21 May 2008

Rearmed with the password to access my website (thanks, Matt) I am now back.

 

And I'd like to congratulate the U.S. Congress in general, and Sen. Arlen Specter (I don't know if that's spelled properly and honestly could give a frog's ballsack less) on tackling the greatest evil to rear its ugly head.

Spygate.

Yes, it's so great to see that the United States government has things well in hand - no war, the economy is chugging along just fine, gas prices are reasonable - that it can turn its judging eye to the National Football League and call for an investigation into whether the Patriots of New England played cheatsies.  I mean, come the fuck on.  I'm not a Pats fan (I actually swear undying allegiance to the team that beat them in XLII, the greatest Super Bowl since XXV), but really?  A CONGRESSIONAL INVESTIGATION?!?!  I got an idea fuckers, investiagte Exxon's $11 BILLION profit last QUARTER, a profit earned largely by bending the American consumer over the hood of their vehicle and sodomizing them with the gas pump nozzle.

Motherfuckers.  Way to try to deflect attention from how shitty you guys are handling everything and anything that matters in Washington.  Gas prices?  Iraq?  Economy?  Poopoo on that gobbledygook, we're tackling Spygate!

Everyone in power should be lined up against a wall and sodomized with a rusty broomstick.  I'm tired, that's all I have.

8 May 2008

Simply, by coincidence, I am writing this two months to the day after my last post.  The last job I mentioned has gone by the wayside, there was just so much mind-numbing dullness I could take, ya know?  Gots me a new job, in a bar, but as a kitchen manager.  Much better pay, longer hours, time goes by faster, and I can yell "motherfuckingsonofabitch" all night long and no one cares.  Or probably even hears me.  Which is even better.

I was going to not revamp the website as I had previously claimed I was going to do, simply because I don't have the time, the energy, or the giveafuck to do it.  Then I noticed that I had started and didn't save the old web pages, so I am pretty much fucked into doing it now.

Um, that's all I have.  I'm tired, I have yard work to do, I have clients to train tonight, I have to work out myself, and somewhere in the mix figure out what is for dinner, maybe take the wife out, who knows? 

8 March 2008

I know, you're all thinking to yourselves, "What the hell has Kenny been up to?"  But then you'd realize you ended that in a preposition, and would try to say, "To what the hell has Kenny been up?" and then realize you STILL ended in a preposition, and would try to figure out how to remedy that, and then resolved it by lighting a Webster's dictionary on fire, pissing on it, and saying, "Fuck the English language."  And you wouldn't be alone, because judging by most of the e-mails I have received, signs I've read, memos I have been given, etc., most of the country has given up on the rules of proper English.

By the way, that previous paragraph was stream of consciousness - I had no idea what I was gonna write until it poured out my fingers.

OK, now I'm stuck.

I know, I said I was gonna revamp the website, and lo and behold, a whole three weeks past the deadline I set for myself has produced absofuckinglutely zero effort.  Honestly, I had plans to do it, until I realized that all the hyperlinks on the almost 600 pages have to be changed as well, and well, motherfucker, who has the time for that?  I work 55 hours a week, spend another 9 a week in the gym, sleep, eat, fuck, and well, somebody has to just add that eighth day to the week that I have been petitioning for years to get.  But it does need it, so I guess I'll just suck it up and do it.  Fuuuuuuuck.

Still have same crappy job, thanks for not asking.  Apparently the only way I'm going to get another bartending gig is if I buy the fucking bar.  And with my luck that still won't be enough.

OK, enough dicking around.  I have about 45 minutes before I have to go torture myself in the gym before I have to torture myself by standing around pretending I give a rat's ass about my current job which does a mediocre job at best of paying my bills, although my previous legal woes and the financial burden they caused will be taken care of in six days, so at least that will make life a we ebit easier.  Don't care?  Don't blame ya.

12 February 2008

So the hunt begins for a bartending job, and where better to turn than Craig's List?  Alas, weeks later and dozens of resumes sent out have netted me zero - yes, zero, nil, zilch, nada, nein - calls or e-mails back.  I mean, are they even GETTING the fucking things?

After reading post upon post asking for resume and a pic - which means they are looking for girls only - I had enough, and posted this on the job board for food/beverage:

I've sent, what, twenty or thirty resumes out to you buffoons looking for bartenders? And not so much as a "thanks but screw off" e-mail in reply. Not a phone call. Nothing. I apologize if my decade and a half of experience isn't enough for you. Or is it too much? Maybe it's that I have genitalia that protrudes from my body rather than being born with my reproductive organs on the inside. Honestly, I don't know. I mean, if I owned a bar, and I was hiring bartenders, I would at least talk to someone who sent me a resume that had my kind of experience. I would at least interview the poor sonofabitch. But you assclowns can't even afford that much, can you?

No please, don't respond. Just go hire some twenty-one year old blond with big tits who needs a Mr. Boston's guide to make a rum and coke, or some kid straight out of "bartending school" (you can't teach a personality) who has enough hair products on his head to remove the finish from a '66 Cadillac, and when neither of them work out because they can't count to one, or are slow as hell, or continually screw up orders, or spend more time flirting than they do selling, then maybe you'll put up ANOTHER ad looking for a bartender and think, "This time, I'll look for someone who knows what the f&%$ they're doing, instead of some girl with big cans."

Nah, ya won't. What the hell was I thinking?

These were the responses I got from other guys like me:

great post...I've lived all over the country and these fuckers that post "looking for hot bartenders...send a pic" should all be shot and reported to the labor board

I agree with you 100%! I have been looking for work as a bartender for  a while now and cant find a thing. Your right about the jobs all being  given to the young bitches that cant even spell bartender let alone be one. It's making me sicker every day bro. Keep your head up man we will find something....

Saw your add there and I have been thinking the same thing since December I have been sending resumes, I have 16 years experience and I have not gotten 1 response. I believe it is probably because we are guys and I think everyone is looking for that hot female bartender. Good luck in your search

And yes, the hunt continues...

10 February 2008

Hey, the Super Bowl was here.  Sorry, Pats fans, but no Boston triple crown this year for you.  Bad enough my wife is a Red Sox fan.  Look on the bright side, only two other teams in NFL history ever finished the season 18 and 1.  Too bad your 1 was the Super Bowl.  HA!

I'm going to re-vamp the website over the next week or so.  I would like to point out that I have said this a couple of times before and never done it.  It's going to be a frameless website, a little easier to navigate.  I haven't decided on how exactly that's going to happen, considering there are almost 600 different pages to index.  Somehow, I shall persevere.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a bullshit mandatory meeting to go to for work.  Sorry I couldn't be more entertaining.

21 January 2008

The incredible stupidity of the average human being never ceases to amaze me. For example: the restaurant in which I work has a breakfast menu written on chalkboards. One of the items we have is called the "Poached Wild Salmon Omelet." I have had two - count it, TWO - different people ask me if it has salmon in it. They ask because, in the ingredients listed to the right of the name, it doesn't mention salmon. It doesn't mention eggs, either, but that question hasn't been presented yet.

Are you monkeys THAT FUCKIN' DUMB? Seriously? It's amazing that you've made it this far in life without swallowing your own fucking heads. I mean come the fuck on, if you walk into a grocery store and pick up a top sirloin, are you gonna ask the butcher if it has top sirloin in it because there's no ingredients listed saying top sirloin? I didn't write "salmon" in the ingredients on the board because I had hoped that anyone who had the mental capacity to read and understand a menu board would be able to understand that something called a Poached Wild Salmon Omelet has fucking salmon in it. My mistake.  What the fuck ever was I thinking?  No, actually, ma'am, it's a cheeseburger, we just thought it would be fun to call it a Poached WIld Salmon Omelet. Huh-HAH. It's almost enough to make me walk quietly out the door, lie down in the middle of the street, and wait for someone to drive over me.

Thank the Lord that I have the next two days off. 

16 January 2008

Happy fuckin' new year.

OK, less than a month, I'm getting shit back on track.  It's nice to be alive.  Free.  Not in jail.  Don't ask.

I'm feeling the effects of age on my body.  Things hurt that didn't used to hurt.  Other things hurt that I didn't even know I had.  I have diarrhea all the time, but that's probably due to the five billion grams of caffeine I consume every day in order to stay awake through workouts and my mind-numbingly boring job.  I miss bartending, and if anyone knows a bar in the Phoenix area that needs a bartender, I'm in.

I've gotten back together with the ex-missus.  I'll wait while you pick yourself up off the floor because you just fell out of your chair.  There, better?  Put ice on that.  OK, where were we?  Oh yeah.  I'm not going to go off-script here, let me just say that life couldn't be better.  I actually have to look for things to put me in a sarcastic mood.  Takes a lot of energy sometimes, hence the caffeine.

OK, well, love to stay and chat, but I have to bolt.  Places to go, weights to lift, and I have to take another liquidump.  Damn, I miss a good ol' solid shit sometimes...  I could understand if I was drinking, but I haven't had one in how many weeks now?  SonofaBITCH...

21 December 2007

Are you fucking kidding me?  I haven't written anything since the end of July?  Gotta fix that.

Not to play off the whole immigration hot potato that seems to be almost taking center stage for the latest presidential election - you know, where half the country ends up not voting while the other half votes for who they think will fuck up the country the least for four years - but...  I called some company the other day, can't remember who, and the recording said, "For English, press one.  For Spanish, press two."  Not, "para Espanol, marque dos."  If they don't speak English and only speak Spanish, they wouldn't know to press two.  Dumb fuckers.

I really don't have a point to what I'm writing today - no central theme, if you will - but my legions of adoring fans (both of them) want me to write something funny, so I'm writing.  If it's funny, it's accidental.  Sorry.  My bad.

I haven't had a drink in 19 weeks.  Yes, that's right.  Not my choice, more like the state decided I should stay sober for a while.  Long story.  Bottom line, no matter how much I enjoy drinking and how much I don't enjoy dealing with the world sober, wearing a zebra outfit and residing in a cement block for the next few years is much less enjoyable.  Trust me, you don't wanna know.

So, I bought a new car.  Actually, a used car.  It's a 2006.  Anyway, I didn't get the manual, and used to be in the past when I bought a car, I didn't need the manual, because I'm a guy, and guys don't need manuals.  But that all changed with this.  It took me a few hours to realize that the buttons on the bottom of the center console were for the heaters for the front seats.  I also didn't know that it had automatic windshield wipers or headlights that adjust the beam up and down.  I don't know why I need my headlights to adjust like so, but I'm sure one day it'll come in handy.

Luckily, my car did not come with Microsoft Sync.  You've probably seen the ads.  Controls car functions with your voice.  Yeah, because Microsoft has such a good track record with shit that works like it's supposed to.  All I need is another Bill Gates disaster in my life, CONTROLLING MY FUCKING CAR.  Gives a whole new meaning to "system crash."

Well, I'm off to take a shower and go to work.  Merry fuckin' Christmas, and if your kids ask you about Santa Claus, just have them read THIS.  Ho ho fuckin' ho.

24 July 2007

Gay guy goes to the doctor worried about his bald spot.  The doctor tells him, "Well, try this:  take some semen and rub it on the spot, that may help re-grow hair there.  So, the gay guy goes home, jerks off into his hand, and starts rubbing it in.

Just then, his boyfriend walks in.  "What the hell are you doing?" he asks.

The guy replies, "The doctor told me that if I rub semen on my bald spot, it might help hair grow there."

The boyfriend asks, "You think that's really gonna work" 

"Yeah, why not?" he replies.

"Because if that was true, you'd have a pony tail growing outta your ass by now," the boyfriend says.

OK, for all of you who have been complaining that I haven't posted in a while, here I am, so shut the fuuuuuuuuuuuck up.

Between training clients, training me, and bartending four nights a week, My only time (a) to myself and (b) to drink is Sundays.  Even that day, the most holy (and drunk) is spent in the gym at least an hour each time.

And I just chewed two Nodoz and washed 'em down with water, and boyohBOY do I have the jitters right now.  Problem is, one and a half doesn't do anything, and I have a brutal one and a half hour workout ahead, and I know you don't care, but tough titty.

Oh yeah.  6 June we went out for my birthday (an excuse to get drunk on a Wednesday).  We started at The Blue Moose with a couple of beers and shots, went to Karsen's Grill for a beer and a shot, talked to TR (the bartender) for a bit, went to The Billet Bar for a beer and a shot, then to The Coachhouse for a beer and a shot, then Sugar Shack for a beer and a couple of shots, then DJ's, where I had a beer and two shots, then the second half of our group (who for some reason took an extra ten minutes to get a half mile) showed up, ordered me a shot, and I declined, to which they declined my declining, and I did a hightail it for the door and waked home.  I was that fucked up that I didn't want to drink anymore.  I was also so fucked up that a twenty minute walk became... honestly, I don't know.  I just remember swaying from side to side on the sidewalk and thinking, when did my apartment become a ten-mile walk?

Oh, by the way, the elapsed time for that drunk:  four hours.

Now, I have to pick and choose my excursions very, very carefully.  Seems my body reacts not so well that next day to the aftereffects of boozified fun.

Gotta hit the gym now.

6 June 2007

In 2004, Adam Dunn of the Cincinnati Reds set the single-season record of strikeouts by a batter with 195.

I believe that I am on pace to shatter that record this year.  But with women.

I looked on the internet, I Googled it in every way imaginable, but there apparently is no single authority on the mark.  The sad thing is, I'm actually kinda looking forward to breaking the record, whatever it may be.  Call it the masochistic side of me, if you must.

My latest swinging-at-the-moon was a 21 year-old who came in the bar Monday night.  She actually asked me if I wanted to go out.  Now, when Lucy asked Charlie Brown if he wanted to kick the football, he always hesitated, knowing that she was probably gonna pull it away at the last second, but like the eternal optimist, he reluctantly agreed, and would inevitably land flat on his ass while Lucy walked away with the football.  This bit of animation lore is a microcosm for what my life has been life with women over the last few years.  Especially this one.  It started on New Year's Eve, so 2007 decided to fuck with me right out of the gate.  But I digress.  The 21 year-old gave me her number (yes, it actually was her number, not the pizza place down the block), and then... nothing.

Now, usually when a guy has the all-time miserable luck with the "fairer sex" as I have, it can be attributed to two things:  he's either ugly as a motherfucker, or he's trying too hard.  The only huge gaping hole in those two arguments is that (a) I'm not that hideous, as anyone who has met me can attest, and (b) THEY are the ones asking ME out, not the other way around.  They give me their numbers without me asking.  Trust me, I'm the last guy in the room who is going to come on to a girl, because I've stuck my hand in the fire enough to know it burns.

My birthday was last Sunday.  Yeah, thanks for the card, asshole.  Anyway, this happening on the following day, I thought, maybe God was giving me a birthday present, a "sorry for fucking up your birthday for each of the last seven years" kinda thing.  Since (and including) 2000, the time immediately surrounding my birthday has involved me either losing a job, getting screwed out of a job, or ending up in jail.  So far (knock on a fuckin' forest) none of this has happened yet.  Originally I was planning on getting the boys together for a night of drunken debauchery Wednesday night (which just happens to be this evening as I sit here scratching my nuts and typing this... have to remember to clean the keyboard later...)  And after I had made plans with the 21 year-old to go out tonight, I knew better than to cancel the aforementioned alcoholic stupidity with my fools.  Because I've seen this movie before, and I know how it ends.  Girl comes in bar.  Girl thinks I'm cute (or whatever synonym you choose to use).  Girl asks me if I have a girlfriend or a wife or kids.  I say no no and no.  Girl asks me if I want to go out.  I say yes.  I get her number.  Then, apparently, she turns informant on the mob, goes into Witness Protection, and I never hear from her.  Or, we hang out one night, make out a little bit, and THEN she turns informant.  Or, there's my personal favorite: girl hits on me, gets really shithouse fuckin' drunk, and then leaves with some redneck loser.  No number, not even a goodbye.  That one I usually attribute to simply wanting free drinks.  Fuckin' whore.  Whatever minor plot twist gets added or rewritten, it ends the same:  me out drinking with the boys.

So, tonight, wherever you are drinking, be it a bar, a restaurant, your house, or sitting outside the corner store on the curb, remember to wish me a happy - and sexless - birthday. 

Enough griping about the evil gender.

12 May 2007

I want to get this out of the way now so that we can all move on from this.

Poker is not a fucking sport.

I'm tired of turning on ESPN, FOX Sports, et. al. and seeing guys sitting around playing cards.  It's pathetic.  It's not a fucking sport.  It's something that college students do in dorm rooms at 1 a.m. on a Tuesday.  It's what fat guys do in A.C. or Vegas.  It's not an athletic competition.  It doesn't belong on a channel that should be showing sports-related material.  I'd rather watch reruns of a World Series game from 20 years ago between two teams I don't like than watch these losers.  You play cards.  Whoo.

There, I've said my peace.

18 April 2007

OK, I better tell this story before it turns into the blur that most of the rest of my life has become.

Randy, Roger and I went to California for two days.  We're friends, not lovers, asshole, so get those little chuckles right out of your heads.  We left Phoenix at 5 a.m. Wednesday.  None of us had much sleep the night before - I had the most, going down around 11:30, but I kept waking up.  Roger had about three hours, and Randy had about an hour.  The drive there was uneventful.  The first night we stayed at the Renaissance Hollywood Hotel on Hollywood Blvd. and Highland.  I say that only to give a frame of reference to those of you that actually know the area.  We checked in around one or so, and after cleaning up after the drive and relaxing for all of 30 minutes, we decided that the thing to do was... get a drink.

Now, my experience in Hollywood was limited to the immediate area in which we stayed, but I found Hollywood to be very day drinking unfriendly.  We asked a girl at the front desk where a good place to go drinking was.  Her first two suggestions were Lucky Strike (a bowling alley) and The Grill (which sounds very day drinker unfriendly).  I then had to refine my question my basically saying I wanted a shithole in which to drink.  She then recommended The Powerhouse, which is about 200 feet from the hotel.

They were closed.

At this point, Randy realized that he didn't have his wallet and went back to the hotel to get it out of the car, while Roger and I walked down Hollywood looking for a bar that was open.

Couldn't find one.

I then remembered that I have a website that has a page of Drunk Bastard Bars (how bright of me), and found that there was a place called Boardners that someone had sent in.  By chance, it was down a sidestreet we passed.

Closed.

Sonofafuckingbitchwhorefuck...

We has lunch at Miceli's, went back to the hotel, watched a little baseball until it was time for round one... the Dodger game.  Randy bought tickets in the right field bleachers, where they give hot dogs and other ballpark fare away.  The beer wasn't a freebie, and there's nothing I like more than paying ten bucks for a beer.  So I had three.  And three hot dogs, nachos, and a bag of peanuts.  I was feeling a little full.  The right field bleachers at Dodger Stadium are not as fun as the right field bleachers at Yankee Stadium, but at least at the California one they sell beer.  It's only benefit.

So, the game ends, we head back to the hotel, and Randy decided to crash.  He claims he's tired (which he had every right to be) and old (which he was the youngest of the three of us).  This is at 11 p.m.  Roger and I decide to head out and have a couple.  We tried The Powerhouse.  Lots of guys.  Lots.  I'm not saying it was a gay bar, but there were way too many french fries and not enough onion rings.  So, after a quick drink we decide to try our luck at another venue.  We walked across the street to Lucky Strike (the aforementioned bowling alley).  Now, when someone says to me "bowling alley," I don't think "dress code."  But this is Hollywood after all, and after realizing that (a) we didn't violate the laundry list of deportment regulations and (b) the crowd looked way too uppity to want to drink with, we decided to head to Boardners.

Boardners is a decent enough place.  Good music, old forties-or-fifties decor, but why are the TVs showing CGI waves instead of, say, ESPN?  Yes, nothing but computer graphic ocean waves crashing against a computer generated beach.  But they had booze and the bartender, Kelly, was, shall we say, a reason for staying.  Which we did until 2 a.m., me drinking vodka/sodas and double shots of Bushmills.  Thank God the hotel was only three blocks away.

Thursday morning we all got up and showered (separately you asshole...) and went to Tommy's for lunch.  I'd never been to Tommy's, heard about Tommy's, and being the pig that I am, decided that I wanted a Tommy burger for no other reason than to compare it to other burgers I've had.  Tommy's puts chili on everything.  The burgers, the hot dogs, and the fries.  Not that I have any problem with that.  So, we each get a triple and chili cheese fries, and as we're sitting there contemplating how fast these burgers are going to slide right through our digestive tract, we make the Last Man Standing bet.  The last one to take a shit gets drinks bought for him by the other two.  We'd all had our morning squat, so the playing field was level.  And since we had a long day ahead of us, someone was bound to win.

Let me save you the suspense:  the bet ended with no one crapping.  I didn't go until 6 a.m. the next day, and by then the terms of the bet had ended, because we were leaving in just a few hours, so there was no more drinking to be done.

Back in the car, up Hollywood Blvd. and we decided to drive to Santa Monica on the way to Ventura, go see the pier, ya know, touristy shit.  That's when Randy's car died.  Within crawling distance of the pier, his Maxima decides to not start.  So we wait with him while the tow truck comes to jump the car.  It's either the battery (easy enough to deal with) or the alternator (a fuck of a problem).  Roger and I could have walked over to the pier and looked around while Randy waited with the car, but dammit, we're one for all and all for one.  And besides, how would we know Randy didn't run off and cheat on the bet while we were gone?

Tow truck shows up, car starts right up, and after shutting the car off and it starting right up again, we figure it had to be the battery.  And since it's a six year-old battery, we head to a Kragen to get a new one.  An hour later (and gale-force winds blowing shit in our faces in the parking lot) later, we get the SECOND battery in after the first one was a dud.  It's now 3 p.m.  We've lost two hours dealing with the fuckin' car, the pier will have to wait until another time, and we still have to get to Ventura.  We have no idea where we're going, really, we're trying to get to the PCH, and we're bobbing and weaving through Santa Monica trying to find it.  Finally we ask two women where the PCH is.  And just as we're asking, we see the sign saying PCH this way.  Nothing like asking for directions when you're right in front of what you're looking for.  Like standing at 34th and Fifth asking someone where the Empire State Building is.

So we get on the PCH, and after a quick sidestop at a Vons to get a six pack (because we need beer), we head up to Ventura.  Again, an uneventful drive.  We check in to the hotel, Randy and Roget decide to get beer and In-N-Out Burger, I stay in the room to watch a little baseball.  Randy and I each get 4x4s - quadruple cheeseburgers.  Roger wimps out and gets a double-double.  Oh, and cheese fries.  You can start counting the amount of fat floating through my bloodstream if you'd like, but it does get worse.  So we kill another six pack and the burgers and head to the Social D show, which was the reason for this trip in the first place.  After seeing the line wind around the block we head to the bar across from the theater, Sans Souci, which is full of a lot of people who saw the line wind around the block and decided, like us, that their time would be better spent with cocktail in hand.  So we drink for about an hour and head over right before the first band, I Hate Kate, starts.  We had four rounds of drinks at the show.  Doesn't seem like a lot, but none of us were going to fight the crowd to get more booze once Social D came on.  Best crowd I've ever seen at a concert.  I think ever.  And I've been to a few.

So now it's about 11, and the buzz is wearing off, and we head back to Sans Souci to get the last three hours of drinking that we can.  Between the three of us, we dropped about $400 on bar tabs between the before, during, and after-show drinking.  We drank with a guy named Goat.  I'm assuming that wasn't his Christian name.  The after-show drinking got very blurry.  By 2 a.m., the three of us were bombed out of our minds.  There's something about chasing vodka-sodas down with Jager bombs that just doesn't seem intelligent, but then again, I don't drink because I need to get smarter.  We head back to the hotel for the after-drinking after-show foodfest that we'd already planned, but In-N-Out was closed.  Randy and I planned on getting 8x8s.  You can just imagine how disgustingly yummy those would've been.  But we settled for McDonald's, since they were open.  We ordered six double quarter pounders with cheese.  Oh yeah fries too.  Got back to the hotel, stumbled into the room, and I had three.  Yes.  Three.  My heart was pounding the entire night.  I thought I was going to have a fuckin' heart attack right there.  I don't even want to contemplate the total amount of fat that I consumed that day.  If I'd cut myself, it probably would've come out yellow.

The next day was the drive home, but first Randy had to take the car to a mechanic because, as it turns out, his alternator was indeed shot.  Luckily, he remembered his car having trouble starting the night before.  I had a vague memory of it.  Roger doesn't even remember getting back to the hotel.  We didn't leave until two that afternoon, and Randy and I had to be at work at 4 and 9, respectively.  We were late, it need not be said.  Hitting rush hour traffic from Ventura all the way to fucking San Bernadino didn't help, and we even tried bypassing LA proper to make it easier.

So, that was the trip.

13 March 2007

So, as I'm apt to do every few months, I posted my "Who's leg do I have to hump to get a job?" posting on Craigslist.  Not that I don't like being a bartender, but every once in a while I entertain fantasies about, you know, normal work hours and a steady (and decent-sized) paycheck.  So what usually happens is I put the posting up, I get a dozen responses saying how creative the posting is and please oh please send me your résumé, and then I do, and then I never hear from them again.  Or I find out that they're hiring for people to stand on streetcorners dressed like a chicken.  And while that may be how Brad Pitt was discovered, those types of rags-to-riches stories are somewhat few and far between.

This week was no different.  One response was from the Arizona Tribune.  She didn't say who she was or what company she worked for, but I, as a person with an IQ north of six, deduced it from her e-mail address.  Asked if I had any sales experience.  Not wanting to sell newspapers or anything to do with them, I didn't reply.  Two days later she e-mailed me again, asking me to send my résumé.  I obliged.  Her response was:

We’re looking for a newspaper advertising sales rep. Doesn’t sound like you have had any experience along those lines.

Not that she wasn't right.  I don't have any experience as an advertising sales rep.  But c'mon, how hard can it be?  I originally had simply deleted the e-mail, seeing as I didn't want to work for the Tribune in the first place, but the asshole in me took control for a moment, and I replied with this:

You're absolutely right.  And when the government hired me to screen baggage and cargo for explosives at JFK, I didn't have any experience with that, either, but I did such an exemplary job that they had me train all 2,000 screeners at the airport on that very task, and I would consider that a much more intricate - and potentially much more lethal - position than selling newspaper ads.  But I would like to thank you for proving my point about the short-sightedness of employers.

It's noon, and I'm trying to get enough energy to drag my ass out of bed.  Between working late and back-to-back days in the gym, my body doesn't seem to want to get horizontal.

22 February 2007

And once again, no, I'm not dead.  I've been doing my best to ignore this site, but all you assholes that keep sending me shit have managed to clutter my goddamned inbox, so I really have no choice but to do some website work.

A hangover for me now has become an all-day extravaganza.  It starts out around 5:30 in the morning with (a) a heart rate of about 150 coupled with (b) the need to pound down about a gallon of fucking water.  Maybe the Jack In The Box at 2 a.m. had something to do with that.  Who knows.  This is followed by waking up inexplicably at 8 a.m. and not being able to go back to sleep.  What follows is an entire solar cycle of feeling like shit, not so bad as to puke but just enough to make me wish I could switch bodies for a while with, say, someone who had just been run over by a steamroller.  And, of course, the need to eat every fatty piece of edible material in the house.  A peanut butter sandwich, a grilled cheese, and a bowl of clam chowder for lunch?  What the fuck, I'm hung over.  And you would think they'd get easier after drinking four of the previous eight nights, but nooooooooooooooo.  At least my success rate at pulling ass out of the bar has increased dramatically, so I've got that going for me.  Which is nice.

23 December 2006

Yeah, I know, you all think that I died.  No, you couldn't be that lucky.  I've been a bit busy, between training clients and bartending and working out, I barely have the time to play with myself, let alone jerk around with the website.

I've learned that my tolerance for alcohol, especially hard alcohol, has equaled my tolerance for stupidity: nonexistent.  Went out last Wednesday, had four - FOUR - vodka sodas, four - FOUR - shots of 100 proof root beer schnapps, and I was a blithering mess.  The hangover lasted until Friday morning, that's how bad it was.  I think it's time to bow to age and realize that I can't drink like three indians on payday like I used to do.

16 November 2006

I hate phones ringing.  I hated them working in bars, because I knew whoever was calling was calling for someone else.  Or, it was my boss calling for me.  Which was worse.  But I digress.  I hate phones ringing in the middle of movies, when the Yankees are down two in the ninth with the bases juiced, and just about every other moment conceivable.  Add to that list at the top spot right in the middle of a dream where I'm banging Eva Longoria.  And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't fall back asleep and right into that dream where I left off.  The dream where I'm being chased by a vampire who looks remarkably like my fifth grade English teacher, no problem.  So, everyone, do me a fuckin' favor and stop calling me when I'm sleeping.

And by the by, she is so hot with her feet behind her head.  Eva, not the vampire-teacher.  Funny thing, though, she tasted like a pillow...

11 November 2006

Miller Lite "Man Laws":  gay.

Now you may ask, "How could that be gay?"  And, "Why isn't this in the 'Is That Gay?' section?"  Have you heard the radio ads?  For something as "manly" as the "Man Laws" are supposed to be, you would think that the name of the "reporter" would be a little more masculine than Carl St. Phillip.  Carl St. Phillip sounds like a homo name.  Carl St. Phillip is the name of an interior designer.  Carl St. Phillip sounds like a guy on Broadway.  Carl St. Phillip, however, is NOT a "manly" name.  Second, the latest ad I've heard"  Banning toll sips for passing another guy's beer down the row at a game?  Would you, a heterosexual male, put your mouth on another guy's beer?  You fuckin' faggot, go get your own.  Why not just suck the beer right out of his mouth?  Ya know, like snowballing, but different.

2 November 2006

OK, you can all shut the fuck up now and stop e-mailing me asking me if I'm dead, in jail, both, or something behind door number three.  I moved last week (back) to Phoenix, so I was a little busy for a few weeks.  But now I'm all settled in, and I have the wireless connection up and running, so I can use my computer to tell you to, well, shhhhhhh.

The drive here was fun.  I left New York Friday at 3:51 a.m.  I know that because I wrote it down.  I wanted to see how long it would take me.  I stopped only for gas.  I ate (using the word "ate" in the loosest of senses) milk, V8, water, and Met-Rx bars.  I got to Rolla, Missouri before I realized that I was too tired to go on, that was about 17 hours.  Rolla, for those of you who don't know where that is (and for the love of God, why would you want to?) is about 100 miles west of St. Louis.  I had been thinking all afternoon, "Dammit, I can make it straight through, I can DO THIS!"  And until the sun went down, I kept that thought alive.  After the sun went down, however, my eyelids became the density of, well, a newly-formed black hole, and trying to drive through the construction on I-44 in that condition was just left of suicidal.  So I stopped for six hours and eighteen minutes.  That was enough time to feed the dog, sleep, shower, load the car back up, and get back on the road.

The first day and second day were different in this respect:  on the first day, you're trying to see how far you can get, and 1,090 miles (500 of which were through a heavy downpour) seemed pretty good.  However, on day two you're staring at 1,400 miles to go, and all I could think of was, "Goddammit my ass is killing me, how much fucking farther do I have to fucking drive?  SonofaBITCH!"  Blood had begun to stop flowing to certain parts of my body, like my legs, ass, and brain.  Every state line that passed seemed a little miracle in and of itself.  When I finally crossed into Arizona, the sun, the fucking sun, was going down, but I was damned if I was going to stop mere hours from where I was going to end up.  Somewhere along I-40, I decided that I was going to pull over and sleep for an hour, just an hour, just so I could keep my fucking eyes open.  Yeah, YOU try sleeping in a Miata.  Ha.  Maybe if I was four feet tall, but I'm six feet and 205, and the only way to get comfortable at all would have involved putting CJ (that would be my dog) outside the car, and well, that wasn't happening.  So I ended up having to stop every hour and a half to get out and bounce around trying to stay awake.  I ended up getting to Phoenix at 11:30 p.m., forty-six hours after I'd left New York.

Now, any sane person (and even those whose sanity has gone on permanent vacation) would have topped off the trip with a much-needed sleep of, oh, fourteen hours.  Not me, boys and goyls, I got to the house, showered, and went out drinking.  Dammit, I had an hour and a half until the bars closed, I was gonna make the most of it.  And that, if nothing else, should justify why I have a site called drunkbastard-dot-net.

So, now I'm back, and I just have to find work.

18 September 2006

I hate to sound like a broken record, and I don't want people to start to say that I'm one note, but could you fucking Muslims PLEASE stop proving the rest of the world right time and time again on what a bunch of fucking animals you are?  Please?  You really wanna piss us off?  Be nice.  Trust me, we're the United States, we won't know how to react.  Start singing the Star-Spangled Banner and waving the American flag (you know, the way they come from the flagmaker - not on fire), you will send the American government into a fuckin' tizzy.

But please, don't let me stop you from shooting nuns, blowing up cafes and mosques, killing each other, killing innocent people - please, allow me to take a step back and let you go on.  I wouldn't want to get in the way of stitching together that sleek and fashionable Semtex-lined jacket for your holy fuck jifuckinhad trip to Rome or wherever.

What's good for the goose is good for the gander, right?  Every time they come out with a down with the U.S. rant or a bomb goes off and another G.I. or civilian dies, we just pop off and whack an imam.  Or two.  Gonna suck for you when the shoe's on the other foot, huh?  You wanna be a bunch of fucking animals and start killing people whenever someone looks at you the wrong way, fine, we have guns, too.  I say we lower ourselves to their level.  Praise Jesus and pass the motherfuckin' ammunition.  Yeah, maybe lowering ourselves to them means that we're no better and they win, but guess what:

(1)  There won't be so many of them at the awards ceremony;

(2)  I'd rather be alive and an asshole than recognized posthumously for my benevolence in turning the other cheek.

Was it last week when they showed almost 200 Taliban fighters in the crosshairs of a UAV but we didn't fire on them and send every one of those camelfucking sandniggers to hell because they were in a cemetery?  Yeah, nice one, way to level the battlefield.  I'm sure that al Qaeda would show the same spirit.  And not for nothing, sooner or later they'd have to leave the cemetery, right?  Can't you bomb the shit out 'em then?

So there, I've said my peace:  organized religion is evil in all its forms and manifestations.  And for the love of God, cut it out, you're not impressing anyone by blowing shit up and shooting shit up.  You're just giving us all the more reason to despise your very existence.

14 September 2006

I watch television.  24, House, Bones, Aqua Teen Hunger Force - my TiVo does pay for itself.  With the new season upon us, we have a bunch of new shows to watch.  And is there a worse pile of shit to hit the airwaves than Justice?  I thought it was God-awful bad when I saw the season preview ad, but I thought, "Well, Fox seems to be getting their shit together, maybe it's not bad."  I watched two - TWO - minutes of the first episode.  William Shatner thinks those guys are overacting.  The writing is SO fucking bad, the acting SO fucking overdone, that I shut it off.  I saw the previews for this week's episode.  Looks even dumber.  You want a good law show, watch Boston Legal.  Alan Shore is my hero.

5 September 2006

There are certain people I just can't give a shit about, like this one:

Terror lawyer could get life behind bars

BY BARBARA ROSS
DAILY NEWS STAFF WRITER

A civil rights lawyer convicted of helping a notorious terrorist client is frightened at the prospect of spending the rest of her life behind bars, one of her attorneys said yesterday.

"She's scared," Jill Shellow-Levine said of Lynne Stewart, 66, who learned this weekend that Manhattan federal prosecutors recommended she get a 30-year prison term when she is sentenced Oct. 16.

Stewart was convicted in February 2005 of aiding terrorists by repeatedly helping her client, Sheik Omar Abdel-Rahman, get messages to supporters from behind bars. He is serving a life sentence for plotting to blow up city landmarks.

Assistant U.S. Attorney Andrew Dember said in a 129-page sentencing recommendation to the court that Stewart "deserves to be severely punished" for "blatantly and repeatedly violating the law."

"Stewart did not walk a fine line of zealous advocacy and accidentally fall over it; she marched across it and into a criminal conspiracy," Dember wrote. "The government obviously did not prosecute Stewart because she is a zealous advocate, but rather for blatantly and repeatedly violating the law."

Stewart's lawyers argued in July that she should get no jail time because of her age, her breast cancer, which was diagnosed last year, and the nature of her offense. They said a harsh sentence would frighten other skilled lawyers away from representing notorious clients.

Shellow-Levine said she's not sure what Stewart, a grandmother of 13, expects Manhattan Judge John Koeltl to do next month.

"Her life is very uncertain at the moment on virtually every plane. .... Having breast cancer and facing life in jail - being scared would be a rational response," Shellow-Levine added.

Prosecutors have urged that Stewart's two co-defendants, Mohamed Yousry, an Arabic interpreter, and Ahmed Abdel Sattar, a U.S. postal worker, get 20 years and life, respectively.

Once again, a woman tries to defy accountability.  Let her rot in hell.

29 August 2006

About 6:30 a.m. yesterday, I was walking around the corner at 54th and 3rd and I drop my clipboard in front of this falafel stand.  While I'm picking up all my shit I look over at the cart.  And I look again.  Thank God for camera phones...

Is the world ready for gay falafel?  Only time - and the sales numbers - will tell.

And just in case you thought that I had managed to keep going without finding an assclown to add to the Assclown Page, well, you were right:  until a few days ago.  I'm gonna post the entire thing in a few days.

26 August 2006

I've had enough with God.  Really.  I think it's about time someone takes him to task for his track record.

First of all, take responsibility for your mistakes.  Whenever anything good happens, the pious are quick to attribute it to God.  "Oh, what a wonderful rainbow, isn't God wonderful?"  "Look at that cute little baby, that shows God at work."  And what about when that baby grows up, straps a bomb jacket to itself, and blows himself and thirty or forty people up with him in a Baghdad cafe.  Where's God to take the credit for THAT?  Where was God on September 11?  Where was God in Poland in 1939?  God is George Steinbrenner.  When everything goes right, it's God.  When the shit hits the fan, all of a sudden it's the evil that men do.  If I go to a restaurant and order a burger and the burger sucks, who do I blame, the cook (God) or the cow (mankind)?  I'm blaming the cook.  Yeah, maybe the beef turned, but it's the cook's job to make sure it doesn't get served.  Why doesn't the Almighty have the same quality control?  There are six billion people on Earth.  If you're a believe-the-dogma religious nutfuck, that's all there is in the Universe.  Which, of course, still revolves around the Earth to you.  But to the rest of us, the ones who don't believe what Father Slippyfist taught us in Sunday school, there are probably all kinds of planets with something akin to people on them.  But for the matter of this badly-worded argument, let's stick to terra firma.  Six billion people.  As of right now.  Since the dawn of Man, there have probably been about 100 billion people born and died.  One hundred billion.  And not one of them has been as perfect as the guy who made it.  Not one.  If I was a gardener (as God has been likened to from time to time) and I had all these fuckin' weeds growing, my skills as a gardener would be questioned.  And don't point at Jesus, because you don't even know where he was for about eighteen years, OK?  When you can explain how a kid goes from twelve to thirty in the turn of a page and still call it "good storytelling," then I'll listen to your argument.  I know if I (or you) walked around telling everyone how great I was but couldn't account for where I was for almost two decades, some people would be asking questions. 

One hundred BILLION people.  That's one hundred BILLION mistakes.  If I said I was a perfect bartender and made one hundred BILLION drinks badly in a row, I'd probably no longer be a bartender.  Actually, I'm guessing my tenure as a mixologist would cease somewhere south of that number.  But God can still somehow walk around with the "perfect" moniker while six billion errors, mistakes, and fuckups stumble around on this blue-green rock thinking that they know anything about anything.

And why is it that evolution and creationism are SO in contradiction to each other?  Evolutionists (you know, like me) contend that all life evolved from a one-celled organism named Herb.  OK, maybe not.  However, we keep finding things, like the fossilized remains of creatures that died millions of years ago.  And less-evolved versions of man.  You know, Lucy and all that.

But evolutionists, the God-is-great-spewing mental midgets that they are, can't get around that.  To them, God whipped up the Earth and everything on it in a KitchenAid mixer about three weeks ago.  Man didn't evolve from apes, fish, toenail clippings, or anything else.  Those fossils?  A worldwide scam, planted by the minions of Satan to try and drive a wedge between man and God.  The mere fact that religious nutbags actually believe that archaeologists buried fake bones simply to disprove Creation is just fucked.  I'm not sure, do they still believe that the Earth is the center of the Universe and that all those lights in the sky are angels looking down at us?  Because if they DON'T, then how do they differentiate between the bullshit?  At one time the Catholic Church believed that this hunk of rock was the epicenter of all Creation.  There were no other planets.  No other "suns."  We were the center of everything.  In 1615 Galileo was "convinced" to recant his devilish theory that the Earth WASN'T the center of the Universe.  Funny what you can get someone to say when you've got their testicles in a vise and their nipples are on fire.  Believe what we want you to believe or die.  Fantastic.

Ask any two-year old if they're the center of the Universe and they'll say yes.  When they turn three or four, they start to figure it out.  So, your average Bible-touting evolution-believing zealot has the intellect of a two-year old.

So here's my point:  why can't creation and evolution coincide?  Why couldn't God have created the world and the stuff in it, and then life evolved?  Oh yeah, because that would mean that we are NOT part of "God's Plan."  That would mean that we are NOT what God specifically intended.  You read the paper today?  Or yesterday?  You think God intended any of this?

'Horrible way to die':  The Long Island woman whose husband was fatally shot before her eyes by a madman tearfully mourned her family's "big loss" yesterday as she clutched the love of her life's burial clothes.  (The gunman targeted cars on the Cross Island Parkway because they were red.  Good thing I wasn't on the CIP that day.  Me and my red car would've just been asking for it.  The guy in the article died from a bullet wound in his neck.)

Fox News Journalists Free After Declaring Conversion:  JERUSALEM, Aug. 27 — Two journalists kidnapped in Gaza were released unharmed on Sunday after being forced at gunpoint to say on a videotape that they had converted to Islam.  (See?  Believe in my God or I will kill you in the name of my all-loving deity.  You fuckin' towelhead pigfuckers..."

Shiite Militia Clashes With Iraqi Forces, Killing 15:  BAGHDAD, Iraq, Aug. 28 — Members of a Shiite militia killed at least 15 Iraqi soldiers in fierce fighting today in the southern city of Diwaniyah, Iraqi officials said.  Some of the soldiers were executed in a public square after they ran out of ammunition, said Maj. Gen. Othman al-Ghanimi, the commander of the Iraqi army in the area. He said that the fighting began overnight after soldiers arrested a man linked to the Mahdi Army, a militia loyal to Moqtada al-Sadr.  (I'm so glad we've devoted lives and valuable resources to give these sandniggers the freedom to kill each other.)

You think that THIS is what a sane, all-loving, all-knowing deity would intend for its creation?  Really?  Would you be able to wake up every morning and hear that you're kids were going through this and not call or lend a helping hand?  "Oh look, forty people dead in a suicide bombing.  Maybe I'll go water the azaleas."

I think God took one look down here about 498 A.D., shook his head, and said, "Eh, fuck it."  We're a castoff.  We're a mistake.  We're the jar of mayonnaise at the back of the fridge that' everyone's forgotten about and is turning blue and green and growing mold.  We're not chosen, we're flawed.  Seriously.  If we were a diamond, we couldn't find a buyer at a flea market in central Jersey at 3 a.m. if a bus full of blind jewelers pulled up with hundred dollar bills falling out of their pockets.  A single person can - CAN - be a wonderful thing.  Man, as an group, however, is a greedy, spiteful, stupid creature.  Give that creature an ethos and a sense of superiority and you have the Middle East.  The problem is, there are a dozen different groups.  Each one thinks they are superior.  And each one thinks everyone else deserves to die.  A group isn't as intelligent as its smartest member, but rather is as stupid as its most dimwitted.  The herd moves as slow as its slowest member, and is just as dumb.  Put Forrest Gump in a Mensa meeting and in ten minutes the whole bunch to a one would be wandering around saying that life is like a box of chocolates. 

I've said it before and I'll say it again.  Organized religion is the work of Satan.  Hah.  There, I said it.  Catholicism, Hinduism, Judaism, every single one has been spawned by the devil.  They're not shooting and blowing each other up in that cesspool of the planet we like to lovingly call "The Middle East" over the Yankees-Red Sox series or who was the best "American Idol" winner.  They're doing it over religion.  Why?  Because my religion is better than yours, and if you don't believe what I say is true, then here, have some Semtex.  Religion is simply a way for one person or a group of people to control the masses, except without the legitimacy of a government or national borders.  Or any shred of rationality, sanity, or intelligence.  Just get enough morons to believe the same thing, be willing to die for it, and whamo! a religion is born.  I seriously doubt the intentions of the world's religious leaders past, present, and future.  I think that when the day's over and all the tithings have been put to bed, all they care about is what's in the coffers and how many people they blindly control.  They are not concerned about the glory of God, they're only concern is the glory of themselves.

Nice.  I'm sure that is EXACTLY what an omnipotent, omniscient, all-loving Supreme Being wanted.  One of two things is possible:  one, it IS what God wanted.  In which case, God is a mean kid with a magnifying glass standing over an anthill.  The other option - and this is one that my skeptical yet something-other-than-this believing ass would like to believe is true - is that it ISN'T what God wants.  In which case, when the fuck is he going to step up and put an end to it?  How many more times does God have to turn on CNN and see what's going on in the soufflé he made before he steps in and fixes it?  If dad is taking care of the birthday party for a seven-year old, and in the course of the birthday party the dog is shaved, one kid drowns, the house is partially burned to the ground, and little Bobby Fuckface gets into the dresser drawer and starts shooting kids with dad's .45, who's to blame - the kids or the dad?  Well, if you're a religious whackjob and "dad" is "God," well, of COURSE you blame the kids, right?  Couldn't have been DAD'S fault.  He's perfect.

OK, I'm sure God has better things to do than listen to me babble on.  There's an IED on the side of the road he has to make sure goes off in a few hours, killing a few soldiers, I'm sure.  There must be some brainwashed cameljockies somewhere planning on blowing up packed airplanes that need God's help.  Right now, God's got a lot on his plate - he has to help Iran build nuclear weapons, make sure Hezbollah garners enough support to maybe lob a few more rockets into Haifa, perhaps a car bomb outside a preschool in Fallujah... the Man is BUSY.  Give him a break.  God has a lot on His plate.

Then again, I think religion gives us the wrong reasoning to be religious in the first place.  I was raised Catholic.  Do evil and go to Hell.  Reward and punishment.  There is no morality in doing something so you can get a cookie.  A dog rolling over isn't doing it because it's the moral thing to do, he does it because he's going to get a piece of bacon for doing it.  We do things not because we want to, not because it's right, but because there'll be hell to pay - literally - if you don't. 

God:  "Thou shalt not commit murder."
Man:  "Why?"
God:  "Well, because you shouldn't it's not nice."
Man:  "Sorry God, not good enough."  **BLAMO!**

God:  "Thou shalt not commit murder."
Man:  "Why?"
God:  "Well, because you shouldn't it's not nice."
Man:  "Sorry God, not good enough."
God:  "OK, then how about this, meat with eyes?  Commit murder and you will spend the whole of Eternity burning in the fires of Hell."

Being a good and moral person shouldn't be built on an incentive package.  You should be nice to each other because you should be nice to each other, not because your religion promises you your very own milkshake pool of the flavor of your choice when you die.

OK, I've had enough picking on the "pious."  What else can I spew about?

9 July 2006

I know, I know, you're all thinking, "Where the hell has Kenny been?"  All three of you.  Anyway, I've been really, really busy.  That has apparently changed, and I'll have plenty of more time to lie around the house, play Civ IV, and basically be a bum, waiting slowly for death to come and take me for a ride.  Hopefully that happens way, way in the future, but who are we to cheat it?

I was really busy with being a personal trainer (no, it's not gay), but a couple of my clients dropped out (poverty), and a couple are on vacation, so that leaves me with plenty of spare time.  And bartending has proved to be less than profitable this summer as anticipated, but I still have to show up for the same amount of time as I would if I was making real money.  I was also considering killing my car and buying a new one, but since the money faucet has gone from a raging torrent to a trickle, I'm just going to gradually fix my little bitch car (which, when it's in shape, I love).  It just needs a cooling fan relay switch.  Thank God it went out in the middle of summer.  The stopgap for such a dilemma is driving with the heater blowing full blast.  Takes some of the heat out of the cooling system.  And blows it directly onto you.  Which isn't so bad in, say, January, when it's colder than a witch's tit.  It's July.  And even with the top down, it still makes driving miserable.  Oh yeah, and it needs a tune up (actually, it needs a new engine), a clutch, brakes, shocks, the passenger door lock tweaked so it'll actually lock, a new soft top, weatherstripping around both doors and the roof rail, and a couple of minor things I can't remember right now.  Roughly the same as a down payment on a new Ford Mustang GT convertible, which is what I had my sights locked on before the money truck stopped coming by every day.

So what else?  Bought a new computer, my bankruptcy should be just about finalized, and I'm going to Denver on Friday to see Social Distortion at Red Rocks.  A trip I had planned when the money was good and plentiful.  If I knew then what I know now, I'd keep my ass right here this coming weekend, but plans have been made and tickets bought, so I have little choice but to go.  And in the immortal words of P.J. O'Rourke, "It is better to spend money like there is no tomorrow than to spend tonight like there is no money."  Even if there is no money.

Well, that's pretty much it.  Haven't been to a Yankee game this season, haven't been to the beach once... just par for the course.  Another summer of all work and no fuckin' play.

4 June 2006

The one good thing about birthdays for me is that it gives me a perfect excuse to lie around the house the next day and do absofuckinglutely nothing.  My biggest dilemma is waiting for the pizza place to open up.

Since I've been personal training, I've posted ads on Craigslist.  You know Craigslist, it's like the bus station of the Internet.  In the words of Obi Wan Kenobi, "You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villiany."  After reading a few posts you feel unclean, no matter what board you go to.  But I digress.  I had moderate success with getting clients, but wanted to try something different.  In the last ad, I posted my phone number, figuring that it would save me playing e-mail tag with people.

Wow.  Was THAT a mistake.

My phone started ringing at 7:30 a.m.  In that time, I had one guy who is a dancer and is trying out for a revue in Vegas with four other guys (and a girl, why I can't think) in which he wears a cute blue sequined bikini.  Another one asked me if I would train him in his house (which I do) and if I would work out with him (which I don't), because he "liked to see the muscles move."  Oh, read on, my good cyberfriend, it gets better.  The next phone call, twenty minutes later, was from a guy with some faggoty French fuckin' accent who told me he was a photographer doing a black and white art album and wanted to know if I'd model for him.  I told him I don't.  He told me that it wasn't pornographic and he treats the body as a work of art.  I thought, but did not verbalize, the fact that I didn't want him anywhere near me with his brush.  The next call was an hour later from a guy asking me if I would pose for him, oh, nothing sexual, and he'd pay me $150 an hour.  The last one was somewhat anticlimactic and asked me if I did training in his house, and asked me what I looked like, and then started to sound like he was drooling.  So I went and edited the phone number out of the posts.

Fuckin' whackjobs, Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle stick.

16 May 2006

The lottery.  Everyone has plans for the money that they have about as much of a chance of winning as the chance of being struck by lightning while having sex with Marisa Tomei on the back of a camel in the middle of Antarctica:  none.  However, we all like to dream.  My favorite people are the ones who say that they wouldn't quit their job, because they just have this inner drive to produce.

What a bunch of bullshit.  Fuck them.

Allow me to tell you what I would do if and (please God) when I end up with a check for millions from the New York State Lottery Commission:

First, I'm buying an island in the Pacific.  There goes a million.  Probably less, but I like to overestimate.  I would have another million in a trust account with a company to airdrop supplies to me every other month.  The reason they would have to be airdropped is because there will be a fortified fence a hundred feet out from the shore all the way around the island.  Figure another million for that, just to be on the safe side.  About ten feet high, razor wire, the works.  Oh, there'll be a way to reach the shore via a gate, but it will be protected by automatic Gatling guns like they have on Aegis cruisers.  No one gets close without me allowing it.  Power, you say?  Solar panels with massive battery backups for those cloudy days.  Another few hundred thousand to Amazon for a library of DVDs and CDs.  Fifty grand to Best Buy for entertainment and stuff - DLP television, stereo, fridge, oven, you know, the necessities.  Water?  One island I saw had spring water, but I'll have a desalinization plant built just for me.  They're not as expensive as they used to be.  Of course, I would need a fifty foot yacht and a seaplane to reach the mainland if needed.  I can't fly or sail, but I can pay for lessons.  I won the fuckin' lottery, after all.  A satellite phone and satellite dish for picking up television signals from wherever I can will allow me to talk to people (like the company doing the airdrops if I want to change my order) or so I can watch the news and see how badly all of you douchebags are fucking up the planet.  Oh, and my dog.  Of course.  Better call PetsMart and have them send some dog food with the airdrop.  An internet connection may be tricky, but I should have plenty of money left to figure SOMETHING out.  Keep a couple mil in the bank... just in case.  The rest, I give away.  Hire companies to renovate downtrodden homes.  Build parks.  Clean up shit.  Hire someone to whack Osama bin Laden and that al-Zarqawi or however you spell that sandnigger's name, considering that Dubya and the boys can't do it.  Or won't.  Hard to keep a country in fear if the focal point of fear is gone, right?  Isn't that why Stalin kept rumors going that Hitler might have survived the end of WWII even though the Soviet Army had seized his remains and had positively identified the body?

And once that's done, I go to the island with the dog, lock the gate, arm the guns... and wait until death from hopefully a ripe, old age.  This is how much I have come to loathe the human race as a whole.  Maybe a doctor on retainer and speed dial on the sat phone, just in case.  Maybe it's just a male PMS sort of thing, but I am sick and tired of just about everyone.  And anyone that I like (the few, the precious few) that wants to visit, just call ahead.  Free island vacation.  Everyone else, have fun watching Revelations come true.  I'll be in a hammock.  Drunk, probably.

9 May 2006

I was running errands in the city yesterday and time to kill before lunch, so I walked over to Lincoln Center where David Blaine was in a huge fishbowl.  I didn't watch the TV special about it, because I really don't care how long he can hold his fucking breath, but it was a good diversion.  For about ninety, ninety-one seconds.  There were people just standing there, staring intently at it.  Him.  It.  Just standing there.  Like they were watching something actually happen, rather than some guy in scuba gear in a fishbowl.  And I thought to myself, I could see standing here staring intently at this.  If, perhaps, Jenna Jameson was in the tank.  Not only would I be there with video camera in hand (and no, there wouldn't be ANYTHING in the other hand... until I got home... but anyways...) for hours on end, but I would ask to be allowed to drink the water in the tank when the show was over.  But that's just the way I roll.

6 May 2006

Rush Limbaugh shut down our site.

Allow me to clarify that statement.  On Rush Limbaugh's radio show on Friday, the topic of conversation at the end of the show was Ted Kennedy's kid and the DWI cover-up story.  Now, I have to preface this by saying that I didn't hear it.  My brother heard it and told me.  During the conversation, a caller had asked about ways to get rid of a hangover.  Rush said that there's this website called drunkbastard.net.  I can only guess that this was about 2:45 p.m. Eastern, because right after that traffic went batshit.  The website used over 10 gigabytes of bandwidth that day, so it was suspended the next day.  So, Rush Limbaugh shut us down.

20 April 2006

I really don't have anything to say.  I heard probably the best comeback ever heard on broadcast television ever in the history of mankind.  The show:  House.  Foreman (the black guy), Cameron (the redhead I wanna do nasty things to) and House were talking about a patient who had just gotten a colonoscopy without anesthesia.  Cameron's reply to something Foreman said was something along the lines of you try having a six-foot tube shoved up your anus.  To which House (Hugh Laurie) replied something close to well, first my congratulations to whatever basketball player you dated in college.  I still giggle when I think of that.  God I love perversion.

I always said if I had to pick three actors to go drinking with, one would be Kiefer Sutherland, and now I know why:

HOLLYWOOD - Kiefer Sutherland is making students sick after learning of a college drinking game related to his hit show 24.

Students must take a shot of a chosen tipple every time Sutherland's character Jack Bauer says, 'Damn it!' and when the actor heard about the game, he decided to play along.

He reveals he started saying the soft curse phrase as many times as he could--including three times in succession.

Sutherland explains, "Boom, boom, boom, and that was just one scene. By the end (of the episode) there had to be 14 'Damn its.'

"I could just see all these college kids going, 'Oh f**k!'"


Sutherland Concerned About His Drinking Habit
Actor Kiefer Sutherland wishes he could control his drinking binges because he's tired of waking up with no recollection of what happened the night before.

The 24 star accepts he has a reputation as a heavy boozer, but insists he only turns to alcohol to unwind.

He says, "It's selfish and self-absorbed and it's a dangerous thing, thinking that if you work really hard, you should be able to reward yourself by going out and getting s**t-faced.

"I should be able to wake up in the morning without going, 'Oh, no! Where's my boot?' or 'Where am I?'

"It's not a very clever way to live, and I don't want to live like that, but it's the kind of trade you have to make."

Article Copyright World Entertainment News Network All Rights Reserved.

11 April 2006

I missed opening day for the first time in how long?  How fucking depressing.  I don't know what sounds worse - that I didn't go because I didn't have the money to go, or that I instead spent the time filling out bankruptcy papers and working out.  Welcome to my hell.  Wipe yer feet, dammit.

I don't know how many of these I've received over the years, but it's a lot.  I also do not have a clue how many more of these I will get before the state steps in and takes my keyboard and mouse away from me, and it must be just as many.

It's the Bill Gates e-mail tracking beta bullshit e-mail.  You know, send this to everyone you know, Microsoft will pay you x dollars per address.  And I am positive that the first time any of us got one, we sent it off thinking, "why not?"  And sooner or later, it is brought to our attention that it's all a bunch of shit.  Or, maybe not... because I still get them.  To this day.  As in, like, just fucking now.  So I sent a reply to everyone that was sent this e-mail:

Please, people, for the love of all that is holy… nay, for the good of humanity… please tell me that none – not a single, solitary, one of you – is going to propagate this myth ONCE AGAIN under the assumption that it is anything but a hoax. A hoax that has been around for, what, ten years now? and never seems to grow old or find new people off of whom to feed.

Bill Gates isn’t going to give you shit. Forward to every living and dead friend, relative, acquaintance, and houseplant you’ve ever had. Go steal e-mail addresses from friends’ contact lists and forward the e-mail to them as well. And then, about a week later, you can go sit by the mailbox and wait for the mailman to come. And to make the scenario completely perfect and accurate, you should be wearing a sandwich board that says “An idiot is wearing this sandwich board.”

I dib you aboo.

--kenny
http://www.drunkbastard.net

Now some of you may think me a bastard for being so nasty about it, after all, it's just an e-mail... or that I'm an insensitive dick.  And, sometimes, yes, I am, thank you very little.  But someone has to nip this in the bud.  Someone has to stand up and say, "You dumb fucks!  Stop it!"

I think I'm developing an immunity to my glaucoma medication.

5 April 2006

I really can't say enough about three-day weekends.  Really.  Two days just don't cut it.

Today the weather went from cool and cloudy to cool and sunny to cool and rainy to cold and snowing to cold and raining to cold and snowing to cool and sunny.  By three p.m.  Just sitting here waiting for the locusts to come out of the friggin' sky.

Organized religion should be abolished worldwide.  Just causes too many problems.

I love my glaucoma meds.  My eyes feel fuckin' awesome right now.

Thank God baseball season started.  Anybody wanna get a pool going on when someone shoots Bonds from the stands?

Eh, I really have nothing to say.  Just wanted to babble.

27 March 2006

I'm sure you are all wondering where I've been.  Well, probably none of you.  But anyway.  I've been lackadaisically studying for a personal trainer certification, working, and laying as low as possible.  My dog had surgery on his ACL, which cost me the same as a new clutch and a new roof for my car.  Other than that, nothing much.  Sorry to waste your time.  I'm going back to bed.  Kenny sleepy.

4 March 2006

I would like to apologize to the cop who gave me a ticket this morning - and the second one in a month - for walking my dog off a leash.  I am sorry that you're such a fucking moron that the police think you are qualified to give tickets to garbage cans and people walking their dogs.  Maybe if you are real good and don't manage to fuck up something that moronic, they'll station you at a preschool.

I mean, how badly do you have to fuck up in the academy (yet still somehow pass) that when you get your assignment, "Hey, sorry there Chuck, you got Sanitation patrol.  Here's something good, though:  you probably won't be there forever!" (and the sound of the entire locker room laughing at him in the background) (hell, even in the foreground)

With all the shit that is going on in the world, and the threats and everything else especially here in this city, they can still manage to deploy manpower to patrol the garbage cans and dog walkers.  There's probably four kids dragging a dead body under a house three blocks away, but than GOD that you ticketed this guy walking a nine-year old Irish Wolfhound. 

Imagine yourself at a bar picking up on some girl:

You:  I'm a cop.
Her:  Oooooh, how exciting! (gets doughy-eyed) What kind of cop?
You:  Sanitation.  I give tickets to people with their garbage improperly located, and if some person dares violate the law of the land and walk his dog off a leash, I will exact justice!
Her:  Have you ever pulled your gun?
You:  Yeah, whew... once I had a standoff with this Frigidaire box that someone had tossed a bunch of newspapers in and regular garbage.  I shot it twice.

I told the schmuck that I didn't have my ID on me and he actually followed me two blocks on foot in freezing weather to stand in front of my house.  I walked upstairs, fed the dog, took my driver's license out of my wallet that I had on me the whole time, and walked outside and handed it to him.  Then went back inside.  Fuck him.

Five minutes later I went to the corner to grab food, he was just walking up to the house and as he handed me the ticket and license actually said, "Have a nice day."  I crumpled up the ticket and tossed it in the first garbage can I saw.  Somehow, I don't see me paying that.

22 February 2006

I was dicking around on the internet today and found a couple of little tidbits from old archived versions of the site.  One was my job hunt in 2001, and another was a collection of "Otis Award" stories.

JOB HUNT STORY

OTIS AWARD STORIES

There, as lazy as I could do it.

I'm at the end of my weekly three-day weekend, and I couldn't want to get back to work less than I do right now.  I have to get out of this bartending bullshit.  It's driving me fucking crazy.

14 February 2006

First of all, I will NOT be wishing any of you Happy Valentine's Day.  Fuck that, and fuck you for thinking it's such a big fucking deal.  Of course, being untethered by a relationship at this point, I can have such a perspective.  However, bitter I'm not.

I heard probably the most fucked up thing I've heard in quite some time.  A friend of someone I work with went to Cambodia.  Now, Cambodia (or Kampuchea, depending on your own personal preference) is a country that has its share of hunger problems, I'm sure.  I don't have the impetus, drive, or desire to look up exactly what the percentages are.  However, he said that you can pay ten American dollars to take an AK-47 and shoot chickens.  This would obviously be a recreational activity for rednecks and inbreds who have tired of lighting firecrackers and shoving them up cats' asses.  Or, more the inbred redneck who has a little extra spending money (obviously Mom turned a few extra tricks last week), you can pay $150 US currency and take a bazooka and shoot a cow.  Now, I'm all for shooting objects with weapons and watching them explode, but I set my limits at toilets, bottles, beer kegs (empty of course), and (dare I say) marksman targets.  Cows?  Yeah, probably looks cool, but tell that to some starving village that you blew away hundreds of pounds of carnivorous joy for a hondo and a half.  So, next time someone comes up to you to donate to the hungry, point them in the direction of the guy with the bazooka outside of Phnom Penh and ask if they'll pay $150 and take the cow and do something more humane like slaughter it and feed people.  They will probably look at you as if several smaller heads had grown from your shoulders next to the one you already have.  Which should give you just enough time to walk away from them.

9 February 2006

The Archives (Cautionary note:  Some of these things, I wrote when I was... very... VERY... drunk.  They probably don't make sense.  Other things were written simply for the purpose of writing SOMETHING, ANYTHING.  I'm too lazy to go and cut out the retarded bits, I'll let you filter them out yourselves.  Have a nice fucking day.)
2002		2003		2004		2005/06
December		December		January		December 05
November		November		February / March
October		October		April
September		August / September		May
August		May to July		June / July
July		April		August/September
June		March