and the answer to your question is “yes”…
Jason posted on June 24, 2004

I do spend all of my time at work trolling the internet for news articles about sexual/masturbatory deviance. It builds my self-esteem to know that there are people out there just like me, and gives me a glimmer of hope that I’m the normal one, and those who don’t beat off in front of a mirror or with a cold uncooked chicken breast (skinless, of course) are the strange ones.

I’m glad that we were finally able to be honest with each other about that.

[Honestly, it's always nice to get articles like this from your friends with notes that say, "Thought of you when I saw this" or "Thought you'd like this." Makes me feel really good, let me tell you. That doesn't mean I don't enjoy them, but still...]

even better
Jason posted on June 24, 2004

This just goes to show that people like me can make it in life - they can even become a judge.

The new best thing I’ve ever read: “‘On one occasion, Ms. (Lisa) Foster (Thompson’s court reporter for 15 years), saw Judge Thompson holding his penis up and shaving underneath it with a disposable razor while on the bench,’ the petition reads.”

And hey - you have to give the guy credit for offering some comic relief during such a stressful time: “According to the petition, Thompson admitted he had a penis pump under the bench during a murder trial but he told investigators it was a gag gift from a friend.”

I mean, you couldn’t make this stuff up. Wow.

Wow
Jason posted on June 24, 2004

I don’t know who this guy is, but he is awesome.

The best line I’ve read in a long time: “They were shocked to find photographs of the man’s genitals sitting on their drinking cups, bottles and food.”

Also, there’s about a 85% chance that this guy is related to me. He could possibly even be my long-lost father.

I’ll have to ask around to see if any family members have been in Colorado recently.

inappropriate dinner behavior
Jason posted on June 23, 2004

I am out sick today, so I don’t really have the drive to write (preferring instead to download porn), but I have a quick story I wanted to tell before I forgot it.

Last night, I went to dinner at the Tribeca Grill. Many people my age are now going to fancy NYC restaurants because it’s Restaurant Week, which means nice restaurants are offering prie fixed lunches for $20.12 and prie fixed dinners for $30.12 in support of NYC’s bid for the 2012 Olympics. They could be supporting child labor and I’d still gladly lay down $30 for a nice steak with appetizer and dessert. Shit, one time I went to a KKK function because it was a $10 Beef and Beer night for all you could eat and drink.

But the thing is, I hate going out to dinner. I don’t like the formality and uncomfortableness - I’d rather eat at home, lying on the couch, drinking out of a 64 oz. bottle of Gatorade. This way when I make my eating noises, like choking because I’m trying to stuff too much food in my mouth at once or my overly sensual moans of delight, no one is there to look at me funny or say, “Oh my goodness” under their breath.

So anyway, my friend Cheryl and I had reservations for 7:30. At about 4pm, while we were both at work, we had this conversation:

Me: “Well, since I’m going to go straight from work, I’ll get there a little early for a drink beforehand.”
Cheryl: “Ok - that sounds good.”
Me: “Cool. I’ll see you there.”

So I got to the restaurant at 7 and went to make myself known to the hostess. Another reason that I don’t like eating at fancy restaurants is that I feel out-classed. I never went to fancy-pants restaurants growing up, and I still feel like I don’t belong there. This is especially true of last night, when I was sweating like some sort of sweat monster as I stumbled into the restaurant.

Me: “Hi, I’m half of the Cheryl McManus party. It’s for 7:30 - two people.”
Hostess: [she's attractive in that "I'm a NYC hostess" kind of way and I don't hear what she says but I'm too afraid to ask her to repeat herself]
Me: “Um, ok. I’ll just wait outside.”

I went outside thinking Cheryl would be arriving any moment, as per our conversation. The time was about 7:05pm.

Ten minutes pass, and still no sign of Cheryl. I’ve been pacing outside in the humidity, working myself up into an angry stupor over her tardiness.

At 7:30, the time of our reservation, there’s still no sign of Cheryl, and she’s not answering her cell phone. At this point, I am on fire. There are three things I can’t stand: 1) tardiness, 2) heat/humidity, and 3) condoms. She’s hitting two of the three magic buttons, and I’m ready to start punching cars.

I decided to check to see if Cheryl had called the hostess to let them know she’d be late.

Me: “Hi, I’m part of the Cheryl McManus reservation at 7:30.”
Hostess: “Yes - would you like me to show you to your table?”
Me: “Actually, she hasn’t arrived yet. Has she called you by any chance?”
Hostess: [checking over notes] “No, no I don’t see anything here or any message.”
Me: [completely unraveling] “God, I could just punch her in the face!!!”
Hostess: [blank, but horrified stare]
Me: “I’m sorry. I’ll be outside.”

I don’t know why it is so difficult for me to realize that not everyone has the same sense of humor as I do. I was only kidding - I haven’t hit a woman in almost four weeks, and I don’t want to start that up again - and for some reason I thought the hostess would know that I was kidding, and find my joke about abusing women hysterical.

Finally, Cheryl showed up at 7:51. After complaining to her for few minutes, we went inside and the same hostess I made the inappropriate joke to awkwardly seated us. The best part is that after we were seated, Cheryl said:

Cheryl: “Geez, that hostess kinda has a bad attitude.”
Me: “I know - I don’t know what her problem is.”

Well Cheryl, now you know why she had a bad attitude. My bad, but overall the dinner was lovely. And sorry I kept staring at your boobs, but that shirt was pretty low-cut. I hope this does not adversely affect our friendship. And if it does, well, I have no regrets.

Good job!
Jason posted on June 22, 2004

My boss just called to tell me that two of the pitches I’ve prepared over the past two weeks have been accepted. That means we’ve been hired as counsel. This is a very, very good thing.

Thus continues my inexplicable run at being really good at what I do. Seriously, I have no idea how to explain it, because most of the time I really don’t even know what I’m doing. Once a day, something like this happens:

Boss: “Do you see how we ranked on the latest league tables for mid-term notes?”
Me: [eating a big-ass sandwich, having no idea what a "mid-term note" is, being forced to guess] “Yes - we came out on top.”
Boss: “Excellent. Keep up the good work.”

Then I’ll spend the next three hours learning what a mid-term note is, pooping, checking the internet/tables to see if actually came out on top (which we usually do), checking fantasy sports, making really long personal phone calls, and pooping some more.

What I do is marketing/pr/financial research for a law firm. I got hired after I was a legal assistant at the firm for two years, despite having no background at all in business, marketing, or public relations. My course load in college consisted of: history, some writing, sign language, and whatever was in the afternoon or whatever that girl with the giant boobs from the cafe who I always met in the bagel line was taking.

And I don’t really apply myself because I learned at a young age that trying is for losers. You can save that “There’s nothing more satisfying than working hard to reach a goal and achieving it” drivel. You know what’s more satisfying? Doing just enough to get by and being honored/promoted/handsomely compensated for it. Now that’s a great feeling.

I don’t mean to toot my own horn here, but really, if I’m going to brag, there are dangerously few things that I can brag about, and this is probably number one. But this streak has got to come to an end soon, and when it does, no one is going to walk away a winner. I don’t think the powers-that-be will like it when they realize that their man in charge of venture capital research doesn’t even know what “venture capital” means.

So if your company is hiring let me know. My skills include:

- good people skills
- showing up late
- seldom wearing a shirt and when shirted, said shirt only covers half of stomach
- excellent at sexual harassment
- punching people/co-workers when they’re not looking
- stealing large office supplies for home (i.e. lamps, chairs, desks, etc)
- ability to cry on queue
- one time I beat up a dog

You can just send me an email with salary info at the address in the box on the right. Thanks.

a message to the girl who works at the Taco Bell at 95th & 2nd
Jason posted on June 22, 2004

Hi,

Though we have spoken many times, often several times a week, I don’t think we’ve ever properly met. My name is Jason Mulgrew. I am an internet quasi-celebrity, and I would like to spend the rest of my life with you.

As of now, you know me only as the sweaty guy who regularly orders two burrito supremes with no tomatoes and two soft tacos. And I know you only as the attractive woman of unidentified ethnic origin (Latin? Indian? Both?) who delicately makes and serves said burritos to me. But if given the chance, I know that we can get to know each other on a much deeper and nakeder level.

I know our relationship, though now only in its incipient stages, can grow to be something that we both (or at least I) can enjoy for many years to come. And I know that deep down, below your mascara that curves at the end making you look like a cat (but a sex-pot cat), and that little Taco Bell visor that I would surely ask you to wear during intercourse, you see some potential in me. Perhaps you realize that I am a man capable of endless love and devotion if I were only to find the right woman. Perhaps you sense that I am willing to never speak to my family or friends again if you asked me to. Or perhaps you saw one of the many occasions I took out a few $100 bills and showed them to you, mouthing the words, “This can be all yours - and more”, in a sexy manner while rubbing the bills all over my chest and crotch.

I feel that we can learn about each other, and take interest in each other’s hobbies. For example, the other day while waiting for my meal, I noticed you talking to a woman friend of yours who pulled out something out of her purse that looked like a mini blow-torch. I couldn’t really pay attention to what you two were talking about because I was very hungry and the smell of that horse-meat slowly cooking in those bins brings me nearer to orgiastic delight than any woman ever could, but I’m guessing you’re into metal work, possibly sculpture. Or possibly you use mini blow-torches to burn down homes, buildings, and churches. And you know what? I think that’s great. I want you to show me your world, and if your world includes arson, well then I’ll bring the kerosene.

I know you may be reticent because only a week ago I professed my love to another woman. I want you to know that she and I are over. She was a very unladylike and insensitive woman. What kind of “lady” attacks a man trying to give her flowers with pepper spray, especially after that man had been waiting outside her apartment for three days (without food or water might I add) just to get the chance to talk to her? The answer: a harpy and a whore. I want you to know that I would never forsake you - not for anyone. Well, except Lindsay Lohan. And Josie Maran and Elisha Cuthbert. And that stripper at Show & Tell in Philly who let me touch her boobs in the parking lot for $50 when I was coming down from my last coke binge.

I’m sorry - I’m getting a little side-tracked here, but the important thing is that I need you. And I need you to need me. Because, if you don’t, well, you’d probably better get a permit to carry. But let’s not let it get to that.

All I ask is that you think about it. And get back to me by this Friday via email by 5pm.

Love, always and forever,
This is what it sounds like when doves cry,
I am,
Eternally indebted to your will,
Jason

fun Rasputin fact
Jason posted on June 21, 2004

In some academic circles, I am considered an expert on early 20th century Russia (and by “some academic circles”, I mean “my apartment”).

Therefore, I know quite a bit about Rasputin, although I admit that’s the first time I’ve seen his penis (that is, that’s the first time I’ve seen it not in a dream).

But did you know that famous French designer Coco Chanel was at one time involved with (and possibly even married to) one of the men that murdered Rasputin, Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich? Yeah, swear to god. He and two others killed Rasputin, who was not only well-hung but also a tough mother fucker. The three originally poisoned him and left him in a basement to die. When they checked on him and saw he was alive, they beat him. Later while they were drinking upstairs, Rasputin crashed into the room and made a mad dash to escape. Dmitri and the others chased him down and shot him in the front yard of Yusupov Palace. After that, they took his body and wrapped in a sack and dumped it in the Malaya Nevka River.

When the body was found days later and the autopsy performed, it was discovered that Rasputin died not from the poison, beating, or gun shots, but rather by drowning.

The verdict: bad dude.

Anyway, Dmitri was never formally convicted or indicted for the murder, but his uncle sent him away in shame because all the whisperings that ran throughout the country, which was in for a pretty tough time for the next, oh, about 80+ years.

Dmitri eventually moved to France where he lived the life of a socialite, and before you know it, he was banging Coco Chanel. Some have even gone so far to say that Dmitri “inspired” the famous Chanel #5.

So there you go…a cosmetics empire built by the inspiration of a Russian Grand Duke who murdered Rasputin.

Now don’t ever say that this isn’t educational.

Bitches.

uncanny
Jason posted on June 21, 2004

This looks exactly like mine, but mine is about ten times smaller.

I mean, wow - the resemblance is freaking me out. Seriously - the same coloring and everything. Really weird.

my shitty weekend
Jason posted on June 21, 2004

In an amazing show of self-control, I didn’t do anything this weekend. I talked it over with my accountant, and we decided that it would be better to take one for the team (read: bank account) and not spend my usual $300 on Budweiser and Ketel One.

The good thing is that I manage to get tons of sleep when I stay in (bear with me - I know nothing’s funnier than someone talking about how much they sleep). Friday night I went to bed at midnight, woke up at 11am, ate a gigantic breakfast burrito, then napped from 12:30pm until 3pm. Diagnosis: awesome.

But aside from getting sleep, the whole “staying in to save money” thing never works. This is because I’ll wake up refreshed and not hung over in the morning/afternoon, with no sign of pizza on my bedroom floor or half-finished cans of Natty Ice on my bathroom sink, and think, “Since I didn’t go out last night, I should go out and spend some money today.” One hour later, I’m at the guitar store with a banjo in one hand and a mandolin in the other, thinking, “Well, $400 isn’t a big deal. After all, I didn’t spend my usual $200 last night on booze, so that’s like getting a banjo and a mandolin for only $200! What a fucking bargain! I should probably go to Burger King and get a Hershey Sundae Pie to celebrate.”

Also, I have nothing good to say when I get the “how was your weekend?” question from friends, because dropping $50 on different jump ropes that I’ll never use at Modell’s isn’t very exciting.

So since I was a complete loser this weekend, I present a story from my roommate Brian, who went to his home in N. Jersey for the weekend. One important detail: long story short, Brian’s dad always sleep on the couch in the living room, much like I will someday.

On Saturday night, we started drinking at like 2 in the afternoon, so, needless to say, at the end of the night I was out of my mind. It didn’t help that I also smoked pot, so I was a complete mess. So my buddy drops me off at my house on Saturday, Father’s Day eve, and it’s like 4:30 in the morning. I stumble up my driveway and finally get to the door, and I’m having a major, major problem getting in. My keys are dangling, and I’m really struggling, poking them at the lock in vain, and I just know that I’m waking my dad up. Finally I get in, and he’s not up - or at least he’s not obviously awake.

I make it up to my room, when in my high state of mind, I think one thing: I need some sweets. So I head back downstairs, walking high as a kite through the living room where my dad is sleeping like three feet away, and I’m knocking over chairs and just a fucking mess. When I get to the kitchen, for some reason I decide that instead of turning on the light, I should use a flashlight. So it’s now almost five in the morning, I’m in my kitchen, all fucked up, knocking into things, and now I have a flashlight beaming through the house, while my dad is “asleep” ten feet away - tops. I definitely looked like a fucking burglar, but a really bad one.

I had to pull a chair over to stand on to get deep into the pantry, and I hear, “Brian?” Sure enough, it’s my dad. I’m like, “Yeah?” and he’s like, “What the hell are you doing?” Wasted, I think of my best excuse: “I just wanted to get a Devil Dog.” I hear him say something under his breath like “Jesus Christ”, and go back to sleep.

So Happy fucking Father’s Day, dad. I wake him up at 5 in the morning, probably scaring the shit out of him thinking I’m robbing the house, just because I was fucked up and wanted a fucking Devil Dog. What a great son I’ve become.

I can’t wait to have kids someday. Hopefully soon, because that means I’ll have to have sex. Nice.

sheesh
Jason posted on June 18, 2004

Whatever you people do for a living, you all should be fired. I’ve gotten a ton of emails from you all recently about sty treatments, how the Pixies really are awesome and I just don’t get it, how Kiss does indeed suck, how Aretha Franklin must have a special toilet to do her business on, and just random general things.

And it’s great - keep them coming (because I have so few friends in real life). I’m trying to think of ways to improve this site to make it more interactive, but that requires both creativity AND hard work, and, well…

Anyway, thanks for the emails, and I will respond to them all, though my responses may not make much sense or contain only curse words.

Another weekend is finally upon us, so remember:

1) Don’t drink and drive

2) Try a new drug or cocktail

3) Thank your dad for making you the codeine-addicted, overweight, insecure, gambling mess you are today

[Wait, that last one's what I should thank my dad for. Sorry.]

Jason Mulgrew - Now STD Free!
Jason posted on June 18, 2004

I admit, I am a little bit of a hypochondriac. I don’t know why or where this came from, but it’s a pretty recent development. I had previously not been to the doctor in probably five or so years, but I finally went at the beginning of this year, and thought to myself, “You know what? I could get into this.” It’s really strange - I like doctors’ offices. I like going to the doctor. I even, to an extent, like getting examined. There are few more satisfying feelings to me than to know that I am healthy. It is especially satisfying because I abuse my body so much and still continue to be healthy - kinda like saying, “Fuck you Death - I drink 50 beers in a good weekend, eat something with the word ‘cream’ in it twice per meal, and I’m still healthy! Bitch! You ain’t got nothing on me!”

But my hypochondria is selective. Most hypochondriacs will take any abnormality or difference in their bodies as a symptom of some terminal illness. I don’t feel this way that often. Sure, sometimes my heart will start beating very rapidly out of nowhere and I’ll think to myself, “Oh my god - am I having a heart attack?”, but then I’ll realize that an increased heart rate is a natural response to playing with yourself in the shower (the high temperature of the water and steam also increases heart rate) and I’ll just continue plugging away.

The reason why I’m not a very good hypochondriac is that when I have actual, legitimate symptoms, I don’t acknowledge them or do anything about them. For about two months, I had been having heartburn every single day. It would come on in the early afternoon, and affect me in varying degrees throughout the day and evening, giving me problems sleeping (I’ve pretty much given up on the idea of ever sleeping normally again - more on this later).

I thought nothing of this constant heartburn. After dinner, I’d make small pain noises and rub my chest, and my roommates would say, “Um, dude, maybe you should go see a doctor? Also, could you pay us back the $700 you owe us for bills? Because we kinda need that.” I’d feel the heartburn when I was out drinking, and still keep pounding those Bud Lights, vodka tonics, Tom Collinses, quarts of gasoline - you know, whatever was put in front of me.

Finally, after nearly two months, I made an appointment to see a new doctor. I hated my old doctor, because he was very disinterested and had all these mid-20’s semi-attractive med students to do all his dirty work (see 5/18). Also, one time during an examination while checking in my ears, I noticed he was playing with himself. I let it slide when the time before he whispered, “$5 sucky sucky?”, but this was the last straw.

So I got to my appointment, met the new doctor, and he was super cool. He started out by looking at all the new patient information I filled out in the waiting room, and said, “I know you just filled all this shit out, but I’m just going to ask you anyway - it’s too early to read all this stuff.”

He asked me a bunch of questions about my symptoms, checked me out, and gave me some shit for my heartburn, which has since disappeared. But, as he was checking me out, I said, “You know what? Maybe I should get an STD test.”

I’ve been thinking about getting an STD test for some time now. I mean, for my weight class, I’ve been with a lot of women (I’m currently #4 in the world in the “Man, that dude is too fat to get chicks” weight class, behind some guy in China, a guy in Canada, and a Russian dude). Also, I’m turning 25 soon, so I figured it’s time. In addition, I’ve slept with like 10 hookers, and I’ve heard that they can sometimes have diseases.

A few of my guy friends have had them and I’ve heard the horror stories, and all about the dreaded White Lightening.

When guys get tested for STDs, they get tested in three steps: a cotton swab to the mouth, a blood test, and the aforementioned White Lightening.

The cotton swab to the mouth and the blood test are simple, easy, and straight-forward. Like I said, I’m not queasy, so I don’t mind needles or drawing blood.

But the White Lightening, well, that’s a different story. The White Lightening is a long metal rod with a cotton swab on the end of it - kinda like a metal Q-tip. It’s not terribly imposing-looking, but that tip, well, it has to go in your urethra. That’s your dick hole. It’s called “White Lightening” because it’s got that white tip and when they put it in your pee hole, all you see is whiteness for a good three seconds.

And boy, let me tell you, that thing deserves respect. I mean, wow. I don’t know if I can write about it yet, but suffice to say, it does not feel very good. I hate being a pussy and always try to hide any pain or discomfort, but there was no hiding this. I let out some really girly sigh noise or something, and then the whiteness came. The only good thing to say about it is that it’s over very quickly.

My friend Teddy has a theory about the White Lightening. He believes that this actually doesn’t test for anything, but rather it’s a torture device designed to discourage future unprotected sex, because no one would want that White Lightening again. This gets some back-up because some guys I know just have blood tests for STDs. The reasoning behind just the blood test is that if you’ve never exhibited any symptoms or problems, have had few or no sexual partners in the last six months, then a blood test is all that is needed.

Like Chris Rock says, the time after you get the STD test until the time you get the results is a very scary and introspective time. You start thinking about all those sketchy girls you hooked up with in college, or on vacation in Europe, or that one time “for shits” you made out with that guy behind the White Castle just to see if you’d like it, and man - it can really freak you out.

But I am thrilled to report that I am 100% STD free. And you know what? It makes that three seconds of discomfort worth it, because I now know that I can say to any woman I meet between now and 8pm tonight when I met that guy from the internet “I am clean” and mean it. Whew!

So, let’s recap for all the ladies out there:

Pros:
- No STD’s
- Semi-rich, or at least willing to spend large sums of money for affection
- Plays guitar
- Speaks a bunch of languages
- No major family history of disease
- Easily manipulated
- Will never be unfaithful (though not for lack of trying)
- Awesome website
- Own bathroom, with matching hand towels
- National Merit Scholar semi-finalist

Cons:
- The opposite of good-looking
- Obese, or “husky”
- Racist, sexist, anti-Semitic
- Insecure, unambitious
- Insignificant sex drive
- Completely insane family
- Prone to fits of jealous rage, depression
- Have betrayed or will betray everyone close to me
- Refuse to let anyone around me be happy since I am not
- If given the chance, would trade you for some vanilla pudding in the blink of an eye

Again, I’m not asking for an answer now - just think about it.

1 month to 25
Jason posted on June 17, 2004

Consider yourselves warned: we are exactly one month until my 25th birthday.

25 is a big year. I’ll be a whole quarter of a century, or 25/27 through my life. It’s a time for evaluation, but I won’t get into that now. What I will get into now is possible birthday presents.

The following is a list of things that I would like for my birthday. Please work out among yourselves who’s getting what.

- a giant fucking carrot cake
- a big ass bread bowl of New England Clam Chowder
- some books with pictures of boobs in them
- vodka, but good vodka
- art to decorate my room (preferably nudes)
- a portrait of myself, painted by Zito on Ludlow Street, in a 17th century Russian boyar’s uniform, with a giant mastiff on my left, and a giant Reuben in my right hand
- a cheesesteak or two
- a case of black cherry soda
[this list subject to change]

Of course, there is one present that I’ve been asking for for years but so far I have gotten it. It is (drumroll please) a threesome.

[To clear that up, that's me with two girls. That's the only combination.]

I’ve always wanted this, and I don’t think I’m asking for too much here. I’d like to ask my female friends to consider all the times over the years I’ve made them laugh, bought them drinks, given them man advice - even gotten into fights for them. And all I ask is for two of them to come to my room and let me have my way with them, only for a moment. To sweeten the deal:

1) Realizing that having a threesome with me involved is probably the least appealing sexual activity in the universe, I’m willing to provide up to $800 worth of cocaine to make this happen. I have a lot of friends who are “in the know”, and this wouldn’t be a problem. Rohypnol, weed, X and a multitude of other drugs can be provided with 24 hours advanced notice.

2) Honestly, the whole thing would probably last maybe 4 or 5 minutes. You’re telling me you can’t spend 4 or 5 minutes of your time to validate my entire existence? To completely turn my miserable life around? To make me, for at least a week, the happiest guy on the planet? Come on - stop being so damn selfish for just one second.

3) In return, I will give you one favor of your choosing. If, after the threesome, you want me to move out of the area, well, I will do it. If, after the threesome, you want me to steal a car for you, I will do it. If, after the threesome, you want me to never mention it again, well, I can’t do that. But you get the point.

I’m not asking for a “yes” or “no” right now. All I’m asking for is that you all (females) think about it. I’ve had a few twosomes in my day and about a million onesomes, but no threesomes. This is probably going to be one of my last birthdays - won’t you help make it enjoyable? For me? [Not so much you]

remedies
Jason posted on June 17, 2004

This morning I complained about my sty and my friend Lara said, “You know what you do? You get a wedding ring, and you make a circle around the eye three times, and it will go away.”

Apparently, my friend Lara has become a witch. Or maybe she went to med school with my old doctor (see 3/5).

When I made fun of her about it, she defended it, saying it works, and that her mom told her about it and seriously, it works.

So she called her mom to ask exactly how this “cure” is performed. Her mom left her a voicemail, and Lara forwarded this message to me:

“Hi Lara, call me back, but to answer your question, the wedding ring must be gold and have no stones on it. It’s important that it has no stones at all and it’s gold. It has to be held in the right hand, and you have to get as close to the person with the sty as you can without touching the skin, and make three slow circles around the eye with the sty. Remember, you can’t touch the skin, but get as close as you can, and do it very slowly, three times.”

Um, ok. Silly me - I didn’t realize that we were in Medieval England. Since we are, I have devised my own method of birth control for men, so that they no longer have to wear condoms (this will not prevent STD’s, but only other people get STD’s, not me):

First, you have to gather the ingredients: a jar of mild salsa, a Lhasa Apso (the longer the hair of the dog, the better), a Snickers bar, and the “Phantom of the Opera” soundtrack (Original Cast ONLY - I can not stress this enough).

Here goes: bring the Lhasa Apso into a room, curtains drawn, and split the Snickers bar with him. After you and the dog have finished the Snickers bar, start the “Phantom of the Opera” soundtrack. Do nothing until “Angel of Music” comes on. At that point, take your balls and put them in the jar of salsa. They must stay there until “All I Ask of You” is over. While your balls are in the salsa, you MUST NOT TAKE YOUR EYES OFF THE DOG. If you avert your eyes, even for a second, the whole things is ruined.

Once “All I Ask of You” is over, remove your testicles from the salsa. Say to the dog twice, “Strange, how we suffer in spite of this.” Then clean the salsa off your nuts.

These steps, followed precisely, will dull your sperm and render you unable to knock up any lady. Also, if you can get an American Indian to witness the whole thing, it will bring you good luck. If no American Indians can be found, a Mexican should do the trick.

But as for the sty, apparently there’s a cream you can buy, but I haven’t bought this, because that would involve going to the pharmacy, and it’s really humid out.

Someone who shall remain nameless wrote to me and suggested I put something called “boric acid” on my eye, but those two words are the scariest I’ve ever heard in my life (aside from “fat free” of course).

So my plan for the sty is to wait it out. And my plan for my new birth control method is to buy a lot of salsa this weekend.

God I fucking love salsa.

the NBA, Aretha, and my sty
Jason posted on June 16, 2004

I can not express how happy I am to see the Lakers lose. Well, scratch that, I can express how happy I am to see the Lakers lose: very.

I hate Karl Malone and Gary Payton for signing with the Lakers for a combined $6 million (when they could’ve gotten maybe $20 million on the market) because they thought that by doing so they’d for sure secure that elusive championship ring. What a tremendously cocky presumption, especially considering their skills have deteriorated more rapidly than my credit line at a midtown strip club (Private Eyes to be precise).

And of course, it didn’t work out. I watched most of the game last night and most of the series (I’ve spent a lot of time alone recently with that Anna Nicole Smith FHM issue), but what I saw every time was a straight up ass-whuppin’. And I’m happy for Larry Brown for finally getting to win one, especially after putting up with Allen Iverson’s insolence for six years in Philly.

But enough about this - I can’t say anything here that you won’t find said better on ESPN, CBS Sportsline, or a million other sports websites. So we’ll move on…

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

Did anyone catch Detroit’s own Aretha Franklin’s “performance” of the national anthem prior to the game? Probably the worst lip-syncing I’ve ever seen in my life. Out comes poor Aretha, who looked like she had been dragged from the buffet line (at which she ate thirteen pounds of mac and cheese, $400 worth of ribs, two extra-large chocolate milkshakes, a quart of mayonnaise, a dog, and a chair) to sing along to a taped version of her singing the “Anthem.”

And obviously they didn’t practice this too much. It was hilarious, and I wish I had tivo’d it. Her timing was very noticeably off the whole time. For example, she was miming the “the bombs bursting in air” line while the “and the rockets red glare” was still playing through the speakers. Just really embarrassing. However, much to my chagrin, the good people at ABC had the good presence to keep the camera off her for most of it to minimize the damage.

But it was bad. Real bad.

Also, she is gigantic. Good lord. The whole time she was lip-syncing miserably, I couldn’t help thinking, “My god, I wonder how many onion rings she can take down. 200? 400? I’d love to see that.”

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

I am getting a giant sty on my left eye, which is good. It’s not really a sty, but more like a colony trying to establish itself on my eyelid. It appears that they have established primitive huts and what appears to be a school or hospital already. Tomorrow, they’ll probably have roads, irrigation, and a governing council of elders established.

This is great, and I really hope this sticks around for the weekend. It’s not like I have enough trouble meeting women, now I have to do so with a bulbous red growth sprouting out of one eye.

Me: “Hi, I’m Jason. I’m overweight, I have no ambition, I stink at sports, I love pornography, and one time I blew a guy at a rest stop for some change for a pack of M&Ms. Also, I have this giant contagious sty. Would you like me to buy you a drink?”
Girl: [after throwing up everywhere, sprays me with pepper spray]

my goodness
Jason posted on June 15, 2004

I knew this was going to happen. I put up the post dissing the Pixies, Smiths, and Kiss like 30 minutes ago, and already I’ve gotten two calls at work, one email at work, and three emails to the EIWWM address in the box defending one of the bands and/or berating me.

Good lord people. If you take umbrage with my position, help me see the light. While I appreciate my dear friends calling me a “douchebag” or telling me to “get bent” or referencing my “man boobs”, please suggest some songs so that I might be turned on to your “music.”

Surprisingly, we haven’t had any Kiss defenders yet. I wonder why…

Three bands that suck
Jason posted on June 15, 2004

[I know that I'm going to piss some people off with this]

1) The Pixies. I don’t get it. I just don’t get it. I used to live with a girl (not a girlfriend - remember, it’s me here) who loved the Pixies. Many people who I consider to have excellent musical taste love the Pixies. And as someone who will do anything to be considered “cool”, there’s not much cooler than being a fan of the Pixies, aside from banging your cocaine dealer or beating up eight ninjas at once.

But despite numerous attempts to learn to love the Pixies, I’ve got nothing. I think they’re too weird and awful whiny, and my verdict: they suck. Sorry, but that’s just how I feel.

2) The Smiths. We can argue about this until the cows come home, but if you listen to the Smiths, you have to have wanted to fuck a guy at least once in your life. You needn’t have acted upon it, and you needn’t have thought about it a lot, but if you like the Smiths, you at one time or another wanted to bang a dude. I will not argue about this.

I mean, have you listened to any of their songs? I tried recently to give them another shot and downloaded a bunch of their stuff. After thirty minutes of listening, I thought to myself, “Man, these guys suck. Also, I really want to blow a dude.”

The Smiths stink. Bottom line.

3) Kiss. I hate this band so much that it’s hard for me to write about them, since my fingers are quivering in rage. Some things:

- Has Paul Stanley come out of the closet yet? Does he even need to? Everyone pretty much knows he’s gay, right?

- Gene Simmons has never had a drop of alcohol in his life. Not very rock star if you ask me.

[And yes, immediately after this I will be starting up my very own Hate League (having made fun of Paul Stanley for being gay and Gene Simmons for not drinking), where all we do is drink homemade whiskey and make fun of gay people]

- I mean, all that elaborate make-up and crap? Does anyone get this? How could anyone get this? It’s a bunch of guys in costumes dancing around singing bad songs. Where in your life do you have to be to say, “Yes. This is cool. This is something I could get into - nay, this is something I could dedicate my life to.”

If I had to name the biggest asshole of the past 25 years, Gene Simmons would definitely be up there. What a greedy son of a bitch and a misogynist. This is a guy who admittedly says, “If there’s something we can put Kiss logo on, we will put it on there” making his group less a band more a clever marketing device. How can you tell me these guys were ever about the music when they have, according to Gene’s website, Chinese real estate developments, a television cable network, a Korean DVD/CD manufacturing plant, a motion picture company, and a boxing venture in addition to endless amounts of Kiss merchandise, Gene Simmons’ “Tongue” magazine, and, oh yeah, some records?

Appropriately, Gene Simmons’ new album is called “Asshole”, and he does a cover of Prodigy’s “Firestarter.” Please go to the website to watch this video. It is all at once horrible, hilarious, sad, and embarrassing. I had to pause it three times so that I could collect myself. I mean, wow.

A message to the waitress who served us at Lir on Boylston Street on Saturday night
Jason posted on June 14, 2004

Hi,

I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to properly introduce myself on Saturday night. My name is Jason Mulgrew and I’d like to make you my wife.

I am not one to rush head-strong into relationships, but I have never been so certain as I am of the fact that I am so deeply in love with you that if you were to ask me to, I would murder for you.

When you first came to the table to take our drink order, I was flushed with excitement. Initially, I thought you were so beautiful that I became sad, sad that women of such beauty and grace could exist beyond my grasp, both physically and metaphorically. But, each time you returned to the table, either to serve us our food or get us more drinks, I realized that deep down, under that incredibly sexy black shirt and little mini-skirt and high boots, you felt something too. A flicker of emotion when our eyes met? A pitter-patter of excitement when we spoke? A sense of queasiness when I stared at you just a little too long? It is not important. What is important is that you felt it too, and I realized at that very moment that you and I were made to be together, whether you want to be or not.

I am not a great man. I am not even a good man, but I promise that I will spend the rest of my life spending all the money I have on you. No longer will you need to serve drunkards Shepard’s Pie (which, by the way, was delicious) at a bar. Instead, you can move to NYC and live with me. I will continue to work and perhaps get a second job if necessary, while you stay at home and look beautiful. I promise that I will do all I can to help in this, buying you only the finest clothes and fragrances, in exchange for some cuddling and letting me smell your lovely hair.

I can not make any promises of being able to satisfy your womanly needs, because I am an unschooled in the ways of the woman’s body, having only experienced physical love while intoxicated or via VHS tape or after exchanging a nominal to significant sum. However, I am a good learner, and I am willing to give at least 40% of my energy to ensure your sexual well-being is cared for and attended to. And, if this fails, as a consolation, I will give you $10,000 for your birthday.

I realize that you may need time to think this over, and I encourage you to take this time to weigh what I’ve said and what I’m prepared to offer. I am confident that I can be a good provider for you, and, like I said, if you want me to murder someone, I will. Seriously.

I hope this message finds you well, and I look forward to hearing from you soon. If I don’t hear from you by Friday, I will see you at the bar, where I will wait, day and night, until I meet you again. But please, we don’t want it to come to that. Trust me.

Prepared to love you from this day forward until the end of time or until the Court orders otherwise,
Jason

[Please pass this on to anyone you might know who works at Lir, or who has heard of Lir, or Boylston Street, or Boston, in the hope that we can be reunited and live happily ever after (and pantsless) forever]

weekend recap (Boston edition)
Jason posted on June 14, 2004

A few notes from the weekend in Boston:

My quest to alienate and/or disappointed every reader who meets me in person made some major strides this weekend when I met two friends of my buddy Joe, Leslie and Sindia. Self-described “big fans of the site” when I first met them, I’m not so sure they felt the same way by the end of the night, when they left (or more appropriately, “snuck out”) without saying goodbye, because - surprise surprise - I was drunk and creepy. I know - shocking, right?

The whole night is a blur, thanks to Joe and I splitting a liter of vodka before going out, then me running up a $230 bar tab (making it the third consecutive weekend night with a bar tab over $200 - more on this later). But one thing that always cracks me up about drinking and really cracked me up this night is that when I’m drunk, I really can’t hear or understand a word that any person I’m conversing with is saying. Of course, this is magnified with each drink and of course, I make less and less of an attempt to conceal this with each drink, so by the end of the night, every conversation is the same:

Me: “So what do you do again?”
Girl: [could be saying "I give head for a living" and I wouldn't know the difference]
Me: “Cool. Do you want a drink?”

Also, poor Leslie had to deal with me hitting on her for most of the night. For any girls that I have yet to hit on, my approach is the following:

1) Tell stupid jokes;
2) Repeatedly offer drinks/shots;
3) Ask the same questions over and over again;
4) Spit all over the girl while talking to her;
5) Repeat steps 1-4 until the lights come on at the bar.

As if that wasn’t smooth enough, I actually remember even saying to her, “So, I don’t know if you know this or not, but I’m hitting on you right now.”

Smooth, dude. Real smooth.

I can’t believe they left without saying goodbye.

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

A bachelorette party showed up at the bar we were at on Saturday night.

One question about bachelorette parties: have you ever come across a bachelorette party in a bar with really attractive women? I never have. Every one I’ve seen is filled with nerdy or unattractive girls drunk of their asses on from their second martini, getting hit on and fondled by the grossest, drunkest guys at the bar.

So naturally my friends and I were all about it.

I hadn’t really started drinking by that point in the night, and the drunkest of the bunch decided to come to talk to me, so I didn’t really feel like dealing with it:

Her: [eyes barely open, spilling her cosmo everywhere] “Hi!”
Me: “Yes indeed. Yes.”
Her: “So why are you not drinking?”
Me: “I have a competition tomorrow, so I really shouldn’t be drinking.”
Her: “What kind of competition?”
Me: “I ride horses. I’m a jockey.”
Her: “Really? I love horses. Where?”
Me: “Like 45 minutes south of here.”
Her: “Where?”
Me: [guessing] “Um, Andover?”
Her: “I know Andover!”
Me: “Yeah, I was married in Andover.”
Her: “Oh, you’re married?”
Me: “Well, divorced.”
Her: “I’m sorry.”
Me: “Don’t worry, it’s not your fault; it’s mine. I just can’t stay away from those internet porno sites, and she couldn’t take it.”

This surprisingly didn’t scare her away, so for another ten minutes I talked about my marriage, divorce, and love of horses, including the genesis of this life-long affection (”I grew up poor and in the city, and the first time I saw a horse I thought it was just a giant dog. But a beautiful, majestic giant dog.”). Later on, I talked to her sister, and told her sister I was a doctor. Apparently, the two talked about me, and when my discrepancies were brought to light, they confronted me:

Sister 1: “You told Merry you were a doctor, but you told me you worked with horses. Are you lying to us?”
Me: “I would never lie to a woman. I’m both.”
Sister 2: “You mean like a veternarian?”
Me: “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

Sometimes it’s just really fun to fuck with wasted girls, when you know you have no chance of hooking up with them, because they are just too, too drunk, so much so that it would be borderline illegal.

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

I think that I’m going to have to stay in for a while out of financial concerns. Three consecutive weekend nights I’ve had bartabs over $200, and that’s really not a good thing. Last time I checked, I don’t make P. Diddy money, so I’m going to try to have to curb this spending somehow.

Of course, I say this sober on a Monday afternoon. Check back with me at Friday night at 1am, and we’ll see how I’m doing then.

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

This weekend I was away coincided with the Puerto Rican Day Parade, also known as the “Scariest Day of the Year” or the “Weekend I Don’t Leave My Apartment” or the “My Only Hope Is That I Don’t Get Hit With a Shiv” Weekend.

Now that I live a stone’s throw from Spanish Harlem, I have a whole new perspective on the Puerto Rican Day parade, and by “perspective” I mean “tremendous, uncontrollable and unabating fear.”

The comic Norton, formerly of Opie & Anthony, has a great joke about the PR parade: “I love the Puerto Rican parade, because it’s the one day a year I know where they all are.”

[Man, I wish I could do racial humor. The problem is that I actually am racist, so it wouldn't come off too well.]

Anyway, it was a quite a site to see. Say what you want about the Puerto Ricans, but they know how to have a good time. I personally love the Puerto Rican people, having formerly “dated” a “Puerto Rican” girl (long story), and my roommate Brian has taken his time off between jobs to practically become an expert on their culture.

Where am I going with this? No idea. I just wanted to get Norton’s joke in, because I love it. So I’ll stop writing now.

Damn it.

off to Boston
Jason posted on June 10, 2004

No post tomorrow. President Reagan has saved the day and I’m heading off to Boston. As all travel experiences are essentially consequence-free, here are some weekend goals:

1) Get blackout drunk
Chance of happening: 90%

2) Spend less than $300 total (food + booze)
Chance of happening: 40%

3) Make-out, preferably with a woman
Chance of happening: less than 5%

4) If #3 doesn’t work, slow dance with a woman, preferably to the song, “A Kiss to Build a Dream On”, as sung by Louis Armstrong
Chance of happening: less than 1%

5) Soil myself or my buddy Joe’s apartment or myself in my buddy Joe’s apartment
Chance of happening: 95%

6) Hit on my brother’s friends (if he has any) to secure my “creepy older brother” reputation
Chance of happening (provided he has friends): 80%

7) Say to at least 2 attractive women: “You know, I got tested for STDs this week, and I’m totally clean.”
Chance of happening: 100%

Then say, “I’m just kidding! I didn’t get tested. I have no idea whether or not I have any STDs and to be honest, I really don’t want to know! You know what I’m talking about, right?”
Chance of happening: 50% (they’ll probably back away slowly after #7)

9) Say to at least 1 attractive women: “I’m sorry if I’m not acting like myself. I stopped taking my anti-depressants earlier this week, and I’m all loopy. Also, I really want to steal a car and kill a hooker. Do you ever get that feeling?”
Chance of happening: 60%

10) Fall in love and get married
Chance of happening: n/a

Have a good weekend. And remember, with every weekend that passes, you are one step closer to real responsibility and ultimately, death. So get out there and get yourself a fucking story - not for me, but for President Reagan.

Love you Ronnie.

my diet regimen
Jason posted on June 10, 2004

As of Monday, I have started a diet. It occurred to me that I will be going to the beach in less than a month, so that means I have only one month to lose 30-40 pounds and completely reshape my body. While I’m at it, it’d be nice if I could make my peni

fuckin’ a
Jason posted on June 10, 2004

What the MTA/subway operators did to those on the 4-5 trains this morning was abuse, pWhat the MTA/subway operators did to those on the 4-5 trains this morning was abuse, plain and simple. The trains were packed with people, the air conditioning was off, and I could have run to work faster (well, not me, because I can’t run at all, but you get the point). The train was stopped frequently, and when it did move, it crawled.

And it stunk in the train. Literally: it smelled like B.O., morning breath, and eggs all rolled into one. I felt like I was on one of those ferries in Southeast Asia - you know the ones that sink every other week, drowning like 400 people, and then the remaining 200 people get eaten by sharks? Not that that’s funny, but you can’t fit 600 Thai people on a ferry meant for 200. Come on guys. Let’s be honest with ourselves here.

Anyway, that’s what this train was like. Thank god I wasn’t hungover, because I surely would have died. I have no doubt about it - my heart would have stopped somewhere between Grand Central and Union Square, and honestly, I don’t think anyone would have noticed.

And now my day is completely ruined, as I sit here sweating, agitated out of my mind. There was a guy standing in front on me in the train, who most girls would say was “good-looking” (I’m secure enough in my “masculinity” to say so), and dressed in a very sharp suit. He went to check the time, and I noticed he was wearing a watch with a calculator on it. A fucking calculator watch, like we had in the 80’s. I almost punched him in the basement right then and there. What a fucking ass