fun with the homeless, wishes
Jason posted on December 30, 2005

I always give money to homeless people.  I rarely give to organizations, but always to people on the street that ask me for money.  I know a lot of people are against this.  Their logic is, “Well, if you give that bum money, he’s just going to get drunk, and that’s not going to help him any.”  On the contrary, I think it will help him a lot.  If you’re homeless and you use the $2 I give you to buy a bottle of Mad Dog, well, then go on with your bad self.  If you have to sleep on the street every night, I’m not gonna judge you for wanting to get a lil’ fucked up.  Whatever gets you through the night, s’alright, s’alright. 

I admit that my willingness to give is not out of the kindness of my heart.  It is rather a selfish gesture.  I give to people less fortunate to cleanse myself of all my sins, which include but are not limited to lying, swearing, wishing death upon enemies and most women, misogyny, one count of manslaughter, twice masturbating to Dakota Fanning, and hatred toward those less fortunate.  My hope is that when I die on September 15, 2008, I will stand before God at the gates of heaven and He’ll say,

God:   “Let’s see here…on January 12, 1998, you punched a dog – in the face AND in his testicles – over a turkey club.  On March 22, 2001, you lit your roommate’s car on fire because he beat you at Trivial Pursuit.  You spent most of April 2004 on a crime spree in Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio.  You have paid for sex on numerous occasions, three times with a man – whether or not it was ‘accidental’, as you claim, is not important to Me.  And you haven’t been to Church regularly since you were 11.  So tell me Jason, why should I let you into heaven?”

Me:     “Well, um, I did give a lot of money to homeless people.”

God:   [giving me a good look over, conferring with St. Peter, taking a deep breath]  “Ok, here’s the deal: 500 years in Purgatory.  If you get enough prayers, I’ll knock it down to 400.  Take it or leave it.”

Me:     “We have a deal!” 

[Me and Gary Shandling, who will die only seconds after me on 9/15/08, exchange high fives.]

But I’m not stupid when I give either.  If I don’t have any change or spare ones at the ready, I’m not about to be stand with a homeless person, routing through my wallet, only to eventually say, “Sorry, I don’t have any change.”  If money is not at the ready, I’ll get change at a nearby store and then give some to the guy.  This wariness was heightened when a few months ago a homeless man in the Lower East Side, right around the corner where I used to live, stabbed a guy my age.  So I’m not about to get shanked while I’m standing there looking for a dollar bill.

Right now, I’m at home in Philly, and (almost) every morning (read: early afternoon) when I wake up, I head down to the Oregon Diner for breakfast.  It’s only a few blocks from where I live, but hey – I’m fat – so I drive.  There I get my usual meal: creamed chipped beef (if you don’t know what creamed chipped beef is, my sadness for you could fill an ocean).  I then take the CCB back to my dad’s house, where I eat it in peace and quiet.

After parking in the lot of the diner, I was approached by a homeless guy, the first of three that would ask me for money (god I miss being home).  A black guy in his late 30’s, he had the bottle of “cleaning fluid” and mess of newspaper and offered to clean my windshield for $1.50.  He offered me this as I was walking from the car to the diner, and I told him I didn’t have any change.  Then he started following me, asking, “What you need change for?  I’m out here tryin’ to hustle!”  I shouted back, “I need to get change.  I’ll hit you when I get out of the diner.”  At this point, he began stomping after me, now yelling, “I said, WHAT YOU NEED CHANGE FOR!  You need it for $5?  $10?  $100?  I got it baby!  I’M A HUSTLER!”  I wasn’t perturbed by this, but rather walked into the diner and went about my business.

I got my creamed chipped beef and my change and left the diner.  I gave one homeless guy standing by the entrance a buck.  Then I gave a homeless woman laying in the handicapped parking spot of the diner a buck too.  As I headed over to my car, I saw the guy who was yelling at me, standing near my car (actually, my mom’s car). 

As I walked toward him and the car, he slowly moved away.  When I got to the car, I learned why.  He had taken it upon himself to “clean” my windshield: there was a disgusting, milky-looking residue smeared all over the windshield, a mix of blue cleaning fluid, newspaper ink, and the windshield’s natural grime.  My reaction?  That mother fucker.  Even though he was yelling and being a dick, I was still going to give him a dollar.  And the jerkoff messes up my windshield. 

What followed was a parking lot shouting match between me and a homeless guy that I’m almost embarrassed to recount here.  When I said, “What the fuck did you do this for?”, he asked for change.  When I said, “Look at my fucking windshield!”, he laughed.  And kept on laughing.  Then I shouted, “Fuck you, dude.  I’m going home – TO MY HOME!”  I was hoping that this would sting him, what with me pointing out that I have a home and he does not – but he was unphased and kept laughing like a goddamn hyena.  I got in the car and drove away, the wiper fluid shooting over the windshield, trying to clean off the mess, cursing the whole way.

There’s no real point to this story, except I admit that in retrospect (since this happened about an hour and a half ago), the homeless guy totally got me.  He got some fat white kid to yell and curse at him after he intentionally dirtied his windshield.  I was the one looking like the crazy person, yelling at this guy, while he laughed.  I only wish that a car full of my friends would have driven by (”Why is Mulgrew getting all red and yelling at that laughing homeless guy?”).  Homeless guy: 1, Me: 0.

…

This is one of several reasons why I love coming home to Philadelphia.     

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

It’s been a crazy few days, but it’ll be worth it when Sunday, my favorite day of the year, rolls around.  Those of you who have been reading a while know that I am a Mummer.  I won’t rehash an explanation of the Mummers Parade here, but you can read all about in a post from last year, which I just reread and found very informative.  Good for me.   

Next week, I’ll do some sort of year in review post or some crap, but just haven’t had the time to give it a proper review this week.  Expect the next post to come either late Tuesday or sometime on Wednesday.

Until then, have a happy and safe New Year’s.  I love you all and would be crushed if something were to happen, so be safe (within reason) on New Year’s Eve.

And I’ll save my mushiness for my week-late “year in review” post next week, but 2005 was a PHEEEEnomenal year, solely because of you jagoffs reading, spreading the word, and continuing to come back.  I’ll leave it at that for now, but know that I am eternally grateful to each of you for everything that has happened for me in 2005 and I wish you nothing but the happiest of years in 2006.

explanation, chuck, jake is gay, memo emails, totally weird, drunk santa, music
Jason posted on December 29, 2005

I’ve been bouncing around the Northeast very much the past few days, trying to make it through this awkward week between Christmas and New Year’s. 

Since my schedule is hectic, you get a hectic post.  Hopefully, I’ll be able to write something more coherent now that I’ll be spending more than one night in the same place for the first time in over a week.  But I’m pretty sure I’m losing my mind, so I can’t promise that.

God I love you all.

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

Look, it’s funny.  It really is.  But please stop sending me facts about Chuck Norris.  I’ve gotten a least three emails a day for the past month or so with these Chuck Norris facts.  Yes, I know they exist.  And yes, I know they are funny.  But I’ve known about them for a while.  The original target of these “facts” was Vin Diesel.  The facts were basically the same, sans beard and roundhouse kick jokes.  They were funny.

So I appreciate y’all bringing this to my attention, but I am aware of it.  But what the hell - here are some of my favorite facts:

Chuck Norris raised his IQ by eating gifted children.

Einstein actually had a theory explaining how the roundhouse kick of Chuck Norris broke all laws of physics. He died on the day of the planned release.

A masked man once stabbed Chuck Norris in the alley behind a children’s hospital. The knife bled to death.

Chuck Norris has only celebrated April Fools Day once. The result was homosexuals.

Chuck Norris proposed to his wife by spelling out “Will you marry me?” in semen. Needless to say, she said yes.

When God said, “Let there be light”, Chuck Norris said, “say please.”

Chuck Norris does not hunt because the word hunting infers the probability of failure. Chuck Norris goes killing.

When Chuck Norris sends in his taxes, he sends blank forms and includes only a picture of himself, crouched and ready to attack. Chuck Norris has not had to pay taxes ever.

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

Mark my words: Jake Gyllenhal will come out of the closet sometime after the New Year.  Trust me on this. 

I’m not saying this because I’ve seen “Brokeback Mountain”, because I haven’t seen the movie.  I’m telling you this because I’m “in the industry” and I know shit like this.

Trust me.  I can’t wait to say “I told you so!” in a few months.  Because there’s nothing I love more than being right.  And ejaculating on sleeping people.  Being right and ejaculating on sleeping people are definitely my two favorite things.   

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

I got a lot of responses to the post I wrote about check memos.  Some of you are even sicker than I thought.   Scott from NYC chimes in:

I’m totally with you on the check memo thing. Been doing it for years myself. Then my friends started doing it because of the public shame they would feel when they had to deposit one of my checks. The best one that any of my friends ever pulled was when we sent checks to the winner of our March Madness fantasy pool this year. My buddy Dave wrote on the memo line of the check, “I have a bomb,” and mailed it to our buddy Kevin. Poor Kevin never thought to inspect the memo line before going to the bank a few days later. He handed it to the teller, completely oblivious to the fact that the teller then slowly walked away and summoned security. Two burly guys came over and pulled Kevin aside and asked him what he thought he was doing. Still clueless, they asked him why he wrote “i have a bomb” on his check. Then it hit him that Dave wrote it. Luckily, he got away without any time spent in the clink.

The only thing I can say about this is that I have never heard prison referred to as “the clink” before.  Is this a known expression or did Scott just make this up? 

Jake in Columbia, MO takes advantage of an old rule: mention Dalton in an email and it’s definitely going on the site.

When I was in college, my roommates and I made it a point to try and creep out our landlord each month with something ridiculous on the memo line. We liked to have a lot of parties and it was a great way to keep him out of our hair. The key was to make the message ominous, but keep it short of a threat. It also couldn’t be something so vulger that he could call the police if he wanted. A few examples:

1. No one ever has to know… (The … makes it. I forgot what those are called.)
2. Your doggie is never coming home. (This is much better if you imagine saying it with a clown voice)
3. Soon…
4. I love you.
5. We can still be friends, right?

Well, you get the idea. The plan worked great. He never bothered us, but then again, he also never fixed anything. A fair trade, I’d say. I’ll take a broken garbage disposal over him coming over and seeing everything covered in a fine cocaine residue left by Joey Elimidate.

I actually loved the idea of this so much, that I started writing fake checks made out to real and fake people and hanging them on the walls.(I realize how awesome this sounds) I once wrote out a check to Dalton (Swayze in Roadhouse) for 1 million dollars. I told myself that if I ever have 1 million dollars in my bank account, I would change my name to Dalton, cash the check, and then spend the cash to open up a bar called the Double Deuce in Jasper, Missouri. I would not, however, wear sleeveless guis. Unfortunately, I spend all my money on Natural Light, Rumpleminze, and frozen Jack’s pizzas.

Help me.

I think Jake and I would be very good friends.  Jake, if you’re reading this, please IM me soon.  I can move out there now, but early February would be best.  Let me know.

Finally, we have CarolAnne in Philly.  I would never, ever do this.

Hey Jason….Lets see if you have the brass balls to try this one.

Put this on the memo area of your next check:
“Donation to Al Quida/Al Qaida” (however the hell they spell it.)

Let’s see Bush spy on your phone calls and emails. That should make good blog reading.

No thanks.  Not unless the Bush people want hours of videotaped footage of me masturbating on the bathroom floor and laying in bed eating Tostitos and a lot of phone conversations between Brian and I that go:

Me: “Dude, did you clog the toilet in the middle of the night?”
Brian: “No, dude.”

Me: “Oh, I guess that was me.” 

[eleven seconds of silence]

Me: “I can’t wait to get fucked up this weekend.”

Brian: “I know.  It’s gonna be awesome.  I love getting drunk.”

Me: “Me too.”

[fourteen seconds of silence]

Me: “Alright, later.”

Brian: “Later.” 

But if that makes for a safer America, well, so be it.   

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

I get a lot of really fucked up emails.  This sort of comes with the territory, and I get a kick out of many of them.  Some are annoying.  These include the many emails I get from “hot” girls who talk about how “hot” they are and proceed to tease me about their “hotness”, but fail to include a picture.  In the old days, I used to press these women for pictures, and when I eventually got one, 95% of the time it’d be of a 250-pounder eating a big-ass bowl of chili, looking like Mama Cass on a hot August afternoon.  But now, jaded and disappointed, I don’t even respond to these emails.  So ladies, if you’re only point in emailing me is to tell that you’re hot, please don’t.  However, if you want to email me a picture of you eating a big-ass bowl of chili, that’s totally cool.  I collect those.    

Most emails are fun to read.  These include some of the stories that y’all send me, links to stuff you think is funny, and drunken ramblings (and I have been getting an inordinate amount of drunken ramblings lately – gotta love the holidays).  Really, I could put up one reader email a day instead of a post and it’d be more entertaining than any of the garbage on here. 

I’ve seen a lot of crazy ones, but I think this is the single strangest email I’ve ever gotten.

Hi Jason,
My name is Sarah. I’m 32 years-young, and my husband recently died. I just saw your internet profile and I loved it. You’re very attractive!  I LOVE to travel, and I’ll be visiting the US in January. Also, since my husband died (he died by overdosing on Velotrin - I’m curently sueing them and I hope to get a lot of money - I feel bad he died but I’m glad he died the way he died, he was fuckin’ till the very end!!!!) I’ve become a chronic masturbater. My phsychiatrist tells me that the best way to cut down on jerkin’ is to meet a man. So, I’M REALLY GLAD I FOUND YOUR WEBSITE ;)!!!!!!!!!! Hopefully, we will be able to meet up when I visit. I travel a lot, and I would love to travel with you. Lookin’ forward to hearing from you,
Sarah

…

…

[This is me, being speechless.]

…

…

[So Sarah, where are we going?]

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

If you want to see a picture of me drunk and dressed as Santa, you can do so at my MySpace profile.  Don’t get your hopes up - I’m not doing anything crazy.  I just have a big dopey smile on my face because I’m wasted and I know I’m gonna eat soon.  

God I hate Christmas.

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

Six Songs

“Hope I Don’t Fall In Love With You”  Tom Waits

This song is heartbreaking.  I don’t know what else to say, except for we have a new flagship song on the “Sad As Fuck” playlist.  Best of all, this is before Tom Wait’s voice went to shit, so it actually sounds good. 

(There are two versions of this song.  Be sure to get the slower, longer version.)

[INTERRUPTION: The battery on my laptop is about to die at any moment, so the rest of our Six Songs selections must be abridged.  Thank you for understanding.]

“Love Me Like You”  The Magic Numbers

I’ve pimped them before, and I really, really, really, really like this band.  Get as much of their stuff as you can. 

“Invisible Touch”  Genesis

Did you guys know that this song is really about Hitler?  Swear to God. 

“Romeo and Juliet”  Dire Straits

The line “And all I do is kiss you/Through the bars of a rhyme” used to send me into convulsions of emotion (great band name: Convulsions of Emotion).  Then all my emotions, save for lust and hunger, went away.  Such is life.  

“The Wait”  American Analog Set

A better definition of “mope rock”, I can think of none.

“Symphony of Destruction”  Megadeth

I cannot possibly count the number of people I have punched while listening to this song.  It is easily in the dozens.  

lie
Jason posted on December 28, 2005

Jason

mnf
Jason posted on December 27, 2005

merry christmas
Jason posted on December 23, 2005

Just a quick note to wish y’all a Merry Christmas.  I’m not really good at giving holiday wishes since I hate Christmas and all, but have a good one.  And be safe.

(And be sure to really hit the egg nog, since you won’t be able to enjoy it again until next year.  God I fucking love egg nog.)

Posting will resume on Wednesday, 12/28. 

things that I do that everyone else should do, volume one
Jason posted on December 22, 2005

The “memo” area on your average check is a comedy goldmine begging to be spelunked, yet people fail to recognize this.  More often than not, people use this space to describe what the check is being written for: “May 2004 rent”, “John’s birthday”, “Account Number 193883984297″, etc.

But in reality, this is an opportunity for free-form comedy.  I’m telling you this now because the holidays are upon us, and, like many of you, I have no imagination when it comes to giving gifts, so I often give money.  Since we all know that giving cash is too…Italian (read: tacky), I always give checks.  I know that receiving cash is preferable, but my logic is, “Hey – I’m giving you free money.  The least you could do is take your lazy ass to the bank to cash the check.”  Sartre says that the purpose of giving a gift is to enslave the recipient.  I think that giving a gift is just another opportunity to be a dick. 

[Please note: this does not apply only to holidays.  Every check I write has something retarded in the memo.  This is a year-round thing.]

So this holiday season, instead of writing in the memo of the check, “Merry Christmas, Tom!” or “Happy Hanukkah, Chaim!”, have a little fun with it.  Write something ridiculous and/or offensive.  You’ll at least get a laugh out of it and perhaps that person will have to hand that check to a teller to be deposited.  Sweet.

Here are some examples to get you started:

• “Third place prize - Semen Eating Contest”
• “Killing my father”
• “Licking ass on a dare”
• “Your mother tastes like cocaine”
• “Head”
• “I rubbed this on my balls”
• “Are you my brother?”
• “Still tasting you xoxoxo”
• “This is for the drugs you sold me”
• “Sorry about your sister’s uterus and all”

So please, try this at home.  I do it, it’s awesome, so you should do it.    

a long boring post about my terrible fucking hangover
Jason posted on December 21, 2005

I had the worst hangover of my life on Saturday.

I know I employ hyperbole a lot on the site, i.e. “It was the best sandwich I ever had” or “There is an International Jewish Conspiracy that is out to destroy me” or “I was so upset that I ran him over and it was the best Sunday ever.” 

But there is not a hint of overstatement when I say that this past Saturday, I had the worst hangover of my life.  Every New Year’s Day, I get so drunk marching in the Mummer’s Parade that I can’t maintain an erection for the next three weeks.  My twenty-first birthday began a month-long drunken orgy that ended with my roommates and I being evicted and sued for $23,000 in damages to our apartment.  I went to Oktoberfest – the real Oktoberfest, in Munich – where I spent an astounding ELEVEN days and nights drinking $7 liters of beer fourteen hours a day, leaving in such a state of withdrawal when I got home that I would sit at my desk at work, shaking and sweating, counting the minutes until I got off from work and could go home, smoke pot, and take a very long shower.

None of those hangovers compared to Saturday.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about it and I think I know why I was so hungover on Saturday, but before I go into these reasons I should provide you with a satisfactory recap of Friday night.

On Friday night, my friends and I got together in Philly for a drinking tour: “Whacked on Foot”.  This was the second year of the tour’s existence.  It was started last year by my buddy David to celebrate his birthday.  I’ve written before about Dave on the site – among other things, I went to London with him and Jimmy the Muppet in February 2004; he and Jimmy were the guys who had me unknowingly passing out counterfeit $20 bills on a night out drinking in April 2004 (under pseudonyms); he was my partner in the 7^th Annual Quasi-Celebrity Drinking Tour (”Drink Until You Shit!”) this summer; and most recently he organized the still-untitled drinking tour on the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving of this year, which involved a bus with a DJ and two girls making out.

Long story short, David has a flair for the dramatic – and I mean this in the most heterosexual way possible.  Simple nights or standard drinking tours do not entertain him.  There always has to be something else, something usually retarded, to make the time mo’ better.  Even if it involves something illegal and could possibly result in your friend serving very real jail time for a federal offense, well then so be it.

(And yes, I’m still bitter about the counterfeit money thing.)

Thankfully, there was nothing illegal about this Friday’s drinking tour, but there was a catch.  There were about 14 guys on the tour – and one Santa suit.  Each guy had to wear the Santa suit to a different bar.  We started at 7pm at a bar on 2^nd & Pine and we worked out way down 2^nd Street, stopping at every bar on the way, back to our South Philly neighborhood.

And let me tell you, things got pretty ugly pretty quickly (of course, I don’t mean “ugly” in the “not good” sense, but rather the “booze soaked and totally and completely fucking awesome” sense).  I should mention that my buddy Mark really upped the ante.  Unbeknownst the rest of the crew, Mark went out and procured a Polaroid camera, film, and (literally) hundreds of candy canes.  This was the perfect compliment to the Santa suit (see below).   

My buddy Doc raised the bar pretty high when he was the first to put on the Santa suit.  There is something wonderfully iconoclastic about Santa buying a round of shots, pounding a beer, and then screaming at the TV, “C’mon!  Santa’s got $200 on the Sixers, so let’s go there Allen or else you’re getting coal, you mother fucker!”

I was determined to get out of wearing the Santa suit in any way, shape, or form.  Don’t get me wrong – I loved the idea – but early on it was apparent that I was too drunk to be very jovial.  This doesn’t mean that I wasn’t having a good time, but it means that I just wanted to drink, sit back, and laugh.  One of the rare moments that I didn’t want to be at the center of attention. 

So we kept drinking and moving on, guys switching in and out of the Santa suit as entered or exited each bar.  Eventually, the idea of being Santa started to appeal to me.  I’m guessing this has something with the fact that we’d go into bars and girls would start lining up for a Polaroid on Santa’s lap (and a candy cane, of course).  As you guys know, there is nothing I advocate or enjoy more than sticking an unsuspecting woman with my thumb-sized boner.  The origins of this go way back to my adolescence, when I would ram my bird into girls that I was slow dancing with at school dances, wondering, “Can she feel this?  Because I sure can and it’s totally sweet.”  The prospect of reliving my early boner-poking days was making me feel more and more jovial. 

But near the end of the night, it didn’t look like it was going to happen.  At the second to last bar, our friend Phil had the Santa suit on.  The plan all along was for David, the birthday boy, to wear the Santa suit at the last bar.  That would mean no Santa for me.  But the good news is that by the time we were at the second to last bar I was so drunk that I was incapable of getting an erection.  Hell, I was nearly incapable of sitting down.  All I could really do at the point was breathe, piss, drink, and lean. 

David, however, was in worse shape.  I don’t remember the specifics, but I went to the bathroom, came out, and he was gone.   When I asked Phil where he had gone, he told me that David had to be taken home by two other guys in the drinking tour because he was too drunk.  It was about 12:15am.  A total pussy performance to be sure (the first of three in a row for him), but this meant the Santa suit would be mine for the last bar!  Victory! 

At about 1am, I got into the suit, and the remaining four of us headed to the last bar.  And that’s when it gets a little fuzzy.

I remember that Mark and I were the last two guys left at the bar.  I remember doing a lot of shots with Mark.  Bars close in Philly at 2am, but we stayed until 3am.  I don’t remember any girls sitting on my lap (by that point, I’m pretty certain that at least two detectives from the Philadelphia Police Sex Crimes Unit were following me around as a precautionary measure), but there some Polaroids of me at the bar, which sadly I don’t have to scan. 

And I do remember leaving.  Or rather, I remember getting home.  Knowing that I would be terribly wasted, I made some preparations: I had a sandwich and some Gatorade waiting for me.  After I housed those, I popped two aspirin and passed out, the room’s delightful spins lulling me to sleep. 

And then – whammo.  When I woke up the next morning, I was in the throes of death.  I never sleep in when I’m hungover and so was up at 9:30 in the morning.  My usual remedy is aspirin, water, and a long shower.  When after my first shower I felt like shit, I took another shower.  And then another.  And another.  All told, I took FOUR showers through the course of the day Saturday, leaving the shower each time only when my I drained the house’s hot water heater and the cold water left me shivering.  Even then I contemplated checking into a hotel, just so I could look myself in the bathroom with my iPod and a bottle of Poland Spring while the bathroom steamed up. I ultimately decided against this because – what am I, made of money?       

I can’t begin to describe the misery.  Obviously, it was bad.  I was bedridden until dinner, when the scent of stromboli got me out of bed.  All day long I couldn’t move, look at anything, or touch anything without something hurting.  I looked the part too: my eyes were red and bloodshot since I slept in my contacts; my hair, which hasn’t been cut in almost two months, was a mess; I had stained the undershirt I was wearing; and my breath, beard, and ‘stache stunk of death and SoCo and lime.  Just nasty.    

At dinner I finally got some strength and was even able to make it out later that night.  However, I had about three beers in five hours before coming home, popping a Xanax, and sleeping the sleep of the dead.  But the damage was done.  My original intention was to return to New York on Saturday afternoon.  I got back Monday evening.  Oops.   

So why was I, such a seasoned drinker, so hungover, even when I was “prepared”?  Two main reasons:

Biological/physiological

First, I was bombed.  Duh.  That isn’t going to make for a good morning any way you cut it.  But on this particular night, two things did me in:

1)     Late binge drinking.  The tour started at 7pm.  By midnight, I was in the bag.  But between 1:30 until the bar closed, I must have had six shots.  Six shots at the end of the night (especially sugary shots like SoCo and lime) are going to ruin you.  If anything, it’s best to drink heavily early and more slowly later or to pace yourself all night.  Of course, I drink like I make love: quickly and without remorse.  And someone usually gets punched in the face.  So no dice. 

2)     When I came home, I ate a chicken caesar wrap and a 32oz (or thereabouts) Gatorade High Endurance.  Gatorade is a TERRIBLE thing to drink before going to bed on a load, since it’s very high in sugar.  Sugar is very bad for hangovers.  This is because sugar takes longer to break down in the body and robs it of hydration.  I just made this up, but trust me, sugar is bad.  One should drink water and only water the night before a hangover.  I know this, and don’t know why I had this lapse on Friday evening.   

Emotional/psychological

I’ve been miserable lately.  Duh.  Alcohol is a drug that induces mood shifts, usually (in me, at least) helping me get from low to high.  But once the alcohol is retreating from your body, so go your good feelings.

So as I lay there on Saturday morning/afternoon/evening, I more readily wallowed in self-pity.  Instead of thinking, “God, you’re so hungover and such a pussy.  But I have to admit that it was pretty awesome when you hit that junkie with the snowball and then blamed it on the other junkie and the two junkies fought each other.”, I was thinking more along the lines of, “Way to go, chubby.  Keep pissing away the opportunity of a lifetime because you can’t stop drinking anything put in front of you.  Now roll over, fat chops – our left arm is going numb.”  This doesn’t help.

***

And so what is my resolve and/or solution?  None and none.  Things are looking decidedly downward: I’m getting older, I can’t drink like I used to, and I’m wasting precious pre-deadline time.  Not only that, but it’s the holidays, which I hate (maybe this is why, but I’m not a therapist).  Maybe that nervous breakdown that I wrote about in Post One is nigh.  At least, I think, that would be very good for site traffic.  In the meantime, I can only do what I do best: sit at my desk and stew.  And of course, keep you updated – whether you want to be or not. 

(And you thought I was kidding about the title)

strike (love)
Jason posted on December 20, 2005

cartoon, colagero, destiny, ipod, pandora, music, philly
Jason posted on December 16, 2005

Someone I know was very, very upset about this.  We will call him “Justin.”  Justin went away recently.  On his first day out of NYC, he got a frantic voicemail message from his roommate, “Bill.”  Bill was very wound up and upset, wailing like Ron Burgundy in his glass case of emotion, unable to even explain what happened before abruptly hanging up.

Justin tracked Bill down and got the scoop.  It was the unthinkable: their “source”, with whom they’ve had an on-again off-again relationship for the past four years, had been arrested, busted by the feds.  So no more of one of the few things that makes Justin’s and Bill’s lives bearable.  This is especially bad, since Justin has recently transformed into the most miserable human being on the planet and derives pleasure only from abuse (particularly from the substance that the source offers, but also from the abuse of booze, other people, and himself). 

Not only that, a list of the source’s clients had been confiscated.  On that list are, presumably, Justin’s and Bill’s names and contact information.

Once Justin got the fully story from Bill, he tried to calm him down.  “I promise you,” he said, “They’re not going to come after us.  Not with athletes and celebrities on that list anyway.”

“Yes,” Bill replied, “But what about [unintelligible screams and sobs, things breaking in the background].”

Bill eventually bought into Justin’s reassurances, but deep down Justin himself was worried.  See, Justin is an almost-celebrity.  I can’t get into the nature of his fame, lest I reveal too much of his persona.  But let’s just say that Justin is kind of a big deal in some circles, especially in New York City.  We’re not talking “Oscar-winner” big deal, but one time he did get recognized on an Amtrak train.  Which totally made his entire year. 

But though initially worried, Justin realized that getting busted by the feds might just be great for his career.  After all, everyone knows there is no such thing as bad publicity and an attention whore like Justin is always willing to take it where he can get it.  Besides, it’s not like he was having drinking parties for 12 year old boys from PS 128 at his apartment every Friday night (there was no drinking, just a lot of group masturbating).   

So soon Justin was no longer worried.  There were two possible scenarios, he figured: either nothing happens or he gets arrested and becomes a political prisoner, using his captivity as an excuse to strike out at the man and the system, with the help of his legions of (completely bored and totally looking for something to do) fans.

But there’s another problem: Justin and Bill need their “goods”.  This, thankfully, is not an issue.  In a city as large as New York, there will always be sources and always be goods.  I *heart* NYC.

I mean, Justin *hearts* NYC.

The end.

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

Speaking of breaking the law, Colagero is implicated in a murder. 

I’m tempted to make a racist joke here (you guys know how I turn everything into a racial issue), something akin to, “I wonder if this would have happened if he had found a nice Italian girl instead” (and that’s a really mild one).  But my sister has recently started dating a black man, so I have to start biting my tongue.  A bisexual brother and a sister dating a black guy.  Now all I need is for my mom to somehow get retarded and my dad to convert to Judaism I have license to make any joke I want.