Swimming in the Leprosy!

I am a filthy fucking homeless man. I have a rash. Who gets rashes? Homeless men and me, that's who. What kind of scabies-having bag of disgusting am I? Seriously, nothing makes me feel dirtier than having a rash except when I pay hookers to squeeze out a Cleveland steamer on my chest (Thanks, Tenacious D). But even that doesn't make me break out in a rash like this. It's basically on my right arm from my armpit to halfway down my forearm.

I figured out how I got it as well which is even weirder. For Christmas, some friends of mine bought me a new 12-string guitar: a very cool present. So, the other night, I took some time to tune it and, while tuning it and subsequently breaking a string doing so, apparently whatever magic oil they put on brand new guitars got all over my arm and my skin hated it so bad. So bad.

What kind of oil would that be that would make me react like that? I looked it up on Wikipedia and it seems that they rub it down with a mixture of old band-aids and a soup made from blended New York City public toilet seats.

Thursday at work I noticed it and freaked the hell out. I couldn't stop thinking about it. See, my mind is kind of obsessive. I'm not what you'd call a hypochondriac, but probably only if you didn't know what that word meant. If you did know that word, maybe you'd use it to describe me. I mean, I have a goddamn rash. People who live by rivers and eat giraffes get rashes. I live by a Ralph's and eat Cap'n Crunch.

It's going away now, but now I can't play my brand new guitar. I'm going to have to wear a HazMat suit to get my "Since You Been Gone" on.

Four on the Floor!

When I got home from work today, I noticed this on my next door neighbor's door.If you can't read it, it says, "Adam, Will you please not walk around your apartment at 4:00 in the morning? Thanks."

The day that I moved in, there was a similar note on his door asking that he not walk around his apartment between the hours of 10 pm and 6 am.

Now, I haven't heard him walk around, but I've seen him and he's not a big guy; he's a thin Dominican fella. I didn't even know his name was Adam until I saw this note. I just called him Dominican Joe.

So, Adam, if that is your real name, you're not allowed to pee in the middle of the night because, apparently, you do the kickworm across the floor into the bathroom. I'm glad the woman who lives below me isn't such an asshole. My two club feet and the way I always have to move trash cans filled with apples across the room at 2 am wouldn't go over well if I lived in ole Dominican Joe's apartment.

It's a Goddamn Christmas Miracle!

I'm not being sarcastic.

I hate places. You all know that. Places suck and people in them are even worse. But tonight, the Firestone on Ventura Blvd in North Hollywood, California is my favorite place in existence.

See, on my way to work today--yes, work today, Christmas Eve--I heard a rattling/banging coming from my truck bed. I didn't really worry about it until after work when it seemed to not go away. I parked in my complex lot (the parking lot of my apartment complex, I don't mean that the lot is very difficult) and leaned down to pretend like I know anything about cars near the rear passenger tire from whence arose all the clatter. I squinted and poked to see what was the matter. Homage to Christmas, motherfuckers! You like that? Yeah you do. Drink it all down. Mmmmmmm.

Okay, anyway, so I look and I can see that the shock, I think it's called the shock, It's one of the shocks, so it's singular--maybe it's called the suspension, I don't know--but that thing was obviously not connected the way that it should be. And I have a hell of a lot of driving to do tomorrow, so this could be very bad. After looking at it for a minute, I know what has to be done. I need to get the loopy part on top to slide on to this pole and then I need to screw a screw which I do not have into the end of that pole to keep it on.

So I call car places. Of course, they're all closed. But not the aforementioned Firestone. They're open until five and it's only 3:45. I quickly print out directions to the shop three miles away and I depart. I drive like an old lady for the first time in my life so the bed of my truck doesn't collapse down and I somehow end up on YouTube because I'd be openly weeping and stomping my feet on the side of the road while pointing at my truck.

I make it there and pull in at about 4:00. They have an hour to fix a problem which should, theoretically, take two minutes. The woman behind the counter tells me that it's going to be about ten minutes before she can get to me. I tell her I don't care, as long as they do. It's a half an hour and finally she summons a wise old Chinese man named Chen. Yes, those are accurate descriptions. He was old and Chinese and we all know that that means he's wise; it just comes with the territory, like old black guys hating all white people.

Since Chen is 150 years old, it takes him some time to do his work. He jacks my truck up and proceeds to walk over to some work area where he grabs one screw and walks back to my truck. He tries to screw that one on; it doesn't work. Then he walks back to the work area, sets that one screw down, picks up another, and walks back to my truck again. And again it doesn't fit. He does this one at a time thing probably ten times and no dice. He informs me that the tread is stripped inside the hole.

Motherfucker. It can't be stripped.

Then I ask him if he can just stick something in there so I can drive tomorrow and he disappears--this time to another part of the shop--he comes back with another screw and it screws in and fits. The tread wasn't stripped; he stripped me of my hope and that was his Ancient Chinese test. I passed.

He smiles at me and yells in excitement as he tightens it on there. It's now 4:58 and they close in two minutes. I walk inside to pay and she asks Chen how much I owe for labor. He literally waves his hand at her as if to say, "Forget about it." She charges me nothing and I get to go. On the way out, I'm fiddling through my wallet to give Chen $20 and I can't find him. I ask the woman inside where Chen is and she says, "Chen died ten years ago."

Okay, that very last part is a lie. I did give him $20 and he said Merry Christmas.

Then I hit a gong and a dragon swooped down from the sky and ate him. Okay, again, lie.

I mean, that kind of stuff doesn't happen. But it did tonight and that's why the Virgin Mary lied about having sex before she was married so she wouldn't get stoned to death and she'd pass off her son as the Lord and Savior of the world. Thanks for having pre-marital sex, Mary. You're the best.

Last Minute Christmas Gift Idea!

If I try to do anything for my loyal readers, it's provide a service. Whether it's with a recipe, a knowing smile, or helping you to walk your groceries to your car and accidentally rubbing my fingers on your lady-dent, I try to help. Therefore, I know some of you still haven't completed your Christmas shopping and still need ideas and that's what I shall provide.

Take a sheet of paper, draw a dot and write the recipient's name beneath it. Now, fill the page with a bunch of other, smaller, less dazzling dots. Hand this to the person explaining to them that you have just named a star after them. When they inevitably exclaim, "But, wait. You just drew this. I watched you and you asked to borrow a pen. That isn't what space looks like." Say, "How do you know? Have you seen all of it?" At this point, they know that you've given them a true gift: the gift of knowledge.

Merry Christmas, everybody! And god bless us, everyone. I'm kidding. He doesn't exist.

Fictional Conversations of Real People!

First, please watch this video. Warning: It's filled with fucking morons being fucking morons.

And here's how I imagine this happened.

Okay, you know my roof, right?

Yeah. What about it? It's high. Like 10 feet.

12 feet. Yeah. So, how about I hold you awkwardly upside down with your nose near the crack of my ass and stand on the roof?

Okay, I'm with you and this sounds awesome, but I think we can make it better.

Better? What's better than me holding you on the roof with your nose inches from my pooper?

Jump the fuck off.

Tell Barry to get the camera.

Fin.

I fucking love America.

Hat: The Post!

Everybody likes party hats, like those one wears at a birthday party, but I think that they should have funeral hats. Instead of the conical shape of the party hat, it would be a tiny tombstone with a chinstrap.

That way, when you're at the grocery store picking up some more 7-Up for the service and you're all dressed up, you won't run into somebody you know at the store who doesn't realize that you're dressed up for a funeral and they won't say something embarrassing to you like, "Big date, huh? You want me to grab you some condoms?"

They'll see that paper tombstone on your head and know immediately to just buy the condoms for you and give them to you with a somber look on their face as they say, "I'm sorry about your loss. Go fuck the shit out of something."

FUNERAL HATS!

Happy Birthday, Kiddo!

Happy Birthday to you and maybe a surprise guest stops by to say hello as well.

Also, if you would like to invest in the items whose prototypes you see herein, I will be more than happy to entertain offers.


If you want to share the video, you can use this link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PH6ZaPsd9j4

This Title Doesn't Have Anything to Do with the Post!

So, I just went to the grocery store and I only needed to buy two things. I bought an 8-pack of Irish Spring and a microwavable container of chicken noodle soup. I wanted to tell the cashier that I was buying things in alphabetical order.

Hilarious! Soap and soup, get it? Those are very close! He would have laughed so hard and I would have won the grocery store award for the funniest customer of the year! Then I would have won a shopping spree like on Supermarket Sweep and I would have gone to the hoses first because those are the most expensive items. Hoses and turkeys. But if I see that cardboard Jolly Green Giant, I'm running that huge motherfucker back to the checkout counter tout de suite.

So, this girl who works at Ikea hates me. For my birthday in September, I got a gift card from a couple friends of mine so I could purchase various items from the Swedish furniture giant. I went out and purchased things in September and, when it came time to pay, I forgot to use the gift card. Oh well, I thought. I can always just use it again later.

Fast forward to today when I bought some more items from Ikea. I was so happy that I found things to purchase which would let me use my gift card. I skipped merrily to the cashier so that she could swipe my gift card and I could walk out of the store without spending any money. As I walk up, she smiles and says, "ATM or Debit only, no cash. Is that okay?" Of fucking course it is. I won't be using cash. She'll be so happy because I'm following her rules.

She scans my items and, lost in a haze of the smell of fresh-cut wood from Swedishstan, I pull out my card and run it through the machine. My fucking ATM card. I swiped it, finished the transaction, and she handed me my receipt. I'm about to step away from her counter and I get that cold bolt of dumb asshole lightning that shoots through me and I stop. I reached into my back pocket, pulled out my gift card and said, "Oh, umm, I forgot to use this. I need to use this instead."

She wanted to kill me and she didn't hide that fact at all. She sighed like she just surfaced after setting the fucking free-diving record.

She said, "Hold on. I have to call a manager."

She was on the phone speaking quietly so that I couldn't hear her, probably calling the Ikeops to come arrest the fucking idiot with the nightstand. After finally hanging up the phone, she turned to me and said, "I'm going to have to give you cash back since you did ATM." That's fine. I'll take cash. It's the same as not cash except it is cash. That's how I reconciled it in my head.

She opened her register and handed me two $10s and about 15 $5 bills.

I'm surprised she was as nice as she was. I would have accepted a tote bag filled with nickels at that point just so I could leave and make the people standing behind me in line stop pelting me with their tiny fucking golf pencils.