When You Say Something Out Loud, That Makes It True

Today is a special day for you, my dear readers, my victims, my foils and my fools. Today you get to learn about my boss. No, I am not talking about you. You are not now, nor will you ever be, the boss of your twisted narrator. I am talking about the boss at my work. If you didn't already know, I am currently building a house. The alternate title for this post was "the house that Don Juan built," by the way. Or, possibly, "my five billionth house, for I am the greatest man alive."

Oh, how I wish I was referring to myself when I make such spurious claims! But alas, just as you are not the boss of me, I am also not the boss of me. The boss of me, heretoforward, shall be referred to as Willy Nilly Dillsnick. Or, WND.

WWND: What would Negroponte do? But I digress.

Without getting into the hopeless minutiae of this man's totally fabricated experience, because I am sure to give you regular updates as they occur, allow me to tell you this: by my tally, after spending a couple of weeks working for this guy, is that he's slept with more women than Wilt Chamberlain, built half of vancouver by himself, and collected at least ten million dollars in earnings over the last twenty years. Oh, he's also 175 years old and has lived in more cities than there are in the entire Star Trek universe. Yes, he is truly an amazing man. Or at least that's what he claims. His nickname needs a nursery rhyme, an epic pome, a fucking encyclopedia.

Stay tuned, assholes, because if I have to listen to his shit all fucking day, you're sure as hell going to hear about it when you read this moodyville shit. And you will read this moodyville shit.

My Mom's Dog Is Such A Fucking Jew

You know when you go home for a nice home-cooked meal, some quality time with your family, the pleasures of a comfortable hearth and the memories of safety, acceptance, and love that go with the aforementioned inalienable rights of the twenty-nothing urbanite? Do you? Awesome. Mail me some time and let me know how all that feels. Asshole.

Did you know that they make pepperoni out of bison meat for spoiled yuppie dogs? Did you know it's called PupPeroni? Yeah, fuck me.

As I was preparing to do dishes tonight, about to put my plate in the sink, I heard a menacing growl, approaching with startling quickness, followed by a shout of warning from my mother. Apparently the dog gets really upset when not allowed to lick all of the plates. I mean really upset. I mean I'll-tear-your-fucking-hand-off-upset. Just picture me watching you pour out the last half ounce of vodka in a bottle left over from the party the night before. I mean seriously, what kind of an asshole....

Anyway, after arguing about politics, poetry, and my total refusal to turn into a responsible human being, I left for the comfort of my own home and the company of my new friend Tobias. Feeling demoralized and insecure, as usual, I reflected on my relationship with my mother. Well, I thought, the evening wasn't a complete waste; I jacked a full jar of my favorite sourkraut. And I fucking love sourkraut. Don't test me.

Robaxacocksuckers

Disclaimer: this post is not about cyborg porn; now that I consider it, however, it seems that whatever I write here will be a disappointment when taken in that context.

So I watched Trailer Park Boys: The Movie, and I was pleasantly amused. I hadn't really seen the show before, but I think I might make a point of checking it out. I have also developed some new personal goals after having spent an evening with those incorrigable cretins; I have decided that I need to improve my life by adding the following things:

1) Ownership of doorless car/bed
2) Rocks glass perpetually full of rye and coke
3) Kitties. Lots and lots of kitties
4) Pathetic hangers-on
5) Trailer trash female company
6) Whenever a multisyllabic word can be altered to end in "cocksucker," I must ensure that it is

Shit, by those criteria I'm a lot further ahead in life than I had thought.

Anyway, as some of you know, I tore my left rotator cuff at work the other day; as a result, I have even more license than usual to experiment with muscle relaxants. I had been taking Robaxasol, which helped to some degree but didn't really, you know, bring the serious relaxation. Yesterday a friend of mine gave me a few Robaxacets, which I promptly ingested, and I don't know if it was because I was fuckass-drunk or not, but I started relaxing like a goddamn sonofabitch. I fell asleep watching Anchorman (with the H-Barj, his dog Sam-Bam-Thank-You-Ma'am, and my good friend William Bumcakes, Esq.) and let me tell you, there was some fucked up shit going on in my very relaxed brain. I had dreams that dismantled ego, dreams that destroyed empires, dreams that drank eternities, yet I awoke to find that only half a line of dialogue had elapsed in the film. Trust me, you wanna hurt some of your musculature as soon as possible.

Because I Am A Social Creature

Last night we got all drunkass and rowdy and such. We had vodka, pizza, and insincerity, all in large quantities. We heard my favorite song, also known as "the best song ever" at least a billion times. The evening was a little light on meaning, but the pizza place said they couldn't deliver us any, and we didn't really know where else to look.

At about goddamn-we're-fucking-hammered o'clock, we went to the gas station to buy some cigarettes. We got the cigarettes, once again failing to procure any meaning; apparently the gas station attendant wanted us to pay for it with some currency called "reason," and it seemed that we were a little light at the time.

Walking back to my place, we walked past a construction site. Just lying there on the sidewalk were a bunch of really beautiful 12 foot 2x4's, waiting for us if you will. H-Barj and D-Bone, my impulsive, compulsive, redoubtable companions, immediately decided that I, being the sultan of drunken go-fuck-yourself, deserved a ride on this new and awesome, magical piece of wood.

Everything was going fine, until the point where it wasn't. But worry not, my dears, I was not to be thrown from the wild beast. I clung to it with both arms and both legs, like some kind of emotionally needy spider-wombat. Yeah, you heard me. When we got in the door, we roused St. Christopher from his sleep, and D proclaimed, triumphantly, that he had returned with the necessary Jew-on-a-spit. Then we watched Transformers: The Movie and, as always, I cried when Optimus Prime died.

My new 2x4 sits at my side as I type these words for you. His name is Tobias.

You've Got Four Nines? Well I've Got A 9 And A Clip, Bitch.

So I caught a really bad beat at poker last night. Erik and his fucking quad nines. But that, as they say, is poker. Or, as I say, fuck that fucking fuckity shit.

So Czeslaw Milosz is my new favorite poet. I love it when I read things that remind me just how much my soul resembles war-ravaged Poland.

Roses are red, violets are blue, I'll fuck you with a rake.

Oh, how I love you all, my readers, my reminders, my redeemers, my co-mates and brothers in exile!

Head Wounds, Hot Things, Sharp Things And Wood

So I got drunk again and I guess it's March now. I don't expect you to believe me when I say that this time, this time, I will blog for real, but I'm gonna say it anyway. I love ketchup chips and I would not tell a lie.

Nothing all that interesting to report in the last few months, actually. A depressing lack of stories, and no stories that involve relations with adventurous women, archaeology or even, i'm sorry, autism. I have, however, been reading Martin Amis, and he's now my new favorite blah blah blah literature, blah blah blah unreliable narrative, the human condition, etc.

Society is crumbling, and all I can think about is drink and pornography. I used to write poetry, but I realized that I could stop forever when I woke up to find this note from Sym on my myspace page:

We totally slept together last night. Too bad you were wearing your shoes.

Best. Poem. Ever. Actually, I stopped being a poet when I realized I had a myspace page. I never really knew if I was a poet, or just some kind of degenerate, or really some kind of hipster in disguise, so I did some soul searching and my soul was all like:

Fuck you, Asshole
I'm drunk as a motherfucker
And my hair's a mess

Thanks for checking in, and we'll see if I can't post a little more regularly.