Fight Club) and acts like Philip Seymour Hoffman’s character in Happiness (the twelve people who saw the movie are cringing right now), he one time gave a homeless man half a turkey sandwich, and therefore he should be loved without pants?

I mean, come on! Let’s see some growth people! I actually could care less if you put out for random ugly guys, because I’m looking for Number One here! I’ve been doing this for nine months, and nothing? Not one lousy lay? None?

[Excuse me, I have to go get some air.]

[Also, could you tell me a little more about the swing? Please?]

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I’ve said before that I love getting your emails. Sure, it may take me a long time to respond, and sure, my responses may only be one word, and sure, maybe that one word doesn’t have anything to do with your email and is usually some kind of racial slur, but I really like your emails. I have low self-esteem and most of my friends are trying to destroy me, so hearing from the web community at-large does wonders for my confidence.

However, if you’re going to send me email like this, please don’t bother (I got this one when I was sick last month).

I hope you don’t die, man. Where else will I be able to read about a guy like me unless I write emails to myself? I like knowing there’s another degenerate in NYC who masturbates all over the place and wishes that people were naked all the time and you could just stick your dick in strange women’s asses on the subway and people could sniff each other’s assholes like dogs. Jennifer Lopez is on the Letterman show and she’s giving me wood right now!

Man, you said you wished you masturbated in work more often. Well, it didn’t work for me. I was fired 3 weeks ago after some wussbag asshole caught me masturbating in the men’s room. He tattled on me and I had to explain my jerking off to the president. I was asked to leave after I said something like, “I was in the bathroom moving my bowels and then I got the sudden urge to feel myself. So I couldn’t help it. I mean, I’m sure you’ve had those urges, too, Mr.”I’m just gonna collect unemployment and stay home and jerk off excessively.”

Oh, oh, shit, I also gotta tell you about the time I jerked out my roommate. Last summer he and two girls walked in on me jerking off naked in 90 degree heat on a day our air conditioner broke. I cursed him out for walking in on me and not immediately leaving. You see your roommate jerking off, fuckin turn around and leave! Am I right? Well, the next day he was packing to move out so I started jerking off again to piss him off. I was slapping my meat silly and making all kinds of fuck sounds. Then I walked in the hallway completely naked with my cock in my hand and I stood in his doorway and was pumping. He looked at me and called me a fuckin’ disgrace. 4 seconds later I ejaculated towards him and it landed on the floor. He picked up a football and hit me right below my belly button. I ran towards him and punched him. He backed away because he didn’t want my cum on him.

That’s it. Maybe you’ll make a recovery and still live.

A simple “hope you feel better” would have done just fine.

Can anyone tell me how to block certain email addresses? Please?

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My buddy Hal from Manasquan, NJ sent me this email after the Sox’ World Series win:

Theo Epstein vs. Tom Brady.

Who do you think could get the hottest chick right now in New England?

Obviously Epstein is riding a high with the Sox victory, but Brady has brought New England two Super Bowls in the last 3 years and he’s got the athlete thing going for him.

If the city of Boston ever holds a public charity event where those two guys are appearing, I’m taking a day off and going there. The flock of talent that would show up would be breathtaking…

This is a toughie. I admit, my expertise in this area is limited, as I am heterosexual (politically at least).

On the one hand, you have Tom Brady, superstar NFL quarterback who’s brought the Pats two championships in three years. And, oh yeah, he’s dreamy.

On the other hand, you have Theo Epstein, boy wonder GM who is responsible for creating the team that brought Boston its first World Series win in 86 years. Also, he’s not bad looking, and he went to Yale.

Hmmm…

Even though New England is a baseball town, and I think the one Sox championship means more than if the Pats were to win ten championships in a row, I’ve got to go with Brady. The reason? The body. If I’ve learned one thing about women, it’s that they like guys with good bodies. If I’ve learned two things about women, it’s that “no” means “no” only if you’re a quitter.

I don’t know why a woman would rather have a man who can lift heavy weights over a man who’s so suave he can tell a slavery joke at an NAACP fundraiser and still be everybody’s best friend, especially when in the end we’re all going to be old and gross anyway (and no, I’m not bitter). But women love good bodies.

And Hal, you’re right – if there’s ever an event where those two are appearing, well, watch out. I’ll catch a ride up with you, and when I’m taking a piss at a rest stop, you can alert the Sex Crimes Unit of the Boston PD, because no one’s going to walk away a winner after that function.

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Our last email comes from Becky Engels in Montréal, Canada.

I’ve been reading your blog for a couple of months and it seems that you want to pick up a chick who will sleep with you, or at least show you their boobs.

So here’s my idea. You have a ton of readers, and you’d be surprised at how many of them are women who get sent a link to your blog from friends (which is how I found you). Also, I bet there are women from all over the country reading (I’m from Montréal, so you might have a few Canadian readers as well).

You should offer your services if they ever come to visit NYC. You could be their tour guide and the tour would always end up at a bar. So, even if they don’t want a long term relationship, at least there’s a chance they’ll get so drunk they’ll sleep with you, or at least show you their boobs. Since they’ve spent the day with you, and know what your story is before even meeting you, I think it’s safe to assume that they won’t be totally disgusted by you.

This is sounding harsh, it’s not supposed to.

I’m completely serious. I’m a chick. The first time I went to NYC I would have loved to have had a tour guide with a sense of humor that could get me drunk.

Anyway, just an idea.

And a hell of an idea it is.

So, there you have it, lady visitors to NYC. For just three and a half minutes of the worst sex of your life, you can have me, Jason Mulgrew, Internet Quasi-Celebrity, Fashionista, and NYC Socialite, show you not only all the tourist attractions that NYC has to offer, but all the hip places that aren’t in your “Let’s Go” guide. Together, we’ll cavort around town, laughing, drinking, and when you’re not looking I’ll look down your shirt.

So that’s my offer. You needn’t worry – alcohol, as well as any numbers of narcotics (if necessary), will be provided to ensure a forgettable experience for one and all. All those interested should email the address in the box in the upper right. I look forward to hearing from you soon and taking pictures of you with my penis on your forehead while you’re passed out!

Alas, another wedding is in the books, this time my friends Matt and Katie’s. This one was in Trumbull (or Monroe or wherever – one of those sleepy, quaint CT towns, where everyone is white and pretty and fit and wears Brooks Brothers or J. Crew or Abercrombie & Fitch and listens to Dave Matthews or Three Doors Down). And, sadly, I was kind of a pussy at this wedding.

Well, not entirely. Let me explain.

Like I wrote on Friday, this one had an afternoon reception. I was interested to see how this would turn out: would the drinking stop when the open bar closed at 5:30? Or would it continue until my heart stopped beating? How late would I stay out? How many appetizers would I be able to eat before throwing up? Would I be able to pocket any of said appetizers for private after-hours consumption in my hotel room? Which bridesmaid and/or groomsman would I try to seduce? You get it.

The church ceremony was at 11am, and it was lovely. One thing that pisses me off about the church part of the wedding is the whole communion bit (indulge me here). Not all of my friends are Catholic, and those who are Catholic are not very good Catholics. Still, these people go up to receive communion at the mass because they don’t want to be the only one left behind sitting in the pew, looking like some terrible sinner who hates god and regularly burns down churches and has same-sex love on the weekends.

I am a terrible Catholic. God and I are not on speaking terms right now, for reasons I don’t want to get into at this juncture. While walking into the church and noticing a huge baptismal font, my buddy Joe said, “Hey Jay – do you think if you touched that holy water it would singe the skin of your fingertip?” I touched it, and, wouldn’t you know it, it did.

According to the Catholic faith (and, admittedly, despite 18 years of Catholic education, this may be wrong), one cannot receive communion if one has a mortal sin on one’s soul (I really should have used the second person “you” in this sentence instead of “one”). Mortal sins include but are not limited to: murder, passing bad checks, missing Church on Sunday, arson, having sex out of marriage – you know, shit I do on a fairly regular basis (well, except that last one).

(I’m feeling very parenthetical today apparently)

So therefore I do not receive communion while at wedding masses. I’d rather be a bad Catholic than a hypocrite, so I’m the only one left in the pew at weddings while all my Catholic and non-Catholic friends go up to receive the body of Christ. I don’t think I really have a point to this (am I trying to stress that I am strong in my convictions? do I want to impress you with this? am I trying to attack my friends who receive the communion? why is relish so fucking perfect on hot dogs?), but I thought it was something worth mentioning.

Back to the wedding. The reception was a blast. I started with beer, but it wasn’t sitting right, since I was a little hungover from the night before and it was still only 12:30 in the afternoon. So I went with my old stand-by: vodka cranberry.

Four hours and more than a few vodka-crans later, I was in the middle of the circle on the dance floor ripping through my repertoire of dances: the Sprinkler, the Cabbage Patch, and the Running Man, but also some Jason Mulgrew originals: the Cement Mixer, the Flamingo, and My Baby’s Crying. Also, I’m pretty sure the bride and groom’s families know me now as “Matt’s gay friend”, because I was doing the dance where you mime lassoing someone, pull them close to you and then dance all up on them. I could have chose anyone to do this to: perhaps the bride, who I know well, or a bridesmaid, many of whom I know well, or any of the countless women on the dance floor. Instead, of course, I chose the groom. Not a good choice. And yes, there is a video. And yes, I will do everything within the realm of the power bestowed on me by being an internet quasi-celebrity to make sure this video never sees the light of day.

The good news is that I discovered a pretty funny thing to say to people when you’re playing the catch-up game (“Where are you now? What are you doing?”). Matt (the groom) was one of my best friends in college, but he wasn’t in the core circle of my friends. See, unlike most of my friends, Matt’s a nice guy: he doesn’t get shit-housed because it’s Tuesday afternoon and he doesn’t have anything else to do, he doesn’t spend most of his time writing anonymous hate letters to the bitch at Who’s who spent all night dancing with him but left as soon as the lights came on, he doesn’t grow marijuana plants in his closet, etc. So Matt and I maintained a friendship that existed outside of both our “inner circles” of friends.

The result is that there were a lot of people at the wedding from his circle who I kinda knew and had met maybe once or twice before, but didn’t really know. So I had fun conversations like:

Person I don’t really know: “So how have you been? I haven’t seen you in forever!”
Me: [sighing] “Well, good, you know. I don’t know how much you heard, but it was a little rough there for a while. But I’m clean now, and have been for over a year.”
Person: [awkward] “Oh, well that’s great. Great.”
Me: “Yeah, you know what they say – ‘one day at a time.’ So, we’ll see.”
Person: [still awkward] “Well, I’m gonna run, but it was nice to see you.”

When the reception ended at 5:30, everyone boarded the bus to head back to the hotel for drinks at the hotel bar. Within minutes of sitting down, I, along with at least half of the passengers/guests, feel asleep. I don’t know how long we were in the bus for, but when we got back to the hotel my plan was to change and then head down to the hotel bar. I went up to my room, sat on my bed, and then passed out. Hard.

When I woke up, it was 10:11. I figured I would order a pizza, eat to recharge, and get ready and head out. The pizza took almost an hour to arrive, and by the time I had finished eating it (the whole fucking thing), it was almost 11:30. So I finished up some wine I was drinking, and passed out again. Hard.

(Lame, I know. I am still upset with myself, but it’s very hard to stop a drunk, overweight person from falling asleep if they are so inclined.)

Still, it was a hell of a time. Anytime you mix free booze, old friends, and a celebration of love, you can’t go wrong. Unless my Uncle Teddy is there and he’s all coked up. Because then it can get ugly. Fast.

But fortunately, my Uncle Teddy was not invited. And fortunately, though they’ve been fun, I won’t be going to a wedding for a long time (unless any of you invite me to one). I’m looking forward to getting back to my roots and spending all of next weekend in NYC, dropping $6 for each beer or vodka tonic I drink, ordering a $15 burrito for dinner, and generally rabble-rousing. Perhaps I may even go to a museum, or do something cultural. Or perhaps I will take in one of the various shows that this great city has to offer. Or perhaps I’ll get drunk and pass out in the shower. Probably that last one, but you never know.

I’m leaving work in less than an hour to head to CT for my second wedding in as many weekends.

To be honest, I don’t know if I can do it again. The thing is, this one is an afternoon reception, rather than an evening one. That can portend good news, as that should mean that I should stop drinking when the open bar closes at 5pm or 6pm or whenever.

Or, that could be really bad news, as I could continue drinking after the open bar closes, perhaps several hours after the open bar closes, until I wake up on some random road in rural CT with a package of uncooked, half-eaten hot dogs crushed my half-naked body and a sleeping hitchhiker lying next to me, sharing with me a knapsack full of Bibles and used-up batteries for a pillow.

But we’ll see.

[Have a lovely weekend]

A couple of things leftover from the election:

- I want to stress to my international readers (how fucking cool am I?) who have been inundating my mailbox with missives with topics ranging from “You guys are fucked” to “I’m so sorry for you” to “Check out my boobs!” to “You guys are idiots” that many Americans are not idiots. We are good people, we are smart people. Many of us understand your feelings about the US and agree with them.

But the fact is that we got beat, plain and simple. The Other America spoke a little louder, and thems the breaks. But please know that many Americans are right with you, and this election was not representative of the views of all Americans (this should be fairly obvious with 48% of the vote going to John Kerry, but still I wanted to clarify).

For you Canadians, reader LL in Georgia (who proves that yes, liberals do live in Georgia) sent this to me. So get ready, because I am not going to live in Jesusland (there are just no decent strip clubs).

Also, for the record, according to site counter statistics, I have three times as many readers in Singapore than I do in the whole Rocky Mountain time zone in the US. What gives here? Is the Rocky Mountain time zone against me, or am I just a demi-god in Singapore? Please explain.

- One of my friends, a Bush supporter, said he voted for GW because of Iraq. His logic was that though GW got us into the mess in Iraq, he’d rather see what GW can do in the next term than hand the mess over to Kerry, who doesn’t seem to have a concrete plan.

Let’s say I’m a shareholder in a Company X. Let’s say the CEO of Company X, with a small group of lackeys, has decided it would be in the best interest of the company and the market as a whole to take over Company Y. The CEO believes in this so much he does so without getting permission of the Board of Trustees of Company X.

So Company X takes over Company Y without permission of the Board and uh oh – it doesn’t work so well. Company X starts losing money, as it diverts more and more funds to Company Y. The employees are Company Y are pissed at the new management of Company X, and start impeding efforts at integration and, uh, start chopping off people’s heads. And the market as a whole gets jittery because of this uncertainty with such big, powerful companies.

So now we have a CEO who has pissed off the Board of Directors, is losing his company money and hurting its reputation, and has fucked up the whole market.

As a shareholder, would you vote to leave this CEO in, watching passively as he runs the company into the ground by ruining his credibility, damaging the company’s reputation and ultimately losing you money? Or would you rather have another high-ranking executive in the company take over to try to right the ship?

Hell, it’s all moot now…

- One last unforeseen terrible result of this election: more Will Forte as George Bush on “Saturday Night Live”. He and Seth Myers as John Kerry have got to be the WORST presidential impersonators in that show’s history. My roommate Ben walked into the living room the other night when SNL’s “Presidential Bash” was on TV, saw Will Forte playing George Bush in a debate, and after watching for a good thirty seconds said, “Wait a minute – is he supposed to be George Bush?”

I think I’m going to have to brush up on my Bush impression and use it as my in to get on SNL. Also, I’ll have to lose 80 pounds, but that’s no problem – bring on the cocaine!

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Earlier this week, I got the results of my midterm back. I got a (drumroll please)…B.

B is ok. I was actually thinking I’d get a B-, which is the standard grade for, “Well, you don’t really know anything about the material, but at least it doesn’t look too obvious and you write reasonably well.” So I’ll take the B.

What’s weird is that there were two questions on the test for which we had to write essays for, and both our answers received a grade. After taking the test, I thought I had completely bombed one, but aced the other.

The first question, based on the readings which I didn’t do, was something like, “What does Professor Billington say about the icon and the axe and the bell and the cannon in Russian history?” I had absolutely no clue on this one. I think I started it by writing something like, “Professor Billington is a wise man, who knows much about Russian history, particularly about the importance of the icon and the axe and the bell and the cannon and its place in said history.” I then wrote at length about the icon (“beautifully crafted, psychologically important”), the axe (“both weapon and tool”), the bell (“wrung during the good and the bad times”), and the cannon (“a weapon, but so much more – a symbol of Russian might”).

I think I got tired of the sound of my own bullshit halfway through and wrote out the lyrics to R. Kelly’s “You Remind Me Of Something” (It’s something about your love that’s got me going crazy/Baby, you know I want you real bad/And girl I really like your freaky style/How can I be down with you?).

The second question, based on the lectures, was something about Muscovite princes (I’ve already forgotten), I aced. I even threw in dates and a Russian word or two. So nerdy. So, so nerdy.

Grade for first question: B. Grade for second question: B.

Oh well.

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A few friends and I saw Ray Lamontagne last night in the make-up show for a date he missed back in September.

This guy is really, really good. I’ve pimped him a million times here, and if you haven’t downloaded any of his stuff, do so now. He was joined by a stand-up bass player, but for the most part, it was just he and his guitar up there, going off. I thought about why I think he’s so good, and I think it’s because his songs are so simple that anyone can relate to them.

Ok, that’s the worst explanation ever – let me try again.

For me, Ray Lamontagne is to music what Charles Bukowski is to literature. Both are bare-bones, and don’t come at you with big words or complex sentences, or sweeping orchestral arrangements or noisy feedback. At the same time, both are deeply emotional and genuine. But what’s more, both, after reading or hearing them, inspire a sort of visceral, dichotomous reaction: something like, “Man, why didn’t I think of that? It’s so simple” and “Well, it’s because I’m not nearly as talented as they are express certain feelings in such astute, poignant, and simple ways.”

…

I just read that over, and we REALLY have to move on here, because I’m nearly completely incoherent.

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This Terrell Owens-Ray Lewis feud is really hilarious to me. The long and short of it: TO was traded to Lewis’s team, the Ravens, in the offseason. TO made a stink, got the trade rescinded, and now is playing extremely well with the Philadelphia Eagles. This past weekend in the Eagles’ victory over the Ravens, TO did a dance imitating the one Lewis does during games and when he’s introduced. Lewis and other Ravens were not happy.

TO has always been vilified for this celebrations, and, to an extent I agree with this. Celebrations are ok, but sometimes they are just a little too much.

Below is part of an article from www.philly.com, in which TO answers those who criticize him for celebrating. Some background: in 2001, Ray Lewis pleaded guilty to misdemeanor obstruction of justice charge and agreed to testify against two of his friends after a double-murder at an Atlanta-area nightclub in January 2000. Somehow, despite his involvement in a double murder, Ray Lewis is the face of the NFL. Read below (Terrell Owens is speaking)…

“I’ve never had any off-field problems. I’ve wanted to say it for a long time, but since Joey [Porter, Steelers' LB who expressed support for TO in his celebrations and was first to bring up that Lewis was involved in a murder but is incredibly popular] put it out there, you have a guy like Ray Lewis, who I thought was pretty much my friend. This is a guy, double-murder case, and he could have been in jail, but it seems like the league embraces a guy like that. I’m going out scoring touchdowns and having fun, but I’m the bad guy. So I don’t understand it, I really don’t.

“I listen to ESPN and all the guys that report on there, it’s really funny…I just take it with a grain of salt and I keep ticking. I know they’re looking for me to do something [off the field] or something to come up, but it’s not going to happen.”

In an instance of art imitating life, or something like that, Owens’ words quickly made it to ESPN yesterday evening, with a panel of analysts that included ex-Eagle Mike Golic expressing sympathy for Lewis and condemning Owens for bringing up the murder business. ESPN also read a statement from the Ravens, who thought they’d traded for Owens’ rights last March, then were forced to accept a fifth-round draft choice instead when the NFL brokered a trade to the Eagles. “Like the rest of the NFL community, we would expect nothing less from Terrell Owens,” the statement said.

Then, on ESPN’s “Pardon the Interruption,” Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon found rare agreement, bashing Owens for bringing up Lewis’ brush with the law.

I have to say that I whole-heartedly agree with TO on this one. The fact is that Ray Lewis was somehow, in a strange way, tied up in a double homicide. Yet the league has made him their poster boy and NEVER mentions this. Can you imagine if your friends killed two people, you obstructed justice, later pleaded guilty to obstructing justice, then testified against your friends, and EVERYONE at your place of employment knew about it? Do you think your boss would come into your office and say, “You know what? We’re going to start featuring you in a lot more advertisements and hype about this company. I was want everyone to know that you, someone whose name is associated with the killing of two people, are associated with us, your employer. This is a tremendous idea.”

I don’t think so.

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- Six Songs

1) “Kiss Me Like You Mean It” The Magnetic Fields
Any song that’s about making out with the Lord, even if they’re not really talking about the Lord, well, I’m all for it. Even if you don’t like music at all and prefer total and complete silence, download this song.

2) “What About Now?” Lonestar
Ah, country music. This song is one of my favorite country songs. Whenever I hear it, I just wanna grab my gal (whose wearing pig-tails and Daisy Dukes of course), hop in a pick-up truck with her, throw a shotgun and a ton of chewing tobacco in the back, and just drive across this great land we call the U-S-A, stopping intermittently to have sex in fields, drink some whiskey and do some line dancing, pray, and shoot the occasional black, homosexual, or pro-choicer. God bless America.

[And no, I'm not still bitter about this election. Nor am I currently starting a petition which calls for the Northeast, the West Coast, Chicago and anyone cool who reads this site to secede from the US.]

3) “Raspberry Beret” Prince
Yeah, I know, everyone knows this song. But seriously, this has got to be, what, one of the top seven or eight songs of all-time? Do you think Prince wrote this and said to himself, “Oh yeah – I’m pretty fucking awesome. Now I’m going to spend the rest of my life being androgynous and really fucking weird.”

4) “Kathleen” Josh Ritter
This song reminds me of those late-high school suburban parties where all the guys are standing around, drinking keg beer out of plastic solo cups, talking about the girls at the party, but one girl there is just heads and shoulders above the rest. That’s what this song reminds me of. Not that I went to those parties in high school, as I spent most of high school gang-banging and in and out of youth detention centers.

[Also, it reminds me of a girl that I have a HUGE crush on right now. The good news is that I'm pretty sure she doesn't read this site. If she does, well, I should just head back to the "Erotic" section of Craigslist.

5) "Strange Currencies" REM
My favorite REM song (very underrated - the song, not the band). That's really all I can say. Except: Michael Stipe came out of the closet in 2001? How did I miss this? Why did I not learn this until two weeks ago?

6) "I Was Just Thinking" Teitur
This guy opened for Ray Lamontagne last night. He had me when he said, "This next song is ten years old, and I'm 19. [pause] Actually, I’m 27.” This is the song. I like him because he’s from the Faroe Islands, and I just love all things Scandinavian. Well, not the food. Or the weather. Or really anything except the women. Definitely love the women.

This is terrible. Absolutely terrible. I was going to abstain from posting today, but as the voice of a generation of misfits, slackers, the unemployed, and the overweight, I felt the need to speak up.

Although not official, both I and John Kerry have conceded and it looks 99.99% sure that George W. Bush will be President of the United States for another four years. Good god.

I have gotten a number of emails from friends and readers expressing disgust, sadness, and rage at the results of the election. Also, one of you sent me a picture of your balls. Not cool. Not cool at all.

I wanted to let you know that I too feel your pain (except in the case of the guy who sent me the pic of his balls – he looks like he’s doing just fine, as they are the size of medium-oranges).

The only way I can explain it is that I feel like I just got dumped. I couldn’t sleep last night, tossing and turning fitfully in my bed that is starting to smell more and more like cat piss each day. I was up at 5am, restlessly stalking about my apartment, searching for who knows what. And now I’m a total zombie at work, staring listlessly at my computer screen, avoiding all social interaction and professional responsibility – voglio stare solo.

But in a way this is worse than being dumped. If you get dumped, your buddies can take you out, get you all liquored up, and point you in the direction of some massive 300 pounder with a moustache that you can take home and manhandle with reckless and drunken abandon. But with the election, I realize that for the next four years, four years that may be the most important of my life as I am faced with the prospect of becoming serious about my career (ha!), getting married (highly unlikely), starting a family (not intentionally), and becoming a real-life adult, I will have no respect either for the intelligence nor the leadership abilities of my President. Not only that, but now I have serious questions about the citizenry of the United States, as I am unable to grasp how almost 60 million Americans could have voted for this man and his policies.

The good news is that as a man without much feeling, compassion, or emotion, I was able to get over this whole thing pretty quickly, having experienced the textbook “Five Stages of Loss” all today in about five hours. I will now share my experience.

The First Stage: Denial
This can’t be. It just can’t be. George W. Bush, getting re-elected? How can anyone elect a President who has essentially done everything wrong? He’s conservative to the point of Fascism. His positions regarding the rights of homosexuals would make any decent human being cringe. His impetuous and thoughtless foreign policy has squandered nearly all of the universal support the US had post-9/11. His unilateral and unprovoked attack on Iraq has costs thousands of American lives, ten of thousands of Iraqi civilian lives, and turned Iraq into the biggest and bestest breeding ground for terrorists, and has no end in sight. He has lost a budget surplus and has straddled the country with a giant deficit. His record on terrorism, which he counts among his strong points, always neglects to mention that the greatest terrorist attack in American history took place on his watch.

C’mon – it’s like me winning the Mr. Universe pageant or being named “Father of the Year”. No way it happens. GW can’t be re-elected.

The Second Stage: Bargaining
Look God, don’t fuck me on this. I know You and I have never exactly seen eye to eye, but I’m calling in a favor, and I know You owe me one (lest we forget a little incident in Grand Junction, Colorado in 1995). Here’s the deal: You make sure Kerry gets in, and I’ll never have sex again. Sure, it’s true that I probably wasn’t going to have sex again anyway, but you know how important this is to me.

Also, I’ll like donate to a Church or whatever. But I need this. Don’t let Bush get re-elected. Seriously.

The Third Stage: Anger
Can someone please tell me who the hell is living in my country? Or at least what the hell are they thinking? I overheard a talking head on CNN this morning say something to the effect that Karl Rove was aware of the massive registration of young voters who registered this time around expressly to vote for John Kerry, but he was unconcerned because he believed (apparently, correctly) that many evangelical Christians who didn’t vote last time would come out to vote for Bush.

Evangelical Christians have canceled out the votes of young Americans. That sentence is so fills me with such sadness and disappointment that I want to crawl under my desk and die.

But we (meaning intelligent, fair-minded, civilized, mostly good-looking liberals) got fucked by a bunch of Bible-thumping, gun-toting, gay-hating rednecks. And not just in the presidential election, but in a majority of elections. There are two Americas that are fundamentally opposed to each other. This is at the same time infuriating and terrifying.

I’ll tell you what: the Republicans crushed the Democrats in the election, now I’m going to crush the Republicans in real life. You heard me bitches – I’ve got my hooded sweatshirt on, I’m blasting “Eye of the Tiger” from my work computer, and I am ready to GO mother fuckers! Bring that shit to me! You don’t know where I’m from bitch! I will take you OUT! What, Bitch?!? What?!?

The Fourth Stage: Despair
Damn it all to hell. We’re fucked. Four more years of Bush. Four years from now, the war in Iraq will be exactly in the same place it is now. There will be an Inquisition by the religious right against homosexuals. I will have lost my job and will be sucking dick for cheeseburgers (rather than on dares or whenever I have some free time).

This is partially my fault. As an internet quasi-celebrity with a readership of over 14 people a day, I could have and should have done more. I could have reached out to more people, talked to them about politics, stuck my hand up their shirt. But I did none of this. Especially, sadly, that last one.

I am tired, miserable. I don’t want to do anything except sleep. I can’t even eat (ok, well, I can still eat).

The Fifth Stage: Acceptance
So…I’m moving out of the country. Three questions: who’s coming with me, where are we going, and what are we going to wear?

[For further reading, please check out a piece that my good friend Don Fiedler over at SlackLaLane wrote about the current situation in Iraq about Iraq being even more a breeding ground for terrorists because of GW Bush. My favorite part:

Iraq is now like the NFL's pre-draft scouting combine in Indianapolis, only, you know, with a lot more camels and amputees. I can imagine Al-Zarqawi poking and prodding future terrorists, saying things like, "He's a keeper" or "I'm willing to take a chance on this one despite his inexperience with ricin. He's just raw talent."

He and Ace Cowboy are doing some excellent work over there, and I don't know why you guys aren't reading them (actually, I have no idea whether or not you are, but whatever).

Also, you should read Nicholas Kristof's latest piece in the New York Times. My buddy Conor and I were talking about this on the ride home from the wedding this weekend but Kristof tackles it much more eloquently and he's probably not covered in Fig Newton crumbs as he does so. Of course, his sentiments are not true enough to stop me from saying "Bible-thumping, gun-toting, gay-hating rednecks" but whatever.]

…if Bush wins, there will not be a post tomorrow (Wednesday). It will be a not-so-good day for me.

Good lord, this is stressful. My hair is falling out in clumps. My hands are shaking as I type this. I am completely and totally impotent (well, that’s not a new development).

That’s all for now – I have to get back to staring blankly at the news, rocking back and forth on my couch, and eating TONS of potato chips and Gatorade.

Here are my thoughts about the election and the campaign process (and I know I’m going to oversimplify here, but just shut the fuck up for one goddamn second).

I’m a bottom-line kinda guy, and the way I understand it is that the goal of running in a presidential election is to win. And how to win is to get at least 270 electoral votes. And sure, maybe I have been with a prostitute. I don’t know what that has to do with anything, but I thought I’d put it out there.

California has 55 electoral votes. Texas, New York, Florida, Pennsylvania, Illinois, Ohio have 34, 31, 27, 21, 21, and 20, respectively. That’s 209 in only seven states. Georgia, North Carolina, and New Jersey bring 15 each, so we’re up to 254 in just ten states. Winning ten states out of 50 (20%) will put you on the doorstep of the presidency.

So here’s my point: after I become famous; nurture, battle, and defeat a massive vodka/quaaludes addiction; get married and divorced four times; gain 200 pounds; nurture, battle, and succumb to a massive cocaine/mozzarella sticks addiction; get brought back to life by a faith-healer; become a born-again Christian; go to law school; become a champion for the rights of retards and minorities everywhere; and run for president on the Democratic ticket in 2020, I’m going to issue a letter:

To all citizens of states with less than eight electoral votes,

Listen, it’s nothing personal, but – and there’s really no easy way to say this so I’m just going to blurt it out – I’m not going to even try with you guys.

Don’t get me wrong; I’d still appreciate your vote. If you pledge your support to me, I promise to keep American safe from Mongol invasion, get our country back on track toward fiscal solvency and away from reliance on foreigners and whatever the hell they’re selling (since they are terrifying), and you know, all that other good stuff I’ve recently talked about that now escapes me. But I’m not going to work for your vote at all. Like, not at all.

I promise that if your state has less than eight electoral votes, you will not see me kissing any babies in your hometown. I will not speak to you at rallies about the evils of the Republican party. I will not even mention you to any of my staff, the media, or my friends and family. For all intents and purposes, you will be dead to me.

But I ask you, what would you do if you were me? Utah, Idaho, Wyoming, The Dakotas, Nebraska, Kansas, Oklahoma, Alaska – you’ve gone Republican in every election from 1972-2000, and you’re only worth a combined 37 electoral votes. 37! And you guys are huge! Do you expect me to really traverse all over your gigantic states, spending a lot of time and money to build support for my candidacy when a) I know there’s no way I’m going to get it; and b) it’s only 37 votes anyway? I think my time and campaign money would be much better spent in other ways, and, contrary to what my opponent charges, I’m not talking about by funding the design and construction of the world’s biggest dildo or spending $900 a week on gourmet General Tso’s chicken.

We here in the Jason Mulgrew for President “2020 Muthas!” Campaign have promised to work to improve the lives of Americans all over the country. Our plans for greater funding for public schools, tax-breaks for middle-income families, and more affordable healthcare for all will positively benefit all Americans, regardless of whether you live in a loft in Soho and paint for a living or you dwell on some godforsaken desolate farm in the middle of nowhere and shoot stray cats for fun.

But after seriously thinking it over, campaigning in states with less than eight electoral votes is just not practical. I hope you understand that I’m not trying to hurt your feelings when I say this. I believe it was Kenny Rogers who sang, “Sometimes when you say something/It stings me deep in my heart/Now take off your clothes baby girl/So the freaky lovin’ can start.”

[Actually, I made up that Kenny Rogers line - but that's not important.]

In closing, I want to say that I love you all. May God, in His Most Holy and Infinite Wisdom, continue to bless you, your families, and your pets (unless your pets are evil). And I encourage you this November to get out and vote. Whether or not you vote for me, well, I don’t really care.

Love, peace, and dancing in the glow of Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit and Their Friends,
I am,
Jason MJPAE Mulgrew, AB, MA, JD, DDS

I would win in a landslide. You guys would vote for me, right?

Please vote today. Please, for the love of god – vote today. I don’t want to get all serious on you like before, but just vote. Seriously. There’s no excuse not to. This is very, very important. To find your polling place, go to www.mypollingplace.com.

I’ll write more later, but seriously – don’t fuck me on this. Vote. Or I will light your house on fire.

And if you really want to be my friend, you’ll vote for John Kerry. If you vote for (I can barely write this) George W. Bush, we can still be friends, but we’re definitely not going to sleep together.

Well, I’d probably still sleep with you. But I’d make sure to do an especially terrible job of it.

[Also, I love Hunter Thompson]

What a weekend. What a wedding. What an awesome time.

My old college roommate Mike married his long-time girlfriend Lee on Saturday in Rhode Island, and it was a blast. Everyone stayed in Newport, which is a lovely little town, and the wedding and reception were nearby.

And boy, did they do it right. Gorgeous wedding. Seven-hour open bar at the reception (yes, seven). Terrific band. Breathtaking appetizers. Dynamite dinner. Just absolutely fucking spectacular.

After a five-hour drive, my buddy Conor and I arrived in Newport at 10pm on Friday night. The drinking started immediately, and save for the two hours or so around the actually ceremony/mass, didn’t stop until well into Saturday night.

Since way too much crap happened for me to write any sort of coherent prose-style entry, we’ll break it down in bullets:

- First, a food note (shocking I’d start off talking about food, right?): I think I love seafood. I used to actively dislike it, save for the occasional crab cake and tuna sandwich. But after the wedding, which had awesome lobster cakes and bacon-wrapped scallops (!) as appetizers and a surf and turf dinner, well, I think I might just like seafood. This is a major development, because this opens an entirely new genre (genre?) of food for me. Which is great, because exactly what I need is more food to like and eat. Sweet.

- In other food-related news, on Friday night on the drive up I didn’t eat dinner and had only a Snickers bar, and went out boozing on an empty stomach. The result was a 1:30 in the morning Domino’s pizza gorge-fest that was pretty wonderful and featured conversations like:

My buddy Joe: [shoving pizza into his mouth] “Man, this pizza is really hot.”
Me: [also shoving pizza in mouth] “Yes, I think my mouth is bleeding.”
Joe: “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I taste blood. It’s good pizza though.”
Me: [grabbing another steaming slice] “Hell yeah it is.”

Three days later the roof of my mouth is still scalded. Such a fat drunk.

- Having this website has changed things socially for me in two ways. The first is that for those who read the site it makes my end of the “I haven’t seen you in a while – what have you been up to?” conversation obsolete. I saw a couple of old college friends I hadn’t seen in some time at the wedding who happen to read this site, and when asked that question, I began to go into detail only to have them say, “Yeah, I read about it” to most of the things I mentioned.

This is good and bad. Good because it saves me from giving the stock answers (“I live in New York”, “I do marketing/pr/financial research for a law firm”, “I hate myself”, “I haven’t been with a woman in so long that I’m questioning my sexuality – I’ve been trolling a lot of rest stops recently and one day I’m going to get up the courage to just go through with it”, etc).

But it’s also bad because then I can’t talk about myself (which I love doing), and have to listen to the other person talk about themselves (which I am loathe to do). The result is I’m trapped in a one-sided conversation with someone going on and on about the private equity landscape in the mid-West and talking about their significant other while I slowly undress the nearest female with my eyes, all slow and sexy like, with “Set The Night To Music” playing in my head.

[God I hate people.]

The second way it’s changed things is that everyone wants to “get in the blog”. This is very weird to me, especially since my close guy friends say it all the time: “Dude, we’ll give you something to write about” or “You’re gonna have the best story ever for your site” or “You have got to stop masturbating in the shower so loudly”. And invariably, the same people who say this wind up getting way too drunk way too early and passing out four hours before everyone else. So please, save it. Besides, there are about ten people (and four of them are me) who read this crap anyway.

- Liz Hasselbeck (nee Filarski), former star of “Survivor” and current co-host of “The View” (not that, um, I watch that or anything) was at the wedding. She went to BC and is a friend of the bride’s. And, oh yeah, she’s pretty hot. Her presence (and hotness) lead to a lot of conversations between my friends and I like:

My buddy Gary: “Liz Filarski is so overrated.”
Me: “Totally.”
My buddy Bill: “I mean, look at her – I can’t believe she left the house like that.”
My buddy Joe: “So, so gross. There are at least 20 guys here that I’d do before I’d do her, including the five of you.”
Me: “She is really tough on the eyes. I feel bad for her, and her husband must be ashamed.”
All: “Yes.”
My buddy Kevin: “Wait, what did Joe say about doing us?”
Me: “I don’t know, but his drinks are on me tonight.”

- Mike’s brother gave an awesome best man speech that left everyone at our table a little misty-eyed. One of those situations where a bunch of dudes are standing around, getting a little emotional, but squirming and looking away so as to not let their buddies notice and failing miserably. There were also a couple of funny one-liners in the speech, which I will shamelessly steal and incorporate into my own best man speech, which has been written for about eight years now, and will ultimately not only change the way the best man is perceived, but also may single-handedly win the war on terrorism. I’m serious – it’s that good.

- Actual conversation between my friend Mark and I during the mass, just after the First Reading:

Mark: [leaning over, whispering] “Dude, you smell like booze and sweat.”
Me: [not hearing] “You smell like booze and sweat?”
Mark: [clarifying] “No, you smell like booze and sweat.”
Me: [sniffing self] “Well, you’re right. And it’s only gonna get worse.”
Mark: “Awesome.”

- Number of…

Times Conor and I got lost on the way to Newport: 3

Minutes this added to the trip: 45

Hours it took to get from Columbia University to the other side of the Triboro Bridge: 2

Distance in miles from Columbia to the other side of the Triboro Bridge: 8

Average speed in miles per hour of this leg of the trip: 4

Minutes in hotel room before toilet was clogged and not functional for remainder of weekend: 14

Calls to hotel staff to alleviate problem in order to not have to pee in shower or poop in Kevin and Gary’s room: 0

Times I was asked, “Are you gonna shave that beard before the wedding?”: 3

Times I responded, “Show of hands – who here is the boss of me?”: 3

Times I got just a little bit choked up during the wedding and reception: 2.5

Dollars spent at open bar where drinks were free, meaning we didn’t have to pay: 45 (presumably on tips, but in the state I was in I could have eaten the money or shoved it in my own ass and I wouldn’t have known the difference)

Mysterious cuts and bruises on hands and body, most likely received while too under the influence of alcohol to notice pain: 4

Hours it took to get back to NYC on Sunday: 3.25

Hours on the ride back I was asleep because I was too hungover to see: 2.5

Fig Newtons consumed while conscious in the car ride: approximately 30

Fig Newtons consumed while unconscious in the car ride: 12

[Fig Newtons are really fucking good.]

Four quick notes about Halloween:

1) As I mentioned, I was out of NYC this weekend for a wedding in Rhode Island (more on this later). I was only in Penn Station for about 15 minutes yesterday, and I saw more than my fair share of slutty costumes. My personal favorites is the Slutty Cat. The Slutty Witch is too scary, the Slutty Devil scares the Catholic side of me, but the Slutty Cat is just right. It’s kind of ironic that I like the Slutty Cat, since I am deathly allergic to cats, but I digress…

2) Guys (used in the non-gender-neutral way to mean “those with penises and testes), it is NEVER ok to dress like a woman for Halloween. This is not cool. I have never thought to myself, “You know what? I know I could there are about a million different costumes I could wear on Halloween, but I’m gonna dress up as a woman. It’ll be awesome.” The only time a man should dress as a woman is if he loses some sort of bet. Otherwise, not cool. Please talk to someone about this.

3) I heard that a popular costume this year was Borat from “Da Ali G Show.” Awesome.

4) If I were black, every year my Halloween costume would be prefaced with the word “black”. For example:

[dressed as ninja]
Friend: “What are you supposed to be?”
Black Me: “A black ninja.”

or

[dressed as vampire]
Friend: “So what are you?”
Black Me: “I’m a black vampire.”

I know a lot of you are probably reading this thinking, “That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard in my life.” But I’ve been cracking myself up non-stop about this since yesterday.

Maybe this is why I have like three black friends.

*******************************************

Some notes about the NFL:

- Philadelphia Eagles: 7-0, the only undefeated team in the NFL. Guys, do NOT fuck me on this. I don’t know if I can take another major disappointment at the end of the season. Seriously, I’ve talked to my doctor about this and he doesn’t think I’ll make it through. So don’t fuck me on this (beating a Ravens team without Jonathan Ogden, Jamal Lewis, and Todd Heap 15-10 does not have me feeling very safe).

- Can someone please explain to me what’s happening in the AFC South? Please?

- The Giants are good? Really? They’re still the most boring team to watch in all of football.

- Ken Dorsey may be the worst NFL quarterback I have ever seen. Yes, he’s young, but that game last night against the Bears was brutal. I feel terrible for 49ers fans. Just terrible.

- I don’t know if you guys heard, but the Patriots winning streak was snapped. Allow me to join in the chorus when I say, “Who gives a shit?”

- Speaking of, it’s going to be very difficult to watch (well, read about in real-time on the Internet and get updates from my dad about) Duce Staley going off for about 140 yards rushing against the Eagles in next week’s 24-16 Steelers’ win.

I love Halloween. I don’t really know why, since I’m such a pussy when it comes to scary things. One of my oldest and worst memories is from when I was in first grade and my class decided to participate in a school-wide talent show. For the show, we were to dress up as zombies and do some choreographed dance to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” “Thriller” was huge at the time, but being a total pansy, I avoided watching that damn video like I avoid trolling internet chatrooms to arrange for random sexual encounters (wait – that comparison really doesn’t work). However, when we were preparing for the talent show, the class had to watch the video. My friends picked up on my nervousness about having to see such a horrifying video, and broke my balls endlessly (back then, we would have said “teased”, since I don’t think I knew what balls were then; I don’t even know if they had descended by that point). Finally, when the video was about to start, I acted like a tough guy and watched the whole thing. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since. That werewolf transformation seriously fucked up my shit for a long time.

But I love Halloween. It’s the one night a year that you can dress up like an idiot and get away with it. For example, a few years ago, I went out as Eddie Murphy. A few hours and a handful of barbiturates later, I was stopped by the cops for soliciting a beejer from a transvestite named Sugarbush. When I explained to the cops that it was all part of my Eddie Murphy costume and Sugarbush was in on it, we all had a good laugh and the cops left. Then I got the teethiest blow job I’ve ever had in my life. I think you can still make out a nice little mark left by Sugarbush’s top left incisor on my bird. Definitely not worth the $6, two cans of Coors Light, and half an Italian hoagie.

But anyway, Halloween is good for two things:

1) Slutty women. I don’t know when the phenomenon of women using Halloween as an excuse to dress like depraved skanks happened, but I think the gods that it is so. From what I remember, even as late as high school, girls had nice, normal costumes: cat, witch, devil, etc. Now, only ten or so years later, girls have much more complex costumes: slutty girl dressed as a cat whose cleavage is pouring out of her skin-tight costume, woman of ill-repute dressed as a witch who looks like she’ll blow anyone within a radius of ten-feet, whore wearing a devil costume who after you’ve had twelve beers actually appears to be asking to have sex in a bathroom, topless girl who simply no shirt on, etc.

And this is completely awesome. Halloween is the last glimpse of the power of women’s sartorial sexuality. You see ladies, men (and gay women) love the spring and summer, because you all wear less clothes. Those first days of spring are some of the best of the year for the men (and gay women), as you all shed the puffy jackets and overcoats in favor of low-cut shirts and skirts. It’s truly magical. All spring and summer we enjoy staring at your gorgeous bodies (except those belonging to fatties), taking in as much as possible because we know that the cyclical nature of the weather will soon deprive us of these beautiful views.

And Halloween is last bastion of gawking. We know that soon you’ll be all bundled up, but on Halloween you can wear that skimpy little leotard, paint whiskers on your face, and call yourself a Cat. Better yet, it’s totally ok for us to look and admire your awesome “costume”.

So fucking sweet.

2) Candy. Well, I think this pretty obvious. Candy is fucking awesome, except for that terrible Halloween candy corn, which tastes like ass and is on par with those terrible fluffy chicks that everyone eats around Easter. Gross.

Top Five Halloween candies:
1) Snickers
2) Reese’s Pieces
3) Anything with Caramel
4) Peanut M&M’s
5) Grolsch

**********************************

But, alas, I will not be going out this year for Halloween, as this weekend I am going to my old college roommate’s wedding in Rhode Island. I am ok with this, because weddings/open bars are awesome, but my roommate Brian is crushed. He’s not going to the wedding, and we had an awesome costume planned: Hall and Oates. That’s right; we were going to be the greatest musical duo of all-time that still has full use of their legs. This works well, because Brian kinda looks like Daryl Hall. Me…John Oates…not so much. But I could have gotten a gheri-curl afro wig and grown a little moustache. Crap.

So have a safe and Happy Halloween. And ladies, please wear something extra slutty. Really. Because it’s going to be a long, cold winter for those of us with penis (and gay vaginas). So help us out. Please.

My co-workers are really good people. They are very good at what they do, and very nice to me and understanding when I completely fuck up an assignment. And no, I’m not just saying this because any day now they’re going to find this site and it’s going to be VERY awkward and potentially fatal (for me, when I kill myself for losing my job).

I consider myself very lucky: I’m 25 years old, not a professional athlete, movie star, or rock star, and I really like my job. Sure, I’d rather sit at home all day, get paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to talk about how fat I am, and eat bowl after bowl of chili, get high and dance around to Wham in way-too-small boxer briefs, spend three hours a day masturbating in the shower, but hey – life isn’t perfect.

The problem is, like I’ve mentioned before, I’m the youngest by at least five years or so, and most of my co-workers are in their mid-thirties or older. This isn’t exactly a “problem” but it inhibits be from fully entering their circle. It also makes me a little nervous around them – since I can’t really talk about kids or mortgages or problems with my water heater, I keep to myself, lest one day I inappropriately mention something about how I got really fucked up two weeks ago and nearly drowned in the East River or about how messed up I got on pills last Christmas and after getting into a fist-fight with my brother, burned down our kitchen then wept for twenty-two hours straight.

What also makes me nervous around them is that they are a lot more qualified and educated than I am. There are six other people who do exactly what I do. One has an MBA from Cornell, two have PhD’s from Princeton, one has a JD from BC, another has an MA in International Studies from Johns Hopkins, and then there’s me: 25, a man lacking all all ambition who graduated college based solely on luck, charm, Sign Language, Theater, a number of Communications courses (zing!) and four History classes with a professor who was at least 320 years old and one time gave the same exact lecture every day for a week straight. Seriously, by the third semester with this guy, his arm could have fallen off in the middle of a lecture and I wouldn’t have batted an eyelash.

Where the hell am I going with this? This afternoon, I walked into my boss’s office to drop something off I had prepared for his review. As I was leaving, he said, “So how is your class going?” He’s a really cool guy, so I started to shoot the shit and told him that class was going well, that I had my mid-term recently, etc etc etc. He asked if it was a Russian history course, and I said yes. He then asked if I spoke Russian. I frantically tried to think of how to say, “I speak a little Russian” in Russian, even though that would be the ultimate douchebag thing to do, but I couldn’t come up with it, as I’ve learned that most of my Russian vocabulary is being gassed out of my brain thanks to my newly-found love of nitrous oxide.

Anyway, I said in English that I only speak a little Russian, and he said, “Well, you should talk to Jessica [a co-worker in a foreign office], because she has her Master’s in International Relations from Johns Hopkins and got it in Russian or Russian Studies.”

We both sort of chuckled, and I sensed an opportunity for a joke, so I said, “Yeah – [mimicking talking into phone] Hi Jessica, this is Jason. Can you tell me how to say the possessive plural for ‘boys’”?

Boys?

Boys?

I couldn’t have thought of a better fucking noun than boys? One that wouldn’t cast doubt on my sexuality in front of my superior, giving the impression that I spend hours each night in front of a computer screen, arousing myself into a vitriolic fit looking at naked pre-teen males? I mean, boys?

As soon as I said it, I realized that I had done something flamingly homosexual. Not only had a made a fake phone with my thumb and pinkie and held it to my ear in a jovial manner, but the first noun that came to my mind was “boys”. Sweet.

[Also, asking for the possessive plural of "boys", an already plural noun, is redundant. Correctly, I would have asked for the possessive plural of "boy". Just pointing this out because I know one of you assholes would email me about it.]

And I swear for a split-second I saw a look in my boss’s face that was said, “Boys? Jesus Christ – take your flame-thrower out my office before you light my desk on fire, nancy boy.” There was some awkward chuckling before I pulled a Lloyd Christmas and said, “Well…see you later!” and walked out of the room.

“Boys”. Terrible. Just terrible. I feel like I should walk back into his office and invite him to a strip club with me and my buddies. Or go in and say something like, “So, that Salma Hayek’s got some big-ass titties, eh? Man, I’d love to touch those gorgeous, giant breasts, being as I’m straight and all. I would even like to have sexual intercourse with her, preferably without a condom, since condoms are for pussies” as I take a giant swig of Bourbon and pat him on the back. Also I’m wearing a cowboy hat, but a straight-looking one.

Instead, I’ll just sit here in my office and sulk. What an asshole.

[Me, not my boss. My boss is great. Super great, if he's reading this.]

I still can’t believe it, but the Boston Red Sox are World Series Champions.

“The Boston Red Sox are World Series Champions.” My god. That’s like hearing, “Jason Mulgrew can walk up three flights of stairs without collapsing into a seizure” or “Jason Mulgrew has normal-sized genitalia and a very healthy heart that’s not 55% mozzarella and 20% Country Crock” or “Jason Mulgrew has had consensual sex with a conscious, non-deceased woman in the last twelve months”, except it’s actually true.

One message to New England sports fans: now shut the fuck up. I got tired of the Red Sox fans whining while the Pats were kicking ass, and now you’re the most dominant sports city (region) in the nation. So shut up. Philly – no championships since 1983. Boston – three in three years. So shut up. I’m happy for you, drink your champagne and enjoy yourselves, but shut up (and yes, maybe I’m a little bitter that I didn’t get a chance to go up to Boston to join in the revelry, but maybe I’m also bitter because I have chest pains constantly and could go at any day now having accomplished nothing save for a crappy website).

Two notes:

1) Was anyone else shocked to see that Jeannie Zelasko has a giant ass? Good lord! I guess all that sitting behind the desk speaking non-sensically about sports alongside Kevin Kennedy (who played Leo, the leader of the rival Scorpions in 1978 hit “Grease”) didn’t do much for her 34-24-44 figure. Don’t get me wrong – I’d still love to give that ass a work-out – but wow. Jeannie “They Call Her Crisco, Because She’s Fat In The Can” Zelasko. Got a nice ring to it.

2) Theo Epstein, the 30 year-old Yalie who is the general manager of the Red Sox, can pretty much sleep with anyone he wants within a 250-mile radius of Boston. I’m not limiting this to women; I’m sure there are a least two million or so male Red Sox fans who are willing to make love to Theo Epstein out of gratitude. He’s 30, and that’s his life. I’m 25, and I’m trying to get out of a work luncheon meeting so that I can go to the cafeteria because they have baked mac and cheese today.

Only five years to go to make a change…wish me luck.

And again, congratulations to Sox fans everywhere. I am quaking with jealousy. You bastards.

So my stupid fucking roommate Ben won $1000 this week.

See, my buddy Hal ran an NFL Survivor Pool. I don’t want to get too into details because, though not overly complicated, I happen to be overly lazy, but at any rate fifty people put in $20 each, and Ben won the pot.

$1000. I could not think of a person who deserves it less. Not because he has money, but just because it should have been me. Especially because of the way Ben’s going to spend it. When I asked him what he’d do with his $1000, he said, “I don’t know…I have a wedding in a few weeks, and the plane ticket was kinda pricey, and I have to buy a new suit, so I guess that’s what I’ll spend it on.”

Lame.

So, so lame.

Good lord – if I had won $1000 in a football pool, you’d better believe that the people at our local liquor store would like me a lot more. This is to say nothing of the lovely, Eastern European and Latin American young ladies who ply their trade nightly at Private Eyes over in Hell’s Kitchen. I’d probably break it down thusly:

- $100 on good liquor from the liquor store
- $100 on lap dances for my roommates
- $400 on one hell of a night of drinking/booby-seeing
- $60 on this
- $200 on extra large Magnum condoms just to impress the hot girl who works behind the counter at CVS
- $100 on presents for my family
- $40 on lunchmeat

And Ben’s spending it on a suit and a wedding. That is, until my roommate Brian and I murder him in his sleep tonight.

Oops – did I just write that?

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A couple of thoughts on the commercials that Fox has been showing incessantly during the baseball playoffs.

1) Fox has shown that promo for “House MD” so many times that the visage of Dr. Gregory House will forever be burned into my memory for as long as I live, and perhaps in the afterlife as well, until after a few months in Hell I kill myself because of my involvement in a bizarre love triangle with Eleanor Roosevelt and Lieutenant Dan from which my only escape is to die twice (Did he die? “Lieutenant Dan? Lieutenant Dan?!?”)

[By the way, let the record show that after mulling it over for quite some time I called both my roommates and asked, "Who's a good fictional dead person?" - not a standard question on a Wednesday afternoon. I explained the situation, and how I wanted to use Lt. Dan, and they nor I could think of anything better. Just a little rare, behind-the-scenes glimpse at what goes on here at EIWWM. Look for the loaded DVD to come out in March.]

2) “My Big Fat Obnoxious Boss” is going to not only change the way Americans view television, but also change the way we treat each other. This show may single-handedly erase racism, world hunger, and sexism in one fell swoop. I have such a boner.

3) Nothing is worse than those IBM commercials about being “on-demand”. The two guys talk about I have no idea what (business or technology or some shit), and I hate them. I also hate the one in which they ask, “Do you guys ever talk about anything but servers?” I can’t adequately express my disgust and anger at these commercials. And I know those two guys are actors, but, so help me god, if they ever cross my path in real life I will murder them with a really old pair of pliers. Mark my words bitch.

4) Also on the murder list are Terry Bradshaw and Howie Long. Good lord. Enough with the Radio Shack commercials. Terry, you were much cooler when you were the mildly-retarded Steelers QB who couldn’t spell “cat” and was manic-depressive and got divorced eight times. You were almost a role model for me. And Howie, I liked you a lot better when you were a Black & Silver-wearing hardass who went to Villanova.

Also, my roommate Brian told me that either the lead singer of Judas Priest or Elton John was quoted as saying, “If I could fuck any man, it would be Howie Long”. Can anyone substantiate this? Please?

5) You know what commercials are good? The Holiday Inn ones which talk about “thinking better in the shower”. In one, a guy in a towel invents an invisible plane, in the other he invents a dog translator – funny shit.

Those are good, but why do so many commercials suck? Can someone help me with this, or get me a job in advertising (paying at least $250K, requiring me to work from noon until 3pm Tuesday through Thursday)?

**********************************************************************

Great emails with my buddy Dom from Boston earlier this week.

Background: Dom was hooking up with this girl Mary for a while. I don’t really know much about their relationship, but she apparently gave awesome beejers. Also, she’s very artsy-fartsy. The relationship ended amicably, and the talk every once in a while.

So anyway, she emailed Dom and invited him to some play or some shit she’s in. We were emailing about it, and I knew he didn’t want to go. As I have written, there’s nothing more awkward than seeing a girl you’re hooking up with acting in a crappy play or singing in an a capella group, because those things are just so incredible lame they make me cringe.

Finally I asked him whether or not he was going to bite the bullet and go see the play. He replied, “Well, I guess I should. I mean, she did eat my semen. So I guess I owe it to her.”

True friend, true. And what a gentleman. Ladies, if you’re interested, Dom is currently single.

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Speaking of emails, I’ve been terrible at answering (most) of them. I’m sorry for this, but I’m just really, really lazy and there are WAY too many of them. If anyone is interested in being my intern, let me know (WOMEN ONLY please).

Duties would include:
- answering my emails
- paying my bills (preferably with your own money)
- cleaning up any accidents I might have while drunk
- letting Brian stare lasciviously at you at all times
- making sure I don’t do anything too stupid while drunk (including but not limited to: eating glass; getting hit by cars, buses, subway trains; lighting my beard on fire; trying to stop my ceiling fan on full blast with my forehead; etc)
- being shirtless 85% of the time
- baking carrot cakes of various size

If interested, please send your resume to eiwwm@lycos.com. Please note again that only women should apply, and please, no fatties.

**********************************************************************

Speaking of emails (or something), I have removed my IM name from my profile. I never thought I’d have to do this, but you people are crazy and harass me too much while I’m on my computer trying to arouse myself. It’s very annoying when you’re just at the perfect point of the porno when Kira Kener’s about to get blasted and DickBoy211 IM’s and says, “Are you really that hairy? I am hairy too.”

So if you have the IM name, consider yourself lucky and don’t go putting that shit on eBay or all the chatrooms out there.

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Six songs:

“Shady Lane” Pavement
This song ends three times, and says the word “god” twenty-four times, including “oh my god” eight times in a row – twice. And it’s still awesome.

“Bitten By Beautiful Teeth” Sahara Hotnights
My friend Kasey keeps suggesting kick-ass music to me, and a lot of the bands have girl lead singers. I don’t know if she’s doing this to turn me into a homosexual wannabe rocker-chick, but this is a good song. And maybe I’m interested in being a homosexual wannabe rocker-chick – what’s it to you mother fucker?

“Kick Out The Jams” MC5
“And right now, right now, right now, it’s time to…KICK OUT THE JAMS MOTHER FUCKER!”
This song is going to be my wedding song when I finally hit it big and marry that 19 year-old half-Cambodian, half-Danish sex pot when I’m 38, 450 pounds, and completely addicted to quaaludes and cinnamon. I also like to refer to it as “The Jason Mulgrew Cocaine Anthem”, because, well, my family may be reading this, so I’ll leave this alone. Anyway, when listening to this, do so in an open space, lest shit get destroyed. Every hipster neo-punk band rips these guys off, and for good reason.

“The Girl I Love” Led Zeppelin
Speaking of kick-ass – wow. Zep’s running on all four cylinders on this bluesy jam, and they are really fucking rocking. Listen closely to John Paul Jones’ bass playing – love it love it love it.

“Even If You Don’t” Ween
Good old Ween. I could probably include one Ween song a week and not run out of songs for, well, a while. This one was recommended to me by Alex in CT, and it’s a nice little ditty which rhymes “pissed off” and “jerk off”. Pretty, ain’t it?

“You Don’t Have To Say You Love Me” Elvis Presley
Man, this song gets me. How many times have I said this to a woman: “You don’t have to save you love me, just be close at hand” (Sorry, I’m thinking of, “If you tell anyone about this I’ll fucking kill you!” That’s what I say to women all the time. Sorry.) Still, a lovely, sad, powerful song. Elvis was truly King. King of Vicodin. And Cyclobenzaprine. And Valium. I should stop now.

**********************************************************************

To the Red Sox:

I want you to win, but please don’t do so tonight. Can you do it tomorrow? Because then I might be able to take a half-day and go up to Boston, and I really think I have a good chance of procreating if you win, but only if I’m in Boston. Which is where I won’t be tonight, but where I may be able to be tomorrow night. Understood?

So don’t win tonight. I’m rocking my playoff beard for you, and I think this is the least you can do for me.

Love,
Jason Mulgrew
Internet Quasi-Celebrity

I have to be very short today because I am muy busy (that’s Spanish for “very busy”), but two quick notes:

1) My mid-term went ok. I needn’t get too into the details lest I bore everyone to death, but I think I did just ok. At least it’s over, and now I have a whole two months to do absolutely nothing academically before I have to cram again for the final. Morale: never learn from your mistakes. Really, that’s for losers.

But thank you for all the emails and good karma. You guys never let me down, except in the sexual favors department. But I don’t have the strength to get into that now…

2) I’m rocking a playoff beard. I noticed that the last time I shaved was the day the Sox won Game 4 at Fenway against the Yanks, and I haven’t shaved since.

I don’t really know why exactly, since, though I’m rooting for Sox so I can do some looting in Boston, I’m not a die-hard fan by any stretch. I guess I just want an excuse to go to work looking like a hobo, because man, do I look like shit. I usually have a half goatee (no moustache) to cover up my weak-but-triple chin and now I have this gross half-grown in beard growing around it. On top of that, I really need a hair cut. And my hair gets kinda weird and wavy when it’s too long, so I have a giant Conan O’Brien-esque wave in the front of my hair. Half-goatee, scruffy beard, and Conan wave. Not my best look.

…

Yes, I know this post is terrible, but I told you that I’m busy.

Here, read this. It’ll make you smarter and angrier, and there is nothing more dangerous than smart, angry people. Especially if they have sharp knives and are all coked up. Trust me – very dangerous.

(Thanks to Donnie Fiedler for the link)

Cramming, though not on the same plane as making stained glass, winning hot dog eating contests, or completing a successful armed robbery, is an art form. And, if done properly, it can be a great benefit to the student who is too lazy or too cool study, since we all know that reading the material when it is actually assigned is for nerds and Asian people.

Fortunately, I have been blessed with an incredible ability to cram. Early in high school, I was a nerd. I spent hours on my Latin grammar, read all the books assigned in my English class, and poured over my algebra. Also, I was masturbating at least three times a day. It was great (the masturbating, not the studying).

Then, something happened – I don’t remember what exactly, as I was really into pills at the time and was hanging out with a bad crowd consisting mostly of bikers and junkies and dating a German-born prostitute named Mia and thus I don’t remember much from ’93 – ’95. But I realized, “Wait, a minute – I could work my balls off, study hard and do all my homework, miss social engagements and be a loser, and get a 3.8. Or, I could essentially do nothing but review everything 24 hours before an exam, and start all my papers only 48 hours before they are due, have fun, and get a 3.5. I think my choice is pretty obvious. Also, are all guys’ birds this small? Because mine looks pretty small.”

And so I crammed in high school. Cramming in high school was easy because I didn’t really have much else going on, as though extremely popular, I had a job that took up my weekend nights and no driver’s license because I’m an asshole (eventually got one late senior year). My priorities were basically: 1) go home and masturbate; 2) make sure you don’t get caught masturbating. And grades are only part of the equation for the high school student because of a little thing called the SAT, which I was able to work around well enough, with pure luck and a sexual favor or two.

And then I crammed in college, with the help of like-minded roommates and a little thing called “snorting Ritalin”. Cramming in college was great – the all night library sessions, working yourself into such a trance that before you knew it you’d have read hundreds of pages and spent hours in your cubicle, tearing into some shit that you were certain you’d never need to know or use again. And there was a great pride in cramming in college. There’s nothing like studying a semester’s worth of Survey of Bio in 28 hours and getting an A- on your mid-term. Well, there are a lot of things that are better than that (eating a big fucking sandwich, breaking in a wild horse, eating a big fucking sandwich while breaking in a wild horse), but that’s pretty good.

And all this cramming got me to where I am now – sitting in my big, fancy (well, it’s not really that big or that fancy) office in Manhattan, making way more money than I should (not that I have this money, as I spend at least double what I make), spending my day checking fantasy sports and making personal phone calls.

This past weekend I was pressed into cram mode again, as today I have a mid-term for my grad class in Russian history. It’s been a while; I graduated in 2001, and since then I’ve haven’t been in a real academic environment. And I’ve never before been in an academic situation where I have something else to do besides studying, as my work day is roughly from 8:30am to 7pm (including commute) every day. That only leaves me five hours to eat dinner, drink or smoke, check fantasy sports some more, write various diatribes calling for a race war against all New Zealanders, etc.

So I was a little rusty this weekend as I got into cram mode. Below are my five tested and true pointers for cramming, and how I did after with them taking three years off from studying.

1) Get a good night’s sleep
It is important on the night before cramming to get some rest. If you try to read 300 pages of 17th century British social history while sleepy, it just ain’t gonna work. Therefore, the night before the day before your test, you should get a solid night’s sleep and wake up refreshed and ready to go.

On Saturday night, the night of the celebration of my roommate Brian’s birthday, I started drinking at about 7pm. When at the end of the night I rolled off my bed in a drunken haze to shut off the music I was listening to because it was keeping me from sleeping, my clock read 6:06am. In the eleven hours between, I had countless Bud Lights, shots, and mixed drinks, and spent a whopping $187 on booze at the bar. At the end of the night, there was no food to be found, so I ate a slice of white pizza from a pizza box that had been sitting on my kitchen counter since Thursday. In the process of heating the pizza, I dropped two bottles of beer I was drinking on the floor, sending shattered glass everywhere. I gave up on the bottles and drank whole milk straight out of the carton with my old white pizza. My sleep was fitful, drunken, and replete with bouts of intense stomach pain. And yes, I am single.

2) Get an early start
When you have to cram for a test, don’t dilly-dally in the morning. Wake up, shower, and start right away, as most people are sharpest in the morning. Also, the more you study earlier the less you have to study later. Remember, time is of the essence.

I woke up on Sunday at 1:30pm. I checked the internet and sports scores, went back to bed, beat off, and finally left my bedroom at 3. I ate half of a carrot cake from Dean & DeLuca. I took a long shower, got dressed, and finally was ready to study. It was 5:15pm, exactly 24 hours until my mid-term. Only 800 pages to go.

3) Go to a quiet place where you won’t be distracted
It’s best to get out of the comfort of your room and go to a library. Your room offers too many distractions: internet, TV, music, the phone, etc; the library has nothing but quiet and books. Since this is the first time you’re reading this material, it’s important to read it actively, not passively while doing something else. The library or another quiet place is the best place to do this.

I got to the library at Hunter at 5:45. My goal was to read at least 300 pages of the material. The library closed at 8, which gave me two solid hours.

However, I forgot that the library at Hunter is hoochie-mama central. Lots of super hot ghetto 18 year-old Puerto Rican girls wearing tight half-shirts and jeans that look painted on. I spent most of my time at the library fantasizing about said hoochie-mamas, how I would walk up to the one at table across from me, and say something smooth like, “Look, I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. But I know there’s something between us – I can feel it in my soul. If I’m wrong, I’ll walk away right now and I’ll never see you again. [with conviction] But I’m not wrong.”

At that point, she’d stand up from the table, look deep into my eyes, her body just brushing up against mine, put her hand down my pants, and say, “This is now mine.” Then we’d have crazy freaky sex right there on the table in the library, then once again in the stairwell of the library, then once more in the bathroom on the 4th floor. Then we’d go get a pizza. She’d pay.

Result? I got hungry and left the library at 7. Pages read: 50. Pages understood and digested: 7.

4) Remain focused
It’s important while cramming to keep your eyes on the prize. Keep your focus on the material. Pay specific attention to areas you think will be asked about. No matter what, don’t drift off.

I got home about 7:30 or so, and was depressed. And what do I do when I’m depressed? Drugs, mostly. So I smoked just a little bit of pot to see if it would help. It didn’t. I tried reading, but I got really caught up on the words “sobriquet”, “syncretic”, and “lionized”. These have to be the awesomest words ever. Also, I got really caught up on the story of how in 989 Prince Vladimir chose Orthodox Christianity over Islam as the “state” religion of Russia, supposedly saying, “Drinking is the joy of the Rus and we cannot live without this pleasure.” I mean, that’s just awesome. Choosing a religion for millions of people, the impact of which would determine the course of world history for hundreds of years to come, simply because his people like to get drunk. Fucking awesome.

5) Don’t panic
You must stay calm. Know that really it’s only a test, and soon the whole thing will be over. The worst that can come of the experience is a bad grade, which you deserve anyway. Also know that everything always works out for you anyway, so, really, whatever.

Being a little high made me a little freaked out. There was a lot of, “Oh my god, it’s 9pm and I have a mid-term tomorrow and I still have to read 700 pages! Also, I haven’t even reviewed my class notes! What am I gonna do? God damn it I’d love some Tostitos right now!” and “Damn it! If I had just read even 15 pages a day, I wouldn’t have this problem! I am such an asshole! When will I ever learn? And where the hell are those Tostitos?” The good news is that after some Tostitos and a couple of Unisom, I was able to calm down and fall quietly asleep, without having done any more preparation. Oh well.

…

And now here we are, a few hours from the test. And honestly, I couldn’t care less. I am grossly under-prepared and banking on the incompetence of my classmates to make me look good by comparison. There’s pretty much nothing I can do now, save for relax and write a really long post.

So I ask for your collective well wishes and good karma this evening from 5:30 to 6:30 tonight (Eastern Standard Time). Sure, I don’t deserve this, and I deserve to do poorly on this test, but I certainly don’t want that to happen. Besides, you guys owe me one. So just send some positive energy my way, and like the Wailers sing, “Everything’s gonna be alright”.

Probably.

Because I’m an asshole, I have to read about 800 pages of dense Russian history this weekend for my mid-term on Monday.

The situation is so dire that I actually took the day off today to get this crap done. I have a couple of vacation days to burn before the end of the year, so what better way to use a vacation day than sitting in your apartment “reading” about Ivan the Terrible but thinking about cake and boobs?

The good news is that at least I’m keeping it real, and not deviating from the style that made me a superstar in college.

The bad news is that I have to read about 800 pages of dense Russian history by Monday. Fuck. If I had read only 20 pages or so a day, I wouldn’t have this problem.

So that’s all you’re going to get from me for today. Wish me luck, and have an excellent weekend. Be sure to have a drink for my roommate Brian, whose birthday, though yesterday, will be observed on Saturday.

Also, from the “How To Not Get Re-elected” File, see Entry #1. What a fucking asshole. A terrible tragedy indeed, but cutting off alcohol sales and banning the televising of the games in bars is not the way to handle the situation, unless we are in Russia. Are we in fucking Russia?

And I’m not just saying this because I’m a drunk, but because I am a citizen. So there.

This morning I got off the local 6 train at Grand Central and switched to the express 5 train. While waiting for the 5 to come, on the platform across the tracks from the one on which I was standing was a homeless man, sitting on a crate, reading a magazine. I looked a little closer, and noticed the magazine was a porno. I looked even closer, and I noticed he was masturbating.

If this isn’t the best possible way to start your day, well, I don’t know what to tell you.

[I'm not sure what I mean there: Do I mean that seeing a homeless man masturbating is a great way to start your day, or do I mean that sitting on a crate and masturbating in public is a great way to start off? I'll leave it to you to decide.]

And really, good for him. He’s thinking to himself, “Shit, I got no job, no home, no nothing – but that ain’t gonna stop me from beating my dick right here on this crowded subway platform.”

I salute you Mr. Homeless Man. If more of us had your courage, fortitude, and willingness to satisfy ourselves sexually in any place and at any time we wanted, the world would be a much better place.

And, naturally, when he finished, I applauded. Say what you will about me, but I always give credit where credit’s due. Unfortunately, my slow clap didn’t catch on and I think it weirded him (and the other commuters) out, but then the train came, so it was cool.

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So…anyone happen to catch that game last night?

All I’m going to say is that if Boston wins the World Series, I will die. I know this, and I am ok with it. I’m planning on going up there if Boston takes any sort of 3 to whatever lead, so I can go apeshit with the rest of the city, loot stores and burn down houses, and maybe conceive a child.

Surely, this celebration will only end in my death, be it at the hands of Mr. Stolichnaya, at the feet of hundreds of rampaging Massholes running from the cops after burning an effigy of Babe Ruth and a fat dude who looked like Babe Ruth in Faneuil Hall, or because of blunt force trauma to the head because I tried to make out with some toothless Dorchester skank while her boyfriend Sully and his buddies Mikey, Tommy, Joey, Jimmy, and Billy looked on.

But you know what? We all have to go out sometimes, and only a lucky few are able to make our exit doing what we love. In my case, civil disobedience – pantsless.

****************************************************

On second thought, I don’t want to die, because I’ve never made out with an Asian girl. How has this not happened? Say what you will about me (my new favorite phrase), but I’ve made out with a lot of chicks in my lifetime (not so much recently though). Big and small, tall and short, crazy, and, well, crazier, but I’ve never made out with an Asian girl.

Every guy I know has made out with an Asian girl. Shit, my buddy Doug is married to an Asian girl. What gives? Just another thing to add to the “Things I Must Do Before I Die” list, along with having sex while skydiving and beating up a cop in uniform.

I mean, damn.

[And yes, my email address is eiwwm@lycos.com. But please, I can't afford more than $40. Thank you.]

****************************************************

STILL this fucking searchmiracle thing is on my computer, highlighting key words on every damn page.

That’s it – I’m just going to retire. Not resign, but retire. I’m going to walk into my boss’s office, thank him for the opportunity he gave me to work here, and then calmly explain that I spend 75% of my work day writing dick jokes on the internet. I’ll then continue to explain that I was quite content doing this and working at the same time, but a bug infected my computer and it drove me crazy because it highlighted the word anal every time it appeared on a god damn web page.

Then I will go to some warm climate where I will wait for death with flair, telling the local children stories from my travels in the South Pacific, stealing inconsequential items from supermarkets, and selling fireworks.

Sounds pretty good to me.

****************************************************

Re: my elevator troubles. Many of you wrote in with two suggestions:

1) Take the stairs. I can’t do this; I’m on the 21st floor. Sure, I’d have gravity on my side, and gravity has always been a friend of mine, but the thought of walking down 21 flights of stairs to start each morning just isn’t appealing to me. But that’s not saying much – the thought of putting on pants when I wake up (I sleep in a t-shirt and nothing else; and not a long t-shirt either) isn’t so appealing either.

2) Take the elevator up and just ride it back down. I can’t do this either; I’m on 21, and the building has 35 floors. It’s bad enough to get in at 21 and stop at 15 of the remaining 20 floors to have the doors open, see pissed off residents sigh in disgust as the doors slowly close on the packed elevators that they can’t fit into, and continue on to the next floor. I think this might even be worse than just sitting there waiting.

The good news is that as a quitter who is used to bad things happening to him, I’ve resigned myself to this inconvenience. So there.

****************************************************

My dry cleaning/laundry bill today? $46. That’s for one week’s worth of laundry, five dress shirts, and a suit. Ouch.

In my current Upper East Side neighborhood, I probably spend about $120/month on laundry/dry cleaning. In my old one in the Lower East Side, I had Korean immigrants who not only didn’t speak any English, but I don’t think they spoke Korean or any other language for that matter, happy to do my laundry and iron all my shirts for about $50 a month. Also one time I paid one of them $20 to come to my place and shower and let me watch. I thought it would be a little awkward, but both he and I were actually quite comfortable.

I know I’ve said it before, but I will say it again: moving to the Upper East Side was the worst mistake I’ve made in recent memory. Do NOT move here. Ever. I’m not saying you have to go to the super cool LES, which is so chock-full of hipsters I had to take 50mg of Valium before I went out every day lest I start kicking their asses indiscriminately for being such pampered, supercilious because they’re so cool pussies, but do not come to the Upper East Side. Trust me.

…

And now I’m all hot and bothered.

I don’t ever post from home, but I thought this warranted it: thank you for all the emails suggesting ad-aware to get rid of my pc problem. I can’t tell you if this has worked or not, because I didn’t get your emails until I got home from work, and that’s where my computer is.

So no need to send anymore emails about the cure of my pc ails (we broke the record with over 120 emails in a day, actually a half-day – not bad). I can’t reply to each of you individually, but thanks a bunch. When I needed you most, you didn’t let me down.

Now I’m so going to give you a handjob next time I see you.

I have a terrible problem on my hands.

My work computer is affected with some sort of worm or virus or whatever (I don’t know what I’m talking about, since anyone who knows about computers is a nerd, and a “nerd” is the last thing I am, aside from “haver of consensual sex”).

Basically, this thing from searchmiracle.com has infected my computer. Any time I bring up a webpage, this “worm” will look through the page, and seek out words to highlight and link it to the result of a search performed for said term on searchmiracle.com.

For example, any time I’m looking at a webpage that contains the words games, travel, health, mba, bed, moving, etc, these words will appeared underlined in the text and hyperlinked back to the damn searchmiracle results (and it doesn’t have to be whole words – for example, it could say embedded and the “bed” will be underline and hyperlinked).

At first, I didn’t think too much of this. Sure, I didn’t like it, but I am in no position to have the people from IT looking into what I download, or what sites I visit, or how much time I spend on the internet, or who I email and what I say in my emails. That is a can of worms that I would like to leave closed at any and all costs.

But eventually I noticed that this fucking searchmiracle thing links other words. Word like sex and xxx and, most damningly, anal.

This is bad. Really, really bad. All day I look at analyst reports, and analysis. Sometimes, my boss will be in my office standing behind me and reading the same analyst reports over my shoulder. It can be very uncomfortable when, in plain and obvious view, every time the word “analyst” or “analysis” appears in the text of the report on the webpage, anal is underlined and hyperlinked.

So please, I know a lot of you are computer nerds – you have got to help a brother out here. I downloaded something called “Spybot – Search and Destroy” but that did nothing. There is really no way I can report this problem to IT, because in a matter of hours after doing so my boss would call me into this office and read me some of my finer emails:

My boss: “Jason, I want to read you something and ask for your explanation on it.”
Me: “Ok.”
My boss: “Ok, here goes:

‘That bitch Cara – I bet her bush is HUGE. Seriously, you can just tell a mile away. I’m talking late ’70′s-up to the belly button-pubes four inches long style. Still, I would fingerblast the shit out of her, but she’s so dank and nasty I’d put a condom on my finger before doing it, or at least wrap it in my shirt first, or maybe put it in my some hoagie wrapping, because I’m sure her roommate The House has plenty of spare sandwich wrapping lying around. Not that I even remember what fingerblasting is like, since the last girl I fingerblasted was that fat bitch Chunky Monkey, and I think I had to actually lift up a roll or two of her fat to get to her [said in a Borat accent] vagine. I don’t remember much though; I was so drunk that night I probably would have stuck my dick in an electrical outlet.’

It goes on and on like this for four pages, and at one point you write ‘Cockass bitch motherfucker cock balls poop bitch balls fuck.’ Can you explain to me not only why you wrote this, but also why you felt compelled to do so on company time, at 11:03am on a Tuesday morning?”
Me: “Is it too late for me to resign?”
Boss: “Yes.”
Me: “Damn.”
Boss: “Yes.”

So help me out here. I’m dying. Literally and figuratively, of course.

***************************************************

Last night I went home and heated up some delicious leftovers. After consuming the nearly two pounds of food, I thought to myself, “You know what? I’m not going to have dessert. Nay, I’m never going to have dessert again. I’m just gonna quite cold turkey.”

Less than two hours later I had eaten three donuts.

In my defense, number one, I totally forgot about the whole “no more sweets” promise. I was watching the game, and I had a lot going on, what with all the, um, you know – I had a lot going on.

Number two, I didn’t mean to eat all three donuts. You see, I had one, and noticed that though while it was still delicious, it was going a little stale. So, rather than waste such deliciousness and let the other two go stale, I took it upon myself to eat the rest, to ensure good karma.

I remember being you and my mom going on and on about “not wasting” and “eating everything on your plate” because there were starving kids everywhere. I’m sure she said this to make sure I got my daily nutrition, and never imagined that it would become the basis by which I live my life.

Have a giant plate of food in front you of? Eat it all – don’t waste it. Hear that there’s still a little whipped cream left in the canister? Hold it over the stove to melt a small hole in it from which you can suck it out – don’t waste it (note: do NOT try this as home, as the pressurized canister will burst). Drunk and coming home at 5am and noticing there are some floaters lying around? Drink ‘em up, even if they have a cigarette butt or two in them – don’t waste them.

How impressionable we are whilst still young.

***************************************************

Two things I have to clear up first:

1) I am not a Yankees fan.

2) I am not a Red Sox fan.

That being said, Curt Schilling’s performance last night in Game 6 has kept me weeping all day. I’m not ashamed to admit this; I believe it’s ok for a man to cry. Especially when sports and/or dairy is involved.

But Schilling…what BALLS. What a real fucking man. I don’t want to go too into it, because the stories are everywhere, plastered on the internet and morning newspapers across the country, but with dislocated tendons snapping on every pitch and an ankle leaking blood through his sock, Schilling willed the Red Sox into a deciding Game 7 tonight at Yankee Stadium with a remarkable seven-inning, one-run performance, when on Sunday this same Sox team was only three outs away from a sweep at the hands of the mighty Yankees.

Good lord. The Boston Red Sox, one of the most “cursed” franchises in all of professional sports, now stand one game away from not only finally beating their hated rival and advancing to the World Series, but are one victory away from the greatest comeback in sports history (and I write that without the slightest hint of exaggeration or hyperbole).

[A few days ago, I wrote on here about how all I wanted, as a long-suffering Phillies fan, was some exciting baseball. Um, yeah, I think I got it.]

My question now is: how could anyone not be rooting for the Sox tonight? It’s an incredible story, and the identity of an entire region hangs in the balance. Many have written that Sox fans even (gasp!) like losing; that the trials and travails of the Sox are the core of their very existence. Without these disappointments and heartbreaks, the Sox would be just another ordinary team, and their fans would be like any others throughout the country. The Red Sox and their fans like being losers, because, in essence, it defines them. It gives them a reason to be.

Anyone who is a real sports fan would agree that’s hogwash. As someone who would give a testicle and a half and three inches off my penis for a championship (knocking it down to negative one inch long), I and most Sox fans would gladly trade a history of coming up short, a culture of losing, and an identity as the accursed for that sweet, sweet championship.

And now they have a chance to get one step closer. Tonight, Game 7, Red Sox versus Yankees. You can bet yours truly will be glued to the couch tonight, pizza on one side, another pizza on the other, watching the drama unfold. My prediction: Yankees 7, Red Sox 3.

Come on – they can’t win. They’re the Red Sox!

I don’t mean to sound all super cool and hipster on you guys, but Ted Leo and The Pharmacists are playing this evening at 6pm at the Virgin Megastore in Union Square. Since I’ve listened to “Timorous Me” about 600 times in the past three days, I hope to go, but it’s at 6, so I don’t know if I’ll be able to leave work that early. Crap.

Ted Leo fucking rocks. If you’re looking for something to do, you should definitely check it out (it’s free!). It’s the exactly the music I would make, if I were much more talented and much more cool and much, much less chubby. Also, I love the falsetto shit, since I too have a beautiful falsetto voice. Although mine is not quite as good as his. And he’s a much better guitar player. Did I mention he’s thinner?

For listening material, in addition to “Timorous Me”, check out “Where Have All The Rude Boys Gone”, “Dial Up”, “The High Party”, and “Me and Mia” (from his new album, Shake The Streets, to be released today).

But seriously, you should go. And if you see a fat dude in yuppie work clothes rocking out amongst a sea of hipsters, alternatively throwing punching in the air and violently rubbing his crotch (what can I say? the music moves me), swing by and say hello. I’m not saying it’ll be me, but it’s nice to be friendly anyway.

I still don’t know if I’ve calmed down enough to write about this, but perhaps it’ll be cathartic.

AGAIN, an elevator in my building is being refurbished, causing major wait times for an elevator. This is going to continue for ten more days.

It’s very hard for me to express how angry this makes me. I tried before on Friday, but the fact is that I’m just not good enough of a writer, so I’ll break down my time this morning nice and simple like.

9:00 — Already running late for work (which I must be at by 9:30), I hit the “down” button on the elevator.

9:00 – 9:04 — Listen to the whole song of Weezer’s “Say It Ain’t So”. First elevator arrives, but, as it’s packed, I can’t fit in. The elevator leaves and I hit “down” again. Let out angry grunt and begin pacing.

9:04 – 9:09 — Begin pacing back and forth more quickly, slowly building up rage. “Without You” by Motley Crue comes and goes. Still no elevator. Become determined to write letter to building manager, asking him how the fuck it could possibly take ten fucking days to redo the interior of an elevator. Elevator comes. Again, it’s packed. Twitching and involuntary spasms affect my right side, as the door closes. I hit the “down” button again.

9:09 – 9:14 — Would willingly commit any hate crime, even against fat Irish Catholic men with bad facial hair. Pacing now frantic; sweating. Thoughts turn to murder and electrocution. Put on early Beatles songs like “Love Me Do” and “I Want To Hold Your Hand” to help calm down. Doesn’t work. Hands are beginning to hurt from being so tightly clenched. Finally, elevator comes which is roomy enough for me to enter. The collective murderous rage in that elevator could have taken over the entire Northeastern US by force, with nothing but butter knives and rubber bands.

9:15 — Get downstairs to see that it’s raining. Reach into bag to get umbrella, and realize I left it up in my apartment. Blood starts pouring out of my eyes. Knowing it would take about as long for me to go upstairs to my apartment to get my umbrella as it would for me to go to my mom’s house in Philly to grab one, I walk two blocks in the rain. Steam is coming off my body. I burn down four buildings in two blocks, and eat two toddlers.

And of course, since it was raining and underground steel trains that never get wet can’t function in dampness, the trains were packed with angry, wet people and the commute took an hour.

Worst-morning-ever.

Now all I need is for my doctor to call and say, “Remember how I said you didn’t have any STD’s? Well, long story involving a series of hilarious adventures short, you have four of them. My bad dude. Oh, also you have heart disease.”

Worst-morning-ever.

And writing this didn’t help – now I’m even more pissed off.

I’m going outside to pick a fight.

Friday night was a very weird and depressing night. As I’ve mentioned before, I am broke. Not “I can’t hang out with you tonight because Monday is the night I got to Spanish Harlem to suck dick for cheeseburgers” broke, but “I really can’t be spending $7 a drink at a bar and have 15 of these drinks and order out $25 worth of dinner four nights a week” broke.

So after work on Friday, I had only one goal: get drunk and watch the Yankees-Sox game at my place. Knowing that both my roommates were out of town for the weekend, I had a special Jason night planned: some wine, some candles, Maxi Priest and Roberta Flack softly singing “Set The Night To Music”, and of course wrapping up the evening by masturbating in front of my open window, swaying back and forth because it’s hard to beat off standing up and drunk with your pants around your ankles (trust me – it is).

But it was not meant to be. The game was cancelled due to rain, and Fox instead showed that terrible David Arquette movie “See Spot Run”, the one with the dog in it. After throwing up all over myself and my couch, I pulled myself together and made a sandwich.

Depressed, I channel-surfed and pounded some wine before eventually deciding that I would go to the Blockbuster nearby to rent a movie. Not a good decision.

See, Blockbuster on a Friday night at about 9pm is not a good place to be for a half-drunk, lonely manic depressive for hasn’t shaved since Wednesday morning and is seriously considering the seminary to justify his celibacy. Everyone in the store was either a happy, young couple looking for a movie to watch and cuddle to, or a really hopeless-looking single person. It was unbelievable. About a dozen or so twenty-something couples of all races walking around arm-in-arm, saying things like, “Well, I guess I could watch ‘Love Actually’ if you really want to” and “But babe, we got the movie you wanted to last time – now it’s my turn” as I sobbed loudly into my hands and shook with tremors of sadness (and lust).

Also, there were about a dozen loners walking around. I’m not talking about “loners” in the dangerous, mysterious but cool sense; I’m talking about people who look like me, but older. You know, mildly successful single people in their early thirties looking for a constructive way to spend their Friday night. And I take it back, they didn’t look hopeless, but that’s what kind of made them seem hopeless to me. The fact that they were content with this plan, thinking, “Well, I don’t have anything to do or anyone to hang out with, so I think I’ll go to Blockbuster to get a movie and watch it alone” made it me very sad, and even more determined to propose to the next girl I kiss.

I wound up leaving the Blockbuster without getting a movie. And to be honest, I don’t even remember what I did on Friday night, so I got so drunk (all by myself!) that I basically blacked out. I know I talked on the phone for a while to my long-lost friend Alice, and I remember going to bed at 3:30 (though I started drinking alone at about 6:30), but that’s really all I got.

Exciting, I know.

But next weekend is my roommate Brian’s birthday, so at least there is a light at the end of this week’s tunnel.

[Jesus, I just read this over and it sounds like I'm going to kill myself. Good lord. Honestly, I'm not going to kill myself. It's just really too much work. So let's talk about something happier!]

**********************************************

The Philadelphia Eagles are making me happy. Very happy. But they’re also making me scared. Very scared.

The other day I was on the subway and thinking about what would happen if the Eagles won the Super Bowl. Sure, it wouldn’t be on par with the Sox winning the World Series (which isn’t gonna happen ever), but those whiny New England fans have gotten two championships in the past three years from the Patriots, so excuse me if I instead of offering a shoulder to cry on, I push one of them down three flights of stairs.

I thought about an Eagles’ Super Bowl victory, and tears started welling up in my eyes. God didn’t bless me with a large enough vocabulary to accurately describe what this would mean to me (instead, he doubled me up on the chest hair and love of mashed potatoes), but I can only say that it would be, without a doubt, the highlight of my young life so far.

What could possibly be better for me? Graduating from college? Big deal – any asshole can do that. Having sex for the first time? My first time was a miserable, awkward experience, replete with a lot of “I’m sorry” and “Is this right?” and “Damn it – I thought this would be easier”. Getting a job? You’re supposed work, jerkoff. No, this would be IT for me. I think they only thing that could even come close to something like this is the birth of my child, but since god and I had a falling out he’s going to make all of my kids retarded, so I think the Eagle’s Super Bowl win is better.

I don’t want to go too into it, but I’m investing a lot of emotion into this team. It could be love. And when my love goes bad, well, let’s just hope my application for a permit to carry doesn’t get approved. For everyone’s sake.

**********************************************

Another sports related item: Carlos Beltran, you’ll want to take the 4 train. That runs express on the east side, and will take you right to Yankee Stadium no problem.

**********************************************

A random sampling of words or phrases typed into google that brought people to this site:

- “curtis martin” and marriage license

- “lindsay lohan”+orange+tan

- “under armour” washing smell

- alex mosley of cult jam

- choada, slang

- lhaso apso brings good luck testimony

- fucking in the rain

- std “white blotches”

- pubescent nude gymnasts

And my favorite, dangers of eating pussy.

Because really, if this site is about anything, it’s about the dangers of eating pussy. That’s actually what I was going to call it before going with “everything is wrong with me”, but I went for the subtle approach.

Another thing is that a lot of people who’s name I’ve mentioned on this site have been getting googled. I always ask before using an email from a reader if I can use their full name, because once it’s out there, it’s out there baby! And believe me, these people get googled and people are coming to this site to learn about them.

So please remember this the next time I have an email post and ask if you want your full name used (if my laziness desists for even a moment, I’ll do one Friday, so if you have anything good, or any thought-provoking questions, send ‘em in). I know that I have made myself virtually unemployable for the rest of my life because of this site (Potential Employer: “This Jason Mulgrew looks like a good candidate. Let me just look him up in Google…what’s this ‘everything is wrong with me’? Oh dear god in heaven! Sweet mother of Jesus Christ himself!”), but I don’t want to drag anyone else to the unemployment line with me. Unless they’re offering a handjob. Because then I’m down.

I don’t know what theatrical pairing I’m more excited about: Queen Latifah joining forces with Jimmy Fallon, or George Costanza finally (finally!) pairing up with Theo Huxtable to create the greatest television the world will ever see until, at the earliest, the 23rd century.

First, The Queen and Fallon. I know you’ve seen the previews: a buddy comedy featuring Fallon as a bumbling cop and the saucy Queen (“We gotta start playin’ to your strengths, and thinking ain’t one of ‘em”) as a cabbie who helps him track down a gang of bandits led by (are you ready for this? I don’t think you are!) the model Gisele Bundchen! Como se dice, “Oscar”? Also, como se dice, “I would rather eat my brother’s shit using as chopsticks two hypodermic needles filled with retard than pay $10 to sit through two hours of this crap”?

But I think I’m even more pumped that the television gods have smiled upon us and have delivered unto us a savior, a reason for me to make myself throw up the dozen or so barbiturates I just took. Costanza and Theo: Gold. My first question: “What took so long?” My second question: “You’re fucking joking, right?” In this show, Costanza and Theo are hosts of a sports talk show, and George has a crazy family! Also, the Ghost of Enis Cosby plays the role of the Theo’s crazy and shot up roommate! Hilarity is guaranteed to ensue!

…

Friends, studios are putting up millions of dollars to produce movies and shows like these. Millions and millions of dollars. Meanwhile, I sit alone in the bedroom of my 21st floor apartment throwing flaming garbage out my window at people below, eating my fingernails and stale bread and washing my clothes in my sink with soap taken from public restrooms because I’m broke, and driving myself to the point of arson because of my unbearable depression and rage.

I know who reads this site. I know how many of you read it. A lot of you do (well, I guess all of you do, if you’re reading this right now, but that’s not the point). You’re telling me not one of you has a uncle in entertainment, a cousin in publishing, an illegitimate child that works as a strip club bouncer and can get me a lapper at half price? Nothing? Not one person in entertainment? Anyone? Bueller?

In the words of Maggie O’Hooligan, “T’anks for nuthin’!” Damn it.

[Two '80's movie references in two sentences? Sweet.]

**************************************

Speaking of movies, has anyone seen the commercial for the new Sarah Michelle Gellar movie, “The Grudge” (who am I talking to)? It’s probably the scariest commercial I’ve ever seen. What the fuck is up with the little boy with the cat face who meows, and that girl crawling on her hands and knees down the stairs? Holy shitballs! How is it that Janet Jackson can get crucified for showing a little nip for a half second while something that will give me nightmares for the next three or four years is shown repeatedly on prime time television? There’s no governing body to determine what is too scary for a commercial? Shouldn’t there be one?

Or am I just a total pussy?

**************************************

My friend Justin completely stole my idea for a make-out mix. Though they don’t have the same exact songs, the basic premise is the same, with one minor difference: he listens to his when he’s actually kissing a woman, whereas I listen to mine when I have a bellyache from eating too much ice cream too quickly and I want a good cry.

I am vengeful, angry, and shallow person, so I became determined to get back at him, hopefully by stealing his car. When I realized he didn’t have a car, I decided to sabotage his make-out mix.

About two weeks ago, my friends and I were over his apartment, when I snuck onto his computer and dropped the Natalie Imbruglia classic “Torn” into his “Mood” mix.

On Sunday of this week, Justin called over to our apartment because the weirdest thing happened: he brought a lady home, put on his mix, and as they progressed and were navigating together through the musty realm of love-making, “Torn” started blaring from his computer and totally ruined the moment. My response, “Wow, that’s weird dude. And hilarious.”

Well, Justin, I know you’re reading this, and I did it. I sabotaged your mixed and stopped you from getting ass. You better check yourself before you wreck yourself. That’ll teach you to ever steal my steez, bitch.

And if this doesn’t make me the awesomest person of all-time, I don’t know what does.

One.

**************************************

Recently, in my terrible building in my terrible neighborhood, they were redesigning the interior of one of the elevators. The management informed us that this would take ten days.

My building has 34 floors, and each floor has apartments A-M. There are about 1000 people that live in my building. We have three elevators.

What happens when one of the three elevators is out of commission? I have a miserable fucking week.

The comic Norton has a joke that there is no greater rage than the rage one feels when another person is keeping them awake with their loud snoring. I agree, but waiting for an elevator can be pretty bad. Especially when you wait five minutes, then one comes, but it’s full and you can’t take it. Then four minutes later, another one comes, but it’s also full and you can’t take it. Finally, after three more minutes, a third comes, and though it’s full you push your way on, in the process elbowing a toddler in the head.

Do you know how long 12 minutes is? Especially 12 minutes at 8:30 in the morning when you haven’t slept the night before because when you close your eyes you become a psychopath and you don’t want to go to work because you’re convinced your secretary is trying to poison you? Seriously, look at the clock right now, stop reading, and come back in 12 minutes. I’ll wait.

…

…

…

That’s a long fucking time, isn’t it?

I just don’t know why it takes TEN DAYS to redo the interior of an elevator car. They couldn’t find anyone to work around the clock and bang this out in a day or two? I mean, ten days? I think I could build a fucking time machine in ten days.

[A joke I made on numerous occasions to others in the elevator in the hopes of meeting some people in my building. However, they would glance over, give an obligatory "Just leave me alone, jerkoff" smile, and look away. It's like as soon as I moved in, terrible rumors started swirling about me. "Did you hear about that new guy on 21? Mulgrew? I heard he strangled like eight babies in the '70's, when he wasn't fixing college basketball and burning the American flag." I mean, I'm just trying to make friends here. Assholes.]

**************************************

I am dying to see a picture of Kobe Bryant’s accuser. I thought I could easily do this on the internet, but googling “picture kobe bryant’s accuser”, brings up so much crap, and any link I click on doesn’t actually have the photos, but four hundred pop-ups instead. Can someone send me her picture? Please?

Before I started having sex (bear with me here), I never understood cheating on a beautiful woman. It’s safe to say that I would burn down on orphanage full of Kosovar refugee children to get a handjob from Kobe Bryant’s wife, but yet he cheated on her. It’s also safe to say that I would that I would murder a puppy a day with my bare hands for the rest of my life to catch a blow job from Halle Berry, and yet her husband cheated as well. Why would anyone ever want to cheat on such a beautiful woman?

Two reasons:

1) No matter how attractive a woman is, it just gets old. I’m not saying after a week, or a month, or even a year, but after a while of hitting the same shit every day (or in my case, twice a month and on federal holidays), it just gets old. Most men are able to deal with this, and I guess some people are actually “in love” (pussies), but guys like Kobe and Halle’s husband are not like mortal men. You see, they cheat…

2) Because they can. Chris Rock has a great bit in which he says, “Man is only as faithful as his options.” I can’t imagine what’s it like to be able to sleep with any woman you want. Good god almighty. I don’t even have a joke here, because when I think about that prospect I can’t even think straight. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I could sleep with any woman I wanted without any effort, since I spend at least 80% of my energy thinking of sleeping with women, thinking of which women I’d like to sleep with (pretty much all), thinking of when I’m going to sleep with them (anytime is good for me really), and most importantly, thinking of how I’m going to get them fucked up enough to sleep with me (GHB, or as I like to call it “grievous bodily harm”, which is much less potent than Rohypnol but still effective).

Good god…I have to start talking about something else before I have a conniption.

**************************************

My buddy Fred is always sending inappropriate emails to me at work. Nothing overly terrible, usually containing a lame sexual innuendo, but just enough to make you wince and delete it right away. This doesn’t happen every day, but with enough frequency to warrant a “Dude, you can’t send that stuff to my work email” email once in a while.

Recently, a group of us were emailing back and forth to each other, all using our work addresses to bust balls about, well, me actually. Eventually they left me alone and my buddy John wrote something about how he recently returned from Vegas with 35 of his friends from Brooklyn. My friend Brendan responded with something like, “35 guys from Brooklyn? That’s a lot of hair gel.” Then Fred wrote, “You heard about the Brooklynites in WWII, right? For every fifty Jews Hitler threw in the over, he threw in one guy from Brooklyn to grease up the pan.”

Good lord.

I feel terrible even repeating this joke here, but I think it’s ok, since I almost exclusively date Jewish girls (actually, I think every girl I ever even kissed has either been Jewish, gone to BC, Northwestern, or Georgetown, was from New Jersey, or loved cats, but that’s another story), and I’ve always been down with The Tribe.

But my goodness. I couldn’t reach for the delete button fast enough, and in the process knocked my water into my phone and spilled it everywhere. Then I deleted it from my deleted items, and restarted my computer just to be safe.

Everyone responded to Fred saying things like, “Dude, are you crazy? This is my work email!” or “Great, I think I just got fired” or (as I wrote) “First, that’s really not appropriate, because you know I love Jewish girls as they are excellent at ‘blowing the shofar’ if you catch my drift. Secondly, I don’t know if you know this, but a lot of NYC lawyers are Jewish, so I don’t think it’s wise to send such emails to me when the guy who signs my check and more than half of our managing committee celebrates Rosh Hashanah.” His response? “Lighten up.” This from a guy who gets mad if you send him an email with the word “shit” in it.

So Fred, I’m calling you out. Actually, I’m not calling you out, I’m just begging you not to send me any more emails that have ANY sort of inappropriateness to my work address (and yes, I realize the hypocrisy here, as I’m at work right now writing about “needles filled with retard” but still).

That is all.

**************************************

Some music to close (see, I put this last, so if you don’t give a shit, you can just stop reading).

- “Slaveship” Josh Rouse
The fact that this song is called “Slaveship” irks me to no end. It’s equivalent to the Beatles calling it “Let’s Assbang” instead of “All You Need Is Love”, since this song is a hand-clapping, piano- and bass-driven sing-along that at one points says, “I love you/Would you marry me?” But it does so without being corny, and is possibly the catchiest rock song since Marah’s “My Heart Is The Bums On The Street”, which I pimped way back here. Get both of them.

- “Loving You Tonight” Squeeze
Whenever I hear this song, I can’t help but sing it. Also, I can help from rocking my hips to and fro when the song goes, “Loving you tonight/Feels good”. Did you know that the guy singing this, Paul Carrack, was in Squeeze only briefly and had limited singing duties, but he also sang their biggest hit, “Tempted”? He then went on to perform in Mike + The Mechanics, who gave us such glorious and fantabulous hits as “In The Living Years” and “All I Need Is A Miracle” (which coincidentally is one of the greatest music videos of the 1980′s, and perhaps the entire millennium).

- “Stay Monkey” Julie Ruin
I don’t know if I’m supposed to be terrified or turned on when I listen to this song. How about both? So trippy and sexual and scary…I’m getting weirded out and excited just writing about it.

- “Combat Baby” Metric
A Canadian (gasp!) band, but pretty cool. I don’t know anything about this band, but I know the lead singer is a woman, so if liking this makes me gay, well, that’s something that I’ll have to deal with. The song is about three of my favorite things: fighting, relationships, and forgery. Well, it’s not about forgery, but I do love me some forgery.

- “My Lonely Sad Eyes” Them
If you like Van Morrison, you have to listen to Them. This is early Van, before he got all “Browned Eyed Girl”, and it’s basically just a bunch of dudes from Belfast rocking the fuck out on rock and roll and R&B covers. Really, really good shit.

- “Playground Love” Air
Sure, they’re French, but this is quite simply the greatest song to make-out to ever. Ever. Not that I really have a lot of experience in this department, and maybe the reason I don’t have a lot of experience in this department is because I say things like, “This is the greatest songs to make-out to ever”, but really, let’s not judge. It’s Friday.

[Have a good weekend.]

Christopher Reeve. I know I’m late on this, but I was out sick yesterday. And I know I tried to leave this alone, but I just couldn’t. Three things:

1) To the endless amount of eulogizers in the press: you know Christopher Reeve was not actually Superman, right? See, he was just an actor playing Superman. I think I read in one of the seven articles about him in the NY Post, “He was a great man, and we are forever indebted to him for saving Metropolis, and the world, time and time again.” (Not that I read the Post, because I’m way too smart for that.)

2) No disrespect intended, but Reeve’s resume aside from Superman isn’t all that impressive, something that you would never have guessed judging from those calling him “one of the greatest actors of his generation.” One of the greatest actors of his generation? In what? Deathtrap? The Bostonians? Village of the Damned? I don’t think so, my friends. Superman totally kicked ass, but calling Reeve one of the greatest actors of his generation is like calling me one of the most sober softball players in the history of Boston College intramural sports.

3) This is going to read like a bad stand-up bit (well, this whole thing kinda reads like a bad stand-up bit) but Reeve started speaking out and donating money for spinal cord injuries after he had been injured. It’s not like he’d been this great philanthropist and fund-raiser who happened to get seriously injured. Shit, if I was multi-millionaire who got freakishly crippled, you’d better believe that my ass would be raising all sorts of money for spinal-cord research, and it would have nothing to do with philanthropy, and everything to do with my ass wanting to walk again. I’d be out there, stumping (no pun intended) every single day for some money for spinal cord research. Reeve raised something like $24 million in ten years; you can bet I’d break the $100 million mark in five. No doubt.

Still, he kicked ass, and I don’t mean to dishonor the dead. I’m only trying to make jokes at another’s expense. And yes, I know I’m going to hell. So fuck you.

******************************************

I can not imagine what it’s like to be a Red Sox fan. What a bunch of hopeless losers (the Sox, not the fans). Because if it doesn’t happen this year (which it ain’t), it’s certainly not gonna happen next year, with Pedro playing somewhere else and Giambi’s .300-40-120 back in the Yankees’ lineup. Bear in mind I say all this as someone who is currently rooting for the Sox, so he can loot and commit arson in various parts of Boston after a Sox World Series win.

But good lord – can things be going worse right now?

- Curt Schilling, the missing piece who was supposed to lead the Sox over the Yankees, had a phenomenal regular season, going 21-6 with a 3.26 ERA and over 200 K’s. He and the Sox looked so good that Vegas actually had them as the favorites going into the ALCS. So what happens? Schilling blows the start he was acquired to ace and gets rocked, injuries or re-injuries his ankle, and is most likely out for the post-season. Ouch baby, very ouch.

- This completely nullifies what the Sox perceived as their strength: starting pitching. Also, I guess I missed the memo that was sent letting everyone know that Sandy Koufax would be playing the role of Mike Mussina, and Bob Gibson would be playing John Lieber. Good lord. No disrespect to Arroyo and Wakefield (because I’m sure they’re reading this), but I think it was kinda important for the Sox to take at least one of the games in which Pedro and Schilling started. But I’m not a professional…

- The Sox are 1-36 in the first 6 innings of each game. Johnny Damon is 0-8 with 5 K’s. Something is going to have to give here folks.

The result? Boring baseball. Sure, there were maybe 2 1/3 innings of exciting ball, but the Sox are getting whupped right now, just absolutely whupped. My new prediction: Yankees in 5.

But hey, at least they have the Pats. Which is nice. You know what I have? Terrible Philly sports, except the Philadelphia Eagles, who will only break my heart in the end. Oh, and Ben & Jerry’s “Oatmeal Cookie Chunk”. Wow. Have you had this? I mean, there are no words. No words, except “God Bless America”.

I’m out sick today, and I think this is it. I have a fever, chills, dizziness, a monster erection, a sore throat – I think I’m checking out of this world, and moving onto the next (which, for me, will obviously be hell).

I know that my death is now imminent, because I have no desire to masturbate, drink or get high, or even eat the delicious double sausage, egg, and cheese bagel I had delivered this morning. This is surely the end.

So therefore I’d like to thank all of you for your support and encouragement throughout these months. Your emails have been a source of inspiration, and in the case of those who sent me pictures of your boobs, masturbation, and I treasure each and every one.

Sure, it would have been nice to get a least a fucking handjob out of this whole thing, but it’s too late for that now. Instead, I’ll just haunt the shit out of you guys. Know that whenever you are pooping, you will not be alone. I will be there in spirit, quietly humming “I Only Have Eyes For You” and combing my hair.

I have only a few regrets, which are listed below in order from least regretful to most regretful. I regret:

- not getting the chance to really fuck up that Clay Aiken bitch
- not telling my roommate Brian that I secretly am in love with him
- the whole July 1994 Phoenix incident
- jerking off a dog when I was 14 and just so damn curious about sex
- not masturbating at work as much as I should have
- not sleeping with two women at the same time
- setting fire to all those African-American churches in the South in the ‘90′s
- not sleeping with four women at the same time
- all those Green River murders
- not sleeping with three women at the same time

So that’s it – I’m a goner. In lieu of flowers or cards, please send cash or checks, as I leave behind a monstrous amount of credit card and gambling debt to my next of kin, and possibly (keep your fingers crossed!) a child (ALWAYS bring your own condom to a brothel, even if you’re all coked up and telling people you’re George Washington and showing everyone your balls).

God bless, and good night. For my last words, I’d like to take a lyric from my favorite poet of all time, Mr. Russell Jones (aka Ol’ Dirty Bastard, Big Baby Jesus, Dirt Megirt, Unique Ason, Osirus):

You give me your number, I call you up
You act like your pussy don’t interrupt
I don’t have no problem with you fucking me
But I have a little problem with you not fucking me.

Breathtaking. Simply breathtaking.

Adieu dear friends. Adieu.

So I wrote this long post about Christopher Reeve and Ken Caminiti dying and I just couldn’t post it. I don’t know if I’m becoming a total pussy or growing a conscience or whatever, but I could not put it up. The good news for you is that it kinda stunk anyway and wasn’t very funny, as I fumbled with and failed in the delicate task of making fun of dead people. I can do fat jokes, racism, and the homeless with no problem, but the recently deceased? That can be kinda tough.

And now I’ve got nothing. I’m feeling like shit because my throat is sore as hell, and it kept my ass up all night and now I’m totally grumpy. I went to my local crappy doctor this morning and though he said my throat didn’t look “streppy”, he’s not sure and will let me know Thursday. Thursday? Asshole.

A sore throat is the worst malady to have (aside from anything that adversely affects your balls), because it affects swallowing, and that affects eating, something I take very seriously. For example, right now, I’m fucking starving (shocking, I know), but every time I swallow it feels like someone is punching me in the left side of my neck. After having oatmeal for breakfast, I’ve eaten nothing but Luden’s Cherry Throat Drops. For the record, anyone who thinks these things that any medicinal value at all is a total asshole. They’re candy, that’s all there is to it.

[And yes, I am a pussy with all this "I'm sick" and "I'm grumpy" and "My penis is too small for normal condoms, so I have to special order tiny condoms" complaining. The good news is that I'm going to go home and have at least two sundaes for dinner.]

So I’m mailing it in today, with a promise to get back to you tomorrow. I’m going to sit here in my office and stew with my mild fever and swollen glands

Yeah, I know, yesterday I wrote about how good things are, but do you know what “bipolar” means? Asshole.

1) I am a wino. Well, not officially, since according to dictionary.com “wino” is defined as “an indigent wine-drinking alcoholic.”

Despite the fact that the people from MasterCard are right now plotting to kidnap my sister and hold her for ransom until I pay them at least some of the thousands of dollars I owe them (thousands of dollars spent on expensive alcohol, Mexican takeout, and small arms), I don’t think I’m exactly “indigent.”

And, despite the fact that last weekend I woke up with a raging hangover and drank a quart of milk that expired in July because I thought it would “fuck me up good”, I don’t think I’m an “alcoholic” either.

But good lord, I am loving the wine right now. After work on Thursday, I went to one of the three hundred or so wines places in my terrible neighborhood in the Upper East Side, planning to buy a bottle of white wine. I know, I know, white wine is for women and homosexuals, but the red I inhaled last week gave me terrible heartburn, so I figured I’d switch it up. Also, as a card-carrying member of several racist organizations, including but not limited to: Fat Irish Catholics Against Japanese Jews, The Brotherhood of People With Green Eyes Who Really, Really Hate Panamanians With Tattoos, and The People’s Front of Judea, I know that once you go white, you never go back. Or something like that.

When I walked in to the wine place, there was a guy near the door doing a tasting. He asked if I would like to try some wine, and I said, “No”. I don’t really like to do wine tastings, because I know less than nothing about wine. But while you’re tasting it, and the guy’s droning on and on about the grapes and texture, you feel compelled to act like you know what’s he talking about, and I’m always afraid that I’m going to be exposed as a fraud.

Wine Guy: “The red your tasting is a lovely Chilean wine – can you taste the oak undertones?”
Me: [slurping wine, lying] “Totally.”
Wine Guy: “Well, that’s funny, because what you’re drinking is not wine at all. It’s old grape juice mixed with tequila and dish soap. So you are lying.”
Me: [resigned] “Damn. Can I buy this anyway?”
Wine Guy: “Get the hell out of the store before I call the police.”
Me: [resigned] “Damn.”

But, after initially saying “no” to the testing, the voice in my head that tells me things like, “You know what would be awesome? If you stole that car and drove it into a river” and “It’s totally ok to take pills based solely on their color – as long as you believe in them, they won’t hurt you” piped up and said, “Hey, pussy – do you realize that that guy just offered you free booze and you turned it down? Also, can we have chicken parm for dinner tonight?” So I changed my reply and had some wine with the gentleman.

It was still awkward, and he was talking about something called “Rosemount” and how this wine was just in “Spectator” and gabbing on and on until I said, “I’ll take two. Thank you.” I think this is the only way to shut these people up.

I perused the rest of the wine in the store, and in the next five minutes probably 15 store employees came up to me and said, “Can I help you with something?” or “Looking for something in particular?” It got so annoying, I had to restrain myself from screaming, “DAMN IT! I don’t know shit about wine and just want to get fucked up, so leave me alone! And show me your titties, bitch!”

Safely back in the comforting yet strangely formaldehydey-smelling confines of my apartment, I started having the wine. And soon, I was drunk. This is probably because I had the first bottle of white wine in about three sips, but I’m not entirely sure. But good lord – white wine is dangerously easy to drink. It’s like drinking old Gatorade, but instead of refreshing you it makes you drunk and randy.

So for the rest of the weekend, I altered my pre-gaming routine. Instead of following my two vodka red bulls with either beer or some cranberry and vodka, I’d polish off a bottle of white wine.

And god did I get fucked up. Awesome times.

2) Cake is awesome. Not, I’m not talking about the pastry, I’m talking about the band (although I admit that the pastry is even more awesome than the band). My buddy Joe and my roommate Brian and I went to see them at the Hammerstein Ballroom on Friday night. We actually almost didn’t make it; we were plowing through drinks in my apartment and though the show started at 8, we didn’t leave until 9 (thankfully, they had an opening act so we only missed one song).

I don’t understand why this band isn’t bigger. I know they have a large fan base, but really, they should be huge. They have such a unique cool sound: the disco-esque basslines, the harmonies, the lead singer John McCrea’s signature guitar sound, the trumpet – what gives with you people? Can’t you appreciate good music when you hear it?

At any rate, their new album “Pressure Chief” is quite good, in particular “Baskets”, “Wheels”, “The Palm Of Your Hand”, and “Guitar Man.” Check it out, if you have the time.

3) Things are good right now. I think the pendulum of manic-depressive is swinging back to manic, because I’m feeling pretty good about shit. I had an awesome weekend, and even though I spent enough money to make a generous down-payment on a small home in Wichita, I got really fucked up and had a great time. And there’s a lot to look forward to: the weather’s getting cooler, the baseball playoffs, the Philadelphia Eagles, my roommate Brian’s birthday (which gives me an excuse to pee the bed), two of my buddies are getting married which means open bars, etc.

And then, it’ll be Thanksgiving, so I’ll get to overeat (not that I didn’t do that just now by getting a meatball sub at Subway with extra meatballs). Then Christmas, so I can watch all the Christmas movies and wonder if I’ll be spending the holidays alone for the rest of my life, or just until I make enough money for a woman to start using me for it.

And then, the greatest day of my year: New Year’s Day. Philadelphia has this parade on New Year’s Day, called the Mummers Parade. It’s basically like our version of Mardi Gras. I’m going to post about this eventually, but you’re going to have to do some reading up. Check out the following sites:

- www.strutthemovie.com
The site of a documentary released about the Mummers parade and its place in Philadelphia and national history.

- www.mummers.com
A general site that answers many questions about the Mummers.

- www.froggycarr.homestead.com
The particular group that yours truly is a member of.

Again, I’ll explain in greater detail later, but something to do if you’re bored. And, if you’re trying to get in my pants, you should learn everything about the Mummers, since they are a giant part of my life, even moreso than pills or betrayal, which is saying a lot.

Well, the presentation was actually nothing to worry about. I didn’t even give most of it – as I was preparing to do a dry run this morning, my main boss stepped in and said, “So which part do you want me to talk about?” I had to restrain myself from saying, “Um, the whole fucking thing”, but I could not restrain myself from getting an erection, which my boss promptly noticed, and now it’s all weird between us.

Had the environment been different, I would be saying that I kicked ass. I thought the room was going to be tense as the attorneys in the room and those from the other offices (via videoconference) looked on, scowling at me and shaking their heads as sweat dripped from my forehead onto my gigantic plate of ribs, and my hands slowly began to touch my genitals, as I am inclined to do when nervous, but it wasn’t like that. Instead, it was bunch of attorneys basically gabbing and having lunch.

I had forgotten one of the basic rules of the law firm hierarchy: the more power you have, the cooler you are. For example, when I was a legal assistant, about the worst thing that could happen was that you were stuck working closely with a first-year associate. Everyone would boss them around and come down on them, so they’d often take out their frustrations on the only people they could: the legal assistants.

But partners – what the hell do they care? They’re successful multi-millionaires. They’ve seen just about everything in their careers, and don’t get riled up for anything. Prior to walking in the room, with my armpits assured of dryness because of the paper towels I had stuffed in them, I thought, “My god – these are some of the most powerful people, um, around.” But then I realized what they were probably thinking as I walked into the room: “Great, here’s another presentation when I just want to eat lunch – whatever. Wait a minute – where did he get that piece of corn on the cob? Is that whipped cream he’s putting on it?”

So then I became relaxed. I started, my boss talked, I talked, he talked – it went rather smoothly. At the end, there were a few questions, and really, that was it. I know this is kind of anti-climactic; you were expecting some sort of spectacle in which I dropped to the floor, had a seizure, shat myself, and then immediately returned to consciousness and had to pretend that nothing happened and the room didn’t smell like poo. But you know what? Didn’t happen.

And you know what? I don’t give a fuck if nothing exciting happened. It’s over, and I’m feeling a mix of exhaustion, relief, relaxation, and apathy. I feel like I just had sex, except I’m not apologizing profusely or going through my wallet and saying, “I only have $68 on me, but if you want I can run down to the ATM.”

The only moment of “excitement” came at the end of the presentation, when the attorney moderator thanked me and my boss actually physically patted me on the back. I nearly blurted out, “That’s how you do it!” a la Frank the Tank, or pulled an Under Armour guy and screamed, “We gone protect this house!” But, much like all the rage and loneliness I feel on a day to day basis or when watching couples hold hands or slow dance, I was able to bury the excitement and satisfaction deep within my ricotta-filled heart.

And now looking forward to the next few days, I’m fucking psyched. I took off tomorrow, so my plan is to go home, make a giant fucking dinner, drink a few bottles of wine and watch baseball and “Fahrenheit 9/11″, which I’ve never seen (hopefully I won’t end up spitting up the blood, but that’s a chance I have to take). My day tomorrow will consist of sleeping in, eating pancakes, buying $200 worth of drugs, getting high, and watching “The Cosby Show.” And oh yeah, I’ll probably beat off at least five times.

My buddy Joe, my former common-law husband (since we went to high school, college, and lived together for a year post-college), is coming to town and after about four drinks we’re going to be shitting in our hands and throwing it at passersby. We’re seeing Cake tomorrow (an excellent band) and then going to drink our weight in booze. I will also try to eat my weight in rice pudding. I got a head start on this today, and we’re already up to four pounds. Not too shabby.

So I will not be posting tomorrow, but maybe I can pull something together later (I really don’t know – like you fucking care). But, if you don’t hear again from me, have a delightful weekend. It’s fall, and fall is lovely. Soon, it will be winter, which is not lovely. Make the most of these last few remaining weekends of nice weather by going out and trying to have sex with someone under the influence. And if it works, all I ask is that at the moment of climax you think of me, riding a really overweight horse in nothing but my tighty-whities, drinking straight from a bottle of Jack and yelling racial slurs at nearby parked cars.

(Now I turned myself on with that image)

I got nothing for you today.

Tomorrow, I have to give a presentation to about 50 lawyers: mostly old, mostly white, very rich men (mostly). I have no idea why I got picked to do this, but I can not express what a phenomenal error in judgment this is on the part of my superiors. Me, the guy who spends his day thinking of and then transcribing jokes about retards for the internet, talking to a room full of NYC power-brokers whose combined wealth hovers around, if not well over, the one billion dollar mark.

So I’m in full panic mode, and completely freaking out. Usually, I never get nervous, because being nervous means you have to care about something, and, well, you know. The last times I was nervous were a) my driver’s test (“God, I really need to get started on this whole ‘drunk driving’ thing”) and b) the first time I fingerblasted a girl (“How am I going to know where the hole is? Will it just slip right in? What happens if I get hungry during it?”).

But I’m feeling it. And really, it’s my fault. The details are too boring to get into, but I was supposed to have been familiarizing myself with the topic of the presentation starting three months ago. Last Friday, I realized, “Holy shitballs! That presentation’s next Thursday!” and looked at the material for the first time.

So I’m totally fucked. Totally, totally fucked. This isn’t like college, when you can not do shit all semester, then snort a bunch of Ritalin at 11pm the night before a test, read 500 pages in four hours, and then kick ass on a test. These are some of the brightest minds in America (and England and France and Germany), Ivy League grads and Rhodes Scholars, rocking my world during the Q&A session, as I stand there with sweat rings that start at my elbows and connect in the middle of my belly, giving answers like, “I’m going to have to look into that and get back to you” or “Look, you know I don’t know the answer, so why the hell are you asking me the question?” or “Is this thing over? Fuck this all. Fuck it all to hell.”

And I don’t even know where to start this thing (the presentation itself). I was thinking of something like, “Any Yankee fans in the house?” Then I thought that I might as well fuck the whole thing and say, “Do you guys know what a ‘blog’ is?” and put this site up there for them to read while I wolfed down the free salmon salad, knowing it’s the last free meal I’ll ever get on corporate America.

So I have nothing for you except my own neurosis, insecurity, anxiety, and physical discomfort (that Chipotle burrito I had for lunch is not sitting well).

So I’ll get you back tomorrow. In the meantime, if you have a god, pray for me. If not, send me naked pictures of yourself dancing with a monkey and holding a fire hose. You know, or whatever

Yesterday, I spent my day at work researching M&A data.

Yesterday, my roommate Brian spent his day at work at Lindsay Lohan’s childhood home.

Two things we need to get straight:

1) My roommate Brian works for a television celebrity news show. While it’s not an ideal job and it’s hard work, it’s still a pretty sweet gig. While he’s interviewed and met tons of famous people, I can tell you what deal activity looks like in Europe on any given day. Advantage: Brian.

2) I love, love, love Lindsay Lohan (this will be the subject of the post). I don’t mean this in the “I really want to fuck her” way, though I do, and would easily kill and maim any of my friends or loved ones to make this happen. I mean it in the “I want to spend the rest of my life with her until I day at the age of 29 from a cocaine-and-pastry-induced heart attack” way, despite the fact that I’ve never seen anything she’s ever done, and have actually never even heard her speak (I don’t think).

So Brian spent his day in a van roaming around Long Island looking for Lindsay Lohan’s mom. He described it perfectly: “Imagine me, in a sketchy van with a giant black man, driving around suburban Long Island, looking for this woman. Stopping in local places and bar and asking questions. Roaming around on private property. When I finally found the place, it was next to a school. So here I am, with my buddy who, like I said, is a giant black man, with me, creeping around this woman’s house which is next to an elementary school. It was awesome.”

Brian finally met and spoke to Mrs. Lohan, and even met Lindsay’s younger siblings.

Why? Because Lindsay’s parents are absolutely crazy. If you think your parents are crazy, or you’ve been through a tough divorce, check out this snippet from the NY Post’s Page Six section:

Last week, he [Michael Lohan, Lindsay's father] admitted to taking too much “medication” after passing out at Scores. Now his estranged wife Dina, Lindsay’s mother, has taken out an order of protection against him, family friends said.

“Michael has been calling up friends and telling them that Dina tried to run him over,” said one family confidant. “He claims she missed him but hit a wall and that her younger children [Aliana, Michael and Dakota] were inside the car and that she was drinking. He says she is being investigated for child endangerment, DUI, whatever”…

[Michael] Lohan’s behavior has become increasingly odd in recent months. In May, he was arrested for assaulting his brother in-law, Matt Sullivan. Although his daughter’s security team tries to keep him away from the family, he allegedly tried to kick in Dina’s door in August…

A pal says: “Lindsay is very upset. Michael has told her he will kill her mother and he has threatened her [Lindsay's] assistant and friends”…

(The full article can be read here).

Saying that your wife has tried to run you over while drunk and telling your daughter that you’ll kill her daughter – now that is some crazy shit my friends.

And I can’t express how much hotter this makes Lindsay Lohan. Let me explain.

Crazy parents have crazy children, a genetic “trait” that is especially salient in the female sex. And how is this craziness most often expressed? By dressing as a slutty nurse on Halloween and blowing three dudes at once, or getting filmed having sex in the back of a van for $58 and half a grilled cheese sandwich.

And Lindsay Lohan just has that look. It’s hard to explain or pinpoint, but it’s there. She’s got the sex appeal: the weird orange glow from the fake tan, way too much make-up, the giant “where the hell did these come from?” boobs, and the look. It’s the look. And the boobs. Probably moreso the boobs.

Can you imagine Hillary Duff or one of the Olsen Twins having three Amstel Lights and saying, “You know what? I’ve been thinking: let’s give ass-play a try.” I can’t, but I can imagine Lindsay saying so, because it’s my fantasy, so fuck you.

Where am I going with this? No idea. The point: Lindsay, if you’re reading this, I understand what you’re going through. I know it can be tough when your mom’s trying to run over your dad, and your dad says he’s going to kill your mom. I have threatened to kill numerous women, so I know it can be frightening. I’m happy to report that in most cases I haven’t followed through with this, but that’s not the point here.

The point is that I can take you away from all this pain. You can come and stay with me for a while, and I can guard you from these people, unless they have dogs, because I am terrified of dogs.

You don’t have to answer now. Just think about it, and know that I am here, waiting for you, with no pants on, eating a taco supreme (with chicken AND beef). Also, I just ordered a milkshake, and that should be here any minute. If you want, I’ll save you some, but you should really let me know now, because if that’s the case then I’m also going to bake some cookies.

Baseball playoffs start, well, now, so here are my quick-and-dirty predictions:

AL Wild-Card Round
Anaheim over Boston
Minnesota over New York

NL Wild-Card Round
St. Louis over Los Angeles
Houston over Atlanta

NL Championship
Houston over St. Louis
Minnesota over Anaheim

World Series
Minnesota over Houston in 6

Why?

- The Yankees have more issues than they know what to do with. Is anyone afraid of Moose, Lieber, Brown, Hernandez or Vazquez? “Not I” said the cat.
- Things are going too well for Boston right now, except the fact that Pedro Martinez is apparently purposely trying to hurt his legacy. It just can’t happen for them. It just can’t.
- Anaheim is dangerous, but Bartolo Colon is going to have a heart attack. He is just too fat.
- Minnesota – love ‘em. Johan Santana is freaking amazing, and I love the small ball. They just feel right, and I know to go with your heart sometimes, even if it doesn’t really work and hurts most of the day.

- Atlanta? As Ali G would say, they are boring. Bobby Cox, you did a tremendous job this year (as usual), but you got nothing in the postseason.
- LA? C’mon. We’re joking here, right? Yeah, Beltre, but that’s about it (also, in The Year of the 3B, I’m glad I took Troy Glaus in two of my fantasy leagues). At least they have Milton Bradley, who is really making a name for himself in the “I’m seriously a crazy mother fucker and I will fucking stab you” department.
- St. Louis is a juggernaut, but they don’t have it. Trust me on this, even though I have no idea what I’m talking about.
- Houston just feels right. Something about them, I just feel it in my groin, you know?

However, I will be routing for Boston, since I have a lot of vacation days left to burn before the year ends, and I can think of no better way to use them then by spending my time in Boston looting and pillaging. Also, I might even be able to get laid if the Sox win and the city slips into a Bacchanalian euphoria the likes of which no city has seen since the end of WWII.

So, um, Go Sox!

[Also, on a personal note, I'm pleased to report that I won two of my three fantasy leagues. Ladies, please try to calm down and keep your panties on, but I agree that it is a tremendous achievement and only confirms what I already know: I really need to get a fucking hobby that I can at least talk to a woman about. I mean, fuck.]

1) On Friday night for dinner I ate a half a box of pasta, with a half a jar of spaghetti sauce, four meatballs, and a giant chunk of Italian bread (with butter and cheese of course). Then I had a pint of Haagen Dazs Vanilla Caramel Brownie, the other half of a canister of whipped cream, and about thirty or so maraschino cherries. Then for an after-dinner drink I had two bottles of red wine.

I didn’t make it out on Friday night because – surprise surprise – I had unbearable heartburn. This did not stop me from drinking, though every sip felt like someone was pouring heated shards of glass down my esophagus, as I polished off the second bottle just as Johnny Utah let Bodhi ride the wave of the Fifty Year Storm in “Point Break” (question: did anyone ever tell Keanu Reeves that he’s a good actor? He’s just laughable. Also, Patrick Swayze is a sexy mother fucker, and this comes from a man with nearly unblemished record of heterosexuality, save for a few dalliances around the holidays, in the spring, and twice this morning).

I couldn’t sleep because of the heartburn, and kept waking up intermittently to (this is gonna be gross) spit up a mix of saliva, bile, and blood. Though I’m not really sure if it was blood, since I was all tired and groggy so it could have been the wine. Also, I could have dreamed the whole thing, since I remember having a gigantic penis during this ordeal and this is definitely not the case.

I consistently have terrible, terrible heartburn, and have talked to my doctor about it and am taking something for it. But I can’t go back to my doctor after this episode to complain about it, because, though I don’t have an MD, I’m guessing he’s going to say, “Hey chubby – hit the gym, and stop eating enough at dinner to feed a family of 5. Also, drinking bottles upon bottles of wine and 150 Bud Lights a month is really going to fuck up your insides. Also, my god you are hairy. Are you Greek, or is your father a fucking monkey? What gives?”

How do I feel about all this? Eh. If I have to choose between drinking, eating to excess, and paying for sex (what?) and therefore occasionally lose some sleep and spit up blood, well, that’s better than being sober and eating healthy. Although if possible, I’d like to stop paying for sex. Something’s gotta give with my budget, since I’m losing all this money on betting on football, but I digress.

2) On Saturday afternoon, my roommate Brian and I went to the Falconer Fest in Central Park. Our plan was to get high and go watch this birds of prey in action. Well, we didn’t have any pot. Also, “in action” is misleading. You see, I thought that I heard somewhere that Falconry was a sport, but from the looks of things on Saturday, the sport involves a) releasing the bird; b) watching it fly away; c) hoping it comes back.

Brian and I were a little late, but when we got there, everyone was looking up in the sky. Turns out things didn’t go as planned and the birds just fucking flew away. The MC was telling the crowd, “Well, this is not entirely unexpected, but it appears that the falcons have gone squirrel hunting, and they won’t be coming down anytime soon. Fortunately, the birds have electronic tracking devices attached to them, so we’ll be able to see where they are and hopefully get them down later.”

Sweet. Awesome sport. Why don’t I just buy an exotic lizard, take it to Central Park, and shoot it in front of a crowd of people? Or maybe I’ll just get a cougar, spend thousands of dollars on cougar equipment, food, and cages, take it to the park, and fucking leave it there. Isn’t this kinda the same thing?

One cool thing: we did get to see a condor with a 9.5 feet wingspan. And it’s good that I wasn’t high, because I certainly would have lost my shit seeing that giant bird. Good lord. Last night I made my roommates sleep in the living room with me with the lights on, because I was afraid that giant fucking bird was going to swoop in my window and pick at my testicles with its giant beak.

I don’t want to talk about this anymore…

3) On Saturday night, we got proper fucked up. My roommate Ben took the LSAT in the morning, so once the evening came we pregamed at my place a bit, then went down to Blue & Gold in the East Village.

I love Blue & Gold. It’s a dive bar – the kind of place where you don’t use the bathroom because its teeming with HPV. But I could care less, because everything (pints, mixed drinks, shots) is $3. Yes, $3. Sure, I was a little pissed that the SoCo and lime shots were premade and tasted roughly like 85% lime juice, 10% water, 4% SoCo, and 1% sweat, and sure, I still spent $80, but if I was at any other place, it would have cost, um, a lot more.

Naturally, the night is a little blurry, but I know it was capped off with an enormous diner order at 4am or so which consisted of: a reuben, cheese fries, potato salad, onion rings, a piece of carrot cake, two bacon-egg-cheese bagel sandwiches, a side of creamed spinach, and a milkshake. Mmmmmm…

[Can you believe that Ben, Brian, and I are single? It's shocking. Truly fucking shocking.]

First, I have to get something off my chest. Anyone who reads on the subway while standing without either hand on a rail and constantly stumbles and falls into me the whole commute deserves to be crucified..

Have you seen these people? They’re so engrossed in The NY Times that they need two hands to read it, so they stand in the middle of a crowded train and sway. Then, when the train makes a sudden movement, they stumble into those around them, acting surprised, but NEVER apologizing and NEVER reaching for the rail.

JUST HOLD ON TO THE RAIL. You can still read your paper. Most human beings are capable of holding and reading at the same time (unless they have no arms). This is not hard people. Trust me.

Maybe I’m just grumpy because I’m finishing my third consecutive five-day work week. Because of vacations, holidays, and sick days, I haven’t worked three full weeks since (gasp!) April. I don’t like it.

Or maybe I’m grumpy because my tooth is fucking (sorry, “f-ing”) killing me, and it kept me up last night, tossing and turning and forcing me to beat off twice. I think I finally feel asleep at about 7:41am, and when my alarm went off four minutes later, I “woke up” and in a fit of rage set my curtains on fire. So now I have no fucking curtains. Sweet. Anyway, if this keeps up, it’s going to be just like “Castaway” except instead of an ice skate I’ll use a letter opener (I can’t skate) and Tom Hanks is much much thinner than me.

The tooth kept me from a social engagement last night, which is a good and bad thing. Good and bad because it was a karaoke party. I love karaoke, and gave the greatest karaoke performance of all time in August, but I have to be bombed to do it. And I definitely would have gotten bombed enough to do it last night, and would have had a blast. However, I really shouldn’t be getting breasted (drunk) on a week night, especially during the busiest week of the quarter, especially since my boss is finally starting to give me substantive stuff to do.

[Holy shit - I just read that last sentence over and it's official: I'm a pussy. Good lord. When did I turn 30 and start giving a fuck about my "career"? Wow. I'm ashamed of myself.]

Anyway, I did get to watch the debate between Bush and Kerry. And I know that you don’t come here to read about politics. You come hear to read about how last night after dinner I had almost an entire canister of whipped cream. And how I ate it not by putting it in a bowl or shooting in my mouth, but by putting it in the palm of my hand and licking it off, an act which so disturbed my roommate Brian that after he came home from having a few beers he sat me down for a mini-intervention:

Brian: “Dude, you have got to stop with the whipped cream.”
Me: “What? Why?”
Brian: “It’s really not good for you.”
Me: “It’s better than a lot of desserts I could have.”
Brian: “Well then you’ve got to stop shooting it in your hand and licking it off your palm. It’s really, really disgusting.”
Me: “I’ll take your comments into consideration and get back to you.”

But I have to mention a few things about the Bush-Kerry debate (I am admittedly biased).

First, Mr. President, it’s pronounced like new-clee-uhr. Not new-qew-luhr. I tivo’d the debate, so when he went off out “nucular” weapons, I did a rewind, and, sho’ ’nuff, he mispronounced it. Every time.

Now, I’m not going to say that President Bush is dumb. He is, in fact, a pretty smart guy. But you know what? I’m a pretty smart guy too. I’m not saying I’m a genius, but I went to a decent college on a (nearly) full-ride and graduated with honors despite my best attempts to kill myself and my liver with jello shots and Natty Ice.

So what’s frightening to me is that I just may be more intelligent than the current president of the United States. Think about that: I think I am either just as intelligent or more intelligent than the leader of the free world. What’s more, I think a lot of my friends are smarter than the President of the United States (not my roommates though – they ain’t so bright).

Something just isn’t right about that. The intelligence of the president should be beyond reproach, or at least not serve as fodder for late night talk shows every single night. But poor Georgie is target number one to Leno, Letterman, et al, and numerous blogs on the internet. It makes me sad. And crave rice pudding.

But, onto more substantive issues. For a guy who, if he stays in one place long enough you can see the pool of formaldehyde developing around his feet, Kerry did pretty well. He seemed strong, confident, and even a little loose.

I also liked his little anecdotal stories. A great one was when he spoke about how during the Cuban Missile Crisis, JFK’s Secretary of State (Rusk?) went to meet with Charles DeGaulle to get his support. When Rusk said, “I can show you the photos”, DeGaulle said, “No – the word of the president of the United States is enough for me.” I forget what Kerry’s exact words were, but it was something like, “Would that happen in this day with this leader?”

I have absolutely no evidence for this, but it’s shit like this that resonates with viewers. The rest of the debate was a lot of:

Kerry: “Bush cut this by $300 million.”
Bush: “My opponent is incorrect; I raised it by $150 million”

He-said, she-said crap that I completely forget. There was also a lot of pointless shit like Bush looking tired and frustrated toward the end of the debate, saying things like, “I know these people and I know how they work” referring to other world leaders, and “That’s just a terrible idea. It’s just terrible.” referring to Kerry’s plan of bilateral talks with North Korea (the quotes are not exact, but rather my own summation).

But, as my friend Ace Cowboy pointed out, Bush had a chance to deliver a Mortal Kombat-style death blow to Kerry’s hopes for the presidency, and he didn’t. Bottom line.

What my friend Ace didn’t point out is that Jenna Bush, who I have developed a crush on, made an appearance.

Seriously, if anyone knows Jenna, can you please pass this site onto her? I don’t think that’ll she fall in love with me because of it, but maybe she’ll send me an email, and then I can use that email address to find out where she lives, and then I can stand outside her place at night fondling myself and humming “Take My Breath Away”. Because I need a new hobby. Badly.

I need some advice.

Whenever my roommates are sitting in the living room watching TV, I do this thing to gross them out. I’ll walk into the room (wearing mesh shorts) and stick both hands down my pants. Then I’ll take my penis (henceforth called “my bird”) in my right hand, and smack it repeatedly against the open palm of my left hand, which is facing downward (all this is going on in the shorts; nothing is exposed). The result is a loud slapping noise, which completely grosses my roommates out. It goes like this:

[me running into living room] “Guys, check this out!” [sticks hands down pants, makes slapping noise with bird]

Now, I think this is hilarious, and I do it at least three times a week.

My roommates, however, say that this is masturbation. I completely disagree. We argue about this as if we were arguing about who the greatest 3B of all time is (Mike Schmidt), who the best “Friend” is (obviously Ross), and what famous person would we most like to sleep with (Lindsay Lohan, Heather Graham, Salma Hayek, and Tina Turner all at once).

I say it’s not masturbation. In my book (and my book on this is huge and has lots of pictures and some of the pages stick together), masturbation is self-arousal for pleasure. I am not arousing myself when I do this, nor do I gain any sexual pleasure out of it, aside from the pleasure of seeing my roommates squirm and go, “You’re fucking disgusting dude.”

They say it is masturbation. According to them, any self-manipulation of the genitals other than aiming to pee is masturbation.

I just don’t buy it. This is totally not masturbation. I think they keep saying that it is so that I’ll think, “Geez, am I really jerking off in front of my roommates?” and stop doing it. This has backfired big time, and I’m doing it at least once a day now. That, and my other favorite thing, which is walking into the living room with a part of my scrotum exposed between my fingers saying, “Hey guys, do either of you want a piece of Juicy Fruit? I chewed it up a bit, but it’s still got some flavor. But it tastes like bleu cheese and smells like bacon that’s been left on the asphalt of a New York City street for four days in July, so I don’t know if you want any.”

So what do you think: is this masturbation?

******************************************

While we’re talking about my roommates, last night I asked them,

Me: “Does your heart beat really, really fast when you piss?”
Brian: “Um, no. And I don’t think that’s a very good sign.”
Me: “Really?”
Ben: “Yeah, you might want to talk to a doctor about that.”
Me: “Well, I know I’m in worse shape than you guys. But next time you piss, can you just see if your heart rate increases as your pissing?”
Brian: “So does it just increase when you piss or it is a lot faster?”
Me: “Oh god – it beats so fast you can see my man-boobs shaking, the area where my neck connects to my chest pulsating, and my vision gets blurry.”
Brian: “Yeah, I don’t know about that…”

And of course, every time the pee they forget to check.

I’m enough of a hypochondriac to know a little bit about medicine, and I know your heart’s supposed to beat faster when you get up from your chair, or take a shower, or wait for the subway – but while pissing?

Please tell me this is normal before I check myself in to the nearest emergency room. Lie if you have to.

******************************************

I have been cursing (or swearing or cussing) a lot lately. I really like to say instead of “fuck”, just “F”. As in, “Then the stripper was like ‘That’ll be $40′ and I was like, ‘What the F?’”

But one runs into a problem when trying to write the word “fucking” this way. See, technically, it’s supposed to be spelled f’ing or f’in’. As in, “I was f’in’ this hot broad last night and then she turned out to be a f’in’ dude! But I kept going because I was like, ‘Eh, what the F?’”

However, I’ve also seen it spelled effing, which I completely despise. Though phonetically correct, there is no “e” in the word “fucking”, asshole.

So, heretofore I am going to occasionally spell fucking f-ing.

Yeah, I know it’s not funny, but fuck you.

******************************************

I work in my department with only four other people, and we all share a secretary. He’s really more of an assistant, but whatever. What are you, a fucking Narc?

Anyway, I ask this poor guy so many questions in the course of day that he must hate me. And these questions have nothing to do with work in the least. It can be anything from simple things like, “Is it raining out?” (even though he sits in a windowless area) to random shit like “How do you say, ‘I want you’ in French?” though to my knowledge he doesn’t speak French.

I don’t know why I do this, but I’ve found that in corporate institutions some of the most intelligent people are secretaries. So I therefore take it upon myself to ask him questions like, “What’s the capital of Zaire?” and “Who were the original ‘Charlie’s Angels?’” and “How do Hispanic guys get their beards so thin and straight?”

Great, just what I need: another enemy at work.

******************************************

Four hot dogs is NOT an acceptable dinner for a 25 year old man. Well, it’s not an acceptable dinner for anyone really, but it struck me recently that from Monday to Wednesday I had the same meals every day: breakfast was oatmeal, lunch was peanut butter and jelly and soup, and dinner was hot dogs and mac and cheese.

So now I have the genitalia AND the diet of an 8 year old. Sweet.

******************************************

Speaking of terrible diets, I probably go through at least a bottle of pepto a week. Seriously, I should be their spokesperson, or at least get some free shit, since I spend more annually on pepto-bismol than I do on haircuts, underwear, or soap.

******************************************

Some music:

- “Push Th’ Little Daisies” Ween
God, I fucking love this band. Sure, some of their stuff is a little too out there for me, but for the most part they fucking rock. And they are from just outside of Philly! Yay!

- “Moon Dreams” Miles Davis
This has to be one of the most relaxing songs of all-time. Whenever I hear it, I think of my grandparents slow dancing together. I have no idea why, and yeah, maybe that’s the lamest thing I’ve ever written, but I guess what I’m trying to say is that I really want to slow dance to this song.

Moving on…

- “Year Of The Rat” Badly Drawn Boy
This jerkoff recommended a Badly Drawn Boy song to me last week, and I’ve been listening to his shit since. At about 2:40 into the song, when Damon and the kids sing “One plus one is one” together over and over again, well, it’s just really, really purdy.

- “Have To Explode” The Mountain Goats
Another band that was recently recommended to me, this time from Nic in Colorado. I wrote about their song “No Children” last Thursday, but this one is also very nice. I like it because it is very, very sad and about love. Sad about love is right up my alley. So is mescaline. But I digress…

- “I Got A Man” Positive K
I’m gonna make a bold statement: this is my favorite late ’80′s/early ’90′s dance-rap song. I mean, what can top it? A duet in which a guy is trying to kick it to a girl. My favorite part:

Girl: “My man buys me things and he takes me out.”
Positive K: “Well you can keep your man ’cause I don’t go that route.”

Amen brother. Amen.

******************************************

Finally, thank you for all the ideas about tooth pain remedies and the well wishes. I’m not sure if you people are really nice or just really, really bored. Something tells me it’s the latter.

But I’m happy to report that since I’m eating Aleve like Pez I’m feeling pretty good. And in about 26 hours I’ll be able to do some serious self-medicating, so things are looking up (for the most part).

We (as in the royal we) may have a serious problem: my wisdom teeth are hurting like a mother fucker.

On Monday, I noticed something wasn’t right in my mouth (other than the obvious herpes sores and that chunk of carrot cake stuck in there since ’98). Yesterday, the pain got a lil’ more intense. Last night, I couldn’t sleep because my jaw began to hurt. And this morning when I woke up, my jaw (and penis) were throbbing, although it didn’t stop me from having some mozzarella sticks for breakfast.

I’ve been through this before. In November of 2002, I had two of my wisdom teeth unceremoniously yanked from my jaw. Prior to getting them out, every year or so I’d go through some serious “keep me a awake at night” pain, but, as I fear dentists more than I fear black people, I would suffer through it, and with the help of painkillers I stole from my dad or bought on J-train, it would eventually go away.

But then it became too much, and didn’t go away. One day during my suffering, I was sitting at the lunch table and asking co-workers about what dentist they go to, as I needed to see a dentist first before going to the oral surgeon’s to get my teeth out. My friend Luq said, “Jay, you’ve got to go to my dentist. She is really, really smoking. Not only that, every girl that works in the office – receptionists, aides, whatever – are all smoking hot.” I figured that if I was going to have to see a dentist and experience some pain, I might as well see some attractive ladies.

Not a good idea.

I got to the office, and Luq was right – it was crawling with beautiful women, all wearing that sexy medical outfit. Not surprisingly, the waiting room was full of Wall Street-type guys, guys who give off that “I spend at least $25,000 a year on the sex trade” vibe.

Soon after I was called into an office and asked to sit in a chair by a gorgeous Persian dental aide. I explained the situation: my whole mouth was killing and I couldn’t eat or sleep or get in any fights and my god you are beautiful (well, I don’t think I said that part out loud).

She asked me to open up and took that little poker thing and started poking around. This was intensely uncomfortable. Since my teeth were so sensitive, every time she poked that thing into my mouth (get your mind out of the gutter asshole) my body would involuntarily spasm in pain. Before long I was covered in sweat, because I was trying so hard not to let on that the pain was murderous (because she was so, so hot), and looking in my white dress shirt like I had just been in the unsexiest wet t-shirt contest of all time.

She finally (!) pulled away, and gave me one of those “I pity you, you weak, weak man” looks. She said, “Ok Jason, now I’m going to clean your teeth. If you want, I can put a numbing gel on your teeth, so it won’t hurt.”

Even though in that dentist’s chair I was a sweating, slobbering mess of a man, my man instincts kicked in. A hot chick was taking pity on me because I couldn’t handle pain. I responded, doing my best Chris Farley in “Tommy Boy”, “Do you know where the weight room is?” impression, saying, “No, no. That’s fine. Whatever.”

And as a result, I don’t remember much of the next seven minutes, because I was slipping in and out of consciousness because of the overwhelming pain. I’ve been beaten up, had bones broken, been hits a by cars, but nothing – nothing – hurt worse than that cleaning brush buzzing in circles around my gums and teeth. When I think of it this day it still hurts, and then I have an orgasm.

When she left, the worst was over. I didn’t even mind that the dentist was not an attractive woman, but a middle-aged Jewish guy, because the hot one “had an emergency”. I’m guessing that means the Persian dental aide grabbed her in the hallway and say, “Best stay outta there. He’s a big one and awful sweaty. Also, I think he’s still crying.”

And the wisdom teeth removal wasn’t that bad either. I had ponied up a couple of extra bucks to be completely knocked out, but since I’m fat and my body for whatever reason doesn’t take anesthesia well, I didn’t lose consciousness. I was surprised to see what a violent process it was…it was kinda like me trying to pull a hero under from under the body of an obese sleeping hobo. Only the oral surgeon didn’t use as much foul language as I usually do when grabbing the sandwich. Guess we were just raised differently.

But anyway, now I’m getting that familiar throbbing, but I promise you I will not go back to that damn dentist or her hot assistants. My hope of hopes is that with just the right combination of vodka, cranberry juice, a few shots of Jagermeister, the tooth pain will go away. Just like the unhappiness. And the loneliness. But I digress…

Leave it to the Japanese, when they’re not making weird cartoons or, um, whatever else the Japanese do, to take the humanity out of cuddling.

My favorite line: “It keeps holding me all the way through,” she said [of the pillow] in her home outside of Tokyo. “I think this is great because this does not betray me.”

Ms. Suzuki, congratulations. You’re the craziest bitch I’ve ever heard of (and considering my female friends, ex-girlfriends, and lady hitchhikers I’ve picked up, that’s quite an accomplishment).

I have written before about my dad (see here and here) My dad is awesome. And I don’t mean this in the “I’m 8 years old and I think my dad is the coolest because he can throw a football real far and he can beat up your dad” kinda way.

My dad is awesome because he can beat up your dad, and I mean that in the “I’m 25 years old and seriously, my dad would kick your dad’s ass” kinda way. You see, my dad is a real man. Until he got hurt, he had been working as a mechanic and longshoreman since he was 17, regularly pulling 80 hour weeks, always exposed to the harsh seasonal elements, always coming home covered in grease, smelling like a mix of cold, smoke, and Brut, and often wearing those mesh hats that hipsters loved to wear a year or two ago before they went the way of Zubaz pants, Reebok Pumps, and using protection when you make love (seriously, who does that?).

Some other things you should know about my dad:

- He has four tattoos: an Irish boxer (with his nickname, “Mugs”, under it), an Irish bulldog, an Irish flag, and a skull with a knife through it
- He has a moustache
- He wears a giant Celtic cross around his neck at all times
- He owns at least five times as many sleeveless shirts as he does ties (possibly even ten or fifteen times as many), and wears them exclusively from about May 20 until September 20 of every year
- He used to ride a motorcycle
- He wears “Terminator” style sunglasses
- His idea of fun is taking apart an engine and putting it back together
- If anything is wrong in your house (plumbing, electrical, um, whatever else), he can fix it, or he knows someone who can do it “real cheap”
- He reads books about serial killers, watches only sports, the news, and the History/Discovery channels, and loves horror movies
- In an average day, he smokes two packs of Marlboro Reds, has ten cups of coffee, drinks a gallon of whole milk, and eats a half a stick of butter
- He has been stabbed (seriously)
- When he was 18, down the Jersey shore, he dove into a foot of water (not knowing it was so shallow – also, he was drunk). He kept drinking, drove home, slept, woke up the next day and drove 90 miles back to Philly. At that point he told his mom, “Mom, I think I hurt my neck.” Diagnosis: broken neck. The doctor told him if he had turned his neck just one degree further, he would have been paralyzed for life.

And then, ladies and gentlemen, there’s me. To say that I’m the complete opposite of my dad is not entirely true, since we are roughly the same size, although I’m pretty sure my dad can bench press more than 60 pounds.

Some things about me:

- I’m terrified of bugs. Not grossed out, but “run away squealing and yelping” terrified
- I’m also scared of thunder, most dogs, and night time
- I cry at least three times a week, usually over a pastry that has gone stale
- I also cry at movies, while listening to music, every time I get an email, and on Wednesdays and Fridays
- I have won maybe 3% of the fights I’ve been in, and that one victory came against a 14 year old blind spaniel-terrier mix named Fritz
- “Scary Movie” was one of the most terrifying 90 minutes of my life
- “Grease” is among my top five favorite movies
- I regularly listen to music by Wham! and Janet Jackson, I really like that “Invisible” song, and I own both “The Phantom of the Opera” and “Jesus Christ Superstar” soundtracks
- Every time I use a hammer, I wind up hurting myself or someone else (usually me)
- If I have so much as an itch, a paper cut, or a mosquito bite, my intense hypochondria kicks in and I have to be physically restrained from going to the nearest emergency room
- At least once a week I have to alter my dinner plans because I can’t open a jar of spaghetti sauce
- I barely know how to pump gas, and from ages 16-18 I would just open the hood of my car and just spray the gas all over the engine

I know that my dad is proud of me and all, but I don’t think that he ever envisioned his first-born son turning out this way. Sure, at a young age, my dad taught me how to fight, played up the whole “If anything happens to me, you’re the man of the household” thing, and instilled in me a love of sports, so much so that my two childhood idols were Hulk Hogan and Mike Schmidt.

But then something went terribly, terribly wrong.

I don’t really know where or when (that’s what therapy is for), but here I am: a mildly successful transplanted New Yorker who spends most of his day thinking of jokes about masturbation to put on the internet and who would rather read a book about the theme of purgatory in Hamlet than go to a car show.

So you get it: my dad and I have always had a good but dichotomous and healthy if not hilarious relationship.

But last night, for the first time in my life, I actually did something that I’m sure would have made him proud. I did something manly and I succeeded in doing it. And no, I’m not talking about bringing a woman to orgasm, because we all know that the whole “woman can have orgasms” thing is just a myth. No, I did something much more manly: a built a desk.

[Well, I didn't actually "build it" - I put it together. But you get it.]

You see, when I decided I was going to start taking grad classes, it basically gave me an opportunity to spend lots of money. I thought to myself, “Well, if I’m going back to school, I’m going to need a computer.” Two weeks later, my $2600 super-duper laptop arrived. Then I thought, “Well, if I have a laptop, I’m going to need to convert my expansive VHS porn collection to DVD. This way I can have a break to watch porn when I’m getting stressed while writing a paper.” I’m still working on this one, but we’re well over the $200 mark with the conversion. And finally, I thought, “If I’m going back to school, chances are I’m going to be meeting a lot of new women, so I’m going to have to start drinking a lot more and just generally spending a lot more money.” I haven’t really figured the relationship here, but so far, so good.

Oh, and also at some point I decided I needed a desk.

So I ordered the desk, and in early August it arrived. It arrived on a Saturday, but I was rushing out that day, so I put the gigantic box in the foyer of my apartment. There, it proceeded to collected dust and draw the ire of my roommates (“Are you going to move this huge fucking box or what?”) until last night.

I should note that I stink at this shit. I absolutely stink at putting together things. This is because, like most guys, I have an intense aversion to instructions. However, unlike most guys, I have no preternatural understanding of mechanics and how things work. Also, I have no patience and am a quitter at heart.

It appeared that this endeavor was doomed from the start. But I was determined. First, I got a little high. I find that really there’s no downside to this, and getting high helps in pretty much every situation (except when trying to cover up a crime – trust me).

Then, I opened the box and spread the parts all over my room.

Of course, in doing this I lost the bag of screws, which was kinda an important component. Faced with this obstacle, I did what I thought was best at the time: ate a huge piece of chocolate cake and spent the next hour downloading Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam songs and writing emails.

But then I pulled myself together, and, as luck would have it, I found the bag of screws (it was, of all places, under my pillow).

So I hunkered down, ripped off my shirt, blasted some Bad Company, and finally, for the first time in my life, I was my father’s son. All I needed was the bandana and the Marlboro Red hanging out of my mouth, and you would have confused us. I threw aside the directions, worked solely by instinct, hammered and screwed and cursed away, and, about 45 minutes later, my desk was complete.

Needless to say, it was one of the top five accomplishments of my life. I mean, I was getting myself turned on while I was putting the desk together, working with those tools, and being all manly.

And the result? The desk is beautiful. I used it last night, and it seems to work. And sure, it’s only a matter of time until I slip into a drug-induced manic depressive rage and destroy it with my bare hands after discovering that one of my roommates ate my leftover macaroni and cheese, but until then, it’s simply glorious. Glorious.

And Dad, if you read this, which you won’t, or if we talked on the phone about anything but sports, or if we talked in person besides anything other than sports or “Are you getting bigger?”, then you’d know I did this for you.

But don’t get spoiled, because I’m pretty sure this is a once in a lifetime thing. Actually, this is definitely a once in a lifetime thing.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam. Who’s your favorite Cult Jam member? Mine was Alex Mosley. What a talent. What a fucking talent.

[Warning: posting may be a little light this week, as it is the end of the quarter and therefore Uncle Jason is very busy at work. I will try my best, but, as we all know by now, my best is most often not good enough.]

1) I had 10 Double Stuf Oreos for breakfast, and for the third time in five weeks I actually had to get off the subway in the middle of my morning commute to go to Hunter (where I’m taking grad classes and which is en route to my place of employment) to poop. Apparently, though delicious, 10 Double Stuf Oreos are not good on the stomach at 7:15 in the morning. Who knew? Suffice to say, I won’t be having 10 Oreos for breakfast any more. Or at least until tomorrow. God they are delicious.

2) After relieving myself, I got back on the train and was standing on the crowded subway when I noticed a lot of women looking in my direction. My first thought was, naturally, “Oh my god – do I have a boner?” I didn’t, so then I looked next to me and saw this “dreamy” French dude reading Camus’ The Stranger looking all dreamy and such (I’m not sure if he was French, but he looked like a Frenchie and the book was in French). I spent the rest of the ride straightening my posture, flexing my guns, making sure that I looked my finest for any lady that approached me and said, “I wasn’t looking at that nancy Frenchie – I like real men. So why don’t you take me to the nearest train station bathroom and have your way this me? But please, no ass play.”

Alas, this did not happen. Although I see most of a girl’s boob later on the train. Good stuff.

3) As I was walking to work I was approached by a co-worker, a buddy of mine. Again, I had an embarrassing I-Pod moment. He asked what I was listening to, and I stumbled and said, “Nothing”. In reality, I was listening to Liz Phair’s “Hot White Cum”. And no, I don’t think this makes me gay (well, it probably doesn’t). And please, don’t look up the lyrics to the song, which you can find here. I mean, guys like this song, right? Or does it make me gay? Can someone help me out here? It’s such a damn catchy tune, aside from all the “give me your semen so I can cover myself with it” talk.

Damn.

[And lastly, not a morning note]

I have to say I’m getting pretty excited about the Philadelphia Eagles. I didn’t see the game however, as I was treated to the craptacular Giants-Browns game. Christ – I’ve seen flag football games at the Special Olympics that made for more exciting football.

Anyway, the Eagles are getting me all riled up. But, I know that in the end, I’m going to get hurt. And then I’m going to hurt someone else. And then I’m going to jail. So you can see how I don’t have much to look forward to.

And now I’m all bummed out. Fuck.

It’s Friday, so that means I’m filled with an excited energy now that the weekend is upon us. My credit cards are burning a hole in my wallet, practically screaming, “Jason, take us out and use us to pay for drinks for women way out of your league! Then you can curse us in a month when you get your statement! Or maybe get high and give our wonderful numbers to the charming lady on the other end of the phone so she’ll tell you how much she loves fisting!”

I didn’t go out last night, so I’m feeling pretty good. Rather than tell you what I did (cleaned my bathroom and bedroom, made dinner, watched TV, killed two Puerto Ricans – the usual), I’m going to answer some of your emails. This also works well with my whole “laziness” thing.

The first email comes from Phil in Chicago. He writes:

Porn: I fancy myself somewhat a fan, albeit not obsessed (not that I don’t respect you). My question – who is/are your favorite actresses? And more importantly, why?

Wonderful question Phil, and one I am aptly suited to answer. First, I would use caution when using the word “actresses”. When your only responsibility is to show up on a set and have some guy cream on your face in front of a camera, I don’t know if you can be called an “actress”. “Starlet” is a much more appropriate word, and it encapsulates all the glitz and glamour that is porn.

I’ve been watching porn since the age of 13, when my family began stealing cable, thus making my adolescence a lot more interesting with three full-time 24-hour porno channels at my disposal. Most teenage boys would murder their siblings to be so lucky, and I know two who have. Poor bastards.

In addition, I’m fascinated by the porn industry, because it is a money making machine. A few of my friends are starting businesses and investing their money in all sorts of ventures, but the thing is, to me there are three things in which you can invest to optimally maximize your returns: titties, booze, and gambling. Pay a girl $5 an hour to strip for you, take half of what she makes for each lap dance, charge $10 at the door, and have a bunch of schleps chugging $10 watered-down vodka tonics all night. Open a bar, buy your booze wholesale, so that your bottle of Absolut costs you $6 but you get $115 worth of vodka tonics out of it, all while paying bartenders $2 an hour to serve them. Open a casino, and for every $20 you take in, pay out $1, because gambling, whether anyone in the industry will admit it or not, is an addiction.

[I know this is way oversimplifying, and I'm forgetting the monumental expenses and pains of licensing, real estate, etc and the tremendous amount of capital you need to start something like this, but you get the point - jerkoff.]

I guess what I’m trying to say is that in many circles I’m considered an expert in pornography (and yes, believe it or not ladies, I’m single – shocking, I know). Here are, in order, my top 5 favorite starlets:

1) Celeste – I think I like Celeste because she was in the first porn scene and I ever saw, and consequently I developed an attachment to her. It also helps that she’s extremely hot and has gigantic (but tasteful) fake breasts. She has retired, but she’s still my #1 all-time favorite.

2) Chasey Lain – So hot that the Bloodhound Gang (who, by the way, suck) wrote a ballad to her. She also had cameos in “He Got Game” and “Orgazmo.” Also, really, really hot (why do I have a feeling I’m going to be saying that about all of these women?).

3) Kira Kener – Is it natural to be Asian, 5’4″, 110 pounds, and have natural super enormo-boobs? No, but that’s why I like Kira Kener (Asian fetish notwithstanding).

4) Jenna Jameson – Just because you have to. A tremendous talent and the face of the porn industry, she retired recently but will live on in perpetuity through her films, website, books, etc.

5) Briana Banks – Many consider Briana the “new” Jenna. She broke into porn as Mirage, a lower-level starlet. Then she went and got the most giant fakest boobs available, and she’s risen to the top of the industry. She’s still very active, and (gulp) 21 years old. I mean, wow.

*********************************************

The next email comes from Jeff from Denver. It’s not really a question, but an interesting story which also introduces a new term.

Don’t mean to sidetrack you, but I was perusing some of the archived postings on the blog because, well if I actually gave a shit about my job and did any work, I’d have to kill myself…right after I annihilate every last mother in this glory hole.

Anyway, the post on May 10th about maintaining the upperhand after you breakup with a girl. So, this girl and I split many years ago, and I was crushed. I was out with a coworker a couple of weeks later getting completely blotto on various concoctions when he starts asking me what the fuck is wrong. I recant the story of my lost love, and provide him with her name and where she grew up and went to school. His jaw drops and beer starts shooting out of his nose much like I imagine Edison would have looked after inventing the light bulb, or the visual of what in some circles is a “love making” technique commonly referred to as the Angry Dragon. (If you don’t know, look it up) He then asks me a series of questions obviously clarifying a suspicion he’s formulating. At the end of this interrogation and after he calls an ex girlfriend of his in Wichita, Kansas of all places, he confides in me that this chick, before I started dating her, is the same chick that he went to college with, and is the same chick that, in front of a bar full of chanting on-lookers swallowed her pride and that of a lucky young man to the delight of everyone present on a dare. Not even a bet!

Wow! I mean I knew she was a freak, and to be honest, that’s the main reason I was so broken up about our sudden parting, but that’s hilarious.

And seriously, if you don’t know what the Angry Dragon is you have to look it up. You of all people will get a kick out of it.

Wow. Lot of emotions there. I don’t know if this technically qualifies as the Upper Hand, because, although you have the Upper Hand because you can forever say, “Remember when you blew a dude in front of a bar full of people?”, you actually dated her.

This reminds me of a story from college. There was a girl that we went to school with that was, for lack of a better way of saying it, a complete and total promiscuous slut. This girl slept with everyone (well, except me). At least three of my friends slept with her, but about nine of them caught a beejer.

To look at this girl, you’d never realize that she was a freakazoid nitro-turbo slut. And one day, probably while under the influence, I realized something: this girl is going to leave college and have the opportunity to totally reinvent herself. She can move on, leave her slutty past behind, and marry a guy who has know idea that her nickname throughout college was Hallway (as in, “throw the hot dog down the hallway”, as in, her vagina is so loose making love to her is like throwing a hot dog down a hallway).

In this story, the girl blew a dude in front of a room full of people, but managed to hide it (to an extent) and start a new relationship with some poor unsuspecting chap. A tremendous story, and an important lesson: never date a girl who you haven’t spent all your time with since puberty. Because she may have blown a dude at a bar in front of a bunch of people.

And also, the introduction of a new term: the Angry Dragon. I had heard Cleveland Steamer, Dirty Sanchez, Arabian Gas Mask/Roman War Helmet, etc, but never the Angry Dragon. Though I think I will lose forever my female readership if I write what it is, you don’t reap rewards without taking risks. Therefore (cover your eyes those who don’t want to be grossed out), the Angry Dragon is when a man ejaculates into a woman’s mouth, then karate chops her in the neck, causing the semen to shoot out her nose, just like an Angry Dragon.

[Give it a moment.]

My official stance: no comment. Aside from, who the hell thinks of this stuff? Oh wait, people like my friends and I. Right.

*********************************************

Another story comes from a reader in Memphis, who writes after reading yesterday’s post:

A friend of mine once got drunk and stupid, as was his wont, and sent a long, vicious e-mail to his ex-girlfriend. You know the form: “I hated fucking you, please why won’t you come back, I hope your vagina rots out or something, God I’ve never loved anyone like you, etc.”

The problem: He mistyped the e-mail address by one letter, and it went to HER MOTHER instead.

He had an e-mail from the ex in the morning, tearing him a new asshole. I’m pretty sure that episode squashed any chance of a reconciliation.

Um, yeah, I’d say so. As a matter of fact, I can’t think of anything worse to squash a chance of reconciliation than an email to your ex’s mom telling her you hated fucking her. Well, maybe a homicide, but that’s about it.

*********************************************

Finally, our last email was one that piqued my interest the most. It’s from Zana V., who hails from “a very small village about 20 miles north of NYC.” She writes:

Rumor has it that you are involved with someone and you are not willing to admit it. Care to comment on this?

Ah, one of the major trappings of “celebrity” – the press is starting to intrude on my lovelife and rumors are swirling.

I knew this would happen eventually. As the site has been growing in popularity (all through word of mouth – thank you tons and please continue to pass it on), I’ve noticed the paparazzi trailing me wherever I go, taking pictures of me in compromising positions, shooting me when I’m drunk, getting pizza at 4am, or beating up a dog. I think if you look hard enough on the internet there’s even a picture of me sleeping quietly next to a pantsless hobo.

Sure, maybe I have been club hopping with the guys from “That ’70′s Show” recently. And maybe last week Tom Sizemore and I got in a duel that resulted in his death. And perhaps I threw a pile of dog shit at Ben Affleck on Tuesday while he was lunching with Jennifer Garner and yelled in a Boston accent, “You fahkin’ douchebag!”

But, alas, I am not involved with anyone. However, if anyone would like to be involved with me, please email me immediately. I have some plans this weekend, but I will surely blow them off as long as you promise that we will make love and it’ll cost me under $100. I would prefer someone that’s STD-free, but if not, well, that’s fine too.

So write immediately. Do it now. Operators are standing by.

[Have a good weekend.]

I am universally-recognized as the king of leaving drunken messages on the voicemail of an ex. I have had years of practice at this, since pretty much every relationship I’m in ends in me being dumped and, in my opinion, mistreated or wronged. Also, in case I haven’t mentioned this already, I like to drink a little bit.

Everyone wants passion in a relationship. Whether it manifests itself in fucking or fighting, isn’t passion what it’s all about? Doesn’t everyone secretly desire a love so grandiose and overwhelming so as to obliterate their life and their rationality? Who hasn’t read about the disastrous and insane relationship between F. Scott and Zelda and thought, “Well, that’s some of the craziest shit I’ve ever heard, but it still sounds kinda cool.”

Generally speaking, I can not offer a woman happiness, financial security, reliability, love, respect, honesty, manners or good hygiene, but I do have lots of passion (this is because I am insane). However, this passion usually only appears after the relationship is over. And when I’m drunk. And when it’s after 3 in the morning. Damn.

My work in leaving crazy messages has inspired countless others to elevate their game past the “I love you and miss you” or “Why did you dump me?” standard messages to much more creative missives on the voicemails of their exes. Actually, I have no idea whether or not this is true, but, I’m guessing it is.

My own work includes such messages as:

- “Hey baby. It’s me, Jason, the guy you dumped last week. I’m drunk and I wanted to tell you that I wrote a poem for you. Do you want to hear it? Ok, here it goes: ‘You’re a whore.’ Did you like that? Because I had a lot of fun writing it. I hope a pack of wild dogs attacks you in Central Park while pigeons shit on you. Have a good night.”

- “Hey, it’s me. Listen, I just had a thought, and I realized that you should probably get checked for STD’s. Because I cheated on you – a lot. I bet that stings, doesn’t it? Well, if it doesn’t, maybe this will: you’re a whore. I hope you get hit by a car and then the car explodes. Also, someone pees on you. Have a good night.”

- “Well, can’t say I’m not surprised you didn’t pick up. It’s Jason, it’s 4:41 in the morning, and I was just thinking about you because I just threw up. And I realized that this throw up reminds me of you, because like you, it’s ugly, it smells, and it gives terrible blow jobs and is obsessed with its weight. Also, if this vomit had a reputation, it would be the reputation of a whore, just like you, because you’re a whore. I hope that you eat nothing but tofu and you still gain fifty pounds. Have a good night.”

Also, one night, in the middle of a particularly vitriolic spasm, I left three, count ‘em three, messages for an ex, each message five minutes long. Why three messages at five minutes each? Because the voicemail lady kept coming on and saying, “I’m sorry, but you have reached the maximum amount of time allowed for a voicemail” and hanging up on me. Apparently, I had more to get off my chest, so I kept calling back. Very nice.

Where am I going with this? I few posts ago, I asked for music suggestions, and you guys really laid it on me. I am very grateful, and I’ve liked a lot of the stuff. Keep ‘em coming, but if you send more, don’t send me 50 songs at a time. I appreciate the effort, but it’s a little overwhelming. Send a handful that I absolutely need to listen to, and, if you want, let me know what you’re wearing or send me a picture of yourself having sex with three dudes at once.

One reader, whose name or location I can’t mention because he did not list them like I have been asking you to, sent in a suggestion for a song called “No Children” by a band called The Mountain Goats. I had heard neither of this band or of this song, so I figured I’d give it a download and check it out.

The lowest form of blogging (I still despise that word and all its incarnations) is when people post song lyrics. There are so many things wrong with it but I care not to list them, because I don’t want to sound too much like a hypocrite since I’m going to post some lyrics in a minute. I just wanted to say this to cover my ass.

This particular song is about a husband and wife ending their marriage bitterly. Very somber theme, with very somber lyrics, but it’s delivered in a pop-folk way that makes it kinda humorous and sad at the same time. The singer sings in a very chippy bright tone, and it makes you kinda feel happy. Guitars are happily strumming away, and you’d think it’s almost a children’s song if you listened just to the music. Then you hear what he’s saying, and you think, “Damn. Now that’s fucked up.”

And this guy, well, he’s pretty good. A small sampling:

I hope I cut myself shaving tomorrow
I hope it bleeds all day long
Our friends say it’s darkest before the sun rises
We’re pretty sure they’re all wrong

I hope it stays dark forever
I hope the worst isn’t over
And I hope you blink before I do
And I hope I never get sober

And I hope when you think of me years down the line
You can’t find one good thing to say
And I hope that if I found the strength to walk out
You’d stay the hell out of my way

I am drowning
There is no sign of land
You are coming down with me
Hand in unlovable hand

And I hope you die
I hope we both die
[instrumental break]

Well.

“I hope you die/I hope we both die” blows me out of the water. Good lord. As much pain and unhappiness as I’ve wished every ex, I never thought of saying, “I hope you die. Hell, I hope we both die.” That is some serious pain right there. And god help me if I don’t think it’s funny as hell.

Again, I don’t throw the term “genius” around often, but it think it’s appropriate here.

And now, I want a girlfriend. I want a whirlwind romance and a soul-shattering break-up, just so I can leave this on a voicemail in the middle of the night after a bottle of Ketel One, three Heinekens, and a joint. I contemplated leaving calling my exes from way back and leaving this message, but since I haven’t spoken to them in months, it might be a little weird.

So if there are any crazy women out there, email me asap so we can start dating. The sooner we fall in love, the sooner, you’ll get to hear:

“Hey babe, it’s Jason. Listen, I think ending our relationship was a good idea, and while we’re on the topic of good ideas, I’ve got one: I hope your children are ugly, and at least two of them are retarded. I know that’s not an idea per se, but you are whore, so I figured, you know, whatever. Also, I hope you die. Actually, I hope we both die. This way, we’ll get to hell at the same time, and I’ll be able to torture you for all eternity. That is, if you can stop blowing dudes for just one fucking second, because, as I have noted, you are a whore. Have a good night.”

Today is a crappy day, and I’m feeling kinda down. And in sooth, I know not why I am so sad. It could be a combination of things (tired, very busy at work, broke, stopped taking anti-depressants, etc), but it also could be because today is my one year anniversary at my current position at the firm. Though I started at the firm in July of 2001 shortly after graduating to become a legal assistant, I moved to my current marketing/pr/financial research gig one year ago.

Being a legal assistant is a thankless, difficult job. You deal with attorneys who are only a few years older than you, who you definitely would have picked on in college and not let into your parties. They are mostly uber-nerds who crumble under the pressure, and, since you’re the only one who’s “under” them, you often get berated and brow-beaten for things that are beyond your control, or take the heat for mistakes that you didn’t make, but instead were the result of bad directions given by a young associate who at the time was trying his/her best to hold back tears because the mid-level associate just bitched them out.

Of course, most of the times that I got yelled at I completely deserved it. I learned pretty quickly that I wasn’t going to succeed as a legal assistant, so rather than work hard and be the best I could be, I gave up immediately and focused my energies on different things, like fantasy sports, seeing how long I can spend on the toilet pooping and reading before an attorney would come in the bathroom to find me, and, of course, eating all the cookies I could possibly eat at team meetings.

But I’ve moved on to much greener pastures. I no longer pull eighty hour weeks, or get calls from attorneys at 5:24pm on a Friday asking me to come in for 12 hours on Saturday and 10 on Sunday (because, you know, it’s the Lord’s day). I’m usually here from 9:30 – 5:30, but sometimes I’ll stay late if I don’t think I can make the long subway ride home without beating off first.

No longer do I share a small office with an officemate who I’m pretty sure spent most of his time plotting to poison me, since I completely disregarded his presence every time we were both in the office by talking loudly on the phone with friends about such personal topics as girls I want to fingerblast or the nasty shit I just took or how my officemate is a total dick. Now I have my very own office, although it is an inner one and its only window looks out on the cubicles stationed out in the middle area. But I disregard the presence of this window much like I disregarded the presence of my old officemate; I can be plainly seen all day by co-workings picking my nose, sticking my hand down my pants, and, when hungover, putting my head down on my desk. It got particularly nasty over the summer when I insisted that I be allowed to be shirtless or at least sleeveless in my overly warm office, but I was ultimately overruled and reluctantly forced to leave my tank tops at home.

Yes, the new job is much better, but there are a few things I miss about being a legal assistant.

1) Overtime. As a legal assistant, you get paid overtime at time and a half rates after 35 hours. And, since your base salary stinks, the overtime is where you make all your money.

The result? A culture of glorious laziness. An example:

Lawyer: “Jason, can you come up to my office? I need to you make a copy of this 30 page deposition transcript.”
Jason: “Ouch – 30 pages? That might take a while.”
Lawyer: “How long is a while?”
Jason: “Well, the copiers are having problems, so I’d say I can get you that by tomorrow morning.”
Lawyer: “It’s 11am.”
Jason: “I know – I can’t believe it either, but we’re having some major copier problems.”
Lawyer: “Just come and get it.”

Then, the legal assistant can take his/her sweet time with that copy, stay late to get a free dinner up to $25, and even get a ride home after 8pm.

And this overtime gets exploited big time. People may or may not get drunk at work after hours. There may or may not people who come in on weekends hungover and watch DVD’s or take practice LSAT’s, GMAT’s, or GRE’s, all the while collecting $30/hour. Not a bad gig. I mean, it doesn’t have the perks of being an internet quasi-celebrity, like hate mail or risking your job by taking time every day to write about how much you love to drink vodka, but it’s still not bad.

2) Carefreeness. I don’t know if that’s a word, but by “carefreeness” I mean that being a legal assistant really doesn’t matter and everyone eventually learns that and thus stops giving a fuck. For most, being a legal assistant is just a glorified temp job; people do two or three years, then move on to school or another job. After they leave, they’re probably not going to come back to the same firm as an attorney, or need anything other than a recommendation from someone that they worked with, which they can usually get from the one cool attorney they’ll meet during their experience.

The result? The eventual shirking of responsibility. Sure, at first, everyone cares about what they do, but there’s quite a backlash in this profession, because so many get so worked up over so little and it gets very old very fast. As one legal assistant put it when recently getting yelled at by an attorney, “Jesus Christ – we’re not saving lives here!”

By the end of my tenure, I was so burnt out that I may or may not have stopped returning calls and emails, and spent my days instead sending my resume to just about every job site on the internet, writing emails to girls I had hooked up with in college but hadn’t spoken to since, and thinking about which McFlurry I would have for breakfast the next day: Oreo or Butterfinger. (Butterfinger always won. You haven’t lived until you’ve had 16 ounces of vanilla ice cream swirled with crumbled up Butterfinger bits for breakfast. Simply gorgeous.)

3) Social element. By far, the best thing about being a legal assistant is your co-workers. What you have is a group of 60 or so people who are all the same age, come from similar college experiences, and have the same goals in life (well, most of the same goals – I know that many of my co-workers wanted success, whereas I wanted salt & vinegar potato chips). From that 60, a smaller group of 25 or so arises and will go out for drinks together.

And, more importantly, when drinking together, they hook up. Good lord. Everybody makes out with everyone, and it’s wonderful. And of course, I can no longer cash in on this, because I’m “not a legal assistant” and a little “creepy” and I “look like I’m 30″ so the new younger legal assistants keep their distance. Wisely so.

And now I’ve been working for three years, and I haven’t had the word “assistant” in my job title in one year. This is a huge step. I feel like I’m growing up. Maybe I should stop concerning myself with getting high and watching “Dumb and Dumber” and starting learning about wine, going to museums, and donating money to starving kids in Guatemala or wherever.

I suppose that’s why I’m feeling down (in addition to no more antidepressants). But I have to realize that all things considered, I have a good gig here at work. No long hours, decent pay, and most of the time I can stand what I’m doing. And no one asks me questions like, “Jason, why is there blood all over your pants?” after I’ve gotten in a fight over lunch and had to take a man’s life, or “Jason, why are you soaking wet?” after I got hopped up on goofballs and jumped in the East River because I thought I saw a sexy bitch of a mermaid.

And those times, like today, when I’m a little stressed out at work? There is a dingy little pub less than three blocks away where an Irish barmaid with less teeth than toes will serve me a pint of Bud for only $2. A better stress reliever, I can think of none.

Every morning, when the radio function of my alarm goes off, I wake up to Spanish radio. I don’t know why I started doing this, but every time I hear that Puerto Rican DJ spouting off rapid-fire Spanish, it sort of gives me a chuckle. I like to pretend just for a moment that I am Miguel, a recently arrived immigrant from Colombia, who is waking up in his small Bronx apartment to head to his job bussing tables at the Friday’s in Times Square, when I’m actually just a debaucherous pseudo-frat yupster contemplating a quick morning jerk rolling around in his exquisite 600 thread-count sheets (and no, this doesn’t make me gay, it just proves that I take sleep very seriously).

I’ve been doing this for over a year now, and I think I’m actually starting to learn Spanish. I took a few years of Spanish in high school, which consisted of us making jokes, watching Destinos, and fantasizing about our hot math teacher. Thus, I’ve retained nothing, save for the masturbatory fantasies of the math teacher.

But I’ve noticed that when eavesdropping on Dominicans in the subway, or listening to some of my co-workers, or when heading to Spanish Harlem to buy some pills at 5am, I’m actually starting to understand most of what they are saying.

I don’t know where I’m going with this, but I think the point is that subliminal learning just may work. So now I plan on falling asleep to a slide show of pictures with dudes with giant penises. I’m hoping that this will encourage mine to subliminally grow. I know that it sounds far-fetched, but I’ve tried pretty much everything else, and something’s gotta give down there. Seriously, I don’t even know if mine works. Stupid tiny penis.

************************************

Is there any better season than fall? Especially in New York City? The relentless summer heat has subsided, sports are in full swing with the start of the NFL, NBA, and NHL (maybe not that last one) and the baseball playoffs, and all the kiddies go back to school, thus filling the bars with underage girls who simply don’t know any better than to go home with some creepy guy who calls himself an “internet quasi-celebrity”.

I mean, ain’t it just grand?

************************************

I thought of a few more dealbreakers:

1) Any guy who still wears his college class ring and is my age. It’s slightly better for older guys who do it, but there is no reason that a 25 year-old should be sporting his class ring. I mean, are you serious? Let it go man.

This is an off-shoot of the dealbreaker of anyone who cares too much about their college. I don’t understand people who constantly talk about their alma mater, follow all their sports, join alumni organizations, read the alumni magazine – good god. College was good for one reason: the lack of any and all responsibility. Now that we’re out, we have responsibility. Now college is good for two things: 1) being on our resume; and 2) asking us for money.

Just stop it already.

2) Any guy who wears a chain or necklace. Jewelry? Really? Do you really need a necklace? At what point does a guy say to himself, “Hey, that guy’s wearing a necklace, and it looks really cool. I’m gonna get one. On a side note, I am a total douche.” C’mon.

3) Any person who frequently uses any Instant Messenger expressions. You know these: lol, ttyl, bbfn, etc.

You gotta let these go. Especially the “LOL” one. “Laugh out loud?” Can a joke really be funny if it derives a “LOL”? What the hell is the joke about, enterprise application integration software (and yes, I just took that phrase from the internet)?

Now I’m all riled up. Not in a “some stripper just rubbed against my crotch for three songs” kinda way either.

************************************

About dealbreakers…start thinking of some, but save them up. When I first asked you for your dealbreakers, I had just started the site, and readership consisted of my roommates, my brother, and some girl I wanted to fuck. Now, readership has exploded to include my roommates, my brother, some girl I want to fuck, and some guy I work with.

So soon I’ll put out a call for more of your dealbreakers, and we’ll have an ultimate list. To this day, I still get several emails a week about dealbreakers, some of the pretty great. This is a golden opportunity for me to sit back and let you do all the work, so get ‘em ready.

************************************

Two sports-related items:

1) Ok, I feel a little better about the Eagles defense based on their performance last night against the Vikings. Not entirely on the bandwagon, but pleased nonetheless. The officiating was terrible, but hell, my team won. So shut up.

2) Curtis Martin fans: ENOUGH WITH THE EMAILS. No matter what you say, he’s not going to rush for 1500 yards. If I have to hunt him down and shoot him in the legs, he’s not going to rush for 1500 yards. Trust me.

************************************

Related to last night’s game – what’s the deal with these new Coors Light commercials? These commercials brag about how Coors Light is cold-brewed and shipped in refrigerated train cars, as opposed to its competitors Miller and Bud, because Coors “know[s] [we] like cold beer”.

Yes, I do like cold beer. But why do I give a shit if my beer is shipped in refrigerated train car? As long as it’s cold when the bartender hands it to me, or when I take it out of my fridge, or when I peel it out of a dead hobo’s hand, I’ll be ok.

You know what is important to me? The fact that Coors Light tastes like a mix of carbonated water mixed with my piss after I’ve had 15 Bud Lights (seriously, it’s very similar). So focus less on the “cold brewing” shit, and more on taste.

************************************

This week at my firm (and firms all around NYC) new associates are joining the rank and file of attorneys here. This usually means nothing to me, but this year it has some significance, because this year is the first crop of new attorneys that graduated undergrad in 2001, the same year I did. So for the first time, there will be attorneys at my firm that are my age.

All I can say to them is, my god I feel sorry for you. Part of the reason that I got turned off from law school was working here at a major NYC firm. You see, we hire only the best of the best. That means, if you work here, you are considered a “success.” Maybe it’s me, but the $125K starting salary notwithstanding, I don’t consider “success” working 100 hour weeks for the next 6 years in a fixed and brutal hierarchy “success”.

While these new attorneys spent the past three years in law school, going there straight from college, pouring endlessly over torts and civ pro just to be able to get into a firm like this, in the past three years I’ve:

- eaten around 200 pounds of nachos
- drank probably 100,000 beers
- gotten in 3 fights
- made out with 100 girls (ok, 4 – tops)
- spent $30,000 at bars

But man, you guys are in for some shit now. Good luck sitting in the office until 3am on a Saturday night, preparing a memo that will probably be read by you and you only. Enjoy the money, because otherwise, you’re fucked. And the best part is – it’s the rest of your life.

What the hell were you thinking? Have you ever met an associate at a mega-firm who said, “I am happy”? I certainly haven’t, and I’m much more popular than you, and as a result know more attorneys.

************************************

A random sampling of songs you should download:

- “Theologians” Wilco
Wilco is cool. So cool, they’re almost un-cool. But I don’t care. This is a kick-ass band and this is the best song off their new album “A Ghost Is Born”, which is only a step or two behind the venerated “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot”.

- “Heatwave” The Who
Great remake of the old Motown song, with John “I died in a Vegas hotel with a hooker and $1000 worth of cocaine in my system” Entwistle laying down a fat bass line.

- “Let’s Get Married” Al Green
Is there anyone cooler or more smooth than Al Green? I dare you to think of one. If you don’t like Al Green, or at least appreciate what he has done, I can’t be friends with you. Non-negotiable.

- “Unbelievable” EMF
Just kidding!

- “You Don’t Know Me” Ray Charles
If I had discovered this song in high school, when I spent 80% of my day pining away for attractive women who were way out of my league and thought of me as nothing more than the friend to talk to their boyfriends about, I may have killed myself. Because Ray nails the theme of secret unrequited love better than anyone else with this song. I mean, wow.

- “Shout At The Devil” Motley Crue
Crue’s first big hit. Makes me just wanna start punching people (although that may also be the cocaine).

And if you haven’t read “The Dirt”, which is the story of Motley Crue, you have to read it. Even if you hate the band or the music – my god, these guys could fucking party. Hard.

Juxtaposed with…

- “O Holy Night” (Yes, the Christmas song)
I’m going to say something, and it may sound strange, but I’ve thought about it for a few days, and I believe it’s true.

This is the most beautiful song of all-time.

Before you click out of the web page and vow never to read anything I write again, let me clarify here.

I don’t like it because it talks about the birth of Christ and I love Christianity and Christ and blah blah blah. It’s the music that I like. I don’t want to sound like one of those douchebag musicians here and pretend like I know what I’m talking about, but some of the changes in the song are really interesting, and like nothing I’ve ever heard before. Also, to sing this song, you have to have a set of pipes. I should know – I sang it last night for my roommates while doing the mangina. Not for the novice.

I’m not a psychologist, so maybe it does have something to my latent Irish Catholicism, which is now buried under years of mortal and venial sins like coveting my neighbor’s wife, taking the lord’s name in vain, and, oh yeah, murder. But I’m telling you – it’s a really cool song (musically) if you listen closely to it.

[So I've pretty much lost you, right? You're never coming back again, eh? Well, it's been fun.]

[Any music suggestions to me are always welcome. Please do me a favor and put "music suggestions" in the subject line, if you do send any. Much appreciated.]

Ugh, Monday. Not only is it the first day of the week, but it’s my longest too – I come into work early, since I leave early for class, so I’m running on all cylinders from 8:45am – 7:30pm (by “running on all cylinders” I mean “checking the internet and my fantasy football teams”, “zoning out pretty hard core from about 2:30 until 4″, and “dreaming about boobies in class”).

But let’s focus on the weekend instead, shall we?

What you need to know:

Friday night = crap.

Saturday night = good.

Many lessons learned.

If you want, you can stop reading now. Because that’s basically the entire point of this post. So there. Don’t say I never did anything for you, and now maybe next time when I ask you for a $600 loan to pay off some gambling debts, you’ll give it to me. Dick.

Let’s start with Friday (you really can skip down to Saturday, because nothing much happened here, and I am still bitter and angry and a little tired because of it).

My friends came to town on Friday. They are some buddies from Philly, and I was greatly looking forward to their arrival. They had promised me an exciting and riotous time. One thing stood in the way of our good time: the fucking rain.

You see, we had tickets to the Yankees game on Friday night. I continually checked the forecast whilst (awesome word) at work on Friday, and it called for rain starting at 3pm on Friday and continuing until 3pm on Saturday.

As it became apparent that they would call the game because of the rain, I began to hope that the rain would come on time, and the Yankee game would be called before I dragged my fat ass up to the Bronx and got soaked. I don’t do well in the rain – when my abundant yet luxurious body hair gets wet, it adds about forty pounds to my body weight, and makes me tired.

But since god and I are no longer on speaking terms after the whole El Paso 2001 fiasco, though the sky was dark and cloudy, the rain didn’t come until we had settled in at the game. In the middle of the second inning, there was a rain delay. The rain was coming down in buckets, ruining my fucking hot dog (Yankee Stadium, by the way, has the WORST hotdogs in the world – and you know that coming from me, this means something) and making everyone grumpy.

The delay lasted a short while, and the game soon resumed. However, it started raining again, this time much harder than the first, and there was another delay.

At this point, we were at our breaking point. We were all tired, soggy, pissed off, and one of us had accidentally taken a Xanax because he thought it was an Excedrin (Ben, I’m looking in your direction). We figured that the game would be called, so after 45 minutes of the rain delay we all decided to leave the stadium.

When we got home, it was still pouring. We were patting ourselves on the back at what a great decision we made – beating the mass of people that was surely streaming out of the stadium, as it was plain to see that with rain this hard the game would be cancelled.

Except it wasn’t cancelled. Since my buddies are degenerate gamblers, they get ESPN through their cell phones and that tipped us off that the game was actually going on.

And so it was an awesome game, and we missed it. We didn’t even get to see it on TV. We checked every ESPN channel and YES, not realizing that the game was on CBS. So instead of being at one of the more exciting games of the year, we sat in my apartment drinking Coors Light, watching Cubs vs. Reds, and getting scoring updates through cell phones.

Not good times.

Of course, my friends (and roommates) said I was the mastermind behind the decision to leave, and thus broke my balls big time about it. I took it in stride, because I was pretty fucking drunk and didn’t think I’d remember much of it anyway.

My friends left disgusted the next day, and I don’t know if we’re ever going to speak again. Which is fine with me, because now that they’re out of my life, I can focus more of my energy on what I love most: kicking ass and breaking hearts. And looking out for number one. And eating Cheez-Its. I recently rediscovered them, and they are dynamite.

************************

Saturday was much better. After my buddies left, my roommates and I started the boozing, as we were going to my buddy Kyle’s going away party.

The party was in Brooklyn, a terrain I rarely, if ever, venture into. However, Kyle is a good friend, another person leaving the city and thus leaving me to my own devices, so I figured I would make the trip out there. Also, I’ve kinda had a crush on him for about a year now, so I was hoping he’d have a little too much to drink and one thing would lead to another, and, well, you know.

And Brooklyn, god darn it, was actually pretty cool. Maybe it’s because it’s fall and I am happy, and I live in the Upper East Side so there are sections of Palestine I’d rather live in for some cool nightlife or people. But still, I was very pleasantly surprised.

Sometimes at bars, when I’m feeling like things are stagnating with my drunkenness and I want to up the ante, I’ll drink a vodka on the rocks. I try not to do this too often, because it turns me into a rambling shell of a human being who will pay upwards of $2000 for sexual intercourse.

But I had quite an epiphany on Saturday, and I’m gonna break it down real nice for y’all:

Bud Draft: $4
Amstel Light, Guinness, Vodka Tonic: $5 (each)
Ketel One on the rocks, which contains the same amount of vodka as 2 or 2.5 vodka tonics: $6

As a man of reason, I realized then and there that it was my duty to start drinking vodka on the rocks at every bar I go to for the rest of my life. It’s just a sound financial decision.

The problem is that I only drink at one speed, regardless of what I’m drinking. By my estimation, I probably have 2.5 to 4 drinks an hour (the official results will be published in the New England Journal of Medicine sometime in the fall of ’05). I don’t realize that having 4 vodka rocks compared to having 4 Bud Lights will affect me differently. This is because when I’m drinking, I’m thinking of other things, like, “Good lord – look at the rack on that chick!” and “I am going to eat so much fucking lunchmeat when I get home.”

So surprisingly, the rest of the night is a bit of a blur. But I know that I had a good time, and I know it ended at a Ray’s Pizza with a slice of plain and a slice of pepperoni. Also, my roommate Ben and I joined forces for an astounding $16 Taco Bell order. I mean, wow.

************************

So it was a very up-and-down weekend. What lessons did I learn?

1) I hate my friends, and my friends hate me.

2) I’m going to drink a lot more vodka rocks when I go out.

3) Brooklyn really isn’t that scary.

4) I will miss Kyle.

5) I love lunchmeat.

All I can say about Ray Lamontagne’s concert last night was “wow”. What a moving performance. When he did “Burn In My Skin”, I completely broke down. He actually stopped playing and came over to console me. Later, we made love. It was magical.

Actually, believe it or not, none of that happened. The show was cancelled because Ray was “sick”. I’m taking “sick” to me that Ray realized he was about to play for 80 people in a bookstore and was like, “Fuck this. Hey, who’s that fat kid jerking off by the General History section?”

Needless to say, the six people I brought to the show with me were not happy. However, we recovered and regrouped fairly well, and headed to a local watering hole to get drunk. There I sat through barbs like, “Dude, that show was awesome – I’m so glad I came all the way from Brooklyn for it” and “You were right – Ray is a really good performer. I liked when he did – Oh wait, he didn’t do anything. There was no show. Thanks, dick.”

Apparently, Mr. Lamontagne ignored the cardinal rule: do not fuck with Jason Mulgrew. From this day forward, I will do everything in power to tear him down and make him unhappy. I guess no one told him that I hold grudges like a mother fucker, that I have an uncle I haven’t spoken to since 1986 when he ate a Chipwich that I had saved, that one time I punched a fellow little leaguer because his nickname was Fat Chops, which was always my nickname, that because of a previous bad experience with a brunette I refuse to date women with dark hair, that I have very little to do besides make other people as unhappy, ornery and celibate as I am.

…

I’m just kidding! I’m actually a happy, well-adjusted person! Sure, I spend 50% of my time thinking of jokes about retards, but that’s totally normal! I love life, and have a normal libido that hasn’t been transformed into ravenous, almost criminal lust due to watching too much pornography! Seriously!

…

I learned that it’s not good to talk about my upcoming weekend plans in this space. This is because if I say something like, “You guys, I’m gonna get so fucked up this weekend and do some crazy shit” and I go out to an Irish pub to cry in my beer, I have nothing to write about and I look like a loser (as if I don’t look like a loser already).

But I am actually afraid of this weekend. I am afraid for myself, my liver, and anyone with a vagina within twenty feet of me. The reason? I have three friends coming up from Philly, two of which I wrote about when they duped me into passing counterfeit bills one night. I spoke to one of them recently, and it went:

Friend: “Dude, you’d better be ready for this weekend.”
Me: “I’m tired. I wanted to take it easy this weekend.”
Friend: “No, fuck that. We’re gonna go crazy this weekend.”
Me: “Great.”
Friend: “I’m serious. You see that website that you have? We’re going to get a friggin’ sitcom after this weekend because the shit we do is gonna be so crazy.”
Me: “We’re gonna get a sitcom?”
Friend: “No, not you – us. We don’t need you.”
Me: “Thanks.”

We’re supposed to be going to the Yankee game tonight, which I pray will be canceled before my fat ass goes to the Bronx. I can think of nothing I’d rather do than sit in the rain for two hours on a Friday, when I could be out spending my pay on vodka tonics.

But otherwise, the weekend is open, and I’m going to pull a Cerrano and say, “Bring that shit to me, man!” My friends have promised me a crazy weekend, so I’m going to sit back and let them do all the work. Unless we’re at a strip club, because then I won’t sit back. On the contrary, I will sit up and be very creepy and touchy-feely. God I love strip clubs.

[Anyway, have a good weekend and do something good you lazy asses. And remember, I love you. I'm not lying. I really do.]

It’s funny. When I’m at a bar, at a coffeehouse, at a bookstore, or at the grocery store, I can’t pay a woman to talk to me. Well, that’s not true – I can and have paid women to talk to me. One time I gave my friend Holly $68 to stand next to me at a bar for three hours and smile. For an extra $10, she said she’d give me a high-five, but I was all out of cash.

I’m getting off the subject here, but the point is that I can’t get you women to talk to me or send me pictures of you naked, but you have no problem at all voicing your opinions when I write a post or two about sports. Good god – I write two NFL Predictions posts and suddenly I’m NOW’s public enemy number one.

I’ll tell you what: since it’s my site, I’m going to write about whatever the hell I want. I’m a guy, and guys like sports. Therefore, I may write about it sometimes, but very infrequently. If I were a woman, I’d write about women things, like boobs, menstruation, and, you know, whatever else women talk about – clothes or fashion or hair or whatever.

Furthermore, I’ll have you know that several male readers liked the posts, and gave me some excellent feedback. Since it’s becoming apparent that those of the feminine persuasion are not going to put out for me because of this site, maybe I should switch teams, make this site about strictly sports, and have so much man-love Freddy Mercury would blush.

(Ok. I’m not that desperate. Yet.)

Anyway, ladies, I’ll keep the sports down to a minimum, if you take it easy on the hate mail, and send me some pictures of your boobs.

I don’t think I’m asking for that much.

Love,
Jason

Over the past two nights, I’ve answered every email that I’ve gotten recently that required responding. No, it’s not the coolest way to spend my evenings, but I had really dropped the ball recently, and needed to catch up. Since the beginning of the month, I’ve gotten hundreds and hundreds (seriously) of emails, and I loved and cherished each one, except the one from Ted from Oakland who sent me a picture of his scrotum. I neither loved nor cherished that one, although I did kiss the computer screen when the picture downloaded. But in my defense I had had way too much to drink (two beers) and was very lonely and curious. Moving on…

I figure if you take the time to write to me to tell me about your recent break-up, to give me some of your own personal dealbreakers, to share your favorite Will Ferrell skits, to give me your own sports insights, to give me ideas for posts, to tell me how I rock and/or suck (the most popular), or just to say hello, then I can take the time to write back.

But there is one thing that I can’t do. For some reason, some of you have been sending me stuff to read. Not book suggestions, but stuff (essays, short stories, etc) you’ve written for me to read. I really don’t know why – usually if I read more than a paragraph my head starts to hurt and my vision gets blurry. I’ve learned this with my recent excursion to grad school. I can’t read two sentences without my mind drifting off:

What I’m reading: “Batu received the news that the Great Khan Ugedey had died in Mongolia on December 11, 1241. Mongol politics prevailed over Mongol strategy, and Batu ordered the withdrawal of his whole army from Hungary, through Bulgaria and Moldavia, back to the south Russian steppes.”

What I’m thinking: “God, I fucking love Chinese food. I wish I could go to Dim Sum more often. But it’s really intimidating, since I don’t know what’s going on, with all the Chinese being yelled and everything. It’s good to go with a Chinese person, like Marie. Marie was quite a little piece – probably like 80 pounds, tops. Man, I’d split her in two. Oh yeah, what a sexy lil’ thing, I’d – ” [stops reading to masturbate]

What I’m reading: “In 1200, Bishop Albert found the town of Riga at the mouth of the Dvina. The inhabitants of the region, Lithuanians and Letts, were converted, though with difficulty, to Christianity.”

What I’m thinking: “God, how many more pages do I have left? This sucks. Christ, I really need to get laid. Maybe I should try a personal ad? Uh-oh, look who’s waking up! Let me put this book down for just one – ” [stops reading to masturbate]

The point is, I am not a good reader. I don’t mean that emails should be limited to 250 words or anything, but I mean that you shouldn’t send me separate word documents containing stories you’ve written, or paste these stories or essays into the body of the email, because I can’t read them. Really, I can’t – I just can’t focus for that long.

Aside from that, I am an asshole moron. I don’t know if you guys are looking for comments or what, but I am not very smart. Here’s what my comments would consist of, regardless of whether your work was about the fall of apartheid, Canada’s welfare system, how you got your license, or why girls are better than boys:

Comment #1: “Good, but needs more anal.”
Comment #2: “I don’t understand any of this.”
Comment #3: “So so. Spice it up with some anal.”
Comment #4: “Wait – who’s doing the what now?”
Comment #5: “Sucks. Add a lot more anal, maybe a threesome.”

**********************************

So I don’t mean to sound like a dick, and I’m sure you’re wonderfully talented, but please, leave the essays and short stories for class. Or pay me. Bitch.

In conclusion…

Emails: great – keep them coming
Stories/Essays: not good
Anal: hilarious and good
Me: hungry, and a little tired and cranky, but looking forward to Ray tonight.

NFC East

Home to some of the greatest coaches in football, and my favorite team, the Philadelphia Eagles. After three straight losses in the NFC Championship, the Eagles made an uncharacteristic splash in the free-agent market and acquired Terrell Owens and Jevon Kearse, who both looked excellent in the season opener against the NY Giants. Too bad they still can’t stop the run and I’m currently listed as their third running back.

Five things:

1) I don’t think we’ve seen the last of the McNabb-Owens combo. T.O.’s presence greatly opened up the passing game, and I had an erection every time McNabb dropped back to pass.
2) How can anyone be a NY Giants fan? Their biggest star is a homophobe who so far as been a disappointment in the NFL, their coach is widely considered a dick, their quarterback is an ultra-Christian who is both one of the most annoying and perplexing athletes ever (as in, what the fuck happened to you?). It’s going to be a long year for Giants fans.
3) Bill Parcells, I don’t know if you realize this, but your quarterback is Vinny Testaverde. Is this some sort of joke? And 50 pass attempts? 50? Are you trying to make his arm fall off?
4) Does anyone else not give a shit about Joe Gibbs being back in the NFL? Christ – I turned on ESPN the other day just in time to catch Chris Mortensen blowing him, while Steve Young and TJ gave each other handjobs off to the side. Get over it already.
5) I miss having Arizona in this division.

Predictions:
Philadelphia 12-4
Washington 9-7
Dallas 9-7
NY Giants 5-11

NFC North

The remnants of the old black and blue division. Some very interesting teams: Green Bay is a perennial threat, the Vikes are explosive, Detroit could be interesting, and Chicago, well, the had The Fridge and Sweetness at the same time.

Five things:

1) Did Brian Urlacher say to himself, “Well, my NFL career is going really well and I’m making a lot of money – more than I’ll ever spend. However, I’m still going to endorse every fucking product that exists.” Seriously – how many commercials is this guy in? Is he that hard up for cash? I think I saw him in Soho at Broadway & Houston handing out flyers offering men’s designers shoes at discount prices.
2) Brett Favre just won’t go away. Brett Favre is good. Very good. And I have a weird love/hate thing with him. However, I look forward to the day that the Pack stinks again. I just don’t want anyone in Wisconsin to be happy, since I used to date a girl there, and she cheated on me.
3) Ah Detroit…so much potential. Two problems: Joey Harrington will never take you anywhere, and Charles Rodgers’ bones are made of dry wall. Too bad.
4) Randy Moss is a terrible person. You’d think that the collective will of millions of people wishing he would fail would work. Nope.
5) Is there anything better than watching a Bears-Packers game at Lambeau in mid-December? Very cool.

Predictions:
Minnesota 12-4
Green Bay 10-6
Detroit 9-7
Chicago 4-12

NFC South

Dirty South in the house! What a strange division. You have Michael Vick, but you also have Jake “Man Did I Get Lucky Last Year Because I Really Stink” Delhomme. You have a former Super Bowl champ, and former NFC champ, and yearly chic pick who always blows it, and the “most exciting athlete in sports.” Still, I don’t really care about this division.

Five things:

1) What does Jim Haslett have to do to get fired? Did I miss a week of ESPN in which he and Larry Bowa got tenure? Can someone help me here?
2) Forcing Michael Vick to learn the West Coast Offense is like forcing me to go on a diet: a bad idea, and in the end, four people will die.
3) I am so glad Tampa Bay sucks. I am so glad John Gruden will have a rough year. And no, I’m not bitter.
4) Carolina…nothing tells me you’re going back to the Super Bowl. Let’s chalk last year up to an “everything just came together for us” year. And again, I’m not bitter.
5) “Deuce McAllister” is the coolest name in the world.

Predictions:
Atlanta 10-6
New Orleans 9-7
Carolina 8-8
Tampa Bay 5-11

NFC West

Ladies and gentlemen: the bastard child of NFL realignment. What a boring division. San Fran lost its superstars, St. Louis went from electric to “eh” in two years, the Seahawks are from Seattle, and, oh yeah, the Cardinals. I mean, wow.

Five things:

1) I went to BC. Matt Hasselbeck stunk at BC. Also, he is really bald. Whatever he is taking, I want some of it. Please.
2) How about how far the Niners have fallen? Tim Rattay at the helm, throwing to Cedrick Wilson and Eric Johnson, and passing off to Kevan Barlow. I just got really sad all of a sudden.
3) Marshall Faulk got his mojo jacked by Father Time. Still a very good player, but no longer the stud he once was. He must get sick of hearing fat guys who play fantasy football say “Priest is the new Marshall.”
4) Arizona…wow. They still have a team? And Denny Green is supposed to make them good? Unless Denny Green has wizard-like powers, it’s going to be a long, hot, lonely year in the desert, even with Anquan (hurt) and Larry.
5) I think this division has the weakest fan support in the NFL. There are probably less than one hundred people who consider themselves Seahawks or Cardinals fans. San Fran fans abandoned the team when they lost Jeff Garcia, and there was that big sale at FCUK. St. Louis, I’ll give you a pass.

Predictions:
Seattle 11-5
St. Louis 9-7
Arizona 6-10
San Fran 5-11

Now, onto the playoffs…

AFC

First Round
New England gets home-field, and KC gets the other bye. The wildcards go to Tennessee and Denver. Indy draws Denver, and their offense is too much (even with Champ picking Manning off four times). Baltimore gets Tennessee, and the Titans stack eleven men up front, daring Boller to beat them. Result: Jamal Lewis has 8 yards on 62 carries, Boller is 1-14 for 7 yards, and Steve McNair gets murdered by Ray Lewis in the third quarter, but still finishes with 2 TD’s.

Second Round
Indy goes to KC. Both teams decide to on-side kick after every possession after the first quarter, and Indy pulls out the victory, 86-81. Tennessee goes to New England, where Tom Brady is just much better looking than Steve McNair, and the Pats pull out the close win.

Championship Game
In a rematch of the season opener, Indy comes out strong against a slightly over-confident Pats team. Then Indy realizes that Peyton Manning is their quarterback and subsequently the collapse, and NE comes back to take the victory.

NFC

First Round
Philly gets home-field, and they and Minnesota get the byes. The wildcards go to Green Bay and Washington. Seattle draws Washington, and takes care of business easily, even though Dan Snyder gives Mike Holmgren $800,000 to throw the third quarter . Atlanta gets Green Bay, but Favre shows young Vick how it’s done. Then Vick gets laid by eight strippers at once.

Second Round
Seattle goes to Minnesota and beats an overrated Viking team as Culpepper fumbles eight times and Randy Moss drives over four women during a half-time beef jerky run. To the delight of the Philly fans, Philly trounces GB, I pay for sex, and Brett Favre retires.

Championship Game
Philly fans are salivating, thinking this is finally the year. Then Shaun Alexander runs for 500 years and 5 touchdowns. I kill myself, and whoever is within twenty feet of me, only after burning down three city blocks, a church, and a school.

Super Bowl

New England versus Seattle. Seattle starts out strong, as Holmgren’s first fifteen scripted plays result in ten points. Seattle scores another quick touchdown when Corey Dillon turns the ball over as he stops in mid-run to punch a Seattle defender in the face.

Massholes every where are on the edge of their seat when Tom Brady plays the second half without his helmet on to inspire his teammates with his handsomeness, and NE scores two quick TD’s.

The score remains 17-14 until there are two minutes left and NE is driving down the field. They get stalled around the Seahawk’s 30, and with time winding down the bring in their money kicker, Adam Vinatieri. The kick goes up, and with time expiring, sails wide right, because you just can’t have that many happy endings.

The Seattle Seahawks are the Super Bowl Champions. All fourteen Seahawks fans celebrate, and immediately set up a chat room to discuss the game and the roll-out of the newest Windows product. From hell, I start crying, because I know that there are no fans more deserving of a championship than those in Philadelphia, and I know it’s not going to happen for a long time.

[Warning: if you don't like sports, stop reading and come back tomorrow. I needed to get some shit off on my chest, so I wrote a post about how I have a crush on my roommate Brian. But then I scrapped that, and decided to be overly manly and wrote about sports. So there.]

I don’t often write about sports. I’m not really sure why, since I love sports. If I didn’t have football, baseball, basketball, and hockey (in that order), I would certainly become a murderer, since I would have more time on my hands than I’d know what to do with, and would naturally focus my energy on destroying those around me, before ultimately destroying myself after an eight-day, four-night cocaine-fueled hijacking spree through the Rocky Mountain region. There’s no doubt in my mind that when I was eventually shot dead by the Colorado State Police, I would NOT have pants on. No way.

Anyway, the thing is, in many ways, I hate sports. Watching a game in which a team I have a vested interest in is playing is usually a miserable experience. This is especially true of the Philadelphia Eagles. Football is definitely my favorite sport to watch, but come Sunday afternoons when the Eagles are on, you wouldn’t know that if you saw me. Spending three hours of your afternoon trapped in a windowless apartment with a massive hangover, sitting on the edge of your seat crippled with anxiety as you swear and sweat your way through a game, well, it’s really not that fun.

Since I am your token unathletic fat kid who may or may not have given a handjob to a Lhasa Apso in fourth grade, I’ve taken quite a shine to fantasy sports. Fantasy sports, for those unfamiliar with them, allow a person to be the general manager of his own fake team, by drafting players, trading players, deciding which players to play, etc, all the while accumulating the statistics for his/her fake team of the real-life players. Usually a bunch of buddies get together and create a league, in which the talk shit about each other and each others’ girlfriends (or lack thereof) and brag/bitch about their jobs and ask when other members of the league are finally going to come out of the closet.

The result of playing fantasy sports? A marked increase in each participant’s interest in sports. Prior to playing fantasy baseball, I would care very little if Shawn Chacon got a save in this week’s Rockies game. Now, whether or not Shawn Chacon gets that save determines whether or not I am going to make dinner for my roommates or attack my roommate Ben in his sleep with a hammer because he drank the last of my gatorade.

Where am I going with this? I’m am trying to brace you all for the greatest NFL predictions in the history of mankind. I know, I know – the NFL season started last week, but I’m only finally getting around to this now. I have a lot going on, what with, um, all the stuff I do at work and, um, all the volunteer work I perform.

One caveat: I’m going to post records, but they will be mathematically inaccurate. Meaning, if you think I’m going to sit here and make sure that all the records even out to .500, well, you’re sadly mistaken. Jerkoff.

AFC East

Home to the reigning Super Bowl champs, the New England Patriots. I’m glad they won last year, because everyone knows how much I love Massholes and how I live to see them happy. But with two Super Bowl victories in three years, that whining about the Red Sox is getting less and less understandable. At any rate, five things you need to know about this division:

1) Tom Brady is dreamy.
2) Chad Pennington sounds dumber than a retard after a bottle of Jack, but was actually a Rhodes Scholar finalist.
3) Buffalo is cold and Drew Bledsoe is a douche.
4) Ricky Williams abandoned his team in Miami because he’d rather do drugs.
5) Miami will get the first pick in next year’s draft.

Predictions:
New England 12-4
NY Jets 9-7
Buffalo 5-11
Miami 3-13

AFC North

If one were to pick a list of four cities in the US I’d rather eat my own shit for life than live in, this is the list (apologies to readers in those cities). Subsequently, I have the same level of interest as living in these cities as I do about their footballs teams.

Five things you need to know:

1) Ray Lewis murdered a guy. This is not a joke.
2) Jeff Garcia, even if he were to win the next five Super Bowls, will forever been known as “that gay quarterback.”
3) Hey John Kitna, good job being Comeback Player of the Year and leading the Bengals back to respectability. Now you can have the bestest seat on the bench.
4) Is anyone else tired of the Bill Cowher act? We get it – you have a moustache and you yell. Guess what? Your team stinks.
5) Jamal Lewis may go to prison for a long, long time. This is not a joke.

Predictions:
Baltimore 10-6
Cleveland 7-9
Cincinnati 6-10
Pittsburgh 5-11

AFC South

Now we’re cooking. We’ve got two great teams in the Titans and Colts led by last year’s co-MVP’s, and two teams that I’d rather watch my parents have sex than watch play against each other in Jacksonville and Houston.

Five things:

1) Peyton Manning definitely has a vagina.
2) Steve McNair could definitely beat me in a fight.
3) Byron Leftwich definitely has the name of seventeenth century British baron, not a 24 year-old black dude.
4) David Carr will definitely never be a winner.
5) Aside from Ray Lewis, the last dude I’d ever want to meet in a dark alley at 4am after too much to drink is Edge (have you fucking seen that guy?).

Predictions:
Indianapolis 11-5
Tennesse 11-5
Houston 8-8
Jacksonville 6-10

AFC West

A stellar division, with some very enjoyable football teams. As a side note, how could Eli Manning turn down SD for NYC (and yes, I know the Sports Guy talked about this)? I know NYC is cool, but if I’m a star athlete and can get any girl I want, I’m going to be dead in two months from seven different STD’s. But before I died, I would much rather be in San Diego than New York City (and he’s probably not even in NYC, and is instead somewhere in NJ – ugh).

Five things:

1) If given the job full-time, I’m pretty certain I could rush for about 800 yards in Denver’s offense.
2) Can anyone appreciate how sick LaDanian is? He caught 100 passes last year! Holy shit balls!
3) While we’re at it – “Hi, I’m Priest Holmes, Fantasy Football God.” On the other hand, when he’s getting laid, do women scream about, “Oh give it to me Priest! Fuck me Priest!” I know that’s what I screamed in 1989, but the circumstances were a little different.
4) Rich Gannon went to my high school, and I really hope he gets good again.
5) I wish I knew Al Davis personally, and I could bring him out to bars with me. Now that’d be some good times.

Predictions:

Kansas City 11-5
Denver 10-6
Oakland 6-10
San Diego 6-10

Tomorrow, we’ll tackle the NFC and the playoffs.

1) Saturday Night Live – The Best of Will Ferrell – Volume 2
Still no Neil Diamond skit, which is a travesty on par with the break-up of Wham! or the fact that Rod Stewart has still not been knighted by the British crown, but pretty fucking hilarious nonetheless. It includes the Terry Ganter karate skit at the end of the DVD, which one night made me laugh harder than I ever have in my life (the fact that I had smoked $40 worth of pot didn’t hurt either).

2) Ray Lamontagne “Trouble”
I pimped Ray a while ago, and saw him a few months back, but finally his cd “Trouble” is released today.

Get this cd. Trust me. It’s some really, really good shit. Rolling Stone calls him “the backwoods Van Morrison.” I call him “a great performer with a cool beard.” This is one of the reasons why I don’t work for Rolling Stone.

Also, for those in NYC, he’s appearing at the Housing Works Used Book Cafe on Crosby Street in Soho. Tickets are $15 are still available and can be purchased by phone. If you’re looking for a good way to spend your Thursday night, this is it. I’ve been there for readings (god I am so fucking cultured) but never for a musical performance, but it’s a pretty cool place.

And if you don’t want to go for Ray, hell, I’ll be there! Feel free to come by to meet me and feel an unconscionable level of disappointment, as I try but fail to make clever jokes and observations, and sweat profusely while doing so! Watch me squirm as I try to fill our awkward silences with jokes about such unfunny things as cancer and genocide, and sweat even more! And just when you didn’t think it couldn’t get any more awkward, be displeased and uncomfortable when at the end of the night I say to you (regardless of your sex), “So, do you wanna give me a handjob or what? I know of a Wendy’s nearby that has a fairly clean restroom, and afterwards I can grab a Junior Bacon Cheeseburger and a Frosty.”

These are the days of our lives my friends. The days of our lives.

[A series of messages to those I affected during my weekend in Boston]

Everyone I didn’t call while in Boston,

I’m sorry. I really am. But you know that I’m not very good with that whole “calling” thing, and my phone didn’t have reception all weekend, because Sprint is the worst company in the history of America. I think if you gave me enough cocaine I could build a better company in forty-eight hours with a hanger, some peanut butter, scotch tape, and a lock of hair from a virgin and it would have much better reception than Sprint.

Also, I was drunk pretty much the whole time I was in Boston. I don’t think an hour passed from the moment I got off the sex bus to the moment I got back on that I wasn’t drinking something alcoholic, in most cases from a can. Or a bottle. Or from a leaky zip-lock bag.

I firmly believe that because of these reasons I should be absolved of any responsibility for my lack of effort to hang out with you all. Sure, you may talk behind my back or send me angry emails calling me a bad friend, but you can take comfort in the fact that I had a miserable Sunday, hungover as a mother fucker, shaking and sweating, rocking my vampire look*, as my body was yelling, “Hey, we haven’t had a Busch Light in over two hours – what the fuck is going on? Get on it chubby!” and having conversations with my friends like:

Me: “For some reason, my left eye really hurts.”
My buddy Joe: “That’s because Mark hit you in the eye with that baby tomato. He fucking nailed you. Don’t you remember?”
Me: [light bulb going off] “Oh yeah…what a dick.”
Joe: “Yeah, and then you tried to stab him with a fork, but you missed and you guys fell into the table and knocked all the food over, then you started crying.”
Me: “Yeah. I’m pretty sweet.”

And

Me: [walking out of bathroom after morning piss] “That’s kinda weird. I don’t have any pubes any more.”
My buddy Bill: “Yeah, that was awesome last night.”
Me: “What do you mean?”
Bill: “You know, last night at the tailgate when you said you’d shave your pubes if Don gave you the last hot dog and when he did we went back to your brother’s dorm and you actually did it. And then you started crying.”
Me: “I don’t remember that.”
Bill: “Trust me, it was awesome.”
Me: “Well, it sounds pretty fucking awesome. Besides, they’ll grow back, and now my bird looks huge and juvenile at the same time!”
Bill: “Nice.” [Bill and I high-five]

Anyway, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you next time. I promise. For real.

[*My friends joke that I look like a vampire when I'm hungover: my skin gets as pale as a sheet of paper, and my lips turn dark red, almost maroon. Not my finest look.]

***********************************

Hot girl from The Harp on Friday night whose names escapes me,

I wanted to thank you for talking to me at the bar and letting me practice my “game” on you. You made me look very cool in front of my friends, because it is not often that I talk to hot girls at bars, as instead I spend my time talking to dudes, the bartender, and myself (after enough drinks), and usually we talk about sports, boobs, and minorities.

I wish you didn’t have a boyfriend, but since you do, I hope he dies. Well, I shouldn’t say that, because it’s not like you said to me, “You know, I really would go home with you right now, but I have a boyfriend.” If you had said that, I would certainly be in Suffolk County right now, awaiting arraignment for murder two.

But thanks again. And you have honey in your hips. That’s the highest compliment I can possibly give. Trust me.

Come to NYC. We can take walks in Central Park, got to the top of the Empire State Building, and maybe fool around a little bit. It’ll be fun (for me).

***********************************

Steph,

I’m sorry that I repeatedly called you while drunk. Please know that I didn’t do this to try to seduce you, since that’d be weird, since I made out with your sister a few times. I did so only to a) get you to come hang out and have a beer; and b) bring some of your friends for me to hit on. So you can see I did this for your benefit and your benefit only.

I’m sorry that I called ten times between 1am and 2am and had the following conversation with you, only learning the very last time that you were asleep, and had been asleep for some time, and I kept waking you up:

Me: [finishing beer #82] “Steph, can you hear me? It’s Jason.”
Steph: [through terrible reception] “Taslalkh…akahunan…aigapingapni…”
Me: “Listen, we’re in my brother’s mod. It’s 15c. Come down and bring some friends.”
Steph: [more bad reception] “Iofhnokv…oiangoiaengaih…aklsfjwgfaoij.”
Me: “I’ll see you soon, ok? 15c.”

My bad. But I still would like to meet some of your friends. Please have them email me.

Thank you. I owe you one.

***********************************

My brother and all his friends who are currently seniors,

One word: semen. Five words: enjoy college while you can.

Because it’s all downhill from the moment you pack your shit in your parents’ car and drive away from that school. Welcome to a world of responsibility, in which drinking until 4am on a random Tuesday is no longer consider “cool” and a “good time”, but rather “an indicator of alcoholism” and “the first step to losing your job.” A world in which getting a freshman chick drunk and bringing her back to your place to take pictures of her when’s she passed out isn’t “awesome” but “illegal.” A world in which you have to wake up every day and doing something you dislike for eight hours (sometimes more), all the while knowing that this is what the rest of your life is going to be like.

[Good lord – now I'm depressed.]

The point: have a great fucking time. Drink at least one hundred beers a week, because you don’t have anything better to do. Try to hook up every time you go out, because you’ll never be around so many drunk, consequence-free women. Destroy your place, because you can only get in trouble with housing, not the law.

God I wish I was in college. Can I go back and get a BA again? Is that possible? Would it be weird to have on my resume:

Boston College, Class of 2001, Bachelor of Arts in History
Boston College, Class of 2008, Bachelor of Arts in History and Communications (Communications being the biggest joke major in the history of majors)

I think I should look into this.

[I think this is going to work. The wireless on this bus is very slow. And "Alex and Emma" and "Chocolat"? Really? C'mon!]

In my life, I have made a goodly amount of bad decisions. For example:

Decision: Leaving the Lower East Side to move to the Upper East Side.
Result: Three months (so far) in a neighborhood devoid of any character or coolness, but with plenty of little dogs, disgustingly happy young couples, and old people.
Lesson: I am an asshole who is easily manipulated by shiny things, like his own bathroom, central air conditioning, and doormen in funny uniforms.

Decision: Not cheating on girlfriend when at Oktoberfest in Munich.
Result: Turned down opportunity to partake in easy, drunken European sex and despite this much to my surprise was dumped basically as I got off the plane, thus wasting a week of sexual debauchery with a slew of Polish, Czech, German, and Italian girls who had no idea what a terrible person and impotent man I actually am.
Lesson: Cheat whenever you have the chance, because you’re probably going to get dumped anyway.

Decision: Shaving chest in 2000.
Result: Having to shave chest every morning since, as chest hair grows one to one and a half inches every night in sleep.
Lesson: Do not shave what is not supposed to be shaved. Seriously. Don’t fuck with this.

I think now we can add another to the list: the decision to go back to school.

I wrote about grad school before, and at the time I was very happy. This is because when I went to the school to pay my bill, I saw that the campus (I use the term “campus” roughly, since it’s in the Upper East Side of Manhattan) was crawling with attractive female undergrads, many of whom seemed impressionable, or at least willing to show a little skin to a moderately-incomed and somewhat successful grad student/internet quasi-celebrity.

I maintained this positive attitude when I went into my first class, “Russia to the 20th Century.” Some of you old school readers know that I am obsessed with Russia, for no apparent reason other than the sexy, sexy accent. I never had taken a class in Russian history before, but since leaving college I’ve read a few books and figured I’d give this one a try.

Well.

The good news is that there are some attractive women in the class and the material is interesting.

The bad news is that the professor is about 160 years old and completely bat-shit.

I don’t mind old professors. In fact, I usually like them. I’ve always had a special affinity for that old school, “This is way I’ve been doing it for years, because it works damn it!” style of teaching.

But this guy – wow. He’s an old guy, with a very slow manner, speaking and moving very deliberately. He started the class by handing out the syllabus, which in the lower left corner was dated, “01/27/81″.

Professor Old made this syllabus when I was one and a half. And he’s still using it.

That’s fine, I thought to myself. Sure, it’s pretty funny, but hey – I’m not going to test his knowledge. And it’s ok that the three texts were using for the course each had their last print run in 1961, when my dad was in first grade. That’s ok too. After all, he’s not going to tell me which is the best synonym for beating off, so I’m not going to tell him what texts to use.

But as we got more into the class, well, hilarity ensued. He told us that he didn’t want any eating or drinking in the class, which is understandable. But he went on about this for fifteen minutes, explaining in his slow, monotonous manner that, “The building…like much of…New York City…is infested…with rodents” and “the carpet…is a repository…for dirt…and food particles…which attract vermin…which is why…we also have…a tremendous insect problem…in this building.”

Mmm…nothing like insects and vermin to get you all settled in and ready to learn! We students sat uncomfortably, shooting glances at each other, using our eyes to say, “What the fuck is this guy talking about?” Well, that’s what most were using their eyes to say; I was saying, “I want to take you in the pooper” with my eyes (and crotch).

The highlight came when he went up to the map to show us where Kiev was. That would have been fine, but one problem: he didn’t know where Kiev was. Well, at least not right away:

Professor Old: [standing in front of map] “The center of Kievan Rus was Kiev, which is located…[raising hand to point to Kiev, stumbling] Which is located…[hand still dangling in front of the map, he stops speaking for a good eight seconds, as the students' eyes widen and a few start having a panic attack] Kiev is located…[hand is in front of map, searching for Kiev, finally finding it after a total of twenty seconds in front of the map] right here.”

[Class breathes a collective sigh of relief]

Then he spent the next two hours droning on: “The Verangeans…sailed from Scandinavia…in the north east…in the ninth century…” as the whole class quickly scribbled down every word.

But I’m going to keep the class, because at least the reading is enjoyable. There’s only a mid-term and a final in the class too. When I heard this, part of me was like, “Awesome! No papers!” Then another part of me was like, “I wonder what it would be like to blow a guy?” Then still another part of me was like, “Isn’t the point of graduate study to refine your researching and writing ability? How can we do so without a research assignment?”

I really shouldn’t complain. But it’s just my nature.

My second class is Intro to Legal History, or should I say, was Legal History. I wasn’t very interested in it, but I wanted to take two classes, and this was only one open.

(How did this post get so long? Jesus.)

This class, unlike the Russian one, had many adults in it. One of them was actually a lawyer. He/she didn’t make him/herself known, but I’m guessing it was the bitch who echoed every thing the professor said under her breath. It was very annoying…she quietly was finishing his sentences and answering the other students questions. It made me want to stab her in the fucking throat with my pen, but instead I thought about boobies and I calmed down.

Our first assignment was about two-hundred of pages of reading, which of course I waited until the night before to start. But as I was reading this terribly boring shit, I had an epiphany. I thought to myself, “What the hell am I doing? I am a grown man! I have a job, a nice apartment, and hours upon hours of the finest free pornography the internet has to offer downloaded on my computer! I don’t have to read this shit unless I want to!” And I didn’t.

So I dropped the class. I learned something very important at a very young age: “If at first you don’t succeed, stop wasting your fucking time, quit, and go do something else.”

The best part was that even though we only had one class, I only get half of my money back. Which is good, because it’s not like I could have used that $400 or anything. On Tuesday night I robbed my local Taco Bell at gun-point for $88, which I spent at the very same store two hours later on the mother of all Taco Bell orders, yet my school just extorted me out of $400. Sweet.

Decision: Going to grad school.
Result: Significant loss of money, limited intellectual stimulation, having to do “school work” for the first time since, well, ever.
Lesson: I really need a fucking hobby. Really badly.

[Have a good weekend.]

I’m not sure if there will be a post today (aside from this one, jerkoff). The reason is that I’m actually off today, currently anxiously awaiting the arrival of a delicious bacon, egg & cheese bagel, getting ready to travel to Boston.

However, I am going to Boston via Limoliner, or as my friend John calls it, the “sex bus” (I’m not sure why, since there’s no sex on the bus, just business people on their computers and cell phones, and some douchebag [me] listening to his I-Pod with his eyes closed, mouthing the words to Marvin Gaye songs as sensually as he possibly can).

Anyway, the bus is supposed to have wireless internet. If I can figure this out and get this wireless, then there will be a post. If not, then I got nothing for you.

Just a heads up. Because I love you. If you don’t hear from me again, have a great weekend and have sex. Do it because you can, and I can’t. And cherish it, because one day you might wake up and not have sex again for a long, long, long, long time, and it’ll make you so crazy that you’ll start a website about your lack of getting laid (among other things), because you lack of lovin’ makes you so delusional that you think, “Yes, maybe if I establish myself as an internet superstar, women will want to sleep with me” when all women want are guys with muscles, guys with money, and, I don’t know – NOT internet quasi-celebrities.

Ok, that’s enough. I have to fucking pack. Guess I should have done this last night, instead of getting wasted by myself. Asshole.

The following email comes from Chera of Mechanicsburg, PA. For some reason, I got really into this (I have no idea why). She writes:

In the August issue of Cosmo they have an interesting article about “Sex Tips from Men”. As a man with many words, views and comments, I am interested on your take… I didn’t notice anyone of them mentioning BBQ, hot dogs or sundae smothered on the ladies bodies so I was safe to assume that you were not one of those surveyed.

Excellent topic for discussion. Like I said, I got way too into this. Below I’ve taken the sex tip given by a man to Cosmo, and given my take on it.

Here goes:

“I love when you are cuddling next to me, completely nude, and I feel the softness of your pubic hair on my hip.”
- Oh jesus – a little graphic, eh? So that’s what kinda party this is? Alright, bring it on.

“If I’m sitting in a chair and zoning out, come on over and straddle me. Your body in my lap will perk me right up.”
- Really? You’re kidding me! A woman sitting on my lap is a good thing? Is that why I spend 18% of my yearly income at titty bars? Quick, call CNN!

“I love when a girl gives me that God-I-want-you gaze, especially if she shifts her eyes downward after a few seconds, then glances back up one more time.”
- Douchebag. What, are we in the movies or something? (Maybe this is jealousy, as any “I want you” gaze directed at has come from blood-shot cracked out/drunken eyes of a hobo).

“When you give me a hello kiss after a long day at work, don’t hesitate to grab my package. It’s like Hel-lo…”
- Ok, that works.

“Be playfully aggressive. Throw me against the wall and go at it — like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct.”
- Again, another good one. You’d better be strong though, because I am pretty fat.

“When you grab my arms, hold ‘em over my head and lick around my armpits. I’m putty.”
- I think I just threw up.

“Instead of just diving right into sex, spread a bedsheet between us and grind over me. The heat from your body and the softness of the fabric feels incredible.”
- Dude, you gay?

“Dribble some sparkling wine over my nipples and lick it off slowly.”
- Or I could just drink it. And I wouldn’t lick it off my chest unless you want a mouthful of hair with that sparkling wine. Just an FYI.

“Run your tongue around the perimeter of my belly button. The fact that you’re just inches from my most sensitive spot has me drooling with anticipation.”
- I’m not “drooling with anticipation” when a woman does this. I’m thinking, “This poor girl. God, she is really fucked up. How many cosmos did she have?”

“Lightly caress the sensitive webbing between my thumb and forefinger. It’s a lusty pressure point.”
- Yeah…um, I’d rather take a blow job personally, but whatever works for you.

“Getting naked with the lights on is underrated. A big thrill of sex is fully exposing ourselves to each other.”
- I guess this depends on who you are having sex with. I usually keep the lights off, and keep my partner blindfolded. Just to be safe.

“Finger sucking is almost as good as sucking me down below. And here you can use your teeth.”
- I respectfully disagree. Asshole.

“Spell out naughty messages across my entire body…my legs, arms, chest. If I guess right, you act out the message.”
- Doesn’t that seem like a lot of work? When I’m having sex, it’s usually when I’m so drunk I can barely work a toilet, let alone guess dirty messages written on my body. Also, whatever a woman would spell out I’d guess the same thing: “anal.”

“After sex, trace your nails over my inner thigh. You have no idea how much it preps me for round two.”
- By “round two” I’m assuming we mean “turkey sandwich, heavy on the mayo” right?

“I really like to concentrate on the act of sex and save the intense kissing for before and even after.”
- Here’s what I am concentrating on: 1) “I can’t believe I’m having sex right now!” and 2) “I’d really like some lo mein after this.”

“When we’re changing positions, give me an oral sex break. It lasts mere seconds, but it’s unbelievable.”
- There we go – finally another good one.

“When I’m thrusting, yell, “More, More!” It’s such an ego stroke.”
- I also like when women yell, “I know you’re just on a gaining cycle right now!” or “Take me now, you internet quasi-celebrity!”

“When I’m about to reach the brink, tell me to pull out. Then bring me to release in your mouth.”
- Good lord I am blushing right now.

“Run the condom packet down the trail between my stomach and privates. It’s a terrible tease that feels great.”
- Condoms? Who said anything about condoms? What the fuck?

“Squeeze my biceps and triceps while we’re doing it missionary-style. It makes me feel like a strong, macho man.”
- Don’t do this to me. I’d probably say, “Um, yeah, I’m going to start going to the gym again next week.”

“Who says that men don’t like after-play? Once I’ve come, run your hands over my body lightly… definitely lightly.”
- Then go get me a pizza.

“Moaning is great, but when you talk dirty and really let me know what I’m doing to turn you on, that really turns me on. It not only fills me in on what you love most, but it also just sounds so damn hot.”
- Talking dirty is hard. My steez:

Girl: “Tell me what you like.”
Me: “Um, everything? You know, whatever really. It all works for me.”

or

Girl: “I really want to fuck you.”
Me: “Um, I believe the feeling is mutual. Meaning, I really want to have sex with you as well.”

[Editor's Note: These exchanges are fictional. Obviously.]

“The next time you’re going down, go way down. Suck my toes and massage the soles of my feet.”
- I can’t express the horror I’m feeling right now.

“Explore the “tain’t,” which is slang for that little patch of skin below my testicles. You know, “tain’t his arse, tain’t his balls.” Apply pressure there with your fingers, and I’ll be eternally grateful.”
- Alternatively known as the grundel or choat (also spelled choata, choad, or choada), this deserves its own post. This is like the male g-spot. Unreal.

“Go down on me in the shower. There’s nothing like the feeling of a warm mouth around me while the warm water’s rushing down.”
- Oh yeah? Ever drink fifty Miller Lites and have a good bowl of French Onion soup? It’s comparable.

“Try sticking my penis through the hole of a glazed doughnut. Then nibble around it, stopping to suck me once in a while. The sugar beads from your mouth will tingle on my tip.”
- Wait a minute – did I write this one? On second thought, I wouldn’t have written this, since I think it’s a bad idea, as I would most certainly steal the doughnut and eat it myself. Then, I’d probably like it so much that I’d abandon the sex altogether to go get some more.

God I fucking love doughnuts.

“Sip champagne, then take each of my testicles into your mouth. Makes me tingle like crazy!”
- I wonder if the same applies to Budweiser…

“A sexual act is 10 times hotter when we’re watching porn, and they’re doing the same thing onscreen.”
- The last three tips have involved booze, doughnuts, and porn. Now we’re getting somewhere.

“Take your panties off, throw them in the freezer, then caress my body with them. Don’t laugh. It’s actually awesome.”
- But please, keep them away from my ice cream and vodka. Please.

“In a cab, climb onto my lap (facing me), then stick your left leg over my shoulder and your right leg out the window. It’s a little awkward, but it feels so good, we won’t care.”
- Your girlfriend is a whore.

Does she have a sister with low self-esteem?

I love your emails. I really do. They’re pretty much the only thing that keeps me going, as I have no constructive habits, no cool friends, and certainly no girlfriend. I have your emails, and maybe an occasional woman I can stare at on the subway. Oh, and drugs. I have those too.

The other day I was feeling down and was about to take out a full bottle of Vicodin to end it all, but then I thought, “No, I can’t leave my readers like this. Since I get death threats when I only post once a day or post something crappy, if I killed myself and never posted again they would probably exhume my corpse, stick it in a chair, parade it around the city as people threw mozzarella sticks at it. Then they’d sit it on the top of a hill, where men of all ages would line up to piss on it, while all my ex-girlfriends would be getting railed by eight dudes at once while everyone cheered them on.”

Still, I took the Vicodin. Turns out my roommate Brian had taken the pills and sold them on the black market, replacing them with jelly beans. So that’s why I’m here today.

Anyway, onto the emails. This first email comes from Keith Owen from Wallingford, CT:

[Your site] is some of the most time consuming enjoyable drivel I have ever read. When I get fired within the next couple of weeks, I will have you to thank, as I sit here with Pepsi flying out of my nose every so often while I read your site.

We are a generation of office workers who would rather surf for porn and then write about it than actually work…and I think with your quasi-celebrity status, you are just the man to lead us into battle. I’m not really sure who the battle would be against, and we would most assuredly lose because of our indifference and laziness toward anything and everything…I’m not sure where I’m going with this anymore.

Anyways, good shit…keep it up…I hate my job anyways.
-Keith

(By the way, that friend that told me about your site, she has nice voluptuous boobs, I would know, I dated her for 4 years. I can hook that up. Bear in mind, if we ever became friends, I would win every argument)

I would gladly lead us into battle, but will do so on one condition only: we have some sort of happy hour afterward. Or at least a drink special. And, as leader, it’d be nice if I could drink for free.

And as far as your friend, my email address is in the box on the upper right. And since I don’t have much interest in losing every argument you and I have for the rest of our lives, this will be my last piece of correspondence to you. Thank you.

*****************************************

Next, Pepe from New Haven, CT chimes in about my post of Tuesday:

Doesn’t this contradict your theory about how the worse you treat a woman, the more they will like you? It seems that this dude just secured himself all the sex he could ever want for all eternity. And that’s more than you can say. Not a bad move if you ask me. Now excuse me, I’m going to go to the gym and shoot that chick who likes to stretch a lot…

Um, ok, you got me. I should point out that when I made that post on Tuesday, I had smoked a joint before work, and I obviously can’t be held responsible for anything I do high. But good observations – now if only the rest of you were as smart as Pepe.

*****************************************

Some of you send me some pretty funny stuff, but recently I got something that really made me laugh out loud. A Woman Who Prefers To Remain Anonymous from Arlington, VA (you’ll probably figure out why in a second) writes:

My mother works in a dentist’s office and is constantly trying to hook me up with patients. She even told me about a really cute guy who saw my picture and thinks I am very pretty, but he has AIDS. I don’t if it’s worse that your parents think you are gay or that mine would rather see me dead in a few years, rather than being alone.

Wow. I mean, just when I thought I couldn’t take my mom asking me if I’ve met someone anymore, WWPTRA goes and blows me out of the water. All I can say is good luck, and godspeed.

Maybe we should start dating? You know, to kill to birds with one stone?

[Part 2 to come shortly]

I know, I stink. You’ve been checking my site, and I haven’t been holding up my end of the bargain. I don’t mean to make excuses, but yesterday was very busy, and we had those technical difficulties today (maybe you could tell because I posted the same entry ten times), and now I’m so sad, I just want to go home and cry (and masturbate).

But I promise, I’ll make it up to you. Tomorrow, there will be such glorious posts, you won’t even know what to do with yourself. Seriously, you’ll probably get so excited, you’ll commit a crime.

And anyone who knows me knows that I don’t make promises I can’t keep. Well, that’s not true; I make promises I can’t keep all the time.

But this time is different. I promise I’m going to be a better man, starting tomorrow.

Trust me.

(And I don’t mean that in the “Trust me – I’m sterile, so we don’t need to wear a condom” type of way)

“What the fuck? I will fucking strangle you, asshole!” says commuter Jason Mulgrew

When I woke up this morning, it was raining. When I got to the subway, I learned that this apparently “super” rain somehow managed to destroy the entire NYC transit system.

I am so pissed off right now, I don’t know where to begin. Because of problems from the rain, it took me two hours to get into work this morning. It normally takes 45 minutes.

My biggest question is: why? Did I miss something? Did a hurricane hit the greater New York area last night? It wasn’t even raining that hard when I woke up, and it’s since stopped. So what happened to essentially bring mass transit to a halt in the largest city in the US?

Not only was the commute long, but the trains were packed, and people were very, very angry. I overheard one guy say, “This is the worst day of commuting I’ve had in my twelve years of living in New York City.” This means something, especially since this city has survived a blackout and one of the biggest terrorist attacks in history. At one station, I tried to switch trains, hoping another subway line would be better. I found that not only was the platform packed with people, but the stairways leading to the platform were packed as well. Unbelievable.

I never thought I’d look at another human being and think, “So help me god, if you don’t let me on this train, I will murder you with my bare hands and fucking eat you right here in front of all these people.” I really think this should be a part of training for US Special Forces. Just before going into battle, they should load about 60 on them onto a subway car, make it go four stops (a half mile) in 45 minutes, all the while have people pushing, shoving, and grunting as they move in and out of the car. Then, let them out of the car, give them guns, and just let them go out. We would have the greatest empire the world has ever seen if we did this.

I’m still at a loss. I don’t know if the trains are allergic to rain, or they’re made of suede, or whatever, because they couldn’t function properly in what seemed to be standard rainfall.

At any rate, my morning is ruined. I was supposed to be here at 9. I got here at 10:35.

I dare anyone to come into my office and ask me for something. Because I will attack. And you don’t want that.

[FYI: And now blogger is having techinical difficulties. I've been trying to post this since about 10:50, and it ain't working. Real fucking sweet. Worst day ever.]

This is a pretty interesting article, and by “interesting” I mean, “Holy fucking shit.”

My favorite line: “This does not mean the relationship has irretrievably broken down.”

Um, dude, I’m pretty sure it does mean that.  Because, you know, they’re dead.  And even if they’re together in the after life, I’m pretty sure she’d break up with him in heaven (or wherever), because, you know, he shot and killed her and all.  I could see her forgiving him for lying, or cheating, but my limited experience with women has taught me that they’re going to be really pissed at you if you shoot and kill them. 

Just an FYI.

God, I am so fucking exhausted.

And it’s not because I went to the gym this morning, or went for a brisk run in Central Park before work, or got up early to go volunteer at my local soup kitchen.

It’s because I got drunk last night.

And it was fucking glorious.

My friend Abby had a “I quit my job so yay for me” party last night at a cool bar in Soho. My roommate Brian joined me at this party, because, well, it was at a bar, and bars have booze, and Brian loves him some booze.

This party had all sorts of wonderful people in attendance: Abby, the estimable Ericka, Don Fiedler of Slack LaLane and his lovely girlfriend, Irene, among others. I also had the opportunity to meet some readers, Carolyn, Kerri, and Steve.

Meeting Carolyn and Kerri (and Steve) was an epiphany for me, as it gave me great succor to see that not all of my readers are either a) stoners; b) unemployed; c) ugly; or d) morbidly obese (not that I have anything against those people; I am a, c, and d, and it’s only a matter of time for b).

Two things about this meeting:

1) I need to clear something up: I can date girls who smoke. I wrote that I couldn’t marry a woman who smokes. This doesn’t mean I can’t date a woman who smokes. Please read the language more carefully. Carolyn said something like, “It’s too bad you don’t date girls who smoke, because we both smoke.”

At that point, as Carolyn is attractive, I was ready to retract everything I had ever written, said, felt, or thought and sell my infant cousin into slave labor to prove that I am ready, willing, and able to date a girl who smokes. Shit, if she’s hot enough, I’ll date a girl that’s a murdering, cannibalizing, Nazi-sympathizer who has a dick.

Whoa – sorry – I didn’t mean to write that “has a dick” part. Damn.

Anyway, so really, it doesn’t matter. Forget all the stuff I wrote about who I can or can’t marry or whatever. I’ll take anything. Please help. Please.

2) Kerri’s first words after meeting me were “You’re not, like, obese.”

This echoes a sentiment expressed via email by Jennifer Perkins, of Ann Arbor, MI:

Hello,

I have been reading your website all day today at work and I have to say that it is pretty damn funny. I have a question though – when you make fun of yourself are you like being serious or do you like really think that about yourself? I looked at your friendster profile and I have to say that you aren’t bad looking and you’re not like totally fat. Anyway I was just curious.

- Jennifer

“You’re not, like, obese” and “You’re not like totally fat” have to be the two greatest compliments I have ever received. So therefore, I am formally inviting Jennifer, Kerri, and Carolyn to move in with me – this weekend. Give me a call as soon as you read this, because we have to rent the moving van as soon as possible. I guess this means I’m going to have to change my sheets, but that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make as long as you all promise me that we’ll live in a gorgeous and Bacchanalian foursome for the rest of our lives (well, until I die at 27 from a pork overdose).

*****************************************

But I was proud of myself: knowing that I had a meeting “first thing” this morning, I kept my composure, drank at a steady pace, and still had a good time and got a nice drunk on. I managed to make it home by about 1:30 or so, and ate two slices of pizza in under thirty seconds.

Brian, however, was not so lucky.

Brian recently got a job in at celebrity news show as an associate producer. This is huge news for him, because now he can tell women he’s a producer on a TV show, when really all he does at work is send me emails like, “God, I can’t wait to get fucked up this weekend” or “God, I am so fucking hungover.”

Brian’s been reporting to work at 6am, and finishing at 4pm. So, during the week, he has to get up at 4:45 in the morning to go to work. Therefore, he usually doesn’t go out during the week.

Well, last night he went out. And this morning, instead of waking up at 4:45am, he woke up at 9. Ouch.

He had eleven missed class on his cell phone, and we had three messages on our land-line. The first was from his receptionist:

“Hi Brian this is Linda. I’m just calling to see where you are because you were due in at 6 and now it’s 7:30. Please call when you can.”

The second was from his boss:

“Brian, Tom here. I’m wondering, frankly, where you are. It’s 8:15. Call immediately.”

The third was from his friend and co-worker Tina:

[whispering] “Brian, please call me as soon as you get this. I’m worried about you. What’s wrong and where are you?”

Fortunately, Brian made it into work, but the three-year contract he was supposed to sign to work for this show will now remain unsigned for two weeks, as Brian is now on probation.

I would like to congratulate Brian for being himself and keeping it real. Just when things were starting to come together and he was getting a taste of success, he jeopardized it by getting wasted and oversleeping by four hours.

So I am going to dedicate tonight’s drinking to Brian, and I hope that you all can find it in your heart this weekend to have a drink for my craptacular roommate.

Have a happy and safe Labor Day weekend, and save me a hot dog.

(Seriously, I don’t have any plans, and may just show up at your barbeque)

As I have written before, I was never one for grades in college. Sure, I did ok, but I was very opposed to the whole “working hard” thing, as I viewed college more as a life experience than an academic exercise. So I took advantage of this life experience by getting drunk and peeing on the T, watching “The Big Lebowski” three thousand times, and sleeping until noon every day. And sure, I still had intellectual interests, but those interests were limited to fantasy sports (Statistics), deciding how I could tell potential employers that I was a worthy hire when I really should be in prison (Marketing/Rhetoric), and figuring out how I could most wisely spend the $75 a week I made and still get my fill of booze and nachos (Math/Economics).

Senior year I was particularly guilty of the “senior slide.” Once I got my job offers in January, I pretty much closed down the shop, and focused in my remaining semester on trying to screw up as many female friendships I could by repeatedly asking for sex. It was not my finest moment. Not quite as bad as freshmen year when I was caught masturbating in my dorm’s laundry room, but pretty bad nonetheless.

My course load in senior year was all fluff. In the second semester, I had all my classes on Tuesday, and only one on Thursday.

It was in this semester that I took a writing course with my buddies Joe and Dan. Knowing that the class was going to be a bit of hard work, and hearing that the teacher was a ball-buster, we took the class pass/fail. This meant that all we had to do was show up with pants on (with our genitals in our pants), and we would pass.

This course was taught by Steve Almond. I’ve given some props to Steve before on this site, as he is a pretty bad-ass writer (if you’re looking for something to read, you should check out his stuff: My Life in Heavy Metal is a collection of lusty and heart-wrenching short stories, while Candyfreak: A Journey Through the Chocolate Underbelly of America is fascinating in the “I can’t put this down” kinda way, but the absolute worst book to read if you are on a diet).

Steve was also a pretty cool teacher – coming into class hungover, saying “Fuck” all over the place, asking one time after class if we knew how to “score”, because he was really feening for some hashish (ok, I made that last one up).

For these reasons, Steve and my buddies and I struck up a friendship. We respected him because he was an established writer and a fuck-up, thus giving us hope. He respected us because though we were taking his class pass/fail and doing miserably academically, we were pretty funny.

Fast forward to the present. As I have written before, I’m going back to grad school. The catch: I’m not officially in. Since I didn’t make the application deadline, I can take courses for credit, but I still have to officially apply, at which point credit will be carried over.

And I need two recommendations from professors attesting to my academic ability. This is a problem. When most students were visiting professors at office hours, I was playing Whiffle Ball and drinking Natty Light. Most professors I had barely learned my name, and I preferred it this way.

I thought to myself, “Why not ask Steve for a recommendation? You’ve been pimping him out to everyone you know, and he knows you’re not a total ass. Besides, it’s not like I need a good rec – just a blurb saying something like, ‘Jason Mulgrew is capable of study at your institution. I do not believe that he will murder anyone. On campus, at least.’”

So last week, I emailed Steve:

Steve-O:

How are you? How is fame, celebrity, etc? Looking forward to starting up another semester?

Speaking of semesters (nice segue), I’m heading back to school this fall. It’s just part-time, for my MA in History here in NYC at Hunter – something to do while working, so then I can work and have the degree and either teach or shoot for the Ph.D. Anyways, I’m currently “non-matriculated”, which means I was too lazy to officially apply. So I’m applying now. And I need some recommendations.

As the only teacher that I still keep in contact with, didn’t alienate by making a sexual pass at, or doesn’t think I’m totally incompetent (not sure of this last one), I was wondering if you could whip one up for me. Nothing special – the form is really short, and it’s Hunter, so I’m pretty sure that my “stellar” history grades will get me in, even if your only comment is “douchebag” (if you went to Hunter, my apologies). Anyway, if you have time to do one, send me your address, and thank you in advance. If you don’t, no worries.

Anyway, hope all is well and talk to you soon.

I thought that this was pretty much in the bank, until I got Steve’s reply the next day:

jdog –

yup yup. i hear you. here’s the prob: you took my class pass/fail. also, despite yer brilliance (and i mean that, yer a smart fucker — i read yer on-line shit), your performance in class was average (really, slightly below) because you sort of blew it off. and that’s not what i wanna tell these folks, but i’d be dutybound to be straight about your “academic performance in my class.” are you feeling my pain?
besides — i taught you some crazy english shit. i’d find history profs if you can.
does this just fuck you up terribly?
i hope not.
xo
s

Hilarious.

The thing is, I completely understand every point Steve makes. What’s even more funny is that I never thought about it like that. It never occurred to me that yes, maybe a recommendation for graduate study in history should come from 1) a history professor; 2) a history professor whose class I didn’t take pass/fail; and 3) a history professor whose class I didn’t take pass/fail and did well in.

So I wrote Steve and told him no worries, and that I agree with his assessment, and that there are no hard feelings (although when I’m up in Boston next weekend I’m definitely going to steal his car).

But now I’m faced with the task of calling professors I had three to six years ago, who barely knew my name, to ask if they can give me a recommendation. I will be sure to keep you apprised of the conversations like:

Me: “Hi, Professor Morgan?”
Old Ass History Professor: “Yes?”
Me: “Hi, my name is Jason Mulgrew. I’m a BC alumnus, a former history major, who took your ‘US 1912-1945′ class in the fall of ’99.”
Prof: [clearly not remembering] “Um, yes?”
Me: “Well, how are you? Are you married? If so, how is your wife? If you are both capable of conceiving and have done so, how are your children?”
Prof: [hesitating, confused] “Can I help you with something?”
Me: “Well, I know you’re busy so I won’t keep you, but I am applying for my masters and was wondering if you might have the time to write me a recommendation.”
Prof: “I don’t know who you are.”
Me: “That’s what I figured. Ok, thank you for your time.”

Repeat for every member of the history department. Good times. Good times indeed.

See the little envelope in the line below this post? You can click on that and send a link to a particular post to anyone you wish. It’s a cool little feature.

For example, maybe you read my Kobe Bryant jokes and thought, “Man, this guy is good. My friend Liz would definitely sleep with him if she read those jokes. I should email them to her.” Well, just click on the little envelope, fill out the info, and email away.

But please, do not email Liz if she has any STD that I can catch. Not that I have anything against those with STD’s (my brother has both herpes and HPV), but, like I wrote before, I’m clean, and I want to stay that way.

Thank you for your cooperation.

[These jokes only work if you picture Norm Macdonald delivering them on the old "Saturday Night Live" Weekend Update]

The judge in the Kobe Bryant case has dropped a felony sexual assault charge brought against Bryant, after the prosecutors in the case filed a motion for dismissal. [Turning aside and speaking into little tape recorder] Note to self: book ticket to Eagle, Colorado immediately, since rape is now legal.

OR

The judge in the Kobe Bryant case has dropped a felony sexual assault charge brought against Bryant, after the prosecutors in the case filed a motion for dismissal. When reached for comment, Bryant said, “This is awesome. I raped that woman and completely got away with it. Nice.”

[I mean, can someone give me a job as a comedy writer already? That shit is gold, baby - gold!]

I’m happy to report that at about 3:30 yesterday, The Battle of Normandie Court came to an end, and the General was finally defeated.

He was a worthy opponent, but when the smoke cleared, it was I who was left standing, empty bottles of Pepto-Bismol at my feet, taco in my hand, basking in glory.

But this is not the end. We will meet again soon, and I will be ready. Oh, fried globules of chicken in a tangy sauce, I will master you yet.

You son of a bitch.

…

It’s good to be back. And thank god it’s September.

**********************************

One additional note about Monday’s post: I have never understood belligerent drunks. I feel like something must have happened to them in their childhood for them to get drunk and be hostile. All I want to do when I’m drunk is 1) make out and 2) eat (usually in that order, the second coming after I have tried but failed in the first).

I had a roommate in college (who now is two days away from getting married – wtf?) who used to get wasted and try to start fights with me. The next day, I’d say, “Dude, what was your deal last night? You came into my room at 4:45 in the morning, punched me in the face while I was asleep, and ran out as I chased you down the street.” His reply: “Dude, sorry. I blacked out.”

I think psychologists need to devote more time to the black-out drunk. I don’t know why this isn’t already so…what you see is pure and undisguised “being in action.” Does anyone else find this fascinating?

Maybe I just need a hobby.

**********************************

I am purposely not writing anything about the Republican National Convention going on here in NYC, because if you want to read about it you can do so at the thousands of other blogs covering it. But one thing deserves mention: is it me or does Jenna Bush look like every girl I got drunk at a bar on Commonwealth Ave and brought back to my dorm and fingerblasted? You know, kind of cute in that “I’ve got a nice buzz going” kind of way, a little bit o’ pudge to her, looking like she’ll put just about anything in her mouth after three Miller Lites?

Jenna (because I know you are reading this), did you spend any time in the Boston-Brookline-Brighton-Alston area from 1999-2001? Because I think I may have given you mouth babies.

**********************************

If there is a god, he will make Deion Sanders’ comeback an embarrassment.

Lord, I’ve never asked for much, but please smite Deion Sanders, possibly my least favorite athlete of all-time, and possibly the most egocentric bastard in the history of sports. I know he’s all born-again now and you definitely like him better than me, but c’mon – throw me a bone here. I’ll make it up to you.

And what’s all this talk about the Ravens making a Super Bowl run? Are you kidding? Jamal Lewis is facing ten years in federal prison, and last time I checked Kyle Boller stinks. These guys are supposed to beat the Pats, Titans, and Colts?

Yeah, right. Next you’re going to tell me that there are black doctors and that women can have orgasms. Whatever.

**********************************

Speaking of embarrassments: Lenny Kravitz, you STINK. Maybe if you stopped focusing on being pretty and selling out, you could create something on par with Mama Said, which, by the way, came out in 1991. You know what else came out or was big in 1991? Marky Mark, C+C Music Factory, and Color Me Badd. So that’s how long ago that was.

Lenny Kravitz = stink. I’m sure he could care less, as he is probably having sex with eight lingerie models at once right now, while I am in my stuffy office going over financial data. But that’s not the point. I don’t know what is the point, but that’s not it.

**********************************

A random sampling of songs you should really download:

- “I Hardly Ever Sing Beer Drinking Songs” Johnny Cash
The antithesis of the whiny “My woman left me and my dog died so I is fixin’ to get drunk” country song. God I miss Johnny Cash. Never knew him personally, but it was good to know that he was there, being all genius and pissed off.

- “You’re Fit But You Know It” The Streets
Recommended by a reader after my suggestion of “Miracle Man”. Guy gets dissed by girl who thinks she’s hot shit. Classic theme, but surprisingly few songs on the topic. Extra points because it’s brought to us by a nerdy cockneyed Brit.

- “Mother” John Lennon
Intense. When Paul McCartney was off prancing around on stage with his wife singing about his “band on the run”, John Lennon was kicking ass and taking names. Just piano, bass, some drums, and a lot of intensity. Do NOT listen to this song if you are under the influence of narcotics and have had problems with your parents (not that I have, besides the whole “I swear I’m not gay” fiasco of 2000). Seriously.

- “Sugaree” Jerry Garcia Band
Terrific song. If you like the Grateful Dead, you’ll like this. Even if you don’t like the Dead, you’ll like this. Trust me.

- “Ms. Fat Booty” Mos Def
Great fucking jam, and I love the sample of the old Aretha Franklin song. Extra points for the line: “Ass so big you could see it from the front.” That’s my kinda woman.

- “Beautiful” Christina Aguilera
Ah, Christina. Not only is she a slut, but she also has a message: “we” are beautiful, even if others call us ugly.

Well.

I don’t think you’re ugly Christina. In fact, if I had my choice of any pop diva to spend the night with, or the day with, or even fifteen minutes in the back of a Chevy Lumina with, it’d be you.

Britney: sliding down the slippery slope to white trash, and will be sucking dick for cheeseburgers by my 30th birthday.

Jessica: unconscionably attractive, but probably has only had one “d” (dick) in her life. That whole “I’m dumb and I was a virgin until Nick” thing doesn’t exactly scream “I know how to take care of business in the bedroom.”

But Christina…my goodness. Any woman who can sing like that but decides to dress like a Turkish pirate whore constantly is alright with me.

- “Anna Begins” Counting Crows
This was first recommended to me by reader Sindia, who I am hopelessly trying to seduce with charming but often inappropriate emails (but there’s one catch: she’s actually met me, which doesn’t bode well for me).

At first I thought, “Counting Crows? No thanks – I’m actually a man, and straight.” But after a while the song grew on me – I mean, doesn’t everyone sort of want the type of relationship described in the song, one to come in and totally obliterate and obfuscate their entire life?

[Whoa - sorry. Apparently, I had removed my testicles prior to writing that last sentence. I'm put them back now. My bad.]

Apparently, I must have offended the Ghost of General Tso, as the good General and his delicious chicken have fucked me over twice in the past six months.

I don’t know how this could have happened, though if I had to guess it would be because of the time at the massage parlor I asked the Asian chick if I could stick my finger in her butt for an extra $20. If I had known she was a direct descendant of General Tso, I would surely have offered her more (at least $30, and the pinkie instead of the middle finger).

The result: after a night of puking my guts up, I’m at home sick today, too weak to post (seriously).

I am sorry, but I’ll get you tomorrow. Promise.

Hugs and kisses,
Jason