iphone 3.0 still not as good as Pam 1.0 from the Office.

3.0’s coming out. This summer. For the iphone. Yeah? So what? So why do I care if I don’t even have an iphone or I do but don’t feel like spending more money on something that I’m already spending so much of my goddamn money on that…

Shhhh. It’s free.

Oh, carry on then.

Yes. It’s free. 3.0. Is free. For everyone with an iphone. $9.99 for a touch. Should have just bought the iphone. Ok, so, what’s so great about 3.0? Does it walk around? Sprout legs and walk around the living room so I don’t have to get up and get it every time I need to charge it again for the fiftieth goddamn time? No.

Ok, does it do my grocery shopping for me? Kind of.

Jerk me off when others won’t? No, that’s 4.0. Sorry. But it will be able to do a bunch of other neat stuff that will make you convulse in a sea of your own juices.

Will it clean up my mess afterwards? No.

3.0 has some updates that shouldn’t be updates but rather almost out of date refreshments but they’re updates to us so that’s all that matters. Us as in iphone users. Blackberry people…go suck a tree.

So, yeah, updates are fun. For people who like updates. For people who don’t like change, 3.0 is going to ruin your life. For instance:

Cut. Copy. Paste. Brill.
If you hate being able to repeat something you wrote, say in an email, to someone your texting through means of cut and paste, you’re going to hate 3.0. If you hate the fact that you’ll be able to copy large chunks of copy from a web page or a note you might have been writing in your iphone diary, and pasting it into some wordy application, you will despise 3.0.

Oh, and if you want to undo something you’ve pasted, all you have to do is shake your phone. Man, what a drag that must be for people who hate shaking things.

E-Magazines and Games
How about renewing a subscription to something without having to fill out any forms? Talk about horrid change. People who don’t want to be able to simply extract more money from their account and put it in Apple’s shouldn’t upgrade to 3.0. They shouldn’t have the luxury of simply pressing a button to achieve 12 more months of e-magazine bliss or extra level gaming heaven, downloaded straight into their phone.

What a Beautiful Landscape
These are the same people who will probably find landscape mode scary. And probably an obvious addition when the iphone 3G came out last year. But they forgot to add landscape mode. They gave us the ability to download 25,000 apps that can find us a place to eat within a 10 mile radius and send us news feeds every twenty seconds, but turning our phone sideways to type an email or text message was out of the question. It’s not now. Not with 3.0.

Spotlight
Either is searching for something throughout your entire phone. This one’s called spotlight. How cute. I get it. But it seems to be a pretty useful addition to something that probably should have come with this installment in the first place. So, now, or, excuse me, this summer, if I want to search for, say, “obvious upgrades”, my phone will now show me a list of possible areas where this phrase appears, throughout all my apps, texts, emails and websites I’ve visited.

Avoiding Accidents and Delays
Speaking of visiting places, now when I’m in my car, the phone will automatically find a crappy radio station to bum a signal off of instead of me having to dodge accidents in order to find one myself so I can slightly hear my song over the crackling station. That’s kind of nice. So are the GPS maps that will be embedded in certain apps. So instead of having to close out one application and opening the maps one, I can find the best place to hide a body, how to get there and the best route to take all without leaving the app.

Applause for App. Upgrades
Oracle is making life easier on people who own their own business with one of their new 3.0 apps. I don’t own my own business so this app doesn’t really affect me, but if I was running low on inventory, this app would really save my ass.

And if I liked blowing into things, 3.0 is going to help me accomplish this. Like those two guys at the Apple conference who played some song from Phantom of the Opera by blowing into their phones. They actually did a pretty decent job. This app will also be useful for sluts.

For those who love that little ESPN ditty, “do do do. Do do do.” That didn’t make any sense. Anyway, for those of you who know what the hell I’m going on about, ESPN will have an app, because they don’t now and I really don’t get this, but they’ll have an app that will not only send you updated score alerts with their little “do do do” jingle but also show you streaming video alerts from that game. So, now you can watch sports while you’re watching sports and talking about sports and playing sports.

The nifty stock app that everyone loves because it looks so cool on the home screen but hardly any of us use because we have no money to keep stock of is getting a nice little addition to the family. News stories. About stocks! So, now you can read about what a disaster your life is. Thank god for those gun apps.

Peer to Peer
If two jerks are wasting time at work and have the same game open, they can play against each other automatically. I thought it already did this.

It will also show you what apps these people around you have in case you want to steal some of their good ideas instead of searching on your own. This one’s actually not half bad either.

So, all in all, 3.0 is going to make the phone I already sleep with more than my wife…kidding I don’t have a wife or a girlfriend, I wonder why…more adorably time consuming than sitting in the unemployment line waiting for a check that will barely get you through the next day. But at least you’ll be able to write a text message, copy and paste it into an email, receive a score alert from ESPN followed by an alert that your inventory has just been ransacked but then be able to track how to get to the assholes who put you in the unemployment line in the first place with your GPS map while sending a cute little picture of the dog you just ran over in order to catch the thieves through text, all in landscape mode. Yes, 3.0 is going to be wonderful. Unless you hate change.

The Tail End of a Prince-Ass

When I got home last night, I started crying. A twenty-eight year old man…crying. It was from looking at Katie. My dog. That’s the name she came with. I would never name a dog Katie. Same goes for a cat or bird or any other member of the animal kingdom. But no matter if her name were Katie or Spot or Dog, as soon as I saw her, I started…yep. But it wasn’t because of Katie that I was crying. It was because of Zoe.

Zoe. Now that’s a good name for a dog. Delightfully cute without coming off grotesquely adorable. Simply stated, befittingly suitable Zoe. She was why I was crying. Because she was dying. And by 7:00 tonight, she will be gone.

And yet, she doesn’t even know it.

If she did know. If she did understand that she would soon be venturing north towards that big rawhide in the sky where fire hydrants decorate the streets and dinner tables are furnished with scraps of Filet Mignon, she’d definitely at least try to show some sort of cognitive awareness. Maybe request a last meal. Say some heartfelt goodbyes. Or ask for a pillow. Or some pills.

But not a gun. Zoe is not the type to off herself with a gun. She’s a lady. A princess. Prince-Ass as she’s so graciously referred to by Katherine, the woman who birthed me. The Prince-Ass would probably request a pawful of uppers. Followed by a smattering of downers. And then, as best she could since, let’s be honest, she’s a dog and was born without the convenience of opposable thumbs, she would mix the two “‘ers” together, lie down and solemnly reminisce until the synapses stopped firing.

No. Wait. Prince-Ass would never do this herself. She would get Benjamin to do it for her. Benjie, the man married to Katherine. My father. She would request his assistance. And he would do it. Anything. Anything for his princess. Not Prince-Ass. There she would recline, her paw draped over her forehead, declaring, “I dare not live another moment in this corrupted, ravaged body. Benjamin, won’t you fetch me my pills so that I might end this embarrassing spectacle and die with whatever dignity I might have left?” A sixty year old man with arthritis has never moved so quickly.

She was fine a month ago. When we all met up for Thanksgiving. She was fine. Acted fine. But inside, she wasn’t fine. She was dying. But nobody knew. Not even Zoe. And Katie, well, Katie was only concerned with leaving no traces of that beef-flavored bone behind. As was Zoe. Now, she doesn’t want to chew on anything. Or get up. Or discuss the difference between socialism and communism.

She never did.

What she would want to do is stare blindly out the window at the backyard. Her backyard. Her fenced in playground. At one time a young fertile landscape, now just a bad metaphor for a balding man.

“I remember when I was a child,” she would state. If she could talk. She can’t. But if she could, she would say, “I remember as a child when the cool night air would tickle my underbelly. I would stare off into the darkness wondering how a mutt like me was lucky enough to end up in a place like this. And then, I would trot inside and accept my treat. I’ve led a very fortunate life. If only I had mated.”

And she did. Well, not the mated part, but the fortunate section is correct. Her life was very blessed. Is. She’s still alive. She still hasn’t swallowed the “‘ers” yet.

Blessed isn’t the right word.

Spoiled.

Rotten.

Prince-Ass.

She was treated like an only child. Even though she wasn’t one. In fact, if you open up Benjie’s wallet, you won’t find a picture of me or my brothers or even the other two dogs that trotted around the house. None of us grace the walls of that man’s wallet.  But we all know who does. We all know whose portrait does sit neatly tucked inside, corners never creased, not a smidgen of faded color. Hers. You will find one of her. Stoic. Uncompromising. Zoe. It’s the same sober stare from the watercolor painting that greets you upon your arrival to the upstairs portion of the house.

But this was ok, for she was the daughter Benjie never had even though it was Katherine who bought tiny little dresses and planned sweet sixteens in her head. Zoe was bought for my brother, taken care of by Katherine but pampered and adored by Benjie.

We don’t have many stories. She was just the family dog. Although she did eat a five dollar bill once and then passed it a day later, still fully intact. Katherine cleaned it off and used it. Somewhere, someone is making a transaction with a piece of currency that has passed through the bowels of a living creature. But aside from that, she really wasn’t destructive enough to warrant her own novel or even screenplay. But she was ours. Which is just as good if not better.

No, it is better. She provided what any dog or cat or, yes, pet of the animal kingdom or even reptile or insect if you’re in to that sort of thing, could offer: unconditional love. And that’s what she got. It’s what she gave. It’s what we’ll always be left with.

I will miss knowing that the mere mention of my name will send her flying down the stairs or perk up her ears even if I am 1,000 miles away. I’ll miss her snorting. Her look of undeserved pretentiousness. Acting like she was too good to sit or shake. Because she was. And her laugh. I’ll miss her laugh. Kidding. She’s a dog. Which means she truly was and always will be our best friend.

The Most Pointless Thing You’ll Probably Never Read.

Ok. Get ready. This is going to be the dumbest blog ever written. It really is. I just…I just can’t even decide if I really want to write it. But it’s just so pointless. Like, dumber than a Seinfeld episode. With less point than a broken pencil. Like this blog.

Just like this blog.

Ok, so, Kara asked me to go see a movie on Saturday. Sure, ok. It’s 60 degrees outside after negative fuck you degree weather with ice and shit storms snowing down on us for god knows how many days. But ok, yeah, 60 degrees, let’s go inside where it’s warm and watch a movie. In her defense, it was raining. And I do like movies.

So, she picks me up in her fancy white car…because she’s racist and refuses to buy anything black or brown or even slightly red because it resembles an asian and she hates asians almost more than she hates black people.

Kidding. Her car is white because that’s the color it came in.

But she’s still racist.

Kidding. She doesn’t even own a car.

So, she picks me up in her car and drives me to Mara’s. Who? Exactly. No, I know Mara. She’s been her friend since god knows I don’t. Or could care, but still, they are pretty damn close. Close enough to get this angry at each other over nothing that no one would actually care about except for Michael. Actually, Michael and I have gotten into many of these types of conversations. Not conversations. Arguments. Fights. Verbal wars where no one wins but anyone involved is in fact an utter loser. Making me a loser because I was involved. I was there. To witness this atrocity take place. And all I wanted to see was a movie. A good movie. not a bad…damnit Danielle, I’m trying to write my blog.

Sorry. Danielle interrupted me about a change that didn’t need changing and now I’ve lost my place in line. Forgive me. Oh yes, movies. No Mara. No, shoes. Boots. Whatever.

They fought over boots. Kara and Mara. So basically, Mara’s been sick for like twenty years and after we stopped playing the world’s saddest song on the worlds smallest violin and entered her apartment, she so graciously asked us to remove our shoes to which I of course obliged because really, who am I to argue with the request of the person who lives there? But Kara wasn’t having it. She had on boots. Boots that took hours to put on and half hours to take off. And apparently when Kara does go over to Mara’s she never has to take her shoes off but this time, the time I showed up only wanting to see a movie, but instead was forced to watch this showing of inhuman human behavior dissect itself before my troubled eyes, Kara was asked to remove her shoes. Boots. Whatever. The real problem wasn’t the removal of the boots. The real issue. The true ailment in Kara’s mind was that Mara was traipsing around in her shoes. Boots. Whatever!

And that’s when it started. For four hours they argued. Ok, not four hours, but awhile. Too long to argue about boots or bras or any sort of clothing or maybe even furniture but not too long to rant about the double crossing of sleeping with someone’s boyfriend even though that never happened, I’m just saying it would have been a much more entertaining conversation to watch. But this was about shoes. Boots. Whatever!

And Kara was livid. How dare she take off her boots when she never has to take off her boots and all this while Mara, the requester. The resident. All this while Mara had her boots on. But Mara claimed her boots were clean and in fact tested this hypothesis turned theory by licking the bottom of her right boot at the request of Kara. To which we all screamed. Only my screams were over something entirely different. For while they were arguing about shoes. Boots. Whatever. My taste buds were being raped by the delicious dietary flavor of a one mister Sunkist who I started protesting against to Mara but was quickly debriefed on how tasty the diet Kist actually is which sent me into a screaming frenzy right as Mara was licking her right shoe. Boot.

WHATEVER!!!

Apparently Mara washes her boots with soap and water everyday when she gets home. But apparently this did not satisfy Kara the way that DiKist was satisfying me. For she kept arguing and defending and Mara kept yelling and bitching and the two of them together kicked up more unnecessary necessities than a footless foot soldier at a shoe store.

At one point, Kara threatened to leave and told me to leave too but I wasn’t done with my drink and I really wanted to see the movie, so I demanded that she sit back down, to which she did. And finally the two of them stopped arguing. And I finished my Diet Sunkist. And we saw the movie. And it was worth it.

Until everyone came to my house and I insisted that they all take off their shirts. Bras. Whatever!!!

The Moral of the Story is There is No Moral.

Kara had a birthday. And everybody came. The entire city of Chicago showed up. And I knew maybe four of them. But Kara seemed to know all of them, and since it was her birthday, I guess that made sense.

It was cool not really knowing anyone. And watching them all know each other it up all night long. I played on my phone for a little while. A lot of awhile actually. And got called out on it. “Why the fuck do you keep playing with your phone?” This rude gentleman demanded to know. “BECAUSE IT GETS ME!!!” We didn’t talk the rest of the night. I might have overreacted. Might have transfered some of my own self-defecating deprecation a little to outward bound for this fellow. I saw him in the bathroom later that night. He started shaking while pulling up his zipper. “Here…tttttake it. It’s yours.” And then he ran out of the stall. Then, even later that night, as the alcohol in his body started giving him more confidence, he ran up behind me and smashed a beer bottle over my head. It was made of plastic. But still, it wasn’t very nice of him. When I turned around, he started running away, babbling on about Jesus and The Devil and the second coming and other things I’m making up as I go along because none of this is true. Well, he did ask me why I was on my phone and I told him because I was checking football scores. He didn’t believe me. He shouldn’t have.

This other guy was playing on his phone, too. I don’t think he really knew anyone either. But he pulled it off.

He looked liked the type of guy that could get away with looking up football scores on his phone. I look like the type of guy who acts like I’m checking football scores on my phone when really, I’m just typing text messages full of gibberish to someone that might or might not even exist. I might or might not have done that once or twice. And accidentally sent one of them to someone who doesn’t exist. The text back was quite rude.

I lied. I don’t even know how to text.

Wait. I don’t even know someone named Kara.

Actually, I do and her party wasn’t horrible. It would have been better had there been at least one other childhood friend of MINE there. But there were only childhood friends of everyone else there. They all had inside jokes. And made inside comments about inside things that only people on the inside would understand. It was getting chilly outside. And I really wanted to come inside. But there was really nothing for me to say.

I did meet Kara’s brother…again. Well, he met me for the first time for the third time. Someone introduced us. “Have you met Judd?” This happened on two previous occasions. The first I was expecting “no” as a response. The second time, maybe, ok, sure, it slipped his mind that we have shaken hands in a meeting of firsts before. But this time, the third times a charm time, I waited for a sly laugh and an extended hand followed by a joyess “Yes I know Judd!” But there was only a hand followed by a “No, I’m Kara’s brother. Nice to finally meet you.” Finally?

This would ruin my night.

Not really. But that mixed tape I made for him would definitely seem inappropriate at this juncture.

He’s a nice guy. Comes off like he owns the town. I don’t think he does. But he comes off that way. Like how I act when I’m in my own comfortable surroundings…at home…in my room…with the dog…

No, actually, she owns me, so that didn’t really work as a good example.

Kara’s brother had a friend who I’m assuming is also Kara’s friend. I found out later he was one of the twins in that movie Overboard with Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn. Now, this made my night. Considering I’ve seen that movie enough times to know more lines in it than he does because I asked him if he was the kid that said “I’ve been up all night pacing,” and he pounded his fist on the table and angrily yelled at me, “I don’t remember! I’m too Hollywood to remember who I played in what movie and what I actually may or may not have said in said movies and why are you even existing in my world right now? Get back outside!” So I came off as the stalker. And it was awkward when he realized I was the guy that sent him all those letters and cakes and photos and flakes of skin…but it was really weird when I told him that I’ve never actually seen the movie Overboard and in fact, I thought he meant that me playing on my phone, not checking football scores and texting gibberish to no one was a little overboard. I asked for his autograph and he kicked me in the face.

Boy is his face red. I have seen Overboard. A lot.

Things went overboard later that night when one of Kara’s brother’s friends threw a roll of toilet paper at this girl who was smoking. The toilet paper caught on fire from the cigarette which caused the girl’s hair to explode in flames and so she’s screaming and running around trying not to die and the guy who threw the toilet paper is throwing more rolls of toilet paper at her because he thinks somehow they will smother the flames. But they’re not. They’re just encouraging the flames and the girl’s still screaming and her face is melting and Kara’s brother is introducing himself to me every thirty seconds like he has constant amnesia and Overboard is trying to kick the flames off the girl who isn’t screaming anymore because she’s passed out from the pain. And I’m trying to decide if it’s cool that I finish my cigarette because they are really expensive in this city and it’s not like the roll of toilet paper came anywhere near me but it doesn’t taste as good when you’re looking at some girl who’s laying on the sidewalk clasping on to her own skin, who’s awake again, screaming, horrible horrible screams that stormed the streets and alleys. And then I realized I had to use the bathroom and thought it might be even more inappropriate to take one of the rolls of toilet paper with me, so I just flicked my cigarette out and accidentally hit Overboard who started yelling at me. Something about who the hell do I think I am and do I know who the hell he thinks he is and blah blah blah. So the only thing I could think to say was, “Whoa, don’t go Overboard.” The shrieking stopped. Everyone stood still and stared at me. And then, we all burst out in to laughter. Even char-grilled. So, Kara pulled her up and everyone started going back inside. Then, Kara’s brother turned to me and asked if I was coming with them…inside. To which I happily replied, “No.”

Somewhere A Baby is Crying

Hey.

Just stopping by? Seeing what’s new? Ok. Well, I got a new jacket the other day. And then returned it. And then some new shoes. Was going to return those but I got gum stuck to the receipt so there went that plan. I thought of using the receipt anyway and acting like the gum was some sort of added bonus for the check out lady. Like, it hasn’t lost ALL it’s flavor yet…and it’s for you! And then she’d tell me to get out. And to take my shoes with me. After throwing them in my direction. Followed by the gum and maybe a stapler.

I could use a new stapler.

So, I went over to my brother’s ex-wife’s house the other night. Was it weird? No. It was after we had sex. Kidding. It wasn’t weird at all after the sex. Or during when she called me by my brother’s name and then her brother’s name and then back to my brother’s name again followed by a bunch of horrible horrible words that made my ears cry.

No. Wait. We didn’t sleep together. That was a joke I made to some guy who lives below her. Who I met the night I was over at her place. To go over this play I’m writing. And when we were done, she forced me to follow her downstairs so she could have a beer with this random dude that just moved in below her. “Ok?” I said. “I kind of want to go home.” “YOU’LL FOLLOW ME! YOUR BROTHER RUINED MY LIFE SO THE LEAST YOU CAN DO IS GO DOWNSTAIRS WITH ME SO I CAN HAVE A BEER WITH THIS GUY!”

My brother didn’t ruin her life entirely. It’s still not over.

So, we go downstairs. And the guy’s standing there with no shirt, full beard and camo shorts, grilling pork chops over a trailer park grill that looks like it’s screaming to be shot and left for dead. “Do you want one?” He asks me. Do I want one of his pork chops as I watch him season it with sweat and I think at one point he even flicked a bugar at one of them and then laughed with some sort of satisfied accomplishment.

Is that how you spell bugar?

I denied a porkchop but extended an invitation for him to put on a shirt. Even offered him the one off my back since I was wearing two shirts. But he declined, scratched some roaches out of his beard and led us inside. How we made it that far, I still don’t know. I sort of blacked out after the moose head on the wall tried to attack me with its antlers. And I tripped over some shattered beer bottles. And tried to ignore the boxes that were throwing up pictures of this kid’s life. Pictures he apparently didn’t care for since most of them contained some random girl with a squiggle of red, circled around her head and the word “BITCH” erratically scratched above her with an arrow pointing in her direction.

Then he showed us his daughter’s bedroom. For when she comes to visit. It’s cute. And features another moose head. Or a deer. I couldn’t tell at this point. I was hoping the little girl wasn’t there. Locked up. In the closet. Screaming to be let out.

She wasn’t there. She was safe. I remember thinking how cold she would feel at night when sleeping in her bed. Because there were no sheets. Or a pillow. Or a fourth leg.

Still hanging out. And now my brother’s ex wife was drinking a beer. Great. So, we’re gonna be here longer. And I have to sit here and listen to Beardy go on about how different life is here then from where he came. Montana. I think. Something with an M. Or an ana. And how much he loves killing defenseless creatures and then hanging them on his wall as if to say, “Look what I can do far away from something when I’m armed and they’re not.” If he really wanted to impress me, he would have decorated his walls with the heads of our friends in Al Queda. Or a homeless guys. They’re fierce here. One almost stabbed me for a dollar. But I gave him a stand up hand job and that lulled him to sleep.

The only redeeming quality about this guy was his 52 inch flat screen HD Panasonic TV. And that he had his computer hooked up to it. So, I finally opened my mouth and asked him about it. So, he gets really excited and starts twitching and I think threatened to kill me or it was a joke or he was high or dying or something. But anyway, he switched the TV over from cable to his computer but forgot that before we came over he was in the middle of beating off to some girl getting her face painted by a load of cum. And my brother’s ex wife is just sitting there watching this girl getting cum pied in the face and I know for a fact that she doesn’t even like watching girls getting smeared in the face with cum or any sort of porn for that matter, which I completely disagree with, but really, there’s a time and place to watch a girl get raped by another man’s semen, but this was definitely not it. But Beardy thought it was and started laughing. But a manaical laugh that made me shit my pants and has now ruined any sort of porn watching experience because now all I can hear is that jackass laughing at how funny it is that we caught him watching porn.

So, I’m trying to figure out if this is fun or not and my brother’s ex wife is trying to figure out if she should move and Beardy is trying to hide his full on hardy and the girl in the porno, whose face looks like a factory of Elmer’s Glue just exploded all over it, is now being forced to taste another man’s cock. And he’s really forcing it. Like, I don’t even think she likes it because she keeps chocking and spitting and having to stop and catch her breath and then at one point I think she even threw up and I’m not sure if this is even porn anymore and my brother’s ex-wife is crying and Beardy is jerking off, laughing, pouring beer down his throat, rocking back and forth like he’s in the middle of his own personal ho-down. And then finally the porno ends and everything is silent except for the weeping coming from my brother’s ex-wife. And then from Beardy after finishing but then he starts laughing again. Some crazy mad hatter laughter that’s painting the walls with intimidating shadows like I’ve just been drugged with acid. My brother’s ex-wife is shrieking in pain, racing for the door, tripping over a dead dog’s head that we somehow missed on our way in and I’m running after her and Beardy keeps laughing like he just obtained some magic powers. But he didn’t. He’s just a fucking looney tunes and we’re his captive audience.

Finally, we made it back up to her apartment and I demanded that she take me home at that instant before somehow something rubs off on me and I go home and end up turning into that thing that now lives below her. To which she agreed and probably shattered some world racing record as we sped out of the neighborhood and into the safe comforting arms of the city.

Safe until I almost got stabbed by a homeless guy.

The Wedding: And/Or How I Murdered 1,000 People in 1,000 Days: Part Seven.

So, I went to a wedding this past weekend.

Not interested?

Fine. Uh…

So, I went on a violent murdering spree this past weekend…

Yeah, now you’re interested.

It was a horrible mess. A lot of people dead.

I just hate old folks homes.

So, yeah, I was at a wedding this past weekend. One of my best friend’s. And I was the best man. So I had a lot of responsibilities. Like making sure I had the rings. I didn’t. But that’s not my fault. The morning of the wedding, I asked where they were. The groom told me I didn’t need to worry about them. Ok. So, I didn’t. Fast forward five hours later when he and I are about to follow the priest out to the alter. He asked me where the rings were? Uh, are you fucking kidding me? You told me not to worry. “They’re back at the hotel.” The bride’s mom chimed in. “We forgot them.” The priest shot me a look like, you’re the worst best man in the goddamn world. Everyone ignored me for the rest of the night. A little girl ran up to me and punched me in the dick. An old man tried to fight me.

He was part of the murdering spree.

Some of that happened. A lot of it did not. I might not have even attended a wedding.

I did. And it was one of the best weddings I’ve ever been to. Mainly because I was the best man so everything centered around me. Kind of. It should have. But mostly because it involved two people who really are supposed to be together. I was there when they first met. During a lot of their fights. And now for one of the most important days of both their lives. Nowadays it seems that marriage is as flighty as quitting your job or trying out a new city. If I don’t like it, I’ll just give up and try something new. But there is still hope for “till death do us part”. And that’s just what it’s going to take to rip these two apart. Nothing else will.

During the rehearsal dinner, it sort of hit me. I should have ordered the ribs. And what life is really about. Most of us don’t realize this growing up. The meaning of life. And I doubt I do now. But I might have caught a glimpse of it while the groom’s mother was opening up her gift from the soon-to-be newlyweds: tickets to a Broadway show where she would be joined by the groom, the bride and the bride’s parents. Because the in-laws get along with each other. Just one big happy newlywed family. I stared at that Broadway ticket and at first thought about ripping it from the groom’s mom’s hand and then running like hell to god knows where because really, what the hell would I do with it? Show up. Yeah, remember when I did this and now I’m here?

No.

But another thought crossed my mind. One not so destructive. Growing up, we want to be rich. Famous. Rock stars. We want to own the world. But that’s not what life’s all about. And I saw it that night. I’ve seen it 1,000 times before. But it became clear that night. The little things. Family. Friends. Love. That’s not a little thing actually. It’s an almost impossible thing. But my friend found it. And it’s obvious in the way they act towards each other. Look at each other. Talk to each other. Impossible looks so easy when it’s so obvious. But what they’ll get out of it will be the little things: coming home to each other. Starting a family. Even attending a Broadway show with the family. They’re surrounded by love every minute of the day. More love than what most people have in three lifetimes, these two have in this one. They prove that the little things really do mean everything. And I hate both of them for it…so fucking much.

Why do I have to ruin every beautiful moment with an explosion of obnoxious gas? Why? Because that’s just how I am.

The little things seemed to the farthest thing from a select few’s minds shortly after the reception. There was a lot of roaming the hotel hallways. At five in the morning. A lot of people locked out of their rooms. For various reasons. My reason was because the bride’s step brother was having sex on the bed I was supposed to be enjoying at that particular moment in the night. Five in the morning. Did I mention that? I wanted to be exhaling in utter ecstasy after a long night of drinking and being nice, but instead I had to yell through a crack in the door at a man who puts out fires for a living and could put me out with one punch. Yelling to get his dick out of that vagina and his ass out of my bed. His only response was with thrusting. So, a group of us left and made our way down to the second floor. That’s when we ran into the other members of the locked-out club.

They both just so happened to be the sister’s of the man who was dousing my bed with semen just a floor above us. One of them was wearing a t-shirt of mine along with my famous pair of green shorts. Famous because of the gigantic stain of puke they once held from another one of my best friend’s who decided to get completely annihilated ten minutes before the stroke of midnight one New Year’s Eve, thus sending him into an intoxicated coma of cross-eyed puking, chocking, gagging and the look of a retard after being told he is in fact a retard. And he was wearing my green shorts. And a polo shirt. And I was with him, watching him slowly die in front of me. All this while my girlfriend at the time was screaming at me from the other room to get my ass in there and fucking kiss her already because it’s almost midnight and whatever my friend was doing could wait. Uh, no, he could be dead by midnight. This could be the last time we see each other. Grant it, I think he was legally blind by this point, but still, if he was going to die, I wanted to be there to watch. He didn’t die. The girl and I broke up and now some other girl was wearing my green shorts.

I got side-tracked. Just a little.

She was locked out because her sister was choosing five in the morning, the night of her other sister’s wedding, to break up with her boyfriend of over nine years. I hear it was because another sister stormed in there and told the boyfriend that he was hated by everyone including his girlfriend. Just, knock knock, “Oh, hey, what are you…?” “You’re a fucking piece of shit. No one likes you. My sister hasn’t liked you for years. Get the fuck out!” At five in the morning. Drunk. Because timing means nothing to some people. So the one sister’s locked out because the other sister is breaking up another sister’s relationship and that sister is locked out because her wife was mad at her for reasons none of us could get a straight answer on and I’m locked out because their brother is using my bed as a porno set. And I just wanted to get some goddamn sleep.

I eventually did. On the pull out couch. While another one of my best friends (I have a lot) slept as close to me as two hetero guys can sleep without legally being married in the state of California.  I woke up twice to the brother fucking the chick. Once to my friend giving himself a hand job. And then I spent the rest of the night crying.

It really is the little things that tug at your heart strings.

This blog is dedicated to the following people: Stryper, Stand-Up HandJob, Sack Back, Scorpion, S-Beard and…Shrimp Dick.

Oh, and Vickers. Who is and always will be…rivickulous.

And loves Snickers. Like, a lot.

Oh, and Kristen. For keeping Tyler from fighting that pregnant midget.

But not Kara. Yes, Kara. Of course Kara. Who keeps me strong. My heart. My soul. My everything.

And of course…Newt. Because really, I’ve never seen a man own more pairs of sunglasses than this man. I think Kara even asked me how many pairs he actually owns. I lost count after day three.

Oh, and of course, Tara. Without whom there would be no wedding. Well, maybe, but not this one and the girl would probably suck and we’d all stand around and go, man this girl really sucks. Why is Jon marrying such a sucky sucky girl such as this one? And then we’d stop and be all fake and hug her and tell her she looks beautiful even though she looks like a sack of mistake dangling from a warthogs diarrheaed asshole. A fucking horrible human being whose attitude fucking sucks and goddamnit Jon, why’d you marry this bitch? Is it because she’s pregnant. There’s ways out Jon. You didn’t have to put all of us through this. You don’t have to tangle yourself up inside such a loveless, depressing, suicidal marriage.

But he didn’t do that. He married Tara. So the hugs were sincere. And the only bitching was really from Robinson who just wanted to get some fucking sleep but couldn’t because of Fuckstar the Fireman. Two for two Fireman. Two for two.

Oh, and Peeps. The cutest kid in the world. Besides me when I was her age. And her sex. Before the doctors told me it would be better if they just flipped it open and turned it into a penis.

Oh shit, that reminds me. Sophia for being Greek. I was right. And Thomas, who wore my green shirt the night of the great hotel lock-out. And I also forgot to mention that the sister who broke up the other sister’s relationship was wearing Robinson’s shirt and shorts so it really was just a bastardized night of what the fuck is going on.

God bless you Richard Marx. God bless you.

Slippery When Fucked

Do you like breakup sex? No? You’re a fucking retard.

Ok, so for those of you who do enjoy rolling around the sack with someone you could care less about a millisecond after blowing your load all over their damaged face, you might also enjoy the fast-paced, beautifully intelligent sound of Money/Paper/Hearts.

According to them, they sound like break up sex. And I just think that’s brilliant. Because, they really do.

I shake my knee when I listen to them. And tap my desk. And sing really really loud trying my hardest to imitate the unprocessed, intimidating sound that spews out of the angry chords of lead singer Jon Moore.

It gets stuck in your head. It gets stuck in my head. A lot. In random places. Always at work. Because work sucks and MPH doesn’t. Or when I set out on my journey to work. A journey that’s usually clouded with depressive trudgery. That’s not a word. But who cares.

But it never fails. As soon as I turn on the ipod, the first song I scroll to is “Negative Feelings”. From there, I just let the little guy sift through all seven songs of MPH’s accelerated sounding debut album. Which you can get right here on the space.

http://www.myspace.com/moneypaperhearts

What I like about their music is how smart it is. Yet how simple it sounds. But brilliance always seems so easy. It’s not. Trust me. But they pull it off. With every note. Every lyric. Every beat. And they do it through every song. “Trace to Sender” begins with a delicate guitar riff that explodes into a 90 mile per hour joyride down the American Scenic Highway. The shrill screams that end “Negative Feelings” send chills down your spine before shattering your pulse and spilling your soul onto the pavement. The calculated drum beats throughout “Jail Us”, orchestrated in an angry pounding that would send any girl’s snatch into vagina hangover mode. Bass instinct, streamlined in “She Was My Vietnam”, fingers attacking, dropping hints of, ‘yeah, we know what the fuck we’re doing here’ all over the goddamn place.

They do things to you. But you have to give them time. One listen isn’t enough. Enough to seep into your skin. It might strike a nerve, but this band doesn’t feel like striking anything. Only a full blown attack will do. And they succeed. Keeping you up at night. Your leg still shaking to a beat that continues to play on a perpetual loop inside your head, causing you to peer over at your computer. Just one more listen. Just one more song. But one song just won’t do. So, unless you want to be kept up at night, I suggest pulling the covers over your head, closing your eyes and praying to God morning comes quickly.

Atrocious Apparel

Why is this an option? What the shit? Are you fucking serious? This guy needs to be gutted and turned into someone else’s poorly picked wardrobe. Not even Carlos, the Colombian at my work could pull this off. And he pulls off some pretty outlandish clothing combinations. But no, sorry Carlos, even this would get you deported back to Cokeville.

Which I’m sure this guy was on when he agreed to pose for this asinine photography session. Or the person who stitched this together. How did that even go? Asking this warlock to piece himself together and leave his ditch for a second so that American Apparel can sell some shitty knits.

“Yeah, we kind of need you to wear this for our shoot.”
“What? Are you goddamn serious? I don’t even think this qualifies as a shirt.”
“Uh, yeah, well, I don’t think you really qualify as human…so, yeah, we’re gonna need you to strap it on and act like it’s something you would have in your closet.”
“But I don’t even own a closet. I’m not even sure what sex I am.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of the appeal. So, could you wash the cum off your chest and let us put this on you?”

I hope he got whatever sexual parts he was born with completely smashed to bits when he stopped for a 5 minute smoke break and decided to test the waters outside by…

Uh, ok? What the fuck? Where are his sleeves? Did he forget them? He does know that he looks like a fucking shithead? What would happen if I wore this to work? In the middle of a meeting. Just, leaning back in my chair, sipping coffee, acting like nothing’s out of the ordinary. That I’m not wearing a fucking hoodie sans the goddamn sleeves.
“What’s everyone staring at?”
“Uh, why do you think you can get away with wearing something like that?” My boss would ask.
“You mean to work?”
“I mean, in life. You’re fired. For wearing that. In case you were wondering. It’s for showing up today and wearing that.”

I would deserve it. I would fucking deserve to…

Really? Because the solid gold comedy hour that’s strapped to your upper body isn’t enough, but the decision to NOT wear anything underneath is completely mentally stable. Does this asshole work for some fairyland mob boss in rainbowville alley? He’s gonna go wack…

YOU AGAIN? AND NO SLEEVES? JESUS H.

Sorry…where was I?

Oh yeah, this guy…Homo Hitman. He’s about to wack…

Oh what the hell? What the hell? Did this guy just shit his pants or is he retarded? Just a little bit. Or maybe a lot. Tons of retard. Just layered in retard because he’s not pulling it off by himself. He needs…

What…What is this? What is…not even sure anymore. Not even…

Uh…what do I…? What do I do about this? It’s just…What could anyone possibly be thinking when they made/posed/bought/thought this up?
“I want it to be pink. But stupid pink. Like, the gayest fucking pink that not even the most frilly of girls would wear, pink. And I want it placed on some jackass who looks like he knows he’s hit rock bottom.

Like this guy…

Rainbow dyke over here. Did someone just try and hit him for effect?

God, him again. This. Fucking. Nightmare. All of them. Fucking nightmares. I’m gonna stop. I can’t do this anymore. It’s just too…

This guy. Trying to look tough. “Im gonna try and look tough in this one guys? Cool. Is it cool if I try to look tough?” No. You can’t. Because you’re not.

But this guy is. So. Cracked. Out. He wasn’t when they found him. They made him that way. For effect. “We want you to look like you shouldn’t be alive anymore. We want…”

Ok. We get it. You’re in charge. In charge of the sleeveless brigade. Leading the pact of wardrobe malfunctioned idiots. Just prancing around in a winter wonderland of faggatry, twirling and…

I hate you.

Despise you.

Feel sorry for you.

Pray to God for you…

Especially you…

Don’t even know what to think of you…

Just speechless for you…

Not even sure what you are…

I’m done.

When Autumn Falls.

The Dog’s Favorite Actor is Richard Gere. She’s obsessed with him. Unhealthy. The kind of obsession she has for Richard Gere. Very very unhealthy. She’s not too crazy about Pretty Woman. I think she’s jealous of Julia Roberts. But she loves him in Autumn in New York. She demands that I put it on for her while I go to work. I’m like, haven’t you watched this enough? We have other Richard Gere movies. She doesn’t care. She’s made her decision. Autumn in New York it is.

Sometimes it makes me think on my way to work. Is it Richard Gere she’s obsessed with or Autumn in New York? Guess it’s time to plan a trip.

What if we went to New York next month and saw Richard Gere? In person. Autumn in New York with Richard Gere staring us in the face. Would she explode? The dog. I mean, I just don’t know what could possibly top that in her life time.

My Friday night was topped by this little incident. There were a group of girls who crawled out of a cab in front of my apartment. They were all fat. And wearing outfits none of them should know exist. One had a tiara on. And announced it when she got out of the car. “I have a tiara on.” Because the rest of the good n’ plenties didn’t see it on your shallow head the entire ride here you jackass. It wasn’t her birthday. It was someone else’s. Still no excuse even if it was. She shouldn’t be wearing a tiara. One of them was wearing a chocolate stain. And then another projectile vomited on her way to the stairs. It was a small amount. I think she was trying to belch. But she threw up instead. Like shitting when you only want to fart. Sharting. She belched up. Then wiped the dripping residue from her chin with her bare arm. I think she smiled at me. Thought she had a chance. Fuck.

The Olympics are over. Ended last night. Don’t know how I feel about this. Kind of empty inside. A little lost. I’ll miss falling asleep to the gentle sound of Bob Costas guiding me into Dreamland where I’m always Phelpsing it up. The Paralympics are starting soon. But nobody cares. Nobody except the Paras. And their families. Other than that, not a lot of people will be gathering around to see who’s going to break the Paralympic record in sailing, swimming or wheelchair fencing. Because there’s wheelchair fencing.

But we should be. We should all be more enamored with these games. I mean, anyone can run with two legs or swim with four limbs. But these people are doing it with one leg. No legs. Fake hips. Spinal injuries. And they’re out there doing things most of us can’t with all our limbs in tact. But we don’t watch. We don’t care. They’re broken. And we don’t like broken. So, we’ll acknowledge that they’re on, but end up watching something else instead. Like the season premier of The Big Bang Theory.

Talk about broken.

Talk about I’m already sick of seeing your fucking face and you haven’t even become president yet, Obama. The kid’s everywhere. I mean, it’s probably better than looking at McCain’s ghastly features. Probably what Casper would look like if he smoked two packs of reds a day and wore a suit around town. Poor Casper.

But really, we get it. Obama is hip hop and McCain is hotel lobby music. Crank up that charismatic man’s eloquent speeches. Roll down the street with your g-funk unit blasting the
Best of Obama. I’ve got “Dreams from My Father” i-tuning through my Civic speakers. When I come to a stop, I crank it up just a little more so people know I know what’s up. These two white collared thugs had “The Audacity of Hope” screaming from their car. We looked at each other and gave out a peace sign. We bonded over Obama. We Obonded. And then burned rubber towards the highway. It was a beautiful collaboration of politics in stereo.

There’s hurricanes in Florida again. Why is this news? It happens every year. We get it. Hurricane season. Destruction. Should we feel bad? That these people are constantly building and rebuilding. That just as they rest the final stone in place, another gust of fuck you comes storming through, knocking down their work like a bully to a sand castle. I mean, get out of there already. Like, what if I moved the family to Afghanistan right now? Just picked up and left. Going to a place filled with chaos. Maybe situate myself right on the San Andreas fault. And then when my world gets rocked, act all surprised and what the shit about it. No, I wouldn’t do that. I’d get the fuck out. And move to Delaware. What a slice of heaven that little nugget is. And Autumn in Delaware just might beat out Autumn in New York.

Speaking of which, it’s over. And she’s demanding another showing. What a goddamn selfish bitch.

Surprise Attack

I like how straight guys think gay guys are fucking sick. Yet, we insist on taking the most homo erotic pics with each other. “Wait, wait, get one of me acting like I’m slobin the shit out of your dick.” “Oh, fuck. let’s act like I’m ramming you in the ass. Let’s be so fucking gay that even we’re not certain when it comes to our true sexuality.” It would be like a group of KKK members painting their faces black and then having a grand ole photo shoot together. “Dude, put some gold teeth on and let’s fuckin thug life our asses off.” Just doesn’t make sense.

And now some maintenance guy in my building thinks I hate him. Because that’s all I need is the guy who fixes shit up to conveniently forget to stop by when my refrigerator starts pissing on the floor. Or the air conditioner just says “fuck it” and drops dead. Or the ceiling is about to crush my brother to death.

But I don’t want him in my apartment now anyway. He’d probably come in and break something. Or jerk off to porn on my computer. Kick my dog in the ribs.

It’s her fault. Why he hates me.

She gets scared. Of anything. Even sharpening a pencil with a hand held pencil sharpener would cause her to Vietnam out. Which she did the other day. Completely freaked out when I was taking her through the back entrance. We’re supposed to use that back room elevator. Us dog owners. The main ones aren’t good enough for us. We get the one soiled in loneliness.

So, said maintenance man was maintenancing it up. Making a ton of loud and unecessary noises. I don’t even know what the fuck he was doing. To warrant such a racket. But whatever it was freaked the little bitch out. And she started getting all tangled up and I started screaming at her. Words that shouldn’t be said to a dog. Things like, “you fucking asshole. What the fuck are you doing?” Goddamnit, you fucking fuck.” And then we left. And i walked her inside another way. And waited for the main elevators to take us back home where it would be awkward and silent for a few hours until we had both calmed down from our outside incident. But as I was waiting for one of the elevators to arrive and pick our asses up, I overhear the maintenance guy storming into the lobby where he proceeds to tell the receptionist that some dickhead resident just cussed him out.

I should have cleared it up for him. Told him it was the dog I was yelling all those insanely inappropriate words at. But I didn’t. The elevator showed up. And I took advantage of its arrival.

The Olympics are almost over.

Just thought I’d throw that out there. Just like that guy who tried to throw that baton out there to that other guy in the men’s relay. But one of them fucked up. I don’t know who it was but both of them should feel like shit. And neither of them will admit it was their own fault. Just blame the other guy. “Why didn’t you put it in my hand?” “Why didn’t you grab it?” Why didn’t they practice this? There’s some girl from Australia with one leg who’s fucking competing in some mad swim race. She’s got one fucking leg and swimming her guts out and these two assholes can’t even pass a goddamn rod to each other.

At least those gymnastic bitches didn’t let us down. How do I know this? I was watching. Kind of obsessed with the Olympics. Don’t know why. I guess I enjoy watching countries that are trying to kill each other politically come together and compete with each other admirably.

So, after spitting in a bums face who asked for some change, I crawled into bed and watched somersaulting females lollypop guild their way into first and second place. Meanwhile, three miles south, a friend of mine was attending a surprise birthday party for her boyfriend. Not so much attending as throwing. It was a very intricate surprise birthday party. She had been planning it for weeks. Very excited about it. So were all those who were crouched silently behind various living room furniture, walls and I was told one guy even hid out in the oven. Don’t really understand the decion making factor in that concoction, but I hear he insisted. I didn’t go because as I mentioned early, I’m obsessed with the Olympics.

Perfect landing by the Americans on my end. A soon-to-be perfect birthday surprise on my friend’s. The keys’ were being inserted into the door. They could all hear them. All of them except the guy in the oven. The door flipped open. The lights turned on. Everyone jumped out and yelled surprise. The guy in the oven did not. Another perfect landing by the Americans. An even better surprise on my friend’s end. Everyone stood silent. The guy in the oven tried to get out. He could not. Better he didn’t. Outside his stailess steel cave stood the gapped open mouths of the surprise party patrons. No one’s mouth stood wider than my friends. Except maybe her boyfriends. And the drunk girl he had hanging off his arm. The Chinese girl fell off the beam. First and second for the Americans. Dead last for my friend.

Bet you didn’t see that one coming. Neither did she.

Just like the Olympic guy didn’t see the rod coming.
And the maintenance guy didn’t see my explosive vocabulary coming.
Just like straight guys always pose like they’re cumming in each other’s faces.

Yep. Exactly like that.