Bring a tub of macaroni to your cafe...

I recently had the opportunity to revisit my favorite cafe. I bring my computer and a good book and then hunker down at a table. There is music piping throughout the joint, and it often times helps me concentrate. I sip my coffee and look around the room. Everyone looks around them to see what is going on. Things usually appear pretty normal. Some people are typing away on their computers while others are writing or sketching or simply talking. Normalcy.

I was aghast the other day when I turned behind me. There was a larger woman who had been rapidly spooning chunks of preheated macaroni into her mouth. The tub of macaroni was enormous, and this woman had no shame. It looked like she had prepared it a week ago. There were small drippings on the corners of her mouth. She ate hurriedly and sloppily brought her coffee cup to her mouth. This vile display ruined my late afternoon. I wondered how the management let this eating display take place in their cafe. I turned to the woman and she gave me a nasty scowl. She said: "Mind your business...get back to that stupid blog of yours. Let me stuff my fat face in peace, bitch."

Writing a screenplay not so hip anymore...

There are many people out there in their parents' basements that are typing away at some strange movie idea. Not a good thing. It seems that a large amount of scripts actually never make it to the big screen. What seems like a groundbreaking idea for a movie often times ends in a manuscript being buried at the bottom of some dusty drawer. What does this mean for most aspiring writers? Your idea is not so original; there are few new things under the sun that will make it to the big time. It's time to get real and accept the notorious writing on the wall.

I spoke to a group of Hollywood writers at a recent diner. One unshaven man said: "I've been out here now for four years...I have not had much luck. I keep at it. Living the dream? Nahhh...more like my dream fucking me in my butt hole." Another slovenly writer stated: "It's really difficult pushing my script around to the right people. I won't give up my day job...cleaning up doo piles in backyards around this valley."

Writing is an arduous task, and it is most difficult when so many people flood the same city in hopes of scoring a major contract. Many writers are saying that it is important to plug away, but there may come a time when macaroni and cheese is no longer worth the blood and tears. One well-dressed writer said: "To all the people out there in a dark basement typing away...get real and look for a real nine to five job that depresses the fuck out of you."

Falsifying your status update...

Falsifying your status update does not make you cool. It seems that many young and old people alike are doing this to present to the world a picture that is in dark contrast to the reality around them. Some false updates may include: 1) Just found $1000 on the sidewalk 2) Went to the moon last night 3) Won the lottery again...kind of lame 4) Walking on water tonight again 5) Haven't slept in one week...feel great

False status updates are limitless. Why would anyone tell a lie? Status update liars want to make their world seem amazing to the rest of us. Don't believe them. These people also use the bathroom a few times a day, sit in traffic, get fired from their jobs, lose money in the stock market, fail in relationships, get sick, trip over the curb, sneeze, spill milk on the floor, forget things, misplace their keys, watch stupid sitcoms, chew loud, and fart in public. Don't believe that their lives are somehow better because they a create a sentence that sounds pretty. It is most likely a big fat lie and that person probably just locked his or her keys inside of their car. The locksmith didn't just appear like a genie either.

Bachelorette parties go overboard...

Bachelorette parties are getting out of hand with their penises. In many bars throughout this great country a bachelorette party is destined to invade your night out on the town. These bachelorette parties are no strangers to the plastic penis parade. It won't be unusual to be sipping back on your favorite beverage before encountering a pretty lady wearing a penis necklace. It doesn't stop there, but continues with penis cup holders, penis caps, and penis straws. Disgusting.

It is best for men to get out of the way of the blazing penises. These gross displays of male genitalia can ruin any guy's night. Essentially, the prevalence of penises can trigger the gag reflex in a lot of men who are just simply trying enjoy good friends and great conversation. The bachelorette penis glorification shows no signs of slowing down. It has gripped the bar scene like a plague, and really can bring a man's spirits down to the dumps. It's best just to congratulate the bachelorette, tell her that divorce rate is a lil high, and walk away. The plastic penises will not penetrate you.

Stuffing your sandwich so you can stuff your pie hole...

Sandwich shops have become impossible for me. I think it is time that I refrain from patronizing these chain establishments. The problems are too clear; people do not know how to order a sandwich in a proper manner. What I mean is that people are ordering sandwiches in a way that it makes it impossible for the preparer of the meal to close the bun. The sandwich worker struggles and struggles until he or she puts some weight into the shutting the small loaf of bread. With the toppings dripping out of the sides, the customer grows sad. The customer's eyes were big at first before realizing that it was stupid to order every topping imaginable.

I order a few toppings for my sandwich and grow angry when the person ahead of me is taking advantage of the toppings bar. My sandwich closes easily; there is no mess. I enjoy my meal thoroughly. I do not beg for every topping like a whacky ass; I think it is high time that people think with their heads when ordering a meal. Stuffing sandwiches with every topping will end in a nightmarish situation and will not be good karma at all. A pie hole is a terrible thing to exploit.

Booger slows my treadmill...

The other day at the fitness center I was struck by a crusty booger on the treadmill. It was thick and green. It was the only treadmill available so I had no other choice but to use what was given to me. It seemed as though the booger was strategically placed; the person who had picked a winner that morning had smeared the booger on the start button. I had no other choice but to push that button if I wanted to jog a few miles. And I had to do my workout--it had been days since I exercised my chicken legs. There was no way around this stupid fucking booger.

I used my index finger and lightly touched the encrusted booger. It was not enough; the machine would not power on. I pressed it again with a little more force, and a piece of the booger broke apart and stuck to the tip of my finger. The machine powered on, but my index finger had been slimed with a stubborn booger. I had been victimized and it did not feel good at all. I quickened the pace on the machine, and ran as if a giant booger was chasing me through a field. It was not far from the truth, and it served as some serious motivation.

Balancing obesity with laziness...

Americans are not only getting fatter on a daily basis, but are looking for ways to balance this obesity with a healthy dose of laziness. In my recent stay at a hotel in the city I saw this laziness rear its fat head late at night.

A large man and I had just left our hotel rooms simultaneously. I was heading to the pool, and the shirtless obese man started down the hallway with an empty ice bucket in hand. I nodded to him, and he returned my nod with a what's up. He then asked me if I knew where he could find the ice machine. I told him it was all the way down the hallway on his left; I then watched a frown spread across his face. He said: "That's too far a walk, man. She will just have to drink her soda warm tonight." I answered: "Right on" and then told him to have a good night.

I could not believe my ears. I watched him head back to his room, and then could barely make out the screams that were coming from the room. It sounded like this: "You lazy piece of shit. I ask you for one thing and you can't come through for me. Let me see that bucket so I can put it over your fat head, donkey."

Fresh baked bread turns nasty...

Fresh baked bread is one of my favorite things in the world. I often enjoy a hunk of it when I am eating a bowl of pasta or a slice of lasagna. I love to pick out my bread at the farmer's market sometimes on a lazy Sunday afternoon. I bake it accordingly; I follow the instructions that I can hardly read on the package. Sometimes I drizzle it with olive oil when the bread is crispy.

A few days ago my loaf of bread turned nightmarish when I felt something wiggling in my mouth-- It wasn't a small penis. The mysterious object tickled my gums until I parted my lips and drew it out. The long strand of blonde hair almost made me retch. I stepped away from the bread and began to wonder about the hair and the person behind it. Was it a man or a woman's hair? How much effort was put into the craft of making the bread? Surely, it could not have been a man's hair. I surmised that it belonged to a beautiful mother of three. She did not use her hair net that day, and thus ended up victimizing me. Perhaps she secretly wanted to communicate with me. I turned on the radio and put on a sad song to take me away to a place where I could regain my appetite.

A small condomlike thing chasing me...

It happened at Brent's friend's hot tub a few days ago. I had gotten in there alone late at night while Brent's friend was cooking a pasta meal inside the apartment. A small baggy drifted towards me and landed on my hand under the water; I thought at first it was first a condom. I suspected that a couple of lucky fat bastards had fucked in the hot tub, and that now I was the receptacle for their pleasure. I shook my hand under the water, but the lil baggy clung to the back of my hand and would not free me from its disgusting grasp. I didn't know what to do because I was afraid a lil semen would seep out on me under the water.

I was lucky that Brent's friend eventually came out in time to tell me that dinner was served. He had seen me shaking my hand furiously, as if a bee had stung me. Brent's friend later inspected the small bag that was chasing me. He examined it only for a few seconds; he knew right away. I was lucky. It was just a small cocaine packet that someone had discarded into the hot tub. I was relieved that it was just an illicit substance organizer; thank God it was not two-day-old sperm. Gross.

Summer fun for the whole family...

Summer fun for the whole family has become a lil expensive these days. Inflation is causing daddy's eyes to widen when he sees the price of that gallon of orange juice. Mommy doesn't really care that the purse costs more now than it ever did in the last year or so. With the economy continuing to sputter, summer fun for the entire family has become outrageous.

In addition to that hefty price to pay for a popular vacation spot, many families have to deal with screaming children in the back of their oversized van. The 1980s saw the rise of the question: "Are we there yet?" Many children back then couldn't stand being in the car for so long. It drove them nuts. As you might have guessed it, times are a changing and kids these days are not what they were in the good old days. They don't give a shit. Many children now blurt out What the fuck? to describe their displeasure at having to sit in the car for such a long time. The feelings of misery may be the same as they were for kids in the 1980s, but these days parents are dealing with a new type of species with no respect for much of anything except their video game that cost $200.

Parents must be cautious in responding to their children who are showing no tolerance for the long commute to the camp site or amusement park. Some acceptable responses should include:
1) Just a few fucking more minutes... 2) I'm fucking driving... 3) We're going to have a great fucking time. 4) I'm fucking doing the best I can.

Don't be discouraged by your child's gross use of language. He is not only using bad words in your company, but he is probably telling his teacher to fuck off as well.

Expired milk goes the distance...

In this troubled economy people are saving to the extreme. More and more consumers are heading to the hospital as a result of food poisoning. In short many people are not respecting the expiration dates on their perishables and are therefore risking their tummies because of this carelessness. Some people claim that they are deliberately ignoring the numbers emblazoned on their eggs, milk, and vegetables.

One gentleman said: "I'm going to try to push the limits with my milk...taking it past the expiration date by three days. My frosted oats do taste funny...but you know it's all about conserving. I pay the price later and sometimes wonder if I should just pay the extra two dollars. Let's see if the economy picks up." One woman commented: "A rotten egg omelette is not my idea of fun. Hey, I make do and hope that the sun will come out tomorrow."

The economy is not only putting a crimp in the grocery industry. Apparently pet owners are holding back on how many many biscuits they dole out to their animals. Some dogs have gotten whiff of this unfair behavior and have done the unthinkable--namely biting the hands that feed them. These animals have rolled over and they want that fucking reward even in these hard times. Let's all aim towards protecting biscuit awareness.

Some tennis companies whistle a new tune...

Many tennis matches over the years have begun with the racquet spin. Players have the choice to call up or down or perhaps shout out a letter...maybe a P or D. It really all depends on the brand of the racquet. Making the right call will allow a person to choose the shady side of the court or elect to serve out the beginning game.

I have been lucky enough to have sat in on some of the new meetings that are attempting to give a new spin to tennis matches. Essentially the tradional racquet spin has become archaic and there needs to be a new exciting way to start a tennis match. Major executives are deciding whether to replace the traditional letters with sayings that are more appropriate with the world today. Even though tennis has been considered a gentleman's game, there has much talk lately to break with the old stereotype to draw in more fans, participants, and all around dick heads.

The bases of some tennis racquets are making the change from the boring capital letters. Some new racquets will include these popular sayings:1) You serve, asshole 2) Fuck your mama 3) Fat ass serves first 4) Lazy bastard 5) Lol...loser It will all depend on how the racquet lands to determine who will be the lucky one and who will be humiliated from the start. It's nice to see tennis companies getting down with the times. Polite behavior is so stupid and no one enjoys it anymore.

Helping out a poor bastard...

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Erectile dysfunction commercials are stinky...

There are a number of erectile dysfunction commercials out there that have a questionable moment which describes that look. We all have seen that older man watching television and then he gets that look from his wife. He knows that the time is right; he flips the remote control in the air and a smile widens on his face. His wife stands in the doorway and curls her finger, beckoning him to chase her up the stairs. He does willingly and then roars like a lion.

When I was teaching school I had a lot of students ask me to explain that look that is mentioned in these commercials. I would always comment back then that I had no idea what they were talking about. I would play dumb because I had to. But now things are different and I am no longer responsible for teaching a bunch of circus animals.

That look can be explained pretty easily. Essentially the woman gives the man the look because she wants him to fuck the shit out of her or make sweet love. It really all depends on the situation. The erectile dysfunction commercials do a great job advertising those fuck me eyes that guys really enjoy...

Dating websites make me giggle...

I am outgoing, ambitious, and have a great sense of humor. My smile is contagious and I am not a loner. I love people and consider myself an extrovert. I have taken these words and rearranged them so that they are my own. An attractive female had put this on her dating profile to attract a male heartthrob. It seems as though men and women alike are making themselves extremely marketable to the opposite sex on these sites. Some single people are also often consulting a thesaurus to create a list that describes their bubbly personality. When they are describing themselves it seems as though they are the picture of perfection. They have used all the positive words that mankind had invented back in the winter 1965 during a blizzard.

I am finding that a lot of these purported wonderful people are turning out to be incredibly introverted and unstable, perhaps on the verge of exhibiting suicidal tendencies. For the sake of mankind I wish that people on dating websites would be honest with themselves and the rest of the lonely singles searching for love in all the wrong places.

In addition to using a thesaurus, many people are putting up deceptive photos. Some of these pictures are taken one hundred yards away from the person's face or perhaps were snapped ten years ago at the pinnacle of the person's great looks. Brent will be the first to tell you that all looks begin to fade at some time. There is no escaping that we are all destined to become shriveled up old crones if we are lucky. Our nursing home beds await...some of our tramp stamps will have wrinkled by then.

For all of the lovesick people on dating websites, please don't describe yourself as the flawless member of the human race. There are imperfections in all of us that are most endearing. Make sure your photograph is visible...and then cross your fingers that your date lasts more than ten minutes. My last one went the distance...almost five minutes.

A lil something to tell your grand kids...

Keeping that story around for your grand kids some day is no longer the best thing to do. Everyone has heard the line 'you should do it...it's something to tell your grand kids.' Most smart people realize that they will forget the story altogether before their grandchildren are born. There is no sense in doing something anymore just for the sake of being able to brag about it in thirty years. By then the sun will have disappeared and we will be living like cavemen. No one will believe you.

Your grand kids most likely won't be paying attention to the story in thirty years. They will have a life and your story will seem ridiculous because it happened so long ago. Your grandchildren might ask: "Were people even alive back then?"

Don't wait so many years to become a storyteller. Live in the moment is the best advice although it is so outdated. Do your stupid outrageous act and try to remember it in a few months. Share it with your friends when you are drunk at a party. Repeat it over and over again while spit flies out of your mouth and then you drop your glass on the floor. It can be funny over and over again.

When it's time to tell that story years from now, your grand kids will respond: "What? Get grandpa another shot of bourbon." By that time you will have forgotten the story of how the speeding train ran over your legs and then will probably have shit your pants. Got doo? Yes, and plenty of it inside your diaper.

Brent's friend reaches rock bottom...

Brent's friend said that he had reached rock bottom last week. His funds were low and he had exhausted all job opportunities. There was little out there for the man, and he had to support a small baby who was going to turn two any day now. Brent's friend (let's just call him James) had a lot of qualifications for a new job but was having horrible luck.

What possessed James to try to get a job at a famous Los Angeles strip club? His child needed to eat and he would not stop until he had a way to support this bundle of joy. When people are desperate they will do anything for a buck.

James had put on a wig and stuffed his bra with tube socks. This did not diminish the fact that James was a man from top to bottom. This sorry mother fucker wanted to get a job at an all girl strip club; his son was starving and crying like a maniac. James needed to make Benjamins to feed the lil monster.

The owner of the strip club later told James to get the hell out of his office and ripped up the application in front of his face. The owner than said that James was one sorry ugly mother fucker who did not show much effort in trying to dress up as a girl. He then said James couldn't qualify to clean up a mess at an outdated peep show.

When James returned home he was surprised to find that the electricity had been shut off. He then lit a small candle and gave the fat cat a lap dance before it darted off the couch and hid under the baby's crib.

James had given it the old college try; he would polish up his resume and try again. At least he still had his mind and the mother fucker sure did know how to persevere.

Rollerblading while on the phone...

My sister Brent is not a big fan of rollerblading. He especially hates rollerblading when he sees people doing it while chatting away on their cell phones. I must admit that I rollerblade while talking to Brent on the cell phone. He claims that I am a tinkerbell for participating in such behavior. I tell him that my jean shorts are cut off and that my tube socks are pulled up to my knees. My sister Brent tells me that I am the consummate tinkerbell for the way I am dressed and the fact that I am holding the cell phone so close to my ear.

Brent claims that rollerblading is not very masculine. I tell him it gives me much enjoyment, but he says that my pleasure is obviously misguided. I tell him that I rollerblade several times a week and he suggests that I take up other exercises that might be more of a masculine persuasion. He says that my clothing is extremely disturbing, and he says that he grows squeamish when he hears my voice and the gentle wind hurtling me down the pathway.

I want to ensure everyone out there that rollerblading on the phone is acceptable. The world is a busy place, and that does not mean that we should abandon our conversations for the sake of upholding an image. Rollerblade on the phone...your clothing choice is up to you.

Jogging at dusk...

Jogging at dusk used to be a safe bet during the summer. With the sun setting in the sky, it is the perfect time to lace up your sneakers and put on your smelly headband. You mean to wash it but you just never get around to it. The sweat accumulates into the fabric and begins to stink. You don't care because you will wash it next week or the week after that.

Last week my jog turned into a nightmarish sequence of events. I had picked my usual trail not too far from the mountains. There was a long tunnel that ran parallel to the trail, and there were numerous people waiting by the tunnel. Some people were snapping photos and mothers were holding babies in their arms. This was peculiar to me when I found out that everyone was waiting for the bats inside the tunnel to fly out in search of their prey. I had never heard of such a thing, and it was curious that the people there felt as if danger was far away from them. Maybe they didn't care if the bats nibbled off the tips of their noses.

My jog turned into a sprint immediately and I made my way back to the beginning of the trail as fast as possible. The bats had already flown out of the tunnel and were whirling above my head. I never knew that a summer jog could turn into an invitation to be attacked by these flying rodents. I never knew that you could twist an ankle and lose an ear at the same time to a group of mammals. It was a good thing I had tied my laces, but the sad part was that I had forgotten my helmet that night. Well, my hearing wasn't like it used to be anyways. So what if I lost an ear. I had another one for back-up.

The night air also had refreshed my headband...making it smell like an odd perfume.

Soaked at the car wash...

Brent played a mean trick on me the other day at the car wash. He said that he didn't intentionally do it, but I tend not to believe him. He did not clamp the roof down enough on his convertible, and thus when we went through the wash there was foam spitting everywhere and it seeped inside the car and soaked my right shoulder. Brent laughed and laughed; he said all convertibles have a little seepage. I have yet to confirm this with other sources, but I plan to do so in the next few days with some reputable car dealerships.

The worst part about the whole thing was that I was late for a lunch date with a pretty girl. When Brent dropped me off at the small bistro he could not contain his laughter. He could not wait to hear how my date responded when she saw that I looked as if I had just done a few laps in the swimming pool.

I was grateful that she was a really cool girl. At the table I told her right away what happened. She said that she had never heard in all of her twenty years of someone who had gotten wet at the car wash. Samantha then said: "You look kind of cute all soaking wet...despite the whole thing being a lil bit retarded. Is that soap on your ear?"

Hush up in the elevator...

It appears as though some vagrants are starting up conversations in the elevators these days. The compact space is also no place to open your mouth or raise your hands over head (especially in summer). No one wants to smell your bad breath or take a whiff of your nasty armpits. Everyone knows you put on the deoderant haphazardly like you always do.

My sister Brent claims that some people have started to strike up conversations with him when he is trying to get to the office. One man quipped: "This elevator door looks like a mirror...you could shave here." Brent replied: "Just shut the fuck up." The man zipped it fast and realized he should never engage in a conversation again in such a small area. He could get punched in the face and then whack his head against the wall in the descent. Would anyone find him as he lay in a coma?

Elevators are not social events. There is no need to try to grow your business or make small talk with a person who would like to kick you in the head with all his might. Simply get in, wait for the door to close, and then shut the fuck up. Before you know it you will be on the bottom floor. Wait for the little ding and then make your swift exit to the street. Enjoy your day...just don't try to make a joke on a elevator. No one wants to hear it; you will be looked at like you have no friends or perhaps deemed a pussy.

An economical four door sedan...

I love my economical four door sedan. It runs great and gets great mileage. I realize that it is not a luxury sedan but it is far from a clunker. Brent bashed me the other day; he made me feel only two feet tall when he saw my white sedan in the parking lot. He simply looked at it and quipped: "This is a symbol of success...this car tells me that you made it."

I argued with Brent about his sidearm bash. He was simply suggesting that I could do better. In other words Brent felt that my economical four door sedan was tantamount to me traipsing around with a pretty girl with some fat around her gut. He wanted me to trim the fat but he didn't tell me a way to go about it. Brent, in short, bashed the fuck out of me. He left me reeling...I needed to make more money so that I could drive the hot chick of automobiles. He said that right now the economical sedan was good for me and not that bad. Brent implied I that I needed to move up from my frumpy girl of a car, and said that life was all about getting ahead at whatever the cost. He then told me that I shouldn't settle for a Moshkovich.

I told Brent that I am well on my way. I have a blog that hardly anyone reads and it will only grow in readership as I cross my fingers. He tells me to take steps to get my blog out there. I tell him that I am too tired. He then gives me my keys to my sedan and I drive off into the night. No one can see me in the dark anyways.

A stubborn chocolate covered raisin...

It was not my fault there was a unisex bathroom at my favorite coffee shop. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when the beautiful girl walked out of the bathroom. My jaw dropped at first when she met my eyes but then something changed inside of me. I started inside and was struck by a most horrific odor. I held my breath and then stood over the toilet. Apparently the beautiful girl did not how to flush the commode properly. A chocolate covered raisin circled the bowl while I stood over it. I almost retched but thought about a large field filled with lillies. I regained my composure immediately.

I did my business and finished what she couldn't, pushing down on the lever with a little more force. I then returned to the coffee shop and met her eyes. She knew that I knew. There was no remorse in her eyes. Her chocolate covered raisin victimized me like a poisoned dagger and she resumed sipping on her latte with carefree delight. Got doo? Sure do.

A Moshkovich

The word Moshkovich is not one of endearment but a neologistic nightmare. It is a word that is used to describe a person (male or female) who is not particularly attractive. Brent created the word three years ago and it has stuck. Essentially he said that I had the physical characteristics of his ninety-year-old grandmother, Ellen Moshkovich. The noun Moshkovich can also be used as an adjective. One might say that a person is Moshkovichean in nature if that person is born with looks that are perhaps questionable in nature or maybe a tad bit freakish. A person may be out of shape, have gross hair, or might be put together sloppily, as if the person in question did not let himself or herself go recently but had done so years ago right out of the womb. It had been predestined and written in the DNA. There is no escape because the eternal course keeps giving if there is a push for reproduction in the Moshkovichean scheme.

A Moshkovich's life is not easy. Because the person is not born beautiful but may carry around simian features for years to come, a Moshkovich might turn to pills or alcohol to ease the pain. These are not answers but only exacerbate the Moshkovich's empty feelings. The Moshkovich is asked to stop hiding and must show his or her ugliness to the world. Ugly is the new beautiful...just as 80 is the new 60. Embrace it, mother fuckers.

Many women dismiss men if their looks are Moshkovichean in nature or perhaps just semi-Moshkovichean. Men do the same thing today. A person's character is judged by their physical appearance. If a person has more Moshkovichean traits than deemed acceptable, the validity of the character is immediately attacked.

A Moshkovich will have trouble attracting the opposite sex. Internet dating is an option but is in no way a solution to the problem of solitude; clicking away to find a sweetheart merely acts a small balm. This is not to say that a Moshkovich can't be successful in other areas of life. A Moshkovich may hold down a mediocre job for twenty years and then realize that they are old as fuck. A Moshkovich might be sleeping alone for a large part of his or her life. Though the outlook is gloomy or morbid, consider it practice for the final resting place inside the coffin. It only takes one to tango inside that box, and it doesn't matter at all that the person lived a life as a full-fledged Moshkovich. No one is looking. Finally.

A new home for $4.67

In this terrible economy it is no surprise that home prices continue to fall. First time home buyers are jumping at the chance to score a great deal and make their American dream come true sooner than they thought was possible. As home prices continue to plummet, I have many friends that are getting in on the sweet deals. I spoke to my sister Brent, and he told me that he had just closed on a four bedroom house in a nice suburb for $4.67. He said the home had been built six years ago, and that he might have to make some repairs (he estimated spending $26) in order to make his little dream house even better. Brent said that eventually he would spend $55 to put in a pool in the backyard.

Deals are out there and will be for some time to come. It will be important, as the saying goes, to strike while the iron is hot. Many forecasters claim that new home prices might rise to $14 by the end of next year. This has many first time home buyers running for the real estate offices. One newlywed couple said: "We might just pick up a home for $5 now...it would be stupid to wait when we can get a two car garage and five bedrooms for that price right now. We don't want to let time pass us by. A $20 home is just unthinkable. We could get a bag of groceries for that price. We are talking about fresh food here."

Mid-sentence cut off...

It's happening everywhere in this country. I am speaking about the mid-sentence cut off that is wreaking havoc during our telephone conversations. My sister Brent is guilty as charged with this type of behavior. He has no concern for the well-being of the person on the other end of the conversation. Simply put...Brent has cut me off mid-sentence and continues to do this with all of his friends. Many of his friends have been victimized like me and received the mid-sentence cut off at the climax of their stories.

Many people are wondering if the mid-sentence cut off is really that awful. The truth of the matter is that this cut off is terrible and worse than getting hit by a speeding bus. It goes something like this: "Brent, I was at the gym last night and then this...." It is at that point Brent will cut you off mid-sentence and say that he has to go. There is something better going on in Brent's life at this juncture and he does not give you the time of day to finish your story that you think is so tremendous.

The mid-sentence cut off is not going to just disappear. People in this country will be searching for the bigger better deal while they are attempting to listen to a phone conversation that really doesn't hold their interest. It is at that point that people (like my sister Brent) make a snap decision. They must let you go and have no intention of hearing your stupid story from some night three weeks ago. Many people, like my sister Brent, would rather wash the bathroom floor two times over than pay attention to the bullshit seeping from your mouth about something that never happened exactly the way you had described it.

Up yours...hmmm

I witnessed a fight the other day at the grocery store during the early evening. An older man, who had a hearing aid, simply could not get out of the way on time. He had been pushing his carriage slowly and surely did not see the angry woman behind him. She was (I surmised) in a hurry to get home to her screaming children. I heard her tell the man to hurry up, but the man could not respond in time. She banged his cart in order to get around him. Grocery store aisles are getting smaller and smaller as the years go by and there is no talk to widen them given the current recession.

The older man saw his cart fly forward and yelled: "Up yours, lady!". I thought I had taken a trip back to the fall of 1991 when I heard his irate voice and the expression up yours. I simply placed my bottle of olive oil into my basket and watched for a reaction. The woman, whose back was turned to him, raised her hand and flexed her middle finger. I don't know if the older man saw this gesture, and I am hopeful that he didn't.

I spoke with the older man about the incident. He replied: "I have a hard time hearing. I just felt that she could see my hearing aid on my head, but she obviously couldn't because she went ahead and bumped me. Up hers...that's what I say." I told the man that up yours had been replaced with a more acceptable expression in today's busy world, namely fuck off. He smiled, thanked me, and patted my shoulder. He then said: "Next time son, I will use that. I am not afraid to use a four letter word to cut to the chase."

Breakfast in bed now fading...

The traditional breakfast in bed to surprise your sweetheart has been fading away steadily since 1989. Husbands and boyfriends used to spend a lot of time over the stove preparing a poached egg delight or an omelette with a twist. These days it is obvious that these men would rather spend their time cleaning their golf irons or looking at a porn magazine from yesteryear.

I had the pleasure of speaking to some married couples and other lovely people who were committed to their relationships failing at some point in the future. A pretty woman, who had been married for five years, said: "He just doesn't want to put in the effort. We've had this breakfast tray for years and now he no longer wants to use it. I am guilty of the same thing. I have neglected my sweetie and would rather spend the time re-reading a passage from a good book." Another woman, who had been in a relationship for almost a year, said: "That is something that happens in the movies. The tray of food appears and there might be a little rose in a thin silver vase to accompany the meal. This is fantasy. Reality is that my boyfriend burns the toast and then tosses the pieces to the dog."

Breakfast in bed is fading faster than we know. This does not mean that it is gone for good. Many social experts say to expect a resurgence of breakfast in bed in the next ten years or whenever the divorce rate drops in this society. For now it's just best to get the fuck out of bed and make a bowl of cereal than to dream of your sweetheart coming up with a grand plan so early in the morning. No one is worth that except (as one man who was in strong relationship put it) if she is hot as fuck.

Pinatas now stuffed with doo...

Apparently pinatas are no longer being stuffed with colorful candies and small toys. It's the economy, stupid. People are resorting to other measures to save money at children's birthday parties. Parents around this great country are lowering themselves to the most grotesque standards imaginable.

The surprise when the pinata splits open is all but gone these days. Children watch sawdust fly out of the belly of the pinata and then race toward the small chocolate marbles that role along the ground. It doesn't take them long...kids are smart these days. The odor assaults their nostrils and the poor children realize that they have been duped by a pinata stuffed with doo balls. Their appetite is lost immediately.

The pinata tradition has been changed in a horrible way in this economy. People remain hopeful that pinatas will one day be again stuffed with all the treats that kids have grown to love. But for now children are learning the hard way. There's no easy buck, kids. When times are tough, the shit hits the pinatas too.

Coffee shop bedtime stories?

In my recent trip to the coffee shop I was astounded to see a grown man reading a children's book out loud into his cell phone. The man spoke slowly and smiled when he read the chapter about a pink pony and a talking marshmallow. In between sentences he paused to take a sip of his coffee and had no regard for the other patrons around him. He had no control over his voice.

This coffee shop raconteur continued his reading for about one hour. I moved two times to get away from him. When I had finished doing my work I went over to him and asked if he had been reading it to his son or daughter. He replied: "It's none of your business who I was reading to...this is a free country and I can read a story out loud if I want to and no one is going to tell me otherwise. I was reading the story to my daughter's pet rabbit. Muffin can only get to sleep when he hears a story about a talking marshmallow. Now go fuck yourself."

Peeing with your pants around your ankles...

I recently went to a restaurant in a middle class neighborhood just outside of the city. When I had to use the urinal in the restaurant I was appalled at what stood next to me. A grown man, who had has pants around his ankles, was peeeing into the urinal next to me. His ass was white as snow, and I thought I heard a small fart escape his butt cheeks while I did my business.

When I had finished with my business I hurriedly washed my hands. Another man had come into the bathroom and exclaimed Oh my God when he saw the man's butt cheeks. Peeing with your pants around your ankles is bathroom etiquette for a small boy who is in the second grade.

The man finally finished his business, and shuffled over to the sink with his pants still around his ankles. I had to turn away from the man while he simply washed his hands as his belt buckle touched the floor. He then turned to me and said: "Haven't you ever seen a grown man naked before? I am a retard." I made no reply and left quickly.

Got Doo?

It took me weeks to dream up the title of this blog. I believed that Got Doo? was so original that those two words have never been linked together to form a question. It turns out that my thinking was flawed. I searched the internet the other day, and was shocked to discover that some retard had advertised for a service with Got Doo? as his headline.

I would not like to embarrass the person who sought to make money with such a ridiculous question. The man apparently lives on the East coast, and loves to go to people's backyard's to clean up doo piles. He claims that he charges only $15 to clean up piles of dog doo. The man later notes in his post that there will be a slight increase in his fee if the piles are abnormally large. Essentially he doesn't want to be surprised if there are elephants roaming about in a middle class neighborhood.

I am saddened by the news that there is a man out there that takes this hobby very seriously. I am more distraught to learn that he never washes his hands after he gathers up all the doo piles. He simply has a quiet meal at a nearby fast food burger joint and washes his meal down with a tall glass of warm lemonade.

Peek-a-boo with hand sanitizer...

Popular games have changed some in the past few years. While it was only a few days ago when a girl put her hands over my eyes and asked me to guess who, I still wasn't able to come up with the correct name. I guessed Sharon when in fact it had been Susan all along. These juvenile games don't happen in the adult world that often, but when they do it seems as though adults are taking the necessary precautions.

I did not care that Susan had played that stupid guessing game with me, but I did care that she had sanitized her hands. She produced a bottle of hand sanitizer from her purse afterwards, and then told me not to worry about germs getting into my eyes. I smelled the alcohol on her palms and knew that she had rubbed them down pretty solidly.

Children, however, are not following suit. I asked a teenager about this game and its prevalence in the school yard. The anonymous boy replied: "You know that happens all the time....I wish everyone would just wash their hands before racing up behind you to cover your eyes. Last time this girl did it to me...I swear that my eyes were stinging for three days afterwards. I wondered if she had just come from the toilet and skipped the soap altogether."

Plastic wrap on couches now hip...

I visited a home the other day in a good neighborhood. I was very surprised to see the yellow couch covered in plastic wrap. I thought that this phenemonon had ended in the 1970s, but apparently there is some type of resurgence in your typical American suburbs. I imagine that the plastic wrap keeps the furniture in pristine condition for eternity.

The owner of the home served me a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a glass of warm milk. I relished every bit while I sat on the plastic couch. There was a weird squeaking noise when I shifted my buttocks to get the proper view of the commercial that advertised lowering your cholesterol in three weeks. The commercial warned against your normal side effects, namely dizziness, diarrhea, weak knees, and giant crabs.

I asked the owner of the home about her use of plastic wrap. Susan simply said: "I started using the plastic wrap to protect the quality of this couch. I know that it is a piece of shit but I would like to keep it a piece of shit for a long time or until my hair falls out and they lower me into the grave."

Chatting away on the cell phone at check-out...

A growing number of people are chatting on their cell phones during check-out at your typical grocery store or department store. Many people seem to think that their precious conversation ought to take precedence over communicating with the store cashier. Engaging the store clerk or cashier in conversation means bad things of course. Meeting the eyes of the store cashier might mean instant death or perhaps a sudden choking feeling may weaken the customer.

Two days ago I found myself behind a pretty young woman who was chatting away merrily on her cell phone. She had just placed her vegetables onto the counter, and then set down a bottle of wine. Her conversation went like this: "Oh my God...yes I will be there tonight. Jonathan is coming too. He will be there later because he is going out to dinner. How much? Oh here's a twenty."

I asked a cashier about these people who do not put down their cell phones at the counter. One older gentleman said: "Yes, at first I thought it was extremely rude. But after I slept on it, I just didn't give a fuck. Let them put down their perishables and I'll just get them the hell out of there as fast as I can. Paper. Plastic. It doesn't matter as long as they take their stupid conversation to the street and I don't have to hear it."

Jumping off a bridge now seems okay...

Many people are saying that jumping off a bridge now seems okay. Some humans believe that it now doesn't matter if a person copies another's ridiculous behavior. Many feel this apathy is a result of the recession. While in years past, no one would follow another's question 'would you jump off a bridge too?' to support outrageous behaviors. Now it seems that this question would get an affirmative answer in many spheres of life.

After many years of shunning the idea of jumping off bridges to follow another's poor choices, this is now acceptable. One gentleman from Detroit stated: "Yes, I would mimic my friend's behavior no matter what the result. I wouldn't have to think much about jumping off a bridge if my friend Stephen did it. If he goes over, I'm going with him...so what if there are rocks below." I posed the same question to a woman in her early thirties. She said: "I would just do it...the thrill is obviously there of the unknown. I have been static for so long. It's just right to make a move no matter what the consequences."

Cum on my shoulder...

People are no longer lending their shoulders for a good cry. While traditional shoulder cries were popular in the 1990s, people today are sick and tired of giving a shoulder to a troubled friend or family member. It is just tough to keep offering a shoulder in such a recession. People are turning a deaf ear and protecting their shoulders from would-be cry babies.

Just because people are taking their shoulders out of realm of affection does not mean the body part is not getting its proper attention. My sister Brent in San Francisco noted that many people are using their shoulder blades as semen depositories. The popular expression cry on my shoulder has morphed into cum on my shoulder. It is not just a phenomenon in San Francisco, but is gaining momentum in other big American cities. Cum on my shoulder has been known to be recession-proof and that is why people can do it leisurely without concern for the economic climate.

Hello my name is...

Hello my name is name tags are now obsolete. For many years these retarded stickers were a staple in our society, but now it is harder and harder to find them in daily use. Hello my name is stickers were heavily used in business meetings and networking events. Men in suits pressed these stupid stickers to their coat lapels (the stickers curled up later) and waited to meet and greet a fellow business person and exchange pleasantries.

These stickers also seeped into the dating world. Single losers stood around some shabby bar and waited to find their potential mates. With the name already emblazoned on their shirts, single people never had to break the ice but did have to offer up a cheesy smile when extending their hands.

I asked a C.E.O. of a popular company about these silly stickers. He commented on the dying fad: "I oversee a team of adults...I just realized one day on my yacht that name tags are simply retarded. We are going without them in my company. These are grown-ups and just because I hardly ever work doesn't mean I should deliberately humiliate my employees." One of the employees who worked for the C.E.O. for ten years said: "I'm glad he made that decision. Now I can go home and look my wife in the eyes. She now knows I am not a retard. I don't have to share my name with anyone anyone. If someone wants to know it, they can ask me. But my name is not out there for the taking. I want to keep some things sacred. What's mine is mine and what's yours is yours."

Cuz the person has my name...

Some of my friends meet other people who share their own name. When this happens, some of them believe that they are in the midst of a cosmic awakening. The fact that they have met another person with two arms and two legs and who also has the name Bob is somehow of great consequence. My friends give them godlike traits, often times putting them in the category of the immortal. Your name is Bob and so is mine. You must be a great guy. When, in reality, they both answer to this phrase repeatedly: "Shut the fuck up, Bob."

It is no mystery that many people on the planet share the same names, but this does not mean that we should assume that they are great people when we meet someone with our own name. My friend Markus is too trustworthy. When he met a man who shared his name at a local coffee shop, he said: "You are best, Markus. Anyone with the name Markus is the best." What Markus didn't know about the man was that he had been released from prison a month ago because of an incident with pedophilia. My friend Jimmy had met a man who shared his name at the healthy club. Jimmy went ahead and assummed to much: "You're the bomb, Jimmy." Jimmy made a hasty conclusion, and didn't realize that the man was going to commit armed robbery after he finished his set on the bench press.

There really isn't much in a name these days. It's best to say nice to meet you and then move the fuck on real fast.

Sportscasters and their blow...

Sportscasters ought to be careful with their parlance. Telling their viewing audience that the best player on the team needs to go back to the bench to catch a little blow does not go over so well in our society. These reporters might want to modify their language...perhaps it would be more acceptable if they state the athlete was fatigued and needed a little rest. The manipulation of words might allow the fan to walk off blithely to the cabinet to prepare a popcorn bag in the microwave. The continued use of a lil blow has had some adverse reactions, mainly forcing some viewers to gag on their cheese dip or throw small objects at the television set.

I had to ask some sports fans about the poor choice of words. One stout-hearted man, who still wore his championship shirts from the early 1980s, replied: "It's an outrage. I am a man and don't want to heart that. He needs to be fined immediately for talking like that. " Another face-painting fanatic was not so kind: "Oh...the poor millionaire needed a lil blow. I do too...it's been like ten months and I am about to explode."

Scout's honor, biatch...

Although this expression is almost obsolete, there are some people out there that still hold it dear to their heart. They use it when people confide in them, when they are seeking the truth. Some people will hold up two fingers to suggest they are sincere--that it is in fact a scout's honor and there is no need for worry. Everything will be okay.

I asked some hip urban people about the whole notion of scout's honor and its role in our society. One hip young man asked: "What is scout's honor, biatch? Now get out of my way...can't you see I am riding this skateboard?" One cool woman who was down with the times said: "I think scout's honor has been replaced with...just get to the point, asshole. I think people just want the truth and they want it real fast. This idea of honor doesn't exist...it's basically like this...just don't lie to me, mother fucker or I'll have your ass."

Scout's honor is clearly a thing of the past in most major American cities. The small number of people that use it are in essence a dying breed. They harbor this idea of honor inside themselves, hoping that honor and dignity and good old-fashioned values can still exist in our society. Well, fuck that shit.

Rats...

Back in the day many people used the word Rats to express their disdain. A stubbed toe, a failed marriage, a burn, a firing, or a misplacement of one's car keys might have elicited the word Rats. The word Rats was an umbrella term that served the needs of many disgruntled people in the 1980s, but has since been replaced with a more appropriate expression.

The words mother fucker are now more acceptable in our society. I spoke to a man who had fallen down a flight of stairs the other day. When he came to, the first words out of his mouth were a very audible mother fucker. In a similar vein, a pretty woman had gone to the grocery store only to find out that her favorite cereal had recently been out of stock. She exclaimed mother fucker and left the store in a huff to pick up her poodle from the groomer.

I had to go to a little town in Idaho to find someone who had used the expression Rats. The older woman had burned a tuna casserole and had muttered Rats to her husband who was sitting in his rocking chair with a bottle of stale beer.