July 9th, 2008

year-end, lube, strangling a chimp, washing my hair, Antarctica, music, tsunami good/bad, happy new year
Jason posted on December 30, 2004

This will be my last post until 2005 (until next Thursday).  I was contemplating doing some sort of lame ass “Year In Review”, but a) that requires a lot of work; and b) truth be told, I really don’t follow pop culture that much and so thus have very little interest in any sort of kitschy list, which you can find on just about every other website.
 
Then I thought I might do a “Year In Review For Everything Is Wrong With Me”, but that also would require a lot of work, and I think if I do anything like that, it’ll be for the one year anniversary of the blog (that’s February 13 - everyone mark your calendars!).  Also, I don’t like any sort of introspective thing generally, as I am uncomfortable being introspective for fear of what I might find out about myself - a deep held passion for watching young boys dance, a latent desire to set fire to gas stations, a need to rub every phone receiver I see on my genitals, etc.
 
So instead I’m keeping it real and pretending that this ain’t my last post until 2005 (though it is - until next Thursday).  I will do my New Year’s Resolutions, but I don’t wanna think about that until it’s 2005.  So let’s get this over with…
 
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A sign that I’m passing from youth to adulthood: I actually have to use moisturizer for my dry skin, rather than strictly as a masturbatory lube.
 
The skin on my knuckles has been very dry and has begun to crack, making my knuckles an unsightly reddish color with dried-out white cracks of skin that have blood seeping out of them.  My female friends (read: some girl I work with and my roommate Ben) have told me that this is because the air in my apartment is very dry.
 
So this morning I broke out the hand lotion that for the past twelve years I’ve used only to make sure I don’t rip the skin off my penis in an especially violent bout of masturbating and used it for its intended purposes: to heal dry skin.
 
I guess this is working; my knuckles don’t look as nasty and are healing, but the problem is that I can’t disassociate the smell of the lotion with beating off, so my hands smell like I’ve been masturbating.
 
(I don’t know if that makes sense, but I really don’t care.)
 
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This morning, I woke up laughing because of a dream.  I know, I know - George Carlin has a bit in which he says that nothing is more boring than when people tell you about the dream they had, but bear with me.
 
In the dream, I was laying on my couch watching a movie in which Will Ferrell was doing his GW Bush impersonation.  He was in a room with a live chimp.  He’ saying something to the chimp, whose back is facing him, but I don’t recall what.  Then he pulls out from his sleeve one of those thin floss-like ropes that people in the movies use to strangle people, and he says in his best GW voice, “Well Chimpy - it’s time for your come-uppance!” and he begins to put the super thin rope over the chimp.  But just then, the scene cuts away.
 
I dreamed that I then fell off my couch laughing, and when I woke up I continued laughing.
 
Some men dream about women.  Some about fame.  Some about money.  I dream of Will Ferrell as George W. Bush preparing to strangle a chimp.  I don’t even know what to say about that.
 
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This isn’t meant to be funny, but I’m looking for some help. 
 
About once in a week when I’m in the shower, as I’m wrapping up (read: washing the semen out of the tub), I can’t remember whether or not I washed my hair, so I do it again just to make sure.
 
Does anyone else do this?  Seriously, this happens at least once a week.  Toward the end, I’ll think, “Wait - did I wash my hair?” and have no idea whether or not I did.  Is it just me?
 
[I told you it wasn't meant to be funny, assholes]
 
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I have officially made it: I have a reader in Antarctica (and possibly more than one).  How many other internet quasi-celebrities can say that?  Huh? 
 
(Hi Shari and friends)
 
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Six Songs:
 
- “These Foolish Things”  Etta James
The point: “Everything I lay my eyes on somehow reminds me of you.  And your an asshole because of it, and I’m an asshole for feeling it.  I mean, shit.”
 
- “Building A Mystery”  Sarah McLachlan
This song reminds me so vividly of the girls I met (or even just saw) at BC in my freshman year.  I was blown away by college girls, nonplussed with a besotted lust, and hearing this song reminds me of them (since every girl on my hall loved Sarah McLachlan).  I can’t wait to get famous and sleep with all of them (at once).
 
(God I love using parentheses)
 
- “Flutes Of The Chi”  Ween
I fucking love Ween.  Everyone should.  I want to know more about them, but they can be scary.  This song is not scary.  Trust me.
 
- “Cherub Rock”  Smashing Pumpkins
This song brings be back to being 14, trying to grow my hair long, having a boner because I learned the intro to “Plush” on my new guitar, and masturbating at least 4 times a day.  I think the first time I heard this song and the distortion broke in during the intro I about shit myself.  Ah, memories.
 
- “Big Time”  Neil Young
Neil Young can nail a feeling with fewer words than anyone on earth (i.e. “Talkin’ ’bout you and me/Talkin’ ’bout eternity”).  Good shit Neil, even if you did the horrible movie-musical last year. 
 
- “Goodbye Girl”  Squeeze
More people have to listen to this band, because they are awesome.  Great music, great vocals, great lyrics - honestly, one of my top 5 favorite bands.  Start with this song, and we’ll take it from there.
 
****************************************
 
Please, if you are able, donate to help the victims of the Asian tsunami tragedies.
 
Of course, I will probably start making tsunami jokes next week, like:
 
Guy 1: “Did you hear about that new Thai restaurant?
Guy 2: “No.”
Guy 1: “It’s great - it’s got panoramic views of the water. Of course it’s a bitch to get to, seeing as it’s 600 miles out in the Indian Ocean, but at least the seafood is really fresh.”
 
and
 
Q: What’s the new national sport of Sri Lanka?
A: Body surfing.
 
But I did donate, giving all of the proceeds I’ve received from you readers for this new site, so I can make a joke or two if I wish. 
 
[If you wish to use the jokes, just credit me with a link.]
 
[God, that second one is horrible.  Good lord.]
 
****************************************
 
I would like to wish everyone a happy and safe New Year, and an awesome fucking New Year’s Eve.  2004 has been a good year, and I look forward to a happy and successful 2005, as I continue to share the intimate details of my horrible sex-free/man-boob life until I get sick of writing this (probably around March).  Until then, let’s all have a good time, and godspeed.

the Mummers
Jason posted on December 30, 2004

[Warning: the following post is not funny.  It is an attempt to describe something very important to me, the Mummers Parade on New Year's Day in my hometown of Philadelphia.  As it turns out, it is very hard to explain, and I'm not very good at writing stuff that doesn't involve really tasteless humor.  So read on at your risk.  Don't say I didn't warn you.]
 
Three things, right away:
 
1) There is a tradition in Philly called The Mummers Parade held every year on New Year’s Day.
 
2) It is very hard to explain what this is.
 
3) It is also very hard to explain how much I fucking love it.
 
Let’s deconstruct this, shall we?
 
First, the parade itself.  The Mummers Parade, if I were to describe it in one sentence, is like Philly’s version of Mardi Gras, held on New Year’s Day.  It closes down the city of Philadelphia, involves thousands of participants organized into clubs marching down the city’s main street as thousands of spectators watch, and, most importantly, drink. 
 
The parade is officially 104 years old, but some say the tradition of mummery dates back to Constitutional times.  According to the award-winning documentary made about the parade, “Strut” (required viewing for all of my friends), mummery started as a way for people to get together and have some fun in otherwise difficult times.  So what did they do?  They got drunk and danced on January 1. 
 
The parade has since evolved from groups of guys getting together and get messed up to what it is today: a city-wide spectacle that is famous for its music, brilliant costumes, and transcendent boozing. 
 
[Editor's Note: Though women are allowed to be in the parade, most choose not to partake.  Trying to sound as un-sexist as possible (though I am very sexist in real life and every time I see a woman driving, operating heavy machinery, or on a sports telecast, I want to light something on fire), the parade involves waking up before dawn, getting drunk before noon, and being out in the cold for sixteen or so hours.  Oh, and also you're surrounded by thousands of drunk guys dressed like this.]
 
A word now about the “clubs” that make up the groups that march in the parade.  In my neighborhood, the New Year’s clubs are the center of social life.  There are no Elk’s or Mason’s or any of that crap, so to have a good time people go up their club and join other members in having some drinks, shooting some darts, etc.  Then, on New Year’s Day, all the people in the club get together in a common costume/theme and march in the parade.
 
Which club you’re in often depends on which club your father was in.  See, at heart, the parade really is a family event.  My dad took me out in the parade starting at age 3.  And I loved it.  As I got older, I hooked up with friends from school whose dads took them out, and we had a blast.  We knew that people drank, but we didn’t realize how much better made the experience.  And of course I didn’t realize that what my dad was smoking was not a cigarette until around age 9.
 
The club I am in is Froggy Carr.  This club was created by a bunch of guys who lost a friend, James “Froggy” Carr, in the early ’70’s in a freak football accident.  It started with a few dozen original members, and now 700 people go out with this club on New Year’s Day.  However, there are still only a few dozen original members, and it’s very hard to become a member and enjoy the accoutrements that come with being a member (i.e. lots of booze, coolness, etc).  My hope is that someday when I am famous I can become a member.  That is, if I live long enough.  I’m pretty sure I had a mild heart attack in the shower today, so it ain’t looking good.
 
Why do clubs “march” and what does “marching” involve?  Well, there is an element of competition, as clubs compete against each other for 1st place.  However, the competition is much more about neighborhood bragging rights than the money that comes with placing high (1st place might get a club $3000, whereas they might have spent $70,000 on costumes).
 
“Marching” can be different things depending upon what kind of club you are in.  Clubs are divided into four divisions:
 
1) The Comics.  These are the first to march in the parade, crews of motley drunks who don’t have to do any preparation.  They wake up early, put on a suit, and starting getting fucked up.  Not too surprisingly, this is what I’m in (Froggy Carr is a Comics club, but there are 40 or so other Comics clubs as well).  The Comics either hire small drum/brass bands to provide music, or play recorded drum/brass music.
 
2) The Fancies.  More elaborately dressed and prepared than the Comics, they march in the parade in the mid-afternoon.  I know next to nothing about these, because by this time of day I couldn’t tell you if I am white or black because I’m so drunk.  These guys have some floats as well, so preparation is necessary.
 
3) The String Bands.  Dressed in fancy back pieces, these clubs perform music and showcase choreography.  The String Bands, along with the Fancy Brigades, are what the fans come to see.  20-50 people, all dressed in elaborate costumes, playing their saxophones and other horns and banjoes and basses can be pretty f’in’ cool.  They prepare, practice, and build all year-round for New Year’s Day.
 
4) The Fancy Brigades.  The Fancy Brigades provide the biggest spectacle.  Intricate choreography backed by recorded music in front of giant floats that often have moving parts and exploding shit and all sorts of bells and whistles.  These march last, and in my opinion are the coolest part of the parade.  Like the String Bands, they too prepare, practice, and build all year-round for New Year’s Day.
 
That is a pretty good break-down of the Mummers parade, in 1000 words or less.
 
Now, I fucking love this day.  I can’t describe how much I love this fucking day.  On the surface, it doesn’t make sense: I have to wake up at the crack of dawn, stand outside in frigid temperatures for hours, and walk for miles and miles in the course of the day.
 
But the party atmosphere makes it all worthwhile (also, I without exaggeration probably drink 60 beers in the course of the day, so that makes everything better too).  The official parade routes goes down Broad Street, the main street in Philly, and runs from 10am until 8pm or so.  Then, starting at around 3pm, after doing Broad Street, all the clubs begin their march down 2nd Street, which is the name for my neighborhood in Philly.  Without getting too into details, at 4pm when I step out my door on New Year’s Day, there are 50,000 people on my street partying their asses off, drinking their faces off, and having a blast.  And this goes until the wee hours of the morning.  Fucking awesome.
 
So that’s why I look forward to New Year’s all year long.  It’s without exception the drunkest I get all year, and that’s really saying something.  Food, booze, music, dancing, 100,000 people - for about 16 hours.  If you ever have the chance, I highly recommend you check it out.  Great fucking times.
 
[For further reading, please see the official Mummers website: www.mummers.com]

an award? - and your emails
Jason posted on December 29, 2004

I just spent all day writing a long, pedantic, unfunny post about the Mummer’s Parade (a New Year’s Day tradition in Philly of which I am a part of - comparable to Mardi Gras, it involves waking up at 5am and drinking until midnight in the process blacking out and trying to make out with your sort of hot cousin).
 
But then I saw that our little site has been nominated for some sort of award (and by “our” I mean “my” - I only use the first person to gain your familiarity and trust, so that one day I might invite you to a sleepover at my apartment, at which point I could touch you all over while you slept), so I’m gonna scrap it because it just ain’t award-worthy, and does not contain a single joke about my tiny penis or retarded people.
 
The award is the Best of Blog (BoB) Awards for Snarkiest Blog.  I have no fucking idea what “Snarkiest Blog” means, but if it means “Blog Written By Guy Who May Or May Not Stick His Thumb Up His Ass When He Masturbates”, then I am fucking golden.  Just fucking golden.
 
So go to the site and vote for me.  I don’t think I win anything cool, but whatever.  You know how competitive I am (need I remind everyone of the 1988 Little League incident that caused a rule change that since requires everyone to wear a cup before, during, and after games).
 
*********************************
 
I have been a complete scumbag in regard to emails, and am now hundreds (literally) of emails behind.  I’m going to start writing back in earnest soon, I promise.  One caveat: the interface/inbox of the new jason@jasonmulgrew.com email address doesn’t always note if I replied to an email.  Basically, if I replied to your email before and accidentally reply again, I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to deal with it. 
 
Now I have to get back to writing a long, boring post about something 95% of you have never heard of…

christmas recap
Jason posted on December 28, 2004

For some reason, I am having a very hard time writing this today.  You’re reading my fourth attempt at a post, and it has been a major pain for me.  I don’t know why it’s been so difficult, seeing as I only took two days off (well, three if you count yesterday) and I have stuff to write about.  Perhaps it’s because I don’t feel too well - when I left my home and family in Philly, I returned to NYC with tons of holidays pastries and sweets, which aside from some booze and kielbasa have been the only things I’ve eaten for the past three days.  Also, whenever I take some time off from writing and have days worth of stuff to talk about, it can be overwhelming as I try to fight the urge to say, “On Wednesday…On Thursday…On Friday…” as I am not a very good writer, although I do know a lot of different curse words, and I think my grammar is pretty good for how quickly I write this. 
 
But I think it is because I took that little bit of time off.  Usually, I can spit this shit out in 15-20 minutes, no matter how long (it’s simple formula really: fat joke - booby reference - something about booze/drugs - subtle cry for help - curse word - not so subtle cry for help - another curse word - retard joke - fin).  But because I’ve fallen out of the routine, this has taken/is taking considerably longer. 
 
So I’m just gonna fucking wing it, and you’re gonna have to deal with it (everybody’s off from work this week anyway, so hardly anyone’s reading).
 
First, let’s go with the obvious: it stinks to be back at work - big time.  The trains on the commute in have been completely empty, and here I am at my desk, bored out of my mind on a slow day, wishing I was home in bed playing with myself on this cold day in NYC.  Not good.  Not good at all.
 
Second, celebrating Christmas on a Saturday stinks.  Going through the whole Christmas celebratory stuff on a Saturday, knowing that the next day was Sunday, knowing that the day after that was Monday, knowing that that means back to work, knowing that eventually someone’s going to discover that I kinda like guys - well, it’s just no good. 
 
However, it was nice to be home for the holidays.  Some highlights:
 
**************************************************
 
Nothing like waking up at 7am on Christmas Eve morning to throw up in the bathroom of your dad’s house because the night before at a friend’s Christmas party you ate:
 
- a chicken cutlet supreme (chicken cutlet on a roll with cheese, lettuce, onion, bacon, smothered in mayo)
- handful after handful of chips, doritos, and honey roasted peanuts
- about a dozen lil’ holiday cookies
- over a dozen beers
- three glasses of egg nog
- at least three “Green Apple” shots
- and the kicker: a huge ass pile of creamed chipped beef and a quart of chocolate milk at 3:30am
 
Sure, this caused me to wretch violently and I’m pretty sure I threw up a kidney, but if given the choice I would do it all again. 
 
The best part was the conversation between my dad and I at about 11am:
 
Dad: “Did you throw up last night?”
Me: [embarrassed] “No.”
Dad: “Well, then did you shit yourself last night?”
Me: “What?”
Dad: “There’s some brown stuff on the toilet and on the floor on the side of the toilet.  I was hoping it’s throw up.  It’s not shit, is it?”
Me: [dismayed, defeated] “No, it’s throw up.” 
Dad: “Well that’s a relief.”
 
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Speaking of food, I fucking love egg nog.  I can’t stress this enough.  Wawa, which is like a localized 7-11-type convenience store in Philadelphia and the Delaware Valley (comparable to Store 24 in Boston), puts out its own egg nog, and I shit you not, it’s like drinking an orgasm.
 
[I just read that over and threw up all over my keyboard.  Ugh.  It's going to take a while to get this chunk of bacon out from between the "I" and "O" keys.]
 
I guess what I’m trying to say is that it’s really fucking delicious, in no small part because it’s incredibly bad for you.  It has 180 calories and 6g of saturated fat (30% of your recommend daily allowance) per four ounces.  Not eight ounces, but four ounces.
 
By my estimation, I had over a half gallon of this egg nog while home in Philly.  Let’s say I had 72 ounces of this heavenly egg nog.  That equates to 3,240 calories and 108 grams of fat in three days in egg nog alone.  This is to say nothing of the limitless kielbasa, ham, deviled eggs, potato salad, cheese, and, oh yeah, booze I had over my time at home.
 
Why am I single again?  
 
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Top Three Gifts:
 
1) Vodka and wine.  My aunt got me a bottle of vodka, and two other aunts got me each a bottle of wine.  Hmph.
 
You know what?  Why don’t we save the time that a slow death from alcoholism would give me and you can just stab me in the chest instead?  At least punch me very hard in the stomach - I insist.  Because what I really need is some more booze.  Why not give me a dozen pre-made 8-Balls while we’re at it, or a maybe even a noose or loaded revolver?
 
The best part is that the wine is supposed to be “good” wine.  I’m sure that some people would drink this wine and say, “Wow - this is good wine.”  I drank it and thought, “Wow - this is wine.”  I can’t tell the difference between a $5 bottle of wine and a $50 bottle of wine because I drink both with the same speed and under the same conditions: out of a pint glass at 10pm on a Saturday night while watching VH1 Classic with my roommates. 
 
However, I was able to enjoy some of my aunt’s vodka on the train ride back to NYC because I saw that the store in the train station sold OJ and I needed something to get me through the long train ride (all of 85 minutes).  There’s really nothing like coming above ground from Penn Station and looking at the gently falling snow against the backdrop of Madison Square Garden with a good buzz on.  It’s really quite beautiful. 
 
So thanks for the booze.  Look for me to come calling in six months well I need some donations to pay my way at a nice wellness center upstate where I can get clean.
 
2) Any cash gift.  When in doubt, always go with cash.  Sure, there’s not much thought involved, but I don’t want thought - I want money.  If only my unsuspecting relatives knew that the $20 they gave me in their Christmas card was going straight to the purchase of an inordinate amount of marijuana, I’m sure they’d be thrilled.  
 
[On a side note, how can I live in the largest city in America and be (quasi-) famous and have a hard time buying drugs?  When all of my friends left the city this past August/September, thus went my drug connections.  Christ.  If this keeps up I'm just going to say "fuck it" and head to Central Park to try to buy some shit and wind up getting fucking arrested.
 
...
 
Cool story Hansel.] 
 
3) A velour jump suit.  One of the presents my mom got me was a velour jump suit.  I don’t know what to make of this, except that if I wear it without a t-shirt underneath I look like an Irish-American Tony Soprano with slightly more hair.
 
And you know what?  I fucking love it.  If you don’t think I’m going to be decked out in my velour jumpsuit every time I’m laying on the couch smoking doobs, well you are sadly mistaken.  Fucking awesome. 
 
**************************************************
 
Everyone says that their family is dysfunctional.  No matter how lame and boring their family actually may be, this is just something that everyone believes.  It’s kinda like how you’ll never meet a person who believes he/she has a bad sense of humor, even though the can find no humor in the finest of dick jokes or jokes that start with “So I killed this homeless kid about a week ago…”
 
I don’t have a problem with people believing that they have dysfunctional families, but I do have a problem hearing stories about their lame ass families.
 
And I can’t count how many times I’ve had to listen to people’s stories about their “dysfunctional” family holidays.  Like, ”Last year, in the middle of singing Christmas songs after Christmas dinner Grandpa Ed forgot the words to ‘Silent Night’ and stop in mid-song to say ‘Oh darn it!’ and we all laughed because it was so funny!” and “Two years ago on Christmas morning, we were all opening our presents and my mom gave me a present and I opened it but I saw that it was a girl’s sweater so my mom said, ‘Oh honey, I made a mistake - that’s for your sister!’  It was so crazy!”
 
None of these stories ever go, “We were playing poker at my Aunt Mary’s house and there was an argument over cards and my Irish Uncle Nate said to my cousin Justin (who is obviously a homosexual) ‘Stop being a fag!’ and Justin got all hot and bothered and was like, ‘I’m not being a fag - you’re a fag!’ and my Uncle Nate said, ‘No, I mean you’re gay!  Everyone knows it!  Just don’t bring it to the poker table!’ and at that point all hell broke loose and Justin’s mom, Aunt Becky, started crying and Uncle Nate and Justin were yelling at each other and I saw that my brother was looking at my cards so I threw my beer at him and there was a bit of a melee and Lucky, the new dog, ran out of the house and they haven’t found him yet.”  This is usually how some of my family’s stories go.
 
But this year, I got nothing.  Nothing crazy happened, nothing too out of the ordinary.  Usually I’m guaranteed at least something - Uncle Ted showing everyone one of his balls, my cousin Fred showing up with his “Skank of the Week” girlfriend who proceeds to talk about Hollywood gossip in the thickest South Philly accent possible and privately asks each of the males over 14 if they’d be interested in a handjob for $15 - something.  But this year, nothing.  Damn.
 
Well, that only means one thing: next year I’m going to have to spike the egg nog with a little more than rum (wink wink).  I should probably start working on finding that new drug connection…

no post today
Jason posted on December 27, 2004

Hey, at least I was nice enough to post and tell you that there’d be no post today.
 
(Also, there are very few chumps like me working today anyway, but I’ll be back tomorrow - I need a little more time to recover from the egg nog overdose)
 
(God I fucking love egg nog)

the blind and the subway, my test, sports, search words, music, Xmas
Jason posted on December 22, 2004

As I’ve written before, I’m uncomfortable anytime I see a blind person on a subway platform.  I know, I know - they have their little stick and all, but I’m certain before I die I’m going to see a blind person walk right off the fucking platform and onto the tracks, without much fuss and making just a quiet little landing noise.  I envision myself being the only one to see this, as I frantically look around at other commuters to get verification, yet they are totally oblivious to the fact that some blind dude just walked right off the platform and plopped onto the tracks.   
 
I know this.  Part of me is terrified about it, but the other (more predominant and louder) part of me thinks this may be the funniest thing I’ll ever see.
 
Also, there’s that certain level of embarrassment among fellow commuters that arises when seeing the blind person on the subway platform.  Everyone in the vicinity thinks, “Should I help this person when the train comes, or is someone else gonna do it?” while I think “How does a blind person wipe their ass?  Seriously, they can’t see that the toilet paper no longer has poop on it, so when do they know to stop?”  [I personally stop when there's more red than brown, but I digress.]
 
There are many buskers and street performers that come into subway cars in NYC to ply their trade.  Some of these suck; others don’t (though most of the time I just turn up my iPod and hope it ends as quickly as possible - you know, me being a disaffected young man and all). 
 
There is one in particular who I’ve seen a few times: this old blind guy who plays the accordion.  He comes on the train, plays his accordion, and walks up and down the train as people dive to get out of his way.   
 
Normally, I don’t harbor much hatred for old blind men who play the accordion for people’s spare change, but this morning was an exception.  You see, the Lexington Avenue subway line (the express 4-5 and the local 6) is one of the most crowded trains in the city during rush hour.  People are usually crammed like sardines in the trains, and it is a not uncommon occurrence to have to wait for the next train because you can’t fit on the first one.
 
As I am going straight from work home to Philadelphia this evening, I had to commute this morning on the already crowded train with a piece of luggage and two white “tall kitchen” size trash bags full of gifts (classy, I know).  I knew this would be very uncomfortable, and I’ve been dreading this commute for weeks.
 
While rocking out on my iPod waiting for a train, I saw him: the old blind accordion guy.  Immediately, I got tense.  I had seen him before, but it was on weekends when the trains are much less crowded.  What was he doing planning on getting on the 4 train during the morning rush hour?  How the hell would people be able to move out of his way to let him pass, as the train is so fucking crowded?
 
Soon thereafter, the train came.  There was a major crush to get on, and I was unable to secure neither a seat nor the ideal standing location for someone with bags (by the doors).  I was stuck in the middle of the aisle with my three big bags.
 
And sure enough, old blind accordion guy kicks out his jams and starts his blind-ass walk from the front of the train to the back of it.  At this point, I started to break out in a sweat.  See, the guy can’t see, and he’s playing a fucking accordion, so he just sort of walks into you until you get out of his way.  I can’t get out of his way; it’s crowded and I have three large bags.
 
So he gets to where I’m standing and literally walks into me.  I scramble to get out of the way, but I can’t - I’m fucking huge and I got these sacks.  He takes a step back, and walks into me again.  Again I scramble, but there’s nowhere to go.  So again, he backs up and walks into me. 
 
Now it’s starting to cause a commotion, because every time he bumps into me, his playing cuts off momentarily.  I’m beat red and dying as people start looking at me like, “What’s that fat guy’s problem?  Why doesn’t he just let the poor blind guy pass.  Fucking fat ass - probably left his hoagie and home and he’s taking it out on everyone else.” 
 
In order to let him pass, I end up basically laying on some seated passengers and give one of my bags to a guy sitting down in front of me, so it’s not in the aisle.  He passes, and it’s over.
 
But it was horrifying.  Absolutely horrifying.  I think I’m still blushing from the experience, but again, with my health it’s impossible to tell what’s blushing and what’s hypertension.
 
The lesson: next time I see a blind person on the subway, instead of waiting for them to fall off the platform on their own volition, I think I’ll just mosey on over and give ‘em a little help (if you know what I’m saying).
 
*************************************
 
Re: my final on Monday - I think I did pretty fucking well.  I don’t want to say that I aced it, because that’s just bad karma, but I will say that I knew only about four things from the whole semester well, and three of them were on the test (we were allowed to pick three of six essays to write).  So I feel great.
 
And once again, I escape unscathed.  Fucking A.
 
Really, is there anything better than doing nothing and getting something in return?  I know I’ve written about this before, but hard work is for chumps.  “There’s nothing more satisfying than working hard for something and accomplishing it” is a line for immigrants and the easily manipulated.  I’ve never thought after working hard for something, “Yes, this feels great because I spent a lot of time and tried my hardest and I did it!”  No, I think, “Thank fucking god I achieved because I spent so much fucking time on this stupid goal.  Fuck.”
 
On the other hand, what’s better than doing nothing and still accomplishing?  Not too much (that doesn’t involve nudity or drugs).
 
God I fucking love myself. 
 
[Please note that we are experiencing in real time the "manic" phase of manic depression.  Thank you.]
 
*************************************
 
Under penalty of losing my genitals, my friends in Philadelphia have informed me that I can no longer write about the Philadelphia Eagles.  Was it a coincidence that three hours after my post about the team’s chances of winning a championship it’s announced that star player Terrell Owens is out for the year?  Probably, but considering the blood feud that God and I are involved in, I wouldn’t be surprised if He did this on purpose (He gets especially vicious around the holidays). 
 
So therefore I will no longer speak to this subject.  But here’s what Sam from NYC has to say:
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.
Yeah, I’d say that’s pretty close. 
 
*************************************
 
A random sampling of words entered into search engines which brought people to this site:
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
It’s so true - a lap dance really is better when the stripper is crying. 
 
And I certainly hope the person searching for “dogs fucking dumb virgins” found what he or she was looking for.  But I know from personal experience that losing your virginity to a dog can be a traumatic experience, so I don’t think anyone would put pictures of such an activity on the internet.  Just my two cents. 
 
*************************************
 
Since it’s a half-week, Three Songs:
 
- “Better Luck Next Time”  Scissor Sisters
I downloaded this on Monday and have already worn it out.  It’s not that the song doesn’t have lasting appeal, but it’s that I’ve listened to it, without exaggeration, about 150 times since then.  What a catchy fucking tune.
 
- “The Drugs Don’t Work”  The Verve
I recently had a reawakening moment with this song.  I loved it as soon as I heard in my freshman year of college, and listened to it tons.  But when it recently popped up on my iPod, I hadn’t heard it in ages.  You know what?  I still lick it.  And yes, I know I just typed “lick” there.  I’m too lazy to go back and correct it.  So back off.
 
- “Glad Girls”  Guided By Voices
When I first heard this song, I thought they were singing, “Hey-hey black girls!”  And I thought it was awesome.  But then I thought it was racist, as the line after that is “Only wanna get you high” - I didn’t think it was appropriate for a band to perpetuate the negative stereotype of African-American women loving to get people messed up on drugs.  But long story short, it’s “glad girls”, which doesn’t make nearly as much sense as “black girls”.  Either way, the good drum work makes you wanna get up and dance.  I’m actually dancing right now.  And it’s super fucking sexy.
 
*************************************
 
It’s nearly Christmas, and I would be remiss if I didn’t say something about it.  But I don’t really know what to say, aside from it’s pretty f’in’ cool (presents, food, booze, time off from work/school, etc).
 
So I hope that you all have a good holiday, and thank you for continuing to read and passing on the site.  There will be more exciting changes in the next few weeks (note: this may be a lie) and I invite you to come back often and keep spreading the word (through the referral page, by sending emails to your friends, posting the site address in message boards, writing the address in interstate rest stop bathrooms, etc).  
 
So have a good holiday and please don’t drink and drive (unless you’re my Uncle Les, because he is awesome at it).   We’ll be back on Monday. 
 
[Christmas fact: many Christians get pissed when people write "Christmas" as "Xmas", and remind us that Jesus is the reason for the season.  Their angst is unfounded; the "X" in "Xmas" does not mean that we're crossing out Jesus - the "X" is derived from the Greek letter "Χ" (pronounced "key", but always mispronounced by meatheads frat brothers as "ky"), which is the first letter of the Greek word for "Christ", Χριστος.  So if anyone gives you any shit for shorthanding "Christmas", you can tell 'em what's up.  Now go get me some egg nog.]
 
[Also I could be completely wrong about that, but I'm pretty sure I'm right.]

ugh
Jason posted on December 21, 2004

Work is absolutely fucking terrible today.  There’s a lot of:
 
My boss says: “I need you to research those [some financial-type thing].”
My boss thinks: “I need him to research those [some financial-type thing].”
 
I say: “No problem.”
I think: “I have no idea what the fuck he’s talking about.”
 
20 minutes later:
 
My boss: “Did you get the results?”
Me: [smoking a cigarette in my office with my feet on my desk, drawing pictures of topless women wearing only high tops and doing jumping jacks] “Oh, you wanted that, like, now?”
 
On top of that, apparently the Lord’s early Christmas gift to me was the most severe case of insomnia I’ve had in months, even though I explicitly asked Him for Nair for Men so that I could take care of my back hair (jerk). 
 
The good thing is that my navy blue shirt really brings up the dark blue hues under my eyes.  I ran into a friend in an elevator full of partners with whom I work with but don’t really know and he blurted out, “Man, you look like crap.  Late night boozin’ last night?”  I contemplated punching him in the basement, but instead I said, “No, I went over to your mom’s and raw-dogged her, but she wouldn’t let me leave.  Man, that woman just really loves dick.  Now I know where your sister and your brother get it from.  Your dad, not so much - he just likes to watch me whack off.” 
 
[Ok, so maybe I didn't say that, but I wanted to.  So sue me for having some integrity.]
 
So that’s all I got.  I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.
 
(well, probably not)

oh no
Jason posted on December 20, 2004

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.

four notes about the weekend
Jason posted on December 20, 2004

This was a very tame weekend.  Not “lame”, but “tame”.  Lots of holiday parties with cheese plates and wine in gorgeous apartments with views of the NYC skyline.  Civilized conversation about things like museums, real estate, and literature.  Me checking out hot classy girls and thinking, “Man, I’d pay at least $340 to see her bottomless.  I wonder how much pubic hair she has?”  Hot classy girls looking at me thinking, “Who the hell let him in here?  He looks like a homeless person with that dreadful beard.  Is that a piece of bologna sticking out from his shirt pocket?”
 
It’s really funny because when I have to be, I can be very civilized.  When I flip into Cultured Jason mode, it always makes me chuckle a little bit, because the sophisticated people I’m hob-nobbing with have no idea that only two hours earlier I was in the shower simultaneously bathing and drinking a 16oz can of Bud and listening to Def Leppard. 
 
[There is nothing better than drinking in the shower.  I can't stress this enough.  Being able to drink a beer while you're soaking wet in the steamy shower, your testes all lathered up, especially doing so while listening to Def Leppard, is the very definition of decadence.  Aside from Thursday mornings when I have mozzarella sticks for breakfast with my French toast, this is my favorite part of the week.  One caveat: drink only cans in the shower.  You don't want to drop a bottle of beer and cut your foot open.  I did this once in college and had to go to the hospital, and it made for a very bad conversation with my mom:
 
Me: "Don't freak out, but I'm in the hospital."
Mom: [freaking the fuck out] “What???  What happened???”
Me: “Well, long story short, I was drinking a bottle of beer in the shower when I dropped it, it shattered, and I cut my foot open.”
Mom: [silence for three seconds] “You are an asshole.”
Me: “Well, yeah, probably.”]
 
But I managed to have a good weekend, and I was well-behaved and didn’t get too shit-housed and thus wasn’t hungover.  It’s amazing how much better your Saturday and Sunday mornings/early afternoons can be when you don’t drink everything that’s put in front of you the night before.  Really, who knew? 
 
*******************************************************
 
The best (or most humorous) part of the weekend was me shopping for Christmas gifts for my family.  However, I can’t write about this, lest I ruin surprises.  
 
And yes, I know that it’s strange that I can write on the internet for anyone to see about being at a party and wondering how much pubic hair a girl has, but I can’t say that I went to ________ to buy my sister __________ for Christmas. 
 
[I'm such an enigma.  And it makes me so much more attractive.  And by "attractive" I mean "sexually aggressive to the point of being criminal".]
 
*******************************************************
 
It’s good to see the Philadelphia Eagles playing their worst football of the season in December.  This is very comforting to me. 
 
After blowing out everyone in the NFC (The Eli Manning Conference), the Eagles have played like shit the past two games against the Redskins, who I’m pretty sure would not place at a Special Olympics flag football tournament, and the Cowboys, who actually called me last week to see if I was interested in becoming their new quarterback, what with my stellar experience as a field general in Madden video games. Unfortunately, my commitments being an internet quasi-celebrity prevented me from this.  Also, I’m required by law to stay out of all men’s locker rooms in Texas (and New Jersey, New York, Virginia, Georgia, and Florida) because of what happened last Halloween. 
 
But still the Eagles are the class of the NFC, but that isn’t saying much because I was watching SportsCenter this morning and it turns out that my roommate Ben is still in the race for the wild card.  So good job Ben, and remember: winners always win.  And strong men also cry. 
 
Meanwhile in the AFC (The Peyton Manning Conference), there are six teams that if the Eagles played them next week, they would lose by at least 7 (possibly much more): the Steelers, Patriots, Colts, Chargers, Jets, and Bills.  So much for parity.
 
I love the Eagles.  I always have, and I always will.  But it’s hard not to doubt them when they put me through so much pain the past few years.  Maybe trashing them and not believing is my own little voodoo, a sort of reverse psychology.  But it’s like dating a girl who you really like: a girl who’s hot, likes to booze, and most importantly, laughs at all your jokes and has great boobs. Though still in its incipient stages, the relationship is going great, and then bam - she makes out with someone else.  You’re hurt, but she was really drunk and only kissed him at a bar, so you forgive her and move on.