July 9th, 2008

shame, search terms, links, complaints, music, nfl picks
Jason posted on September 29, 2005

Yesterday after work, I went to my local Duane Reade pharmacy to pick up a prescription (bless you Nexium for healing my embattled stomach and scarred esophageal lining!).  The pharmacy is always in the back, away from the other cash registers.  Often times when there’s a line at the cash registers at the front of the store, shoppers can head back to the cash register at the pharmacy to get rung up, because there’s never a line there.  But you can also go there if you’re buying something secret.   

 

Like condoms for example.  When I started buying condoms, I would always go to the pharmacy register, because there was rarely ever anyone there and the whole process of buying condoms MORTIFIED me.  I didn’t start having sex until college, probably because I went to an all guy’s high school where I was the fattest I’ve ever been in my life, wore circle John Lennon-type glasses, had braces for six years, had long hair that went down to my chin and did a little flip at the tips, and wore a fur cape to most social functions (god I wish I was kidding).  Oh, and I didn’t drink.  But then I got a haircut, got the braces off, lost some weight, etc and went to college and things started improving, due in no small part because I started drinking - a lot.  So the moral: if you’re not getting laid, drink more.  And ditch the fur cape.

 

But buying condoms always bothered me.  If possible, I’d have a roommate or friend do it, just because I felt so awkward.  When I had to buy them, I’d always go to the farthest pharmacy from where I lived, for fear that otherwise I’d run into someone I knew as I bought a bar of Irish Spring and a Econo-pack of Trojans. 

 

[I eventually got over this fear.  Years later, I was with a girl I was pseudo-dating at the time and we went to buy condoms and food for her cat.  The two of us were in line getting checked out by an 80-something year-old woman.  As she rang up the condoms, then the cat food, she casually remarked, "Kitty's getting fed tonight, eh?"  I gave an awkward smile before running outside and throwing up everywhere.  Incredibly uncomfortable.  Since then, I've been ordering condoms by mail.  You know, just in case.]

 

So there I was at the back register, not buying anything secret, but getting my prescription.  I didn’t notice someone was behind me until the Indian guy at the register looked behind me and said, “Last name?” (as in, what is your last name so I can get you your prescription).

 

I turned around and there was a girl my age, a cute, petite brunette.  I was checking her out, giving her the once over and sending out ”the vibe”, when I saw what she was buying.  It was a pregnancy test.

 

My eyes must have bulged when I saw the pregnancy test that was clutched to her chest, because when our eyes met she gave me a terrified look, as if to say “You have no idea how much I wish you didn’t see this”.  I looked back at her and gave her an awkward smile, hoping to cover up my shock.  I stepped out of the way and she moved past me to pay.  I then walked down one of the aisles so I wouldn’t have to see her again (for her sake, not mine).

 

I got my prescription and left, but I couldn’t help feeling bad for the girl.  She’s gotta be dealing with some pretty heavy shit, and then here I am: some fat dude at the pharmacy, looking at her like a crazy person because she’s buying a pregnancy test.  Kick her while she’s down, while don’t I.

 

The moral of the story is that when you’re in your local Duane Reade, CVS, Rite-Aid or whatever and you’re paying in the back by the pharmacist, realize that this is a high vulnerability area and please, proceed with caution.  And most importantly, don’t judge.  As a friend once said, “When you’re judging, you’re not loving.”  So don’t do it. 

 

Now let’s move on before I get too sad about that girl. 

 

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End of the month: search terms time.  For those just joining us, below are search terms entered into Yahoo, Google, etc that brought people to this site.

 

First, since I have a big ego, some about me: 

 

  • jason mulgrew killed a hooker once
  • homosexual urinal penis jason beer Mulgrew
  • jason mulgrew loser and wizard of nothing but cheese
  • jason mulgrew is single for a reason
  • jason mulgrew likes pakistani people
  • jason mulgrew loves hooker sweat
  • jason mulgrew is so hot… just kidding
  • jason mulgrew‘s fantasy football team is awful
  • jason mulgrew hairy penis monster
  • why won‘t jason mulgrew suck my dick anymore
  • jason mulgrew eats dead babies after he runs out of pizza and hotdogs
  • jason mulgrew ate a school bus full of children
  • jason mulgrew retarded mustard [Editor's Note: ???]

If it was pretty obvious before that some of you were entering these terms yourself in order to get them listed on here, it’s very, very obvious now.  Although those last four really took it to the next level (”Why won’t Jason Mulgrew suck my dick anymore?” - that’s pretty good).  

  

  • old man uncle rubbing the breasts of underage girls
  • i got hpv from a handjob
  • lindsay lohan falconry
  • pressure point thigh sex
  • written tips for women how to suck men balls
  • wife no longer desirable
  • drunk karate
  • derrida and deconstructionalism
  • little mermaid pastor gets aroused
  • butt deodorant
  • fat chick choking on a chicken wing
  • my teeth smell like vomit
  • met this hot southern mom at the shopping mall. i could tell she wasn‘t from around here. just hearing her southern accent made my cock hard. i invited her back to my place for a good ol southern dinner. watch what i give her for dessert [Editor's Note: !!!]
  • ever had blood in your panties after sex
  • making fire dick sex tip

The only thing that strikes me about the list above is: how disappointed must the person who googled “Derrida and Deconstructionalism” have been to find this website?  Further, when the hell did I ever write about Derrida and Deconstructionalism? 


The answer: when talking about my 25th birthday party.  I actually had an open invite, listing the time and location of the party on the site.  I figured that some readers of this site might come, so I wrote:

[NB: Please be advised that by midnight, I should be completely out of commission and unable to speak, recognize basic shapes and colors, or go to the bathroom without assistance. I can not stress this enough. I will be severely incapacitated, so if you come expecting to have conversations with me about Jacques Derrida's linguistic deconstructionalism, the similarities between the Popish Plot in seventeenth century England and McCarthyism in 1950's America, or even about whether or not I'm having a good time or if I like sandwiches, you will be severely disappointed.]

So there’s your Derrida and Deconstructionalism. 

 

And though I didn’t write about this, I was feeling pretty confident that at least some people who I didn’t know but read the site would show up at this party, going so far as to bet my roommate Ben $50 that a reader I didn’t know would come.  And I lost.  No one random came to my b-day party.  :(

 

But it’s ok.  This was way back in July of 2004, when about 50 people read the site (and I knew 45 of them) and I was still making stupid comments on high traffic blogs, making myself sound like a douche.  Ah, the good old days.

 

…

 

Anyway - what were we talking about again?

 

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Some links:

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About my post about ”Grizzly Maze” and Timothy Treadwell: I’m amazed - nay, shocked - at how much “hate” mail came in about that post.

 

I don’t mean hate mail as in, “You fat Irish Catholic son of a bitch.  Why don’t you have a drink and then go to mass, you prick!  Better yet, why don’t you take your tiny penis and stick it in a ham!”  A number of emails came in that went something like:

 

Dude,

         

Ok, I get it.  You read a book and liked it.  Congratulations.  Where’s the funny?  Get back to what works: fat jokes and racism.  God you suck anymore.

 

So we’re going to institute a rule: you can’t complain unless you’ve donated.  Remember, this shit is free.  And remember, I’ve done almost 800 pages of it, almost every day, for the past nineteen months.  So I think I’m allowed every once in a while to write about something that interests me (aside from shit, porn, booze, and food, of course).

 

If you have a problem, come back tomorrow.  Or come back in a few weeks (I take time off from some of my favorite blogs because they get old to me, though admittedly they are nowhere near as awesome as this one).  But if you’re going to voice your opinion, going out of your way write an email to tell me that I or post or the site sucks, you have to donate first.  To complain about something free that I work (mildly) hard on and so dutifully give you several times a week, risking life, limb, and employment, while you have never given me a handjob, beejer, or any semi-sexual homo/heterosexual act, takes a LOT of balls.  So a) give, b) shut up, or c) come back tomorrow or later.  Thank you.

 

[N.B.: If you've sent me pictures of your boobies, you can complain.  But only if the boobies were nice.  If they were all sloppy and shit, looking like two plastic bags filled with ground beef, then you can't complain.  Maybe take a picture of your friend's nice boobies and then we'll negotiate.] 

 

[N.B. again: And I know you give me intangible things, like reading the site, passing it on, spreading the word, etc.  But I come from a broken home, so I measure everything in terms of tangible things.  So unless you've given me the physical act of love or cash to buy said physical act of love, well, forget it.] 

 

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Six Songs

 

“Nothing Matters When We’re Dancing”  The Magnetic Fields
This song makes me sad.  And makes me think of ballroom dancing in a field in the snow.  I don’t know where I’m going with this, but it’s a pretty song. 
 
“Kick Drum”  G Love & Special Sauce
I woke up to this song every morning for two years.  A terrific choice.  I also tormented my friend Nicole for about three years with the line “Talkin’ ’bout a girl named Nicky Nick suckin’ on my…”
 

“I Broke Up”  Xiu Xiu

This is terrible, terrible music.  I downloaded a bunch of this guy’s stuff, and I seriously can’t understand how anyone could possibly like this.  I think I’m pretty cool about letting people do their own thing and not judging them, but if you like this music, you and I can NOT be friends.  I am sure you’re devastated by this loss. 

 

The only reason I have it included on here is because at about :28 into the song, he screams out “Don’t fuck with me!  Don’t fuck with me!” like a goddamn crazy person.  Then, at about 1:16, he starts screaming, “This is the worst vacation ever!”  It’s not good, and it’s not exactly funny and not exactly scary, but it’s definitely worth a listen.  I really don’t know what else to say about it. 

 

“853-5937″  Squeeze

Probably the finest singular example of mid-80’s Brit pop-rock (and I’m not at all an authority on the subject).  If you like harmonies, tasteful synth/organ/piano, and songs about cheating girlfriends written around an answering machine message, then this is the song for you.  I have no idea why more people aren’t into this band (one of my top ten favorites, or as Squeeze would spell it, favourites).

 

“I Just Can’t Get Enough”  Depeche Mode

If there were a list of “Most Homosexual Songs of the ’80’s”, this song would rank about #31.  So that says something about how many gay-inspired songs there were in the ’80’s.

 
“That’s How Strong My Love Is”  Otis Redding
I know I’ve pimped this before, but you have to listen to it because a) it’s the most beautiful love song ever; and b) it’s going to be my wedding song. 


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Well, it’s official: my mom is kicking my ass in our weekly NFL picks competition.  In week two, she edged me out by one game, going 7-8-1 to my 6-9-1.  But last week she opened up a can of whoop ass and went an astounding 9-4-1, while her know-it-all son picked an embarrassing 3-10-1.  Ouch. 

 

So for the season, my mom, who knows nothing about football aside from colors and team names, is leading me 16-12-2 (57%) to 9-19-2 (32%).  This is going exactly how I’d hoped it would go; I’m proving that gambling is entirely random and based solely on luck.  Or I’m proving that I suck at gambling.  I guess I’m doing both.  Onto this week…

 

My picks:

 

PATRIOTS -5.5 over Chargers

JAGUARS -4 over Broncos

Texans +9.5 over BENGALS

TITANS +7 over Colts

CHIEFS -2 over Eagles

Lions +6.5 over BUCS

Rams +3 over GIANTS

SAINTS over pk Bills

Seahawks +2 over REDSKINS

Jets +7.5 over RAVENS (How can the spread be this high?  The game might end 0-0)

Vikings +6 over FALCONS

RAIDERS -3.5 over Cowboys

49ers +2.5 over CARDINALS

Packers +7.5 over PANTHERS

 

My mom’s picks:  

 

PATRIOTS -5.5 over Chargers

Broncos +4 over JAGUARS

BENGALS -9.5 over Texans

TITANS +7 over Colts

Eagles +2 over CHIEFS

Lions +6.5 over BUCS

GIANTS -3 over Rams

Bills pk over SAINTS

Seahawks +2 over REDSKINS

RAVENS -7.5 over Jets

Vikings +6 over FALCONS

Cowboys +3.5 over RAIDERS

49ers +2.5 over CARDINALS

PANTHERS -7.5 over Packers

Me Last Week: 3-10-1

Me Season: 9-19-2  (32%)

 

Mom Last Week: 9-4-1
Mom Season: 16-12-2  (57%)

caught in the act
Jason posted on September 28, 2005

Those of you who know me, or at least those of you who know what I look like, are going to get a pretty big kick out of this.
 
I look exactly like the guy in the Red Sox jersey.
 
I’m serious; it’s uncanny.  The beard, the build, the posture, the paleness, the kissing another man - it’s unbelievable almost.  I’m actually going to send this to my mom with an email saying, “Well, you knew this was coming, I guess” to see if she believes it.
 
(My friend Brendan found this on Gawker and immediately sent it around to all my friends, who are roaring in approval over email, writing things like “Good for you, Jay!” and “It’s about time!” and “You’re reallly going at it, huh?”)
 
For those of you who don’t know me or know what I look like, well, that’s what I look like.  Enjoy.

sleep, the neighborhood, and fuck
Jason posted on September 27, 2005

I think I have a pretty high tolerance for such things, but enough is enough.
 
At 4:30 this morning I was jolted out of bed by a banshee-like shriek.  The noise appeared to be coming from my air conditioner, and it sounded like the goddamn thing was letting out one last wail before it exploded right in the fucking window.  Groggy but surprisingly spry, I darted out of bed over to the AC to shut it off, hoping to prevent a major catastrophe.  I turned it off, but was not able to relax.  The noise remained.
 
A look out the window proved that the unconscionably loud noise was not coming from my air conditioner, but rather from a hose, coming from truck, snaking into the basement of the Italian restaurant I live next door to.  Apparently, the restaurant needed some work done, so they called in Jenny Exhaust System Services to do the job.  At 4:30 in the morning.  On a Tuesday.
 
Over the next hour, I am surprised that a homicide did not occur.  First, I should try to further describe to you the nature of the noise.  I’ve already used the words shrieking and wailing.  I would also add to that list shrill, screeching, piercing, and and it doesn’t stop soon I’m going to start ripping my fingernails out.  If the drills that put together the carny stands for the San Gennaro Festival sounded like dentist drills, the exhaust hose outside the restaurant sounded like a saliva sucker times roughly 15,000.
 
What was worse was its intermittence.  Instead of a steady, loud, lasting commotion, the hose would suck for thirty seconds, then break for forty.  Then it would suck for ten, break for ten.  Not only that, there would sometimes be long stretches of silence, long enough that I’d start thinking, “OH YES!  The good Lord has come to the rescue and the noise has stopped!  It’s still only 4:57 - I can still get a solid three hours of sleep!”  But after four minutes of gorgeous comforting silence, that fucking hose would start up and shriek again.  It was heartbreaking.
 
When I first looked at the window just after 4:30, all was dark.  The buildings around me were unlit, and the only people on the streets were the ancient Chinese ladies carrying bags of who-knows-what from whatever store is open in Chinatown before 5am (it’s kinda eerie and dreamlike almost; these old women, waddling around in the pre-dawn hours carrying heavy looking neon orange and bright pink bags, coming from wherever, going to wherever.  If I were high, it might freak me out more than a little bit).
 
When I checked out of the window again, this time at almost 5am, EVERY single apartment in my neighboring buildings had at least one light on.  These assholes had woken the entire neighborhood.  This gave me only a small amount of succor, knowing that I was not alone in my suffering.  But more importantly, I thought, “You know, if I went down there and murdered these guys right now, the only witnesses would be the people they’re keeping up with their racket.  I could probably get away with it.  I haven’t murdered someone in like three years, but it’s like riding a bicycle: once you go black, you never go back.”  Ultimately I decided against killing them, because that would require me putting on pants and actually walking outside (it was chilly out this morning).
 
The noise stopped just after 5:30, but by that point the damage was done.  Despite trying, I was filled with a boiling rage and so could not fall back asleep.  I started my day.  At 5:30am.  Sweet.
 
But I’ll tell you what: I am done.  D-O-N-E.  Little Italy/Chinatown STINKS.  I spent a good part of the morning looking at apartments on craigslist, because I can’t do this anymore (of course, I’m not going to move, but looking made me happy).  The three reasons ChiLita is terrible:
 
1) The sounds.  Every two weeks some lame-ass motorcycle gang (guys, motorcycles gangs were cool in the ’60’s - let it go) will descend upon Little Italy to a) eat and b) rev their engines for four solid hours.  We get it - you guys are awesome.  Sweet bikes that you ride.  I stopped riding my bike when I was 14 and actually accepted the fact that I have a tiny penis.  But if you guys wanna hang out with a bunch of hairy guys and overweight chicks and rev your engines to prove you are alpha males, that’s cool.  But I just want to tell you that everyone knows you’re insecure about your sexuality and have a tiny penis.  Just letting you know.
 
(And please don’t kick my ass)
 
The motorcycle madness meshes well with the general commotion of yelling waiters, gawking tourists, and very angry Chinese people yapping at each other.  I imagine these Chinese people are saying to each other:
 
Chinese Woman: “Where is that fish head I bought this morning?  Did you eat it?”
Chinese Man: “I don’t know what you are talking about.  I’ve been outside loitering and smoking thin cigarettes all day.”
Chinese Woman: “I know that you ate it!  I was up at 3:30 this morning to buy the best fish head and you ate it!  I wanted to prepare a special meal tonight so that I could stink up everything in a 100 foot radius for a week!  You are so insensitive!”
Chinese Man: [smokes thin cigarette, loiters] 
 
Did I also mention that I live above a restaurant in which someone bozo plays music?  Yeah, he does the same five songs, every hour, on the hour, about four to six times a night.  EVERY DAY.  Now whenever I hear “New York, New York”, “Sweet Caroline”, or “I Can’t Help (Falling In Love With You)”, I have an involuntary spasm that causes me to reach for the nearest sharp object and drive it into something fleshy (my right thigh looks like a cheese grater).
 
2) The smells.  Living in Little Italy, you’d think I’d be treated to some delightful smells: chicken parm baking in the oven, homemade sauce simmering on a stove, and cheese, cheese, and more cheese melting on just about everything.
 
You know what smell I have instead?  Grease.  Anyone who ever worked in a bar or restaurant can identify that “I’ve been standing over a fryer cooking buffalo wings for the past six hours” scent, which blankets a six block radius of my neighborhood 24-7.  Nothing like going to work at 9am, walking past one of your twenty-eight local Chinese restaurants, and retching because that rank smell of fried oil is too much to handle at such an early hour, even for a fat fuck like me.
 
And let’s not forget the fish…Oh the fish.  But let’s lump that under…
 
3) The sights.  If you walk down Mott Street, just around the corner from my apartment, you can buy any type of fish you want.  Also - and I don’t know if you’re interested in this, but I’ll throw it out there anyway - you can buy any sort of inside out fish or fish head you want, too (I hear that fish guts go perfectly with vegetables that I’ve never seen before I moved to Chinatown/Little Italy).
 
And what happens when the markets close in Chinatown?  The trash comes out.  I’m not bothered by trash.  But what I am bothered by are crates of stale produce left on the streets to rot before disappearing a few days later, but not before turning every color of the rainbow and leaking fluorescent liquid onto the sidewalks and into the streets.  NYC’s Chinatown: Come for the fish guts, stay for the rotten produce.
 
If you like the show “Growing Up Gotti”, you’re in luck.  On the Little Italy side of ChiLita, you can see the full range of “Italian Douche”, from children who look ready to punch you in the balls to old men who will fondle your girlfriend when you’re not looking.  Such are the attractions of Little Italy.   
 
So I’m done.  This lease can’t end soon enough.  I can’t wait to pay $2400 a month for a tiny apartment on some tree-lined block in the West Village.  I’m sure I’ll love living there, until the good people at Chase Bank show up at my apartment with pipes and chains to “collect”.
 
…
 
My day, in case you can’t tell, is ruined.  Not only did I wake up early, but I didn’t fall asleep until almost 2am last night because I’ve been stressed out, seeing as I’m kinda unemployed starting Monday (more on this later).  All day long I’ve been sitting in my office, growling.  And I will continue to do that until 5:30pm, when I will hop a cab home, drink some bourbon and milk, take a few Xanax, and sleep for 17 straight hours.  
 
Until then, have a good day.  Now back to growling. 

weekend: yankees, money, bar, poo
Jason posted on September 26, 2005

On Friday, me, Ace from Slack, and my buddy Dave went to the Yankee game.

 

As soon as I got to the Bronx, I immediately questioned why I don’t go to Yankee games more often.  I’ve been living in NYC since July of 2001.  Since then, I’ve been to four Yankee games, zero Met games, and zero Knicks/Rangers/Giants/Jets games.  What makes this especially strange is that I’m a sports fan, too.  I enjoy seeing men play each other, being competitive, sweating, straining their ginormous muscles, etc.

 

But I think my lack of seeing sports events is part of my general apathy.  I’m a creature of habit when it comes to extracurriculars.  I like drinking beer in my apartment, going to my local bar, sitting with a few friends and not talking to anyone else, leaving the bar at closing to eat, then coming home and passing out.  What a glamorous life I live here in NYC.

 

What I realized with the Yankee game is that I don’t take advantage of NYC enough.  In addition to not attending many sporting events, I’ve only been to three Broadway shows in over four years.  Of course, Broadway shows are for homosexuals, women, and tourists, but I think that if I did see more shows a) I could use it to impress women (i.e. “I’m secure enough in my masculinity to see a show and it’s not a big deal that I have frequent gay cyber sex”) and b) I would have something to tell my mom when she asks, “What did you do this weekend?” aside from “Well, Brian and I got in a fistfight with this street person and his dog.  We lost.  Bad.  Brian now only has six fingers.”

 

But around halfway through the game I realized why I don’t do more New Yorkey type things: cost. 

 

Let’s break down my expenses on Friday night, shall we?

 

  • Five beers at bar before game: $35 ($6 per beer, plus tip)
  • Two hot dogs at game: $9.50
  • One foot long hot dog at game: $7
  • Eight beers at game: $64 (I believe beers were $7 a piece, plus tip)
  • Money given to guy at urinal next to me to show me his penis: $6.23

So that’s over $120 at the Yankee game.  The tickets were $50 face, but we got them for free.  So if I paid for the tickets, we’re looking at a cost of $170 for less than five hours.  Ouch.

 

The $120 above does NOT include the money I spent at the bars afterward either.  We were back downtown and boozing at 11:30 or so.  Remember, bars in NYC are open until 4am.  By 11:30pm, I was feeling pretty good so I’m not sure what I spent for the rest of the night, but I can say with a good amount of certainty that I topped $200 total for the evening.  Easy.

 

So THAT’S why I don’t do New York type things.  Fuck sporting events, shows, nice dinners, whatever.  I need to save my money for late night pizza and 30 packs of Budweiser.  Again, my glamorous NYC life.

 

Two good things did come out of the weekend though:

 

1) I found a new bar.  Not just any new bar, but a special new bar.  I don’t often feel this way, but I’ll tell you, this could be the one.  It’s close by, very unpretentious, cheap, has an excellent jukebox, and, though small, is never crowded.  The bathroom could use a little work (a single unisex toilet with a door that doesn’t close all the way, let alone lock), but it’s so close to my apartment that should any bowel-related emergency arise I could just run home.     

 

As summer comes to a close, I can think of no better way than ushering in fall than spending a lot of time at this bar, drinking and being merry.  I had been hard-up for a cool bar in my new neighborhood, but I’ve found it.  Let the drinking too much begin.  Hallelujah.  

 

[And no, I'm not going to tell you what it is.  Maybe it's my ego talking, but I don't want y'all showing up at my cool but small bar making it crowded and too cool for lame assholes like me.  So beat it.]

 

2) I ate something weird by accident. 

 

You should know that:

 

a) I had a bunch of friends staying at my apartment this weekend, and so minutes after their arrival, my living room was destroyed.

 

b) I love Entenmann’s Devil’s Food Crumb Donuts.  Most addictive thing I’ve ever put in my body (seriously).  If you haven’t had them, don’t.  Trust me.

 

c) I have headphones like these.  Notice the little nubby things that go into your ear.  They are removable and fall off a lot.

 

On Saturday night, we got home after a long day and night of boozing.  Though I had brought home some pizza to eat, I went about my usual process of putting everything in my line of vision into my mouth.  These included the Entenmann’s donuts that were on top of my fridge.

 

One of my favorite things about these donuts is that they have little crumbs on top of them (if you look closely at the picture, you can see them).  They’re mini extensions of the donut, sprinkled on top, covered in glaze and powdered sugar.  Delightful.  They also fall off a lot, so invariably when they are no donuts left in the box, I wind up picking the crumbs from the bottom of box and eating them up.  Again, delightful.

 

Also, when you eat the donuts, these crumbs fall off onto one’s shirt and the floor.  On this particular night, I was having a lil’ fun with this.  You know, “Hey, look at me - I’m fat!  I’m eating these donuts and the crumbs are falling all over my shirt and onto the floor!  Look how fat I am!  Don’t I make you feel better about yourself by illustrating how bad I am, you fucking selfish shallow pig?” 


I ate four of these donuts (half the box), and threw in the towel.  But I did so not before I picked up the little crumbs off my shirt and the floor, popped them in my mouth, and swallowed them down like aspirin.

 

Just one problem: I’m pretty sure that one of the “crumbs” was actually one of the little nubby things from my earphones.

 

Like I said, the earplug portions of my headphones, the little rubby/plastic piece that goes in the ear, are for some reason removable.  They came with several nubby things, to replace any lost ones.  Earlier in the week, I lost one and replaced it.  I had no idea where the missing one was, and forgot about it.

 

When I popped the donut crumbs into my mouth, I did kind of a double take.  Like I said, I threw them into my mouth and swallowed them down like pills, as so my friends could laugh at what a gluttonous slob I was.  But among the sugar and chocolate, I tasted that familiar nasty earwaxy taste (because I eat earwax a lot).

 

I think – and again, I’m not positive about this – that I ate my little earplug thing among these donut crumbs.  If you’ve ever stuck your finger in your ear and then bit a fingernail, you know that earwax has a very unique and potent taste.  Also, the floor from which I was picking put the crumbs was dirty as hell, covered with crap (pieces of a fleece blanket that I’ve had for years and is slowly deteriorating before my eyes, crumbs of all kinds, etc).  Also, I was very drunk.  It’s not inconceivable that I would have just picked up the missing ear plug and threw it down the hatch without thinking. 

 

I guess we may never know for sure, but you can rest assured that I am monitoring all excrement extremely closely.  I promise you that if that earplug comes out in my poo, you will be the first to know about it.  That is dedication to journalism, my friends.

 

So check back early and often for any updates.  I’m feeling a lil’ loose in the bowel area, so it could be any moment now.

 

(And yes, writing about shitting out an earplug that I ate while drunk thinking it was a donut crumb is definitely the highlight of my writing/blogging career, if not my entire life.  God, my family must be so proud.)

Sizemore’s reality, interracial, BBQ, BB&B, music, NFL picks
Jason posted on September 23, 2005

I would be remiss if I didn’t start this post off with the some very important news: Tom Sizemore is currently shopping a reality show about his life. 

 

Mother fucker stole my idea. 

 

I wrote about this a month ago, even going so far as to sketch out the first mini-season.  So you don’t have to read the whole post, I’ll just excerpt the reality show idea part:

Lastly, for all the reality shows going on, WHY isn’t there one about the life of Tom Sizemore?  Who’s dropping the ball on this one?  What would you rather see: Tommy Lee going back to college or Tom Sizemore fighting some girl on crutches over a Marlboro Red?  Hell, I’ll storyboard the first four episodes right now:

EPISODE 1 ("Pilot"): Tom is released on parole on the condition he stays clean.  Show follows Tom on his first day of freedom.  Tom talks about his sobriety and his confidence in it and goes shopping for some new clothes.  Tom goes to use the bathroom but doesn’t return.  By the end of the show, two cameramen and the boom mic guy are dead and Tom goes missing for eight weeks.

EPISODE 2 ("Redemption"): Tom is tracked down to a church in Mexico.  Too much LSD has caused him to have a mental breakdown of sorts, so he’s been spending time volunteering in church in an effort to become a Eucharistic minister.  During a service, Tom drinks too much wine and starts screaming "Blood of Christ! Blood of Christ!" and yells the n-word and other racial epithets for seven hours before having a mild heart attack.  Another cameraman is mysteriously killed.

EPISODE 3 ("Return"): Tom returns to LA because his agent has gotten him an audition for a Dentyne commercial.  Tom bombs the audition and sexually assaults both the female reader and a nearby fern plant.  For the remaining twenty-two minutes, we follow Tom around as he breaks into cars to poop and/or pee in them.  Twenty four hours later, Cadbury Adams USA LLC, the company that makes Dentyne, files for bankruptcy.

EPISODE 4 ("Revenge"): The show opens with Tom in Vegas, getting thrown out of Caesar’s Palace.  In the next scene, Tom is participating in an exorcism with special celebrity guest/drunk fuck-up, Ryan Adams.  The two then spend the rest of the show doing cocaine at a rest stop, until Ryan dies.  Tom uses the restroom, then steals a Snickers bar.  End of Season One.          

I mean, is this not pretty clear that this is my fucking idea, almost a month before Sizemore thought of it?  What the fuck is going on here? 

 

If there are any lawyers reading this, please get in touch with me ASAP.  I have a feeling we have a strong case on our hands.  Son of a bitch.

 

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Many websites are firewalled by my work.  For example, I can’t check any type of email from my office computer (aol, hotmail, gmail, lycos, msn, etc – all blocked). 

 

However, in our library there are two public computers that have no firewalls.  So naturally, people are up there all day long going in and out, checking email, Friendster/MySpace, whatever.

 

I always like to view the internet history of these public computers, by clicking on the url drop-down menu. 

 

Among gmail.com, yahoo.com, and hotmail.com, one site always sticks out on the library’s public computers: www.blackmenwhitewomen.com (NOT SAFE FOR WORK).

 

I thought the site was an interracial dating site, so I clicked on it (as I’m all about interracial dating).  And I suppose some could say that it is an interracial dating site, if your idea of dating is using your "14 inch black pipe to tear [a] white girl in half."

 

From what I can tell, the basic premise of this porn site is white women secretly love black men, particularly their frighteningly large genitals.  And so it has lots of clips and movies in which black dudes nail white chicks.  As an added twist, the white chick’s husband/boyfriend/significant other is also in the video, forced to watch the black dude rail his girlfriend.  Take THAT Oppressor!

 

Obviously it’s a wonderful site, but I question why, exactly, it needs to be visited in the middle of the day on a Tuesday at work?  Not only that, the computers in the library are in an open area and shared.  Many people sit and wait to use the computers while others are on them.  Is this guy just SO into black guys doing white girls that he has to check out this site at work, in the library, in the presence of others?

 

Or did someone put the site in as a joke?  Is it possible that one guy went to it on a lark and the reason it stays so high in the history is because jerkoffs like me view the url drop-down and say, "Blackmenwhitewomen.com?  What the fuck?" and click on it?

 

I guess we’ll never know for sure, but if there’s one thing we do know, is that black men doing white chicks while their non-black boyfriends watch is the new sexual fetish.  So get on board now before the train gets too crowded and if possible, be sure to check the site out at a public computer, preferably in your workplace.  Trust me, you won’t regret it.   

 

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

 

Earlier this week, I was making a chicken wrap.  At the grocery store, I bought all the necessary ingredients: chicken, cheese, tortillas.  I contemplated buying BBQ sauce, but then I recalled that we had not one but TWO bottle of BBQ in our fridge.

 

So when I got home I started making the wrap.  In a matter of minutes, the chicken was nicely laid out on the warm tortilla, covered in cheese.  All I needed was some BBQ sauce to drizzle on it before sticking the whole thing in the toaster to get all melty and yummy.

 

I grabbed the first bottle of BBQ sauce and saw that it expired in early August.  Crap.  BBQ sauce lasts for a year, so I got a kick out of the fact that I had sauce for over a year, even moving it when I moved into my new apartment in late May.  My gastrointestinal problems have been well documented on here, so y’all know I don’t like to tempt fate by putting rancid food stuff into my already volatile stomach.  So I chucked it, because we had another bottle. 

 

Some background first before I continue:

 

  • I moved to my current place in Little Italy in late May 2005