Here's How Fucked Up My Family Is, Vol. 117

This is a very real telephone conversation I recently had with my mother regarding my cousin Sean:

Me: So did something happen to Sean? I think I saw something on Facebook about his kidneys failing.

Mom: Hmmm, well, I guess he got out of jail and went on a 4-day meth-binge. He passed out in a parking lot for several hours in the cold and had to be rushed to intensive care.

Me: Oh, WOW.

Mom: Yeah, and I think it was his dad who helped him shoot up when he first got out.

Me:

I didn’t say anything, because honestly, what can you say? What constitutes an appropriate response in that situation?

A question meant to gather more details?

A statement wrought with disgust because his father is close to 60 years old and intravenously injecting his son with drugs?

A joke expressing my concern for cousin Sean’s long-term health because, if something happens to him, then who will ever cure cancer, for fucks sake?

So I didn’t say anything and I probably kind of, “tsk-tsk’d” and I got off of the phone and I posted it to Facebook for laughs, and quite honestly, didn’t think too much about it.

I mean, I’m glad he’s not dead, but only in the same way I’m glad that most people aren’t dead. To say that I care about him as much as I care about the random stranger who just crafted my Burrito Supreme at Taco Bell would be a lie, though, so I won’t go that far; the Taco Bell worker affected my life in some way. Frankly, I’m a little gladder that he's not dead, because I was hungry for that burrito, damn it. (And, you know—not to focus TOO much on this hypothetical fast food worker or whatever, but he’s contributing to society much more so than Sean.)

It wasn’t ALWAYS like this. Obviously. I mean, babies aren’t thrust from the womb as worthless, wild-eyed sacks of shit. It takes a little living to achieve that kind of thing. Often times, however—especially in my family—there is a predestination to doom, and if ever there were a couple of kids born under the sign of despair, it was Sean and his brother Chris.

(I’ve written about Chris on this blog previously, so I won’t waste too many words, and I’ve written about their mother Donna, too. To get a complete, thorough picture of what their clan was like, please click the links and read.)

Their father David was (and presumably is still) a drunk, as is/was their mother, and they grew up in a shitty box of an apartment above a hardware store in a shitty hamlet of a town called Claycomo. The apartment over the store shared a parking lot with a mechanics shop where David worked. He’d work and drink and work and drink and he and my aunt would argue and fight and they’d all drink and they’d split up and move apart and move back in together and then drink and fight some more, and it was really like the most stereotypical personification of a country song you’ve ever seen.

Meanwhile, Chris and Sean would play in the nearby creek that caught runoff from a sewer pipe so they always smelled a little like raw sewage, but I’m not sure anyone really noticed They’d fish for crawdads and bust bottles into smithereens on rocks and shit, I don’t know, probably torture birds or something.

I’d spend the night with them sometimes, in that shitty apartment above the hardware store, and in the morning, aunt Donna would make everyone biscuits and gravy and David would poison the stagnant air with beer farts and we’d all watch fishing shows on television. It was never really my scene—any of it—so I always preferred that Sean and Chris would come and stay at MY house. I had a Nintendo and my parents were never drunk and arguing and we had windows that opened, letting in fresh air.

Sean was always a little wilder than Chris. He was a couple of years younger, and for the first 7 or 8 years of his life, he had the most ridiculous speech impediment you could ever imagine. In this day and age—or maybe even back then, if you had the proper means (i.e. not a family built around the financial capabilities of a semi-employed, oft-drunken car mechanic)—it probably could have been diagnosed and quickly dealt with.  Because they were poor, though, his affliction was left unattended and largely forgotten. Thankfully, Chris understood his brother in that magical way that only siblings can. So when Sean said something like, “gah eh hoo, pah-kua,” Chris would turn to you without missing a beat and explain, “he said ‘go to hell, peckerhead.’ “

They were certainly a sight to behold, and I look back with abject horror at the kind of nightmare they must have presented for outsiders. When they weren’t in school—and dear God, I still pray for their poor, poor teachers—they rarely wore anything other than torn jeans, the legs stained with motor oil, whiskey and the dried blood of a thousand dead crappies. They never wore tops, or footwear.

No shirt, no shoes, and who gives a shit, I guess.

To complete their “rebel-Appalachian-hillbilly-chic” look, they had cracked lips that were perma-colored with a generic Kool-Aid product and ratty, almost-dreadlocked hair that hung in dirty clumps to their boney shoulders. Oh, AND they had lice, which I ended up getting from them. I discovered this one day in Mrs. Carr’s 5^th grade, when I caught little-bitty bugs jumping off of my head, and onto my Big Chief tablet. (Perhaps the most curious part about all of this is that they never had a dog, or a cat, or any sort of house pet.)

Thankfully, I got older and started realizing that I liked books and video games and watching baseball more than I liked firecrackers, clubbing catfish to death and smelling like a walking sewer-pipe. As children—and sometimes, as in this case, families—are wont to do, we went our separate ways.

Sean and Chris shuttled between their mother and their father, whose separation finally took.

We lost touch.

Every once in a while, my mother would talk to her sister Donna and hear tales of her boys’ struggles. First at school, and then with the law—mostly on account of the wondrousness that is crystal meth, and the various ancillary activities that it brings… things like burglary, armed robbery, etc.

Like most of my other cousins, I kind of forgot they existed, and for the most part, good riddance. I may not have been a saint, and I’m certainly not a surgeon pulling in six figures, but I can also happily report that I have never smoked crack with my dad, or any other crazy bullshit like that.

With the advent of social media, I kept up with these people the best I could. Not by “friending” them, mind you—I have no desire for them to have access to ANY of my personal info, as I would undoubtedly be robbed or murdered—but by spying on their pages when I’ve a mind to. (As you may or may not know, extremely stupid people are completely unable to comprehend things like “privacy settings,” and even if they can, they tend not to care.  I don’t suspect Sean’s Facebook page will be the lone reason he DOESN’T get a job as CEO with a Fortune 500 company.)

And from his internet activity, I’ve painted a picture that I might have been able to do already, if I’d put more than three seconds of thought into it.

He’s in some sort of relationship, but “it’s complicated,” because of course it is.

He plays a lot of online poker and “gem” related games, because what else are you going to do when you’re so full of amphetamine you can barely breathe and it’s 5 in the morning and the world is asleep?

He has a scary moustache that doesn’t necessarily fit with the stocking cap and overall “gangster” persona he’d like to portray.

He has a tattoo extending down the length of one forearm that says “TRUST” and on the other, “NO ONE.” It’s in poor, graffiti-ish script and is very hard to read. (Leading to lots of comments from luminaries like “Andrew ‘Baby Boy’ Taylor” that read, “THAT’S TITE CUZ WHAT IT SAY?”)

He spends a LOT of time in hotel rooms with overflowing ashtrays, surrounded by sickly people wearing FUBU and Karl Kani clothes that look as though they were plucked off of the set of a Heavy D video, circa 1994.

He likes pictures where his face is obscured by a cloud of weed-smoke, because who DOESN’T? It just looks so cool, is all.

So I’m not surprised that he recently overdosed on meth in a Wal-Mart parking lot after a binge that started with dope provided by his father. Honestly, that’s all kind of par for the course at this point.

Nor am I surprised that I don’t care very much. Had he died, I would not have attended his funeral, the same way I wouldn’t attend the funeral of any passing stranger, or a co-worker’s sister-in-law.

Sean is a stranger to me, far removed from the natty-headed tyke who I used to wrestle and catch crawdads with.

And it’s not sad. It’s life. You can’t control who your family is, but you CAN choose whether or not it means a damn thing.

To me—clearly—it does not.    

Dreams.

There’s an old Navajo parable—attributed to Atsidi Sani, I believe—that states “dreams are the window to the soul.”

And ok, this totally isn’t true. “Dreams are the window to the soul” IS a saying, but I don’t know if it’s a Navajo saying, and if it is, it almost assuredly shouldn’t be attributed to Atsidi Sani. Oh, he’s a Navajo, for sure; I looked up “Navajo” on Wikipedia, and his name came up. I believe he was the first accredited Navajo silversmith, or something.

That said, dreams are wild.

In any case, my therapist suggested that, as a remedy to my possible sleep afflictions—waking up bathed in sweat and with a violent erection, night after night, I mean—that a “dream journal” might help. So here goes. Please don’t judge me based off of the shit that happens when I’m fast asleep, incapable of controlling my thoughts.

Thank you.

Day One:

I am in a steam-room at a respectable health club. This is weird, as I have never been to a steam room, ever. There is a towel covering my genitals.  There is nobody else around, but all of the sudden, Alex Trebek is seated right behind me. He begins massaging my shoulders, and though I am uncomfortable, I do not tell him to stop. He leans in and begins whispering into my ear. It’s all in Russian. His moustache—this is old-school Trebek—is tickling my ear and I don’t like it. He’s speaking Russian, and then there are a bunch of guys coming into the steam room. They look at us suspiciously. I have a boner, but I’m not happy about it. Then I woke up.

Day Two:

I’m buying shoes at the mall, but I keep throwing up. That’s the whole dream. I’m at Steve’s Shoes, and someone is measuring my foot, and I keep leaning over, but every time I do, I puke.

Day Three:

I’m at a Houston Astros baseball game, which is weird because I’ve never been to see the Houston Astros in person, like 99% of most people in the world. I’m with Courtney, a girl I “dated” in the first grade. This is weird, too, because she’s like the first grade girl, but enlarged—like you changed her pixels on a computer or something. She’s mad at me because I haven’t talked to her since the first grade, but obviously, this isn’t my fault. She tells me George Bush is her father and she could have me killed. I know this is bullshit, but I’m also a little afraid to call her bluff. So we eat hot-dogs and watch the game and I wonder what I ever saw in her.

Day Four:

I’m wearing a shirt that says, “It’s 1988” but I don’t know if it’s actually 1988 or if it’s just a shirt. I’m at a parade. An Easter parade, maybe? Do they have those? Anyway, it’s maybe 1988 and it’s maybe an Easter parade, and the next thing I know, someone wants to get me. I don’t know who, or why, but I’m not interested, so I fly away. And in my dreams—not just this one, but others, too—all I have to do in order to fly is get a running start, then jump. And then once I’m in the air, I have to flap my arms, bird-like, and I’ll keep aloft. For a while, at least. I always eventually come down. I don’t remember the “coming down” part of this dream. Maybe I woke up.

Day Five:

I’m at the Ben and Jerry’s testing lab in Vermont, and I’m helping them come up with this really awesome ice cream recipe that somehow involves General Tso’s chicken and cheddar cheese, and suddenly I’m getting a blow job from a homeless guy. I don’t want to talk about this dream any more.

Day Six:

This is a dream that I have a lot—or at least I have some variation of. I’m at a party. I never know any of the people at the party. I’m always hanging out in some room that sits by a pool, and I’m always making out with someone. I never see who I’m making out with, but her breath is usually pretty bad. Sometimes she throws up in my mouth. I don’t care, because I’m REALLY into this girl. But, you know, she throws up in my mouth. Which isn’t cool.

Day Seven:

I lost my cell phone. I don’t remember how or why. All I know is that Richard Fishbirth, my middle school principal is standing outside of my apartment building, ready to tell me about it. I ask him where it is—he seems to know—and he laughs and says “in the whale’s cave,” and he winks. I say, “I don’t know what that means. What’s the ‘whale’s cave,’ Mr. Fishbirth?” And he winks again and says, “you know, the VAGINA, man!” And then I woke up. With an erection.

Day Eight:

I don’t remember having a dream last night. I met James at Campbell’s for dollar taco night and I had several beers and 6 or 8 tacos. No dreams, but I woke up with severe intestinal issues and had to phone in sick to work.

Day Nine: 

Very briefly, I was the new lead singer for INXS. We were building a snowman in a meadow when keyboardist/main composer Andrew Fairriss told me they’d decided that they wanted me to front the group. I farted, Andrew shook his head in disapproval, and I knew then that they WOULDN’T have me onstage belting out such hits as “Need You Tonight” and “ Devil Inside.” I woke up sad, and with a boner.

Day Ten:

I was at a party with my ex-girlfriend Theresa, only her hair was red. She kept telling me that her dad was REALLY mad that she was out with me. I assured her that it was ok, because we were at Roseanne Barr’s house. Only we weren’t. But Roseanne Barr WAS there, and she kept eating spinach artichoke dip seductively while eyeballing me. I wanted to put the moves on Theresa, but Roseanne was RIGHT THERE and I knew that she’d get really pissed if I kissed someone in front of her. In order to appease Roseanne, I decided to eat some “spin-dip,” but it tasted exactly like lip-balm or something. It was really awful. And I woke up with a painful erection.

So that’s it.

10 days, almost 10 dreams. I don’t feel like this accomplished anything, but again, it’s what the doctor told me to do. Hopefully she’ll read it and be able to make some sense out of all of this. Or at the very least, she’ll put me on medicine that will give me normal dreams.

In any case, we’ll be cool as long as she doesn’t tell me to stop smoking meth before bed. Because in the end, you gotta know that you can’t cage a falcon, bitch.

Prose and Cons: An Excerpt

The following excerpt is reprinted with permission from Caged Bird Publishing House from their new collection of inmate poetry titled Prose and Cons: Volume 1.  The compilation is due to be released June15th, 2013, and will be available online and through most major book retailers.

D’Marius Wilson is serving a life sentence for 1^st degree murder. Before his incarceration, he worked at Topsy’s Popcorn and was applying to local community colleges.

The cold bars break sunlight/

Across the cold concrete of my concrete floor/

The mattress is lumped up and hurts my back/

It’s a solitary existence/

In solitary/

All because that guard gave me lip and I hit the motherfucker

Donald Tremaine is serving 15 years for armed robbery and kidnapping. Prior to his confinement, he worked landscaping with his brother-in-law’s lawncare company and enjoyed playing in a billiards league.

You miss the little things/

A child’s laugh/

The kiss of a lady/

Walking to the park to feed birds/

Playing pool with your pals/

Arguing about unimportant things with your wife/

Christmas decorations and Charlie Brown Christmas/

And not shitting in the same room with another guy watching/

I take it all back if I could/

The robbery, the kidnap, the screaming/

all to shit in my own toilet once more

Chris Jones is serving multiple life sentences for arson, 1^st degree murder, conspiracy to commit murder, and federal drug trafficking charges. Before the commission of his crimes, Jones was working on his high school equivalency diploma and seeking employment.

Yeah, I burnt a dude up/

What?

You didn’t know him or the circumstances/

So don’t judge me/

Only God can judge me/

And only God knows what’s really going on in my heart

Shane Ruiz is serving 25 years for robbery, and causing unlawful bodily harm during the commission of his crimes. Before his lockup, he enjoyed playing computer games and hoped to someday design software.

Their faces are hard around the table/

Big Pete, Esai, Birdman, Tony and The Plague/

Forks clutched/

Trays in place/

They say it’s baloney sandwich/

But the meat is grey and slimy/

It makes me sick to eat it/

But without money on my commissary account/

I am a prisoner not only of their institution/

But a prisoner of their awful food/

Fart it all away, I wish

My New Year's Regret (I Ate a Dude's Face)

Well, well, well. It’s December, ya’ll! Can you believe it? Lolz. Man, this year has FLOWN by, amirite? Seems like only yesterday I was watching the Super Bowl and then I was with my girl on Valleytine’s Day, and then I was buying my moms a Mother’s Day card, and then I was TOTALLY eating a dude’s face off after smoking some bath salts. WHAT? I know! Completely crazy, right!? Can you believe it’s been that long?? I know I can’t!

But for real, I’m regretful about it, I really, truly am. I don’t mean to “lol” as I’m sure it’s disrespectful to the dude whose face I ate off, but I just can’t get over how time flies! One minute, you’re on your way to Urban Beach Week to kick it with some friends, and the next thing you know, you’re totally nude and gnawing on some homeless dude’s smelly grill! Cray-cray , for sure.

Look, I’m not trying to make excuses, nor do I anticipate any sympathy: what I did was absolutely WRONG. I used to read my bible regularly and I know for a FACT that Jesus Christ my Lord and savior wouldn’t approve of one person chewing off another person’s lips. I’ve read both the Old and New Testament and that sort of activity isn’t even mentioned, let alone condoned.

So what I did was WRONG, but the thing is, I can barely even remember it! How am I supposed to be held accountable for my actions when I was beaked out of my brain on some drugs? The person who sat under that freeway overpass in the hot Miami sun and systematically and methodically ate up Ronald Poppovich’s face—that wasn’t even ME, man! I don’t KNOW that dude!

Here’s what I remember about that day.

I woke up a little late. I didn’t hafta work at the car wash that day—holla for days off! Lolz—so I was gonna just stay at home and relax with my PS2. I just bought Madden 2005 from Gamestop for like, $8.00, so I was gonna start playing a season with the Dolphins, only I planned on trading for Mike Vick because that dude is SICK on that game! But right after I woke up, I got a text from my boy Petey telling me that this hot-ass Puerto Rican chick he’s been hooking up with was gonna meet him at Urban Beach and she was bringing her equally fly cousin, so did I want to meet up with them? 

Well, not really. Like I said, I had my day all planned out but the thing was, I had TWO days in a row off of work, which is pretty rare, so I figured I could always start my Madden domination later that night or even the next day. (Quite obviously I had no idea that I’d be dead by 2pm. Daaaang!)

So I showered, I shaved, I shat, and I was gonna eat some breakfast, but at this point, it was already like, 11, so I figured I’d just pick up something on my way to Urban Beach or maybe get something there. I know they have those giant turkey legs there, but I also saw a commercial where Popeye’s had these new Wicked Dippin’ Strips and I love me some Popeyes.

Oh, and before I left I smoked some bath salts. 

And look, I KNOW that’s what everyone wants to focus on, but for real, I’d been smoking bath salts regularly for like, 6 months before this happened—only on my days off, and never if I had something important to do—so I didn’t think it was any big thing. I mean, you can buy that shit at the GAS STATION, dude! It’s usually up by the counter where they keep them energy shots in little bottles and packets of pills to keep you awake. They’re legal! They can’t be bad for you, right? Well, WRONG, I guess. LOL.

But like I said, I’d been smoking this shit for months and I’d NEVER had anything happen like wanting to eat people or shit like that. I usually just smoke some, get this real intense, fleeting focus, and then it sounds like there are helicopters everywhere and I’m in a tunnel or something. After a few hours—hours I usually spend watching back-to-back Maury episodes and contemplating my existence (oh, AND polishing off a family size bag of Blazin’ Hot Buffalo Doritos, lol)—I’m usually fine. Like, better than fine. I feel clear-headed and really thoughtful.

Like, a couple of months ago, day off, I smoke some Velvet Lightening, I watch 4 episodes of Judge Hatchet, and then I wrote a motherfucking poem for my mom! I’m not even kidding! I hadn’t written a poem since like, grade school, and I don’t know if it was good or not because I lost it somewhere in my apartment, but I mean, can any  drug that makes you write poetry be all that bad?

So back to the day in question. I smoke some salts, and immediately I don’t feel right. My heart’s racing like it never had before and I’m way shakier than usual, but I figure it’s probably because I hadn’t eaten anything. I figured I’d hit up the Popeyes, though, you know—get my mind right, “Louisiana Fast.” LOL.

Only I don’t REMEMBER if I made it to the Popeye’s, truth be told.

The last real VIVID thing I remember is driving down 10 with my car starting to overheat. That’d been happening lately, and I meant to get it in on one of my days off, but I kept putting it off like an idiot. So I pulled over and parked it in the parking lot at the Walmart on Westchester. I texted Petey to see if he could pick me up.

And then everything gets real hazy.

I remember feeling really hot and itchy, so I took my clothes off. I remember disrobing on the side of the road, looking at the pile of clothes I was leaving behind and saying, “THIS IS MY SKIN. I SHED MY SKIN. SKIN-SHED.” And I think I was like, hissing or something because in my mind, I was like, some crazy medieval snake or something. What?? Haha.

And then it’s just like, snapshots. I really don’t remember anything. Just pictures that kind of, flash by or something.

Me squatting down next to some homeless man. 

Him asking me if I had any drugs or money.

Him turning into a rabbit, and then a big, baked chicken dripping with juices.

When he turned into the big baked chicken—like, from a Boston Market ad or something—I decided I’d try a little bit of him, so I kind of like, pounced on him. I bit him on the cheek, but not very hard. He did NOT taste like a baked chicken, let me tell you! Lol. But he DID taste salty and pretty decent, so I bit a little more. And he was like, fighting me real good at that point, so I punched him in the face and his head hit the ground and I think I knocked him out. And so I bit a little more of his face, and he was bleeding and I remember thinking—as a snake, mind you—that I didn’t want to get his blood on his clothes because he probably doesn’t have many clothes. So I took his clothes off of him while he was unconscious, and then I don’t remember anything else until I heard the cop car squawking  and an officer saying, “HALT! CEASE AND DECIST! LET ME SEE YOUR HANDS!”

But I guess I just kept eating and biting. I dunno.

And then I remember a sharp pain as the cop shot me with his taser, and I think I growled at him a little, and he yelled some more shit at me, but it almost sounded like a foreign language to me cause at that point, I had snake ears, I think.

And I just kept eating and then the dude whose face I was snacking on started waking up and like, making these weird little noises.

And then the officer shot me AGAIN with the taser-gun, and I’m like, “MOTHERFUCKER, OW!” because it hurt, so I turned around to give him a stern talking to, and he shot me. A whole bunch, because after the first couple, I was just mad. Them motherfucking gunshots hurt, yo! You ever been shot? It’s like a bee-sting times a MILLION.

And then the next thing I know, it was all black. And I was dead. Shoot.

So now I’m sitting here, in a spot between heaven and hell where they try and figure out where you belong for permanent, and I’m thinking back, and I gotta tell you: eating that dude was a BIG MISTAKE. Like, life’s GREATEST mistake, really. And if I had to do that whole day over, I’d probably not smoke as many salts before I left, OR, I would have just smoked them but not gone anywhere. Because if I got a bad batch, and got fucked up like that but I was just at home, who am I gonna eat? Some scrambled eggs with Doritos mixed in, that’s who! Lol.

WuT iM tHaNkFuLl FoR

So I seen all these people on my myspace and my Friendster what are doing this whole “wut Im thankfull for” thing for Thanksgiving, and my pastor Pastor Troy said I should do it, too, cause sometimes it’s always darkest before dawn or some Bible shit like that, so I decided to do it. Only I don’t wanna do one a day, on account of I think that’s straight stupid, but I figure I can do some now, while Jeremiah is asleep in the bed because that motherfucker straight SNORES. Here we go then.

Day 1: I’m thankfull on day one for my apartment. My neighbors smoke some stank-ass chronic that come up through the vent and that make it hard when I’m trying to quit, but mostly this place is a-ight. The landlord Pam ain’t a bitch like that cunt Donita from the last place… I shoulda straight popped that bitch in her mouth.

Day 2: I’m thankfull for Cricket Wireless because I got a phone, BITCHEZ!

Day 3: I’m thangful for Crystal who I used to work with at Fast Stop because she hooked me up with my car. Nobody WANT to drive an ’92 Chevy Corsica, but it got rims on it and she left one of the speaker. HOLLA.

Day 4: I’m thangful for the $.99 McDouble, you heard me? I can eat 4 of them motherfuckers in a setting.

Day 5: I’m thankgful for my job, I guess. At High Steaks Blackjack and Buffet. Fillin ice tea for old folks is some stupid ass shit, but once I get my dealers license, it ON LIKE DONKEY KANG. Lolz.

Day 6: Thankgkful for stepdad Doug because even though he’s always checkin my shit out when I go over there, he got my momma off pills and that prolly saved her life.

Day 7: I’m thankgful for momma, most of the times. Lolz.

Day 8: I’m thankfull for Finneus and Ferb because my daughter watch that and she laugh at it and some of that shit funny for adult, too.

Day 9: I’m Thankfull for Wingstreet because they deliver to us even though that motherfucking shitty-ass Dominoe won’t. Motherfuckers claim that our neighborhhod is to “high-risk.” That some SHIT.

Day 10: I’m thankful for Pastor Troy for showing me that religion ain’t all just a bunch of dumbass thous and art-fores and shit. Some of them story is cool, like the one about the motherfucking whale what ate a dude named Jobe.

Day 11: I’m thakful for my daughter E’lissa who is a bomb-ass daughter even though she’s retard. I LOVE YOU BABY AND I KNOW YOU GONNA GROW TO BE GREAT EVEN THOUGH YOU RETARDE AND ANY MOTHERFUCKER SAY ANYTHING ELSE ABOUT IT IMA FUCK THEM UP.

Day 12: I’m thankgful that sometime, Jeremiah bring home leftover Taco Bell at the end of his shift. Old buritto supreme better then no buritto supreme at all, you heard me.

Day 13: I’m thankgful that Jeremiah still with me even though I cheated on him with T-Rob who was in Hatchet Broz. with him and Jeremiah know about it.

Day 14: I’m thankfull that Jeremiah ain’t in Hatchet Broz. ne more, because they were holding him back. Them dude was played out, Emenem rip-off wanna-be motherfuckers who weren’t going nowhere. Fuck them bitches. Jeremiah can make his own motherfucking music and be WAY MORE BETTER.

Day 15: I’m thankgfull for the library that got movie to rent out, even DVDs. I saw Finding Neemo from the library and E’lissa straight LOVE that shit. Make me happy.

Day 16: I’m happy that I got my warrant took care of. ABOVE THA LAW, BITCHEZ!! Lolz.

Day 17: I’m thankful that Chris ain’t in my life no more.

Day 18: I’m thankfull that President Oobama win again, and that he kill that MOTHERFUCKER OBAMA BIN LADDEN. BURN IN HELL, MOTHERFUCKER.

Day 19: Now I hope that Ohbama get that motherfucker Soddom Hoosein, too, because that motherfucker is just as bad and or worse than BIN LADDEN.

Day 20: I’m thankgul that two years ago I got to go to The Gathering and see the GREATEST MOTHERFUCKING BACND EVER, ICP. Juggalo 4 LIFE, ninja!

Day 21: I’m thangkful for all of ICP record and there concert movie what I seen back when I still kicked it with Chris. Ima need to get that shit once I get my dealers license because that mean more pay increase.

Day 22: I’m thankgful for Icehouse Beer because if I ain’t smoke, a ninja gotta relax somehow, you know what I’m sayin? #YOLO

Day 23: Thankful that Jeremiah still asleep. If he caught me drinking his IceHouse right now, motherfucker be all up in my shit about it and I AIN’T TRYING TO HAVE NO DRAMA TONIGHT.

Day 24: I’m thankgfkul this motherfucking list almost over. I like the idea? But this straight KILLIN me to come up with so many nice fuckin things.

Day 25: Im thangkful that my sister okay even though the baby what she birth was still-borned.

Day 26: Thankful for REECESS PEECESS MC FLURRY, YO! lolz.

Day 27: I’m thangkful for my friend and family who stick by me threw thick and thin. BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATERS, ninja. It say that shit in the bible, somewhere in La-Vitikiss, I think. Lol. Ima half to ask Pastor Troy about that shit.

Day 28: I’m thangful for my cat that I used to have named Beaver and Flappy. What funny is, they was Flappy and Beaver together. Like “flappy beaver.” Lol. Ima half to get me a cat when I get my dealers license and I get a increase in my pay.

Day 29: I’m thangful that I lost 6 pound last week even though I only ate Mc Flurry and old Taco Bell. WHAT? IM ON A DIET? You know meeeee! Lolz.

Day 30: Most of all I’m thankful for God who give me an apartment and a retard daughter, and a Jeremiah and a love of the bibble and a job with opportunity for advancement, and a bunch of dope ass ICP track, and a day off of work for THANGSGIVING cause the casino close.

But we open on Friday and it gonna be busy as a motherfuck.

FML.

Scariest Songs Ever, Vol. One

I don’t care about Judas Priest imploring stupid teenagers to kill themselves or others. I don’t care about Black Sabbath foraging such oblique depths that some dude shot himself in the mouth with a shotgun. I don’t care that Ice-T’s Body Count wrote a song so determinative to public decency that Dan Quayle lobbied to have it erased from the public conscious. These are all pussy songs compared to the greatest, darkest song ever.

The greatest, darkest song ever was recorded in 1966 in what was presumably a dimly lit studio in London.

The song (haunted by the wailing strings of a sitar for fucks sake!) became synonymous with the dark side of the 60’s… you know, Vietnam and murder and war and bloodshed and Manson and why not? It’s cryptic and scary and evil and also, really, really beautiful.  The song, of course, is “Paint It, Black,” by the Rolling Stones.

The song started off innocuously enough, as these things are wont to do. During a recording session, bassist Bill Wyman began pounding the tribal beat on an organ in an attempt to “fatten up the bassline.” Brian Jones added the sitar and Mick Jagger penned the lyrics, supposedly about a girl’s funeral.

And while the lyrics may have ORGINALLY been about a funeral, the song quickly became an unauthorized anthem about Vietnam, and rightfully so. With likes like, “I see people turn their heads and quickly look away,” one can perfectly envision a vet returning from Saigon to the streets of Cleveland, under the unwarranted scorn of societies better intentions, someone who learns to accept it because “it just happens everyday.”

All he wants is to paint it black, black as night.

And it’s sick and it’s sad, but it’s real, and it’s dark. It’s 10x darker than anything The Beatles ever recorded—well, except for "Maxwell’s Silver Hammer," maybe, wherein everyone is murdered with a hammer—only the Stones broach the subject of death without humor. There is no wink in “Paint It, Black” and this is wholly intentional, I’m sure.

The best line of the greatest, darkest song ever perfectly embodies the loneliest chasm between humanity and the narrator: “I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes/ I have to turn my head until the darkness goes.”

And why must he turn his head, you ask?

Easy—because he will MURDER the pretty lady in her summer dress if he stares too long. Not because he wants to, mind you, but because he is COMPELLED to. The girls in their summer clothes (Bruce Springsteen later had a very different interpretation, it’s worth noting) drive him to a place of unimaginable darkness. They represent—with their innocence and beauty—everything that no longer makes sense in the world.

The song—all 3:22 of it—is an unparalleled representation of the darkest side of life, ever. It’s way more metal than anything Sepultura ever recorded, and something more disturbing than anything Cannibal Corpse could have ever dreamed up.

Nothing before or since has matched the dark brutality of this track.

Therefore, if you’re looking for something frightening to play at your Halloween party, look no further than “Paint It, Black.” On a psychological-terror level, you really won’t do any better, I promise.

Just don’t murder any innocent teenage girls, please. (Or if you do, don’t blame it on me OR the Rolling Stones).

Doug's Food Diary (Learning to Stop Loving Amanda)

After Amanda broke up with me, I thought the world would end. We’d been together for 8 years at that point—now we’ve been split up for 6 months and it hasn’t gotten any easier. It was my fault, I know. I hadn’t proposed. I work a dead end job with no real future. I can’t give her kids on account of a dirt-bike accident when I was 12. I let myself get fat. Really fat.

And to me, that was the biggest, worst thing. The fatness. It was the most obvious one, for sure, the thing that was apparent in pictures and in the way my side of the bed caves in a bit and in the mirror, after a shower. 

When we started dating—I was 26 and just beginning my demoralizing job at Artech—I was better. Less fat. I mean, I wasn’t like a Jersey Shore character, with a sculpted, orange body, but I was succinctly average. I wasn’t embarrassed to take my shirt off at our infrequent visits to Water Land, USA. I didn’t get wet armpits carrying groceries up the three flights of stairs to our modest apartment.

So when she broke up with me, she said what she wanted me to believe—“we’re just heading in two different directions, Doug. We want very different things.”

But what I heard was, “hey Fatso McFatterson. I can’t stand your fat man-tits and sweaty fat-belly anymore. I am OUTTA here.”

And so I decided to do something about it.

After exhaustive internet research—i.e. googling “lose weight without exercise” and then “lose weight with minimal exercise” and then “losing shame weight with ease,” and a million other combinations thereof—I learned that by exercising 20-30 minutes a day (I can do that) and watching what I eat and how MUCH I eat (harder than the exercise, but still doable) I could reasonably expect to lose 20 pounds in a year.

They suggested keeping a “food intake and physical activity journal,” so that’s what this is.

And it had better work. Because I miss Amanda. And being able to eat without sweating.

Day One:

Woke up late. No time for planned workout. Grabbed a medium banana to eat on the train.

Medium banana (105 calories)

Planned to take the stairs to my 2nd floor office, but again, I was late. Rode elevator.

Still starving after only medium banana. Tried to satiate hunger with ice water. A little bit better, but not much.

Ate downstairs in cafeteria for lunch. Had a salad. It was good. Kicked it up with regular ranch, bacon hunks, hard-boiled egg and fried chicken chunks.

Small salad (950 calories)

Avoided the cupcakes in breakroom for Debbie’s birthday. GO ME. More ice water. Can of Diet Rite from vending machine.

Diet Rite can (0 calories- BOOM)

At home, it’s tougher. More delicious options. I had a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of soup and a fistful of crackers. I didn’t add mayo, bacon, ham and ranch to the grilled cheese like normal, though, so I felt good about this. Debated cutting back from 3 slices to 2, decided no, no I won’t.

Grilled cheese (410 calories)

Soup (265 calories)

Crackers (215 calories)

Didn’t have dessert, went to bed starving.

Total calorie count for the day: 1945

Day Two:

Waking up on time makes this so much easier. Did 15 pushups until I heard something pop in my shoulder. Pain. Figured it was a good start. For breakfast, I had a frozen turkey sausage muffin sandwich and a banana. Then another banana on the train. Water.

Turkey Sausage Muffin (380 calories)

Banana, banana (210 calories)

Took the stairs at work like a champ. Was barely out of breath by the time I got to my floor. Started sweating at my desk, though. My balls got damp. Made me kind of queasy. Something smelled like pancake syrup around me and it made me ravenous. My trashcan smelled like old cheese, though, which counteracted my hunger. Good.

For lunch, had a salad again. This time, I used a lite vinaigrette dressing, only three croutons and a minimal amount of low-fat cheese. No meat. It was awful.

Small salad (315 calories)

Skipped my afternoon trip by Sandy’s desk where I usually grab 5 or 6 Fun-size Snickers from her candy bowl. This is going great! Caught myself eating an eraser at my desk around 3pm, though. Not like, swallowing it, but… gnawing on it. Enough to make me uncomfortable.

Pencil eraser (not ingested—0 calories)

Dinner went well. I had some steamed broccoli, a grilled chicken breast and a small glass of 2% milk (refrained from adding Cheez Whiz to the chicken breast and broccoli, and took a step-back from the whole milk).

Broccoli (50 calories)

Chicken (315 calories)

Milk (140 calories)

Went to bed less hungry than the night before, but troubled by the realization that I hadn’t pooped in a few days. Vowed to keep an eye on that.

Total calories for the day: 1410

Day Three:

Woke up late. Slept poorly. Had intense dream about being eaten by a giant cheeseburger on a Japanese game show. Cold sweat. Grabbed a Special K Snack-Bar for breakfast on my way out the door. Inhaled it in two bites on the train. What a rip.

Snack-bar (90 calories) 

Didn’t have time to take stairs, again. DO BETTER TOMORROW, DOUG. Caved at lunch. It was Taco Salad Day downstairs. They serve it in a huge, flaky, deep-fried shell and it’s meat and beans and shredded cheese and cheese sauce and sour cream. I’m powerless to avoid its pull. So I had one. With a root beer, because, at that point, why not?

Taco salad (1120 calories)

Root Beer (160 calories) 

Planned on working out after work, but we had a system migration to do, so I didn’t get out until 8pm. Stopped by Sullivan’s Creamery after work and got a bacon double cheese with chili on it, a side of onion stix and a strawberry-peanut butter shake. This day was a mistake, but it was almost entirely out of my control… Taco Salad Day PLUS overtime. You’d have to be made of steel to eat healthy on a day like that. 

Bacon double cheeseburger + chili (1080 calories)

Onion Stix with chipotle ranch dip sauce (915 calories)

Banana-peanut butter shake (1200 calories)

Total calories: 4565

Day Four:

Woke up at 3am and had a really bad bathroom episode. Paid the piper for all of the nonsense I ate the day before, I guess. Had a half can of Finnegan’s strawberry soda before I went back to bed.

Half Can of Finnegan’s (80 calories)

Felt a little queasy when I woke up for real. After a few days of eating healthy, my stomach just couldn’t handle all of that meat and chili and bacon and cheese, I guess. Started to do some sit-ups, and I almost shit my sweat-pants. This all left me feeling down, so I got a deep-fried sausage burrito from El Tejano on my way to the train. And a side of hash-rounds.

Sausage burrito (480 calories)

Hash-rounds (315 calories)

Took the stairs at work and immersed myself in my work, in an effort to not think about food. At lunch, I had a small banana, a PB&J and some low-fat pretzels. And a water. Good lunch. Feeling good again.

PB&J (275 calories)

Banana (90 calories)

Pretzels (125 calories)

Got home without hitting up Sandy’s desk AGAIN, didn’t stop at any of my usual haunts. For dinner, had a small salad with lite Italian, a piece of grilled salmon and some asparagus. Went to bed feeling great about the latter half of my day.

Small salad (120 calories)

Fish (220 calories)

Asparagus (120 calories)

Total calorie count: 1820 (could have been a really good day if I hadn’t caved on the sausage burrito that morning)

Day Five:

Had a weird dream where I was making love to Amanda under a lasagna waterfall. Just as she was about to tell me that she loved me, my alarm went off. Sad way to start the day, but I feel like maybe it made me a little more resolute than normal. Did 25 sit-ups, 25 push-ups and 25 curls each arm with the family size container of laundry detergent. Didn’t have any sort of accident. Had a small, sensible breakfast—water, egg-white omelet with reduced fat cheddar, and three strips of turkey bacon. Still very hungry afterwards, though, so I drank three huge glasses of water and chewed half a pack of Doublemint, Amanda’s favorite.

Omelet (130 calories)

Turkey bacon (120 calories)

Took the stairs at work. I meant business, obviously. For lunch, I had a banana and a veggie pita from the cafeteria. It tasted like an old sock, but whatever.

Banana (90 calories)

Veggie pita (210 calories)

I messed up on dinner. See, Dixon’s has a special on Thursday nights—any large pizza, specialty or your choice of toppings—only $15.99. So I went with their Meat Blaster specialty—ham, Canadian bacon, bacon, pepperoni, salami and hamburger. Extra cheese. Shit. I couldn’t find the calorie count on the website I use—obviously—but the equivalent style of pizza from the Dominoes is 300 calories per slice. I had 8 slices. Almost cried in the shower, after.

Meat Blaster pizza (2400 calories)

2 Dr. Sweet’s Cherry Sodas (300 calories)

Total calorie count for the day:  3,250

Day Six:

Banana nut muffin for breakfast with a small glass of milk. The muffin isn’t the wisest choice calorically, but it’s ripe with fiber. That’s good, because ever since I started eating healthier, I haven’t been shitting as regularly.

Muffin (315 calories)

Milk (150 calories)

They catered lunch in, which isn’t fair. It’s just like… “here you go. Eat up, fatties. Whatever you want.” I had a burrito from Juan’s Superb Burrito. If you’ve never been, they’re like, Mission-style burritos stuffed with rice and all kinds of meat and cheese and stuff. You can barely wrap your hand around it. It’s a nightmare from a health standpoint, but tasty. Very tasty.

Carnitas burrito (910 calories)

Because of the burrito, I decided to be really careful about dinner. I had a ham sandwich on wheat, NO MAYO, and a cup of reduced sodium chicken noodle soup. I drank water. Worst dinner ever.

Ham sandwich (400 calories)

Soup (180 calories)

After dinner, I got out pictures from the trip Amanda and I took to Nashville. Got kind of choked up. Ate 6 spoonfuls of whipped chocolate frosting in sadness/anger.

Frosting (780 calories)

I pulled it together, decided to work out. I did a few push ups, but man are those boring. So I got out this DVD that Amanda got me three Easters ago—talk about a hint, right? It’s called “X-ercise N.E. where With Sean “Puffy” Combs.” The idea is that you can do it anywhere—on a plane, in your cube at work, on the toilet, whatever. So I put it in the computer, and here’s what I think happened: there’s a move where you use the arms of the chair to lift yourself up from a sitting position. You do it over and over and it strengthens your forearms and your triceps and shoulders, I guess. Anyway, my chair has roller wheels on it, and my floor is hardwood and I don’t have any sort of pad underneath it (I’ve been meaning to get one, but shut up).

So on my 3^rd or 4^th lift (it’s hazy, now), the chair shot out from under me. I fell back unceremoniously, and as I came down, I landed on both of my elbows and then the back of my head. 

I blacked out.

The next thing I know, I’m waking up on the floor and it’s three in the morning. I can barely move anything. I don’t know what day it is, or where I am even, at first, but it slowly dawns on me: Sean “Puffy” Combs is going to get the shit sued out of him. 

Also: I’m not going in to work today, I’m going to the Good Country Buffet to recoup, Amanda can lick my fat ass and I’m done counting calories.

If God didn’t want me to be so fat, he would have given me better metabolism and he would have made meatballs sandwiches blanketed in smoked ham less delicious.