04/19/2005 - 10:31 a.m. | i'm not a... *handsome* man

He turns the pepper mill. The hidden wires connect; the electricity is led...

...to

...the

...explosive.

ohhhhhhh shiiiiiiiiiiit.

I don't know why I'm in such a funk. I don't feel like doing much of anything (and not in the good way), so mostly I sit around and try to figure out an adequate equation to show how many girls are attracted to me in any given year of my life. Right now, I figure it's about 1 in 2100, but then, I completely pulled that number out of my ass, so you'd best ignore it.

I'll tell you what it really is, though: Seeing all those people lying out on the quad always depresses the hell out of me. And not depressed in the figurative sense - this is not me being annoyed with the human race for doing that which they think must be done or anything. We're not talking kite flying here. I'm talking about genuine sadness - a knot in my stomach everytime I see all those people stretched out out there. It leaves me all melancholy.

That said, what else is new? On Thursday night, Smacko and I bought Segram's gin ("The perfect gin" "In the ancient bottle" What completely fucking insane marketing on that bottle there, hoss), juiced lemons with our brand new juice extractor, and watched the DVD the eMall people gave us. As can be expected from such a stunning corporation, we were nothing if not wowed. As always, little of the actual eMall system is explained (although if you looked closely, you could see some of the insane McDonalds-related pyramid scheme charts in the background), the vast focus of the piece on the lifestyle you could have if you devoted your life to the cause. It kind of reminds me of religion, no? I should send them a memo - get 'em working on that notion. Anyway, we watch some Polish family and their cretin children and lavish lifestyle. eMall has always had a strange fascination with what type of car you would drive if you could. By now I've learned to answer to their standards ("Er, BMW series of numbers and letter?" "Ooh! Good one!"), but really my answer tends to circle around the '91 Nissan Stanza. [Or a Honda Prelude, for very, uh, erotic reasons.] Better than the actual video itself, better than the high tech camera work of the Porsche clipping by, better still than the close-up shots of Joe Wiciezkekeiss' diamond rings and baseball bats ("He likes sports! I can relate to this man!"), better even than his horrible Froot Loop ring sweater (that which would make Bill Cosby himself turn his head away and say, "No, it is too gaudy! I crave simplicity!), better than all that was watching the fucking "making of" featurette about the whole damn thing. Hour after hour of so many pointless anecdotes. "We wanted to get a sound of the Porsche's engine running while we zoomed in the speedometer, but the microphone kept melting, so the crew had to build a special device for it!" Oh, Bhasham! You are the living end! "We wanted it to look like Joe was drinking curdled milk, so we tried cotton and milk, but they didn't look real [NO WAY REALLY THIS I CANNOT BELIEVE] so we asked his wife and she said cottage cheese would work and we were all like, 'You sure you want to go through with this, Joe?' and he said he would do it, but it still took 2 takes! AHAHAHAHHAAH" Man, heroin itself could not give you that kind of high! Other features ranged from the hypnotic to the sexxy (Oh, old Indian man! You want your BMWs back so much, don't you?!) to the idiotic. Shall we watch the cretins play baseball on some minor league field for hours at a time? You down those XS energy drinks, you crazy cunts!

That reminded us, we needed to get some XS energy drinks down at the generic White Hen Pantry on Sixth and Green. We were not nearly drunk enough for that yet, though, so we sat back and watch our bingo prize from the previous week: a VHS of Britney Spears: Diary. Classic video, with the notable distinction of being about Britney Spears without actually having her in it at all. Two clips in all - one of her in a big coat, pointing, and the other of her drinking something orange out of a bottle. And clearly her music was far beyond this film's budget. Same looping MIDI of some ghettoized version of "Baby One More Time"? Check. So, what made up the rest of the 50 minutes, you ask? Interviews with her cretin neighbors in Kentwood, Louisiana. "Britney had the straightest teeth I ever saw. I always knew she was going to make it to the top." Thanks, Britney's dentist! "Britney came back from one of her appearances once, and she was all, 'They ruined my hair, Miss Terri,' and she always trusted me to be the only one to do her hair." Right on, hairdresser with the most insane fluffy mess in the world! I'm learning so much!

We strolled out of the house and towards our high energy goal. You'd think Smacko would have learned his lesson after the $135 pissing ticket, but he went like 6 times along the way and back, so clearly, we are mistaken. Incidentally, have you tried that Sparx alcoholic energy drink? It is a good idea, but the shit tastes just like orange Sweettarts (somehow retaining even the chalky texture), and I am not sure how well that sits with me. Anyway, we scurried past the bar cretins and the homeless people to our eventual goal only to find that (GASP) stupid place doesn't sell XS anymore! Well, hell, they weren't supposed to be selling it retail in the first place, but they also aren't supposed to be selling those individually wrapped packages of soap (which clearly read "NOT FOR INDIVIDUAL SALE"), and they do that shit. Question is, who the fuck would crack down on them? Only the baddest motherfucker in this whole damn city: Jeremy Mancini, baby! I assume he drives around in his shitwagon making sure no one is trying to fuck with his perfect electronic mall system.

We'll stop for a moment and imagine when it was just an electric mall. Sending orders for XS Brand Olde Fashioned Energy Tonic over the telegraph. Simpler times, my friends.

Still, it kind of took the piss out of our sails when we found out they didn't have our fix. And I swear they just had the shit there a week ago. I held a can of it in my hands! I hope Smacko doesn't think I am lying! I could simply not tolerate his anger. In some sort of retribution to the system, Smacko apparently had stolen a small shitty bag of "gummi dino's" on his way out. Yes, sir. That's worth going to prison for!

Rest of the weekend, uh, went home, saw parents, reconnected, hacked up a phlegm wad the size of a gumball. Actually, the last one is misleading; I always think "gumball" when I describe it, but I mean more of those miniature gumballs, not the full-sized huge ones. "Everlasting Gobstopper"-size would be appropriate, but not everyone knows what those are! Oh, what to do, what to do? Point is, a thing came from my lungs, and it was huge. In the nice weather, we grilled hot dogs and played bocce ball - two family things so wholesome that I'm not sure they've ever come up before. Not that I'm complaining; I enjoyed them dearly and did not even suck at the game as much as I had expected. Of course, playing in our yard :: playing in a designated, groomed area, as miniature golf :: regular golf. If you get what I'm saying. We have pipes and trees you can hit, hills everywhere, and the less actual skill matters, the better I might possibly do. We went out with my grandma and Tina that evening (even got some new sandals, albeit not the ones with bottle openers factory-installed), and my grandma just seems so... lonely. Possibly, it could be that she can't hear a damn word anyone is saying, and therefore doesn't think we are actually speaking to her (we are), but she needs to get out and get friends. She is too stubborn to move into a retirement community or anything, though, so we have no idea what to do. Over the cliff at 40. I stand by my plan.

After we dropped her off, we headed to some bar for some drinks. Two absolute retards came in and started yelling shit. We all had our rough impressions of the one loud guy with his ridiculous tilted hat - I did Slingblade, Tina did a pirate - and his friend knew what we were doing, but what the fuck you gonna do about it, boiiiii? Meanwhile, the one sort of pretty bartender chick had turned around, and the cretin was fucking more than staring. The focus, the absolute concentration in his eyes on her ass was so intense that I thought he was going to pop a blood vessel. Was he trying to make her clothes explode off? One can only hope. Anyway, this led to a discussion of whether she was actually pretty or not, my mom roping my dad into a corner and getting louder and louder all the time ("DO YOU LIKE HER ASS OR NOT?") I liked her ass just fine, but that may have been 'cause she was checking me out when we first first came in. Until she realized I was about 10.

Who am I kidding? No one checks my ass out!

Back here for hot dogs and Nintendo out on the porch (More hot dogs?), shitty Hi-C and gin drinks, and UFC ultimate knockdowns DVD. Starring Kerri Casem. She is Casey Casem's daughter, and she loves ultimate takedowns! She also had breasts, a vagina, and abs you would kill for. Blah blah blah. Bingo was fine, I guess. New caller is acceptable, I've decided, but I'm still not down with calling her by name. I won a gospel singer action figure, and probably some other things happened, but I was fairly well drunk by then. Kyle managed to sneak into the Shambo contest by merely standing up front with the rest of them. It would have been hilarious had he won, but the guilt might have caused me to tear my own eyes out. Shelly had this "friend" who she works with on her industrial design projects or something, and clearly he is in love with her, as are all males she drags along in her cyclone, but I guess the other day he made some "joke" about how they should make out or something. Clearly, this is not a joke. That is not a thing you ever just say jokingly - in fact, that is the weak-assingest excuse for an attempt at Shelly's ass I have ever seen (and I have been fortunate enough to see more than a few attempts at her ass these past three years), and I am frankly ashamed at a member of my gender for trying such weak bullshit, especially full-well knowing that she has a boyfriend and all. Smacko and I were right ready to kick his ass (especially when we learned he is like me, but shorter), but then we met him at bingo, and even Kyle was like, "He's far cuter than I." I bought his drinks instead. Damn it. We got chummy with Team Anti-tourettes that night (Unfortunate name, as they are not really against us - should be Team Bizarro Tourettes or something). It is their penultimate bingo ever, and we are in a right position to get ourselves some azzzzz. Even Jevon was pulling game that seemed to work. Now there is something I thought I'd never see.

Yesterday was OK in the morning, and one crushing defeat after another in the afternoon. I was all tired out from class, so I conked out for a little while, all these errands and plans in mind. I wake up, and I fucking missed crossing the guard, which always makes me mad as all hell [Oh, here's a fun fact: It turns out a child and their grandmother were killed at the very intersection I work at!] because I let all these people down, and they think I'm just this stupid slacker with no sense of responsibility, and true though that may be, I've sort of grown attached to all the little retards I work with, and I don't want to see any of them get mowed down. I learned some of their names, for Christ's sake! I never learn anyone's name! So yeah, I'm up now, no time to shower or anything, just got to head out for work, already sort of running late, but as I'm nearly out the door, I notice a new letter for me on the coffeetable. Thinking it might be my long-lost W-2 form from IMPE (the same form that required me to get an extension on my damn taxes), I open it up. It's from the cable company, and they're about a half a minute away from shoving their cock down my throat, so I run back upstairs to go to their website and pay the bill. Clearly, though, I do not have $216.60 offhand, and though one of the many errands on my list had been to deposit some checks, I did not need the bank on my ass any more than I did the cable company, so I fly over their and wait for these slow old incompetent idiots to crunch the numbers and deposit my shit, and zoom over to work, a mere five minutes late. Then, I was all kicking ass on the nursing campaign (Nurses are nice as hell - I like them a lot), and I was all lined up to actually win a decent prize for once, they even said so. Normally, it's all like, "Well, we've got two tickets for this kickboxing match from 1973. You can't use them obviously, but I guess you could... show them to people and act like you went there and stuff." Swell. But yeah, it was $10 from Borders, which I could have really used, but fucking Jerry Lange who was next to me, and he saw that I wanted it, and he decided to take it away from me because that is just the kind of fuck he is. I saw it in his eyes - I know your intentions, bitch! So even though I made a fuck ton more money, he got more pledges, and he won the giftcard, which he'll probably use to buy a whole fucking slew of Matt Christopher novels. Basketball Ace, YES! Centerfield Nightmare, ALL RIGHT! You fucking hack, steal my bills.

Here are 2 things that annoy me: 1) When people say "get excited!" all sarcastic-like. I mean, I love sarcasm and all, but that particular phrase rubs me wrong. Always comes out a little bit gay. "GET EXCITED!" Oh, you shut the fuck up. That's not even clever. 2) When people of Latino/a heritage hilariously overpronounce certain words in their native tongue. I mean, if you have an accent, that's great and all, and you use it all the time, that's fine. If you say all words with the same crazy pronunciation, great. You're a stand-up fellow. But when you pull it out of your ass for certain words that have leaked into in lexicon - "jalape�o," for instance - and you way the fuck overdo it, so that YES IT IS CLEAR THAT YOUR HERITAGE IS SOMETHING OF AN ISSUE HERE... well, it's sort of bothersome. And y'all get the same look on your face each time you do it - kind of all squinty and pained, like you're constipated. Or possibly because you are intentionally breaking the natural flow of a conversation to say your dumbass shit. I will make you a shirt that says "I AM PROUD OF MY LATINO HERITAGE," and you maybe you could also just shut the fuck up now and again. There. That said...

I have thought of a pretty decent word to use for my Creative project. However, as you no doubt recall, this very diary is a gathering point for all the best minds in the field of advertising (Hell, all of the best minds in general), and I will not have you fucktards ripping me off. So you'll have to wait until Wednesday afternoon to read the finished... whatever.