Friday, October 30, 2009

My Little Road Rage

To say that I am an angry driver is a bit of an understatement. When I am alone, behind the wheel of my girl (a '98 Saturn who is way too good to me), I make Patrick Bateman look like the kind of guy you would think is a good cuddler. To those of you who make me want to chase you down, drag you out of your car, hit you on the nose with a rolled up magazine and yell, "NO!" - this is for you:

You people who drive the speed limit in the fast lane: Hi! My name is Drew! I drink too much. I am unhappy in my job. At any given time, it has probably been too long since I have been laid. I am prone to fits of rage, and my foul mouth could make a Tourette's sufferer stare in stunned silence. I like old movies and showtunes. And if you don't get out of the fast lane when I am clearly going faster than you, know this - behind you, I am planning your brutal demise. It probably involves my scrotum on the forehead of your dead corpse at some point.

You people who get butt-hurt and speed up to keep me from passing you on the right: I am not afraid to go to jail. You will lose this particular battle. Be the better person, and let me by. And that gesture you see as I race past? Don't take it the wrong way, I am just letting you know that you are #1 in my book.

And finally, you people who don't give me that little wave after I let you merge in front of me: I feel terribly sorry for your parents. They probably tried their best to raise a well-mannered, polite son or daughter. They probably speak so highly of you when someone asks them how you are doing at dinner parties. Let's just hope they never have to see what a terrible waste of human blood you have become. Seriously, on the scale of value that you bring to human society, you rank somewhere in between the still living member of Milli Vanilli, and a kiddie rapist. Say hi to your mom for me.

Hope to see you on the road!

All Hallow's Eve

I remember the last time that Halloween counted as a 'holiday' for me. I was 10, I think. My mom made me a kick-ass E.T. costume. And I came back with what was at that point in my life, the best candy haul EVER. Forget the fact that, even at age ten, I was pretty tall and my legs were way too long to fit into squat little E.T.'s body shape. Hell, I was probably walking around the neighborhood looking like Pam Anderson must have looked when she got off that boat with Tommy Lee. Like I had the rickets.

But just looking down into that plastic jack-o'-lantern full of delicious, chocolate-covered madness gave me a boner before I knew what boners were meant for. Snicker's bars, Bit-O'-Honeys, and Butterfingers. Nerds, caramels, and Sweet Tarts. That unbelievably cool woman who had handed out Fun-Dip packets was a rockstar; the douchebag who handed out toothbrushes could kiss my pucker.

As always, my wonderfully responsible parents checked my candy out first. And my mommy found it - it was one of those peanut butter taffy's. You know, the no-brand-name ones that came in either black or orange, non-descript wax wrapping, twisted into little bows at both ends. Am I the only kid ever who fucking LOVED those candies?

Only this one had a large pin in it, whose pointy side was poking through the wrapper.

My mom loved me very much (still does, though I have given her so many reasons not to), but she was also a pediatric nurse who was no-nonsense when it came to her two children. The entire haul went into the trash. I remember her taking me, crying, to McD's for my favorite shaped and processed poultry parts - Chicken McNuggets - and buying me some small bags of candy on the way home.

But it just wasn't the same anymore. The innocence of Halloween for me had bled away, the result of some sick, demented psychopath who thought that the idea of a child putting a sewing pin through his upper lip qualified as good sport. Sure, I trick-or-treated again after that, but it was never the same. The idea that people like that existed out there, in our own neighborhood no less, made the idea of dressing up as my favorite superhero or Saturday morning cartoon character, knocking on stranger's doors and allowing them to give you things to put in your mouth seem dangerous and stupid.

No more kid's stuff. I mean, look at how I spend Halloween now: I throw a big party where the booze flows and the costumes show as much flesh as possible. I dress up in a costume that I hope will offend people in some small way. I blare loud music, stare at countless breasts sitting up perfectly like Ziggy and his twin brother peeking over a fence, and watch as all the women relax, allowed to look like total tramps one night out of the year and not be judged by the chunkier girls (the ones who dressed up in 'funny' costumes). And all the while, I calculate exactly how much whiskey I can consume to properly lower my inhibitions (and maybe my standards), but still allow my penis to work just enough should I be lucky enough to fulfill that fantasy of sneaking back to my room with some girl dressed as a naughty maid or a sexy cop, and allow her to put my Tootsie Pop wherever she feels appropriate.

Wait. Come to think of it, fuck innocence! I can buy Fun Dip at Seven Eleven!

Happy Halloween everybody.

Friday, October 23, 2009

So here it is.... blog. A little part of me died inside as I typed that word. "Blog". I am contributing to the death of the printed word. Doing my tiny part to slowly and methodically kill the possiblity for future generations to actually pick up a newspaper or magazine. I'm serious, every little bit of technology that we become obsessed with, that becomes part of the public vernacular - "I just Facebooked you" or "Did you Tweet about it?" - causes one more fat, pimple-faced twenty-something to spend an extra hour in his room, face all a glow from the light emanating from his monitor, simultaneously killing hordes of goblins on World of Warcraft with one hand, while the other (without guilt) touches himself as 'justturned18hottie' tells him that she's wet via chat room.

Jesus, that was one of the worst run-on sentences I ever wrote. Oh well, that is what you will get by reading this blog - a lot of piss and vinegar, a shit load of random thoughts, and probably more honesty than you or I are comfortable with. I will promise you three things:

1.) Whatever comes into my head - it will be thrust into cyberspace (do we even call it that anymore?) minus any concern for your feelings, viewpoints, or values. If you don't like what I write, don't read it. I will not take it personally.

2.) The frequency of my posts will directly result from both the mood I am in at any given point in time, and my level of intoxication. Come on, anyone who ever had anything to say was fucked up on something. Hemingway was a rampant drunk. Thompson had more acid in his system than the alien from H.R. Gieger's nightmares. Hell, even Shakespeare needed an opiate of some sort to put pen to paper. While I am in no way shape or form putting myself on the level of those artists, and chances are nothing EVER on this blog will have an effect on anyone's life other than mine, I like to daydream that I have a talent that the rest of the world just hasn't been exposed to yet. Sue me, I am a self-centered prick. Although, contrary to the popular phrase, my shit does in fact, stink. My diet is poor.

3.) I'm gonna talk about anything. From whatever happened to me personally that day, to what's happening in the sport's world, to movies, to the fact that I will never understand the appeal of Kate Hudson, personalized licensed plates, or couples who sit on the same side of a booth in restaurants. In fact, those three things make me want to stick some sort of sharp object in my ear, to make death come swiftly.

Hey, you were the one dumb enough to log on to this. Don't blame me. I'm just the.....fuck....blogger.

And P.S. - thanks BFF, for giving me a push.
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