Life Lessons

 

I went to the open mic at Kinga’s Lounge in Denver the other night. I signed up late and had to go up next to last. Unfortunately, I had to bare witness to the comedic “talents” of Vic G. If falling asleep at a bar is talent, this guy has it. If wearing a sparkly Jason Mraz hat is hilarious, this guy is a riot. If having a nasty pill and coke addiction is “it”, then this guy is going to the top (straight from the bottom). He got on stage and started drinking a beer that someone mistakenly left behind. If the Heineken bottle didn’t have Hep C before Vic G, it certainly did after he put his foul mouth on the rim.

However, what he did this night during his set was disgraceful. Vic walked off the stage with the mic and started harassing the two remaining audience members. Not only was he crassly provoking one of the gentleman by straddling his lap and defiling the air with his arrogance, he started in with homosexual come-ons as a way to instigate a fight. Vic G wasn’t entertaining. Usually, I’m not critical or overly agitated by a novice’s performance, but Vic G was terrorizing people. It wasn’t cool.

Just as a note to myself; Don’t be like Vic G. Don’t act like Vic G. Don’t do drugs like Vic G. Don’t forget why we’re on the stage like Vic G. Even at the amateur level, stage time is about entertaining not harassing. As if it wasn’t bad enough for the crowd that remained and the host of the show, I had to follow that. I wish I was the kind of guy who could rise to the occasion. The most consummate professional couldn’t rescue that train wreck. Next time you feel like getting to a mic, Vic, you should just stay home, drink some coffee and sober up. Your bad attitude makes us all look bad.

 

So clean, you could eat off us

I’m part of a group called Red Rocket Productions with Andrew Raschke and Derrick Rush. We’re new, you guys. We plan on producing comedy videos and other creative content designed to make people laugh. In general, we’re hilarious. You just wouldn’t know it. As a group, Red Rocket Productions hasn’t produced anything except this interview with Michael Powell and his Comedy Buffet. In keeping with the format of the show, Derrick, Andrew and I discuss the comical significance of some recent news stories. John Stewart, look out! Not really though. As it turns out, when I’m put on the spot, I sound exceedingly racist. Considering I’m on a digital platform, you might say I am eracist. I’m not proud of it. Aside from that, it’s funny, so I’ll let you be the judge.

 

http://thecomedybuffet.com/2012/01/19/episode-63-red-rocket-productions-cock-full-of-anal.aspx

 

Help yourself...to the hilarity

 

Do you remember when writing a blog was fun? I do. I used to look forward to it chomping at the proverbial bit until some earth shattering idea crossed my feeble brain and I could begin stroking the keys in a way that would make Chopin jealous. Then came day two. Ideas were few and far between. The ideas I had were sophomoric and junior. I was sucked into a dirty hole in a men’s bathroom filled with masturbation and cat jokes. Yet, somehow, I persevered. This blog currently has one hundred and forty-seven some odd posts. All original content that I stole. I’m very proud that I’ve maintained something so long (i.e. continued to pay for hosting). What’s surprising is how sporadic the posts are and how scattered my thoughts are. While I may have persevered, I have barely put together anything meaningful. Scattered and irregular, I’ve realized that above all things, I am a flake. I’ve avoided tasks with procrastination. I’ve missed opportunities by ducking out of the hard work. I find it to be an embarrassing attribute. People like me but they don’t trust me. I’m beginning to see that being a flake is taking me to a place I don’t want to go. I’m missing challenges. I’m missing opportunities. I’m missing life and I’m missing fun. I’ve decided that I am going to correct my flaky behavior. For the past three months, I’ve heeded the motto “think it, do it”. If I have to do something, I do it the moment I think it. It is changing my behavior. I’m more responsible for my actions. I’m beginning to take on challenges and grow. My next step is to take this blog to new places. Fun places that are fun and just, overall, fun. That’s something to be proud of.

 

About a year ago I decide that I hated my job and that it was time to follow my dream.  I quit my job and wearily began practicing and performing as a comedian.  With the support of my family and friends, it became easier to commit.  I made significant progress in experience but not financially.  Without a “real” job or prospects of quickly becoming a rich and famous comedian I had to revisit my priorities.

I reluctantly accepted a part time job and then a full time position.  My brother convinced me that if I was truly passionate, I could work hard at my job and advancing my performances to satisfy both needs.  It was a nice sentiment.

I stopped writing.  I stopped performing.  I started complaining…a lot of complaining.  It’s been six months and the funniest thing I’ve done lately is to give a nonchalant wet willy to a guy in front of me at a Green Day concert.  He was pissed.  It turns out that nobody likes Green Day.

No matter what shenanigans I’ve gotten into, comedy still weighs heavily on my mind.  The more I think about it, the more scared I get and the more excuses I come up with to stay away.  I feel I don’t have time.  I’m scared that I burned bridges and if I go back people will hate me.  I feel like my jokes will suck worse than before.  I fear that I’ll repeat the same pattern I’m in now in six months time.  This list goes on.

Attempting to regain motivation for my passion, I read this book called The War of Art by Stephen Pressfield.  In the book, Pressfield talks a lot about Resistance blocking the way through creative battles.  Resistance forms as procrastination and excuses and many self destructive behaviors.

Recognizing Resistance is only part of the problem.  Success is a result of moving past the bull crap, sitting down and doing the work.  As it turns out, doing the work, the part I’ve neglected and feared, is the one thing that will get me over this hurdle.  The excuses are not the problem…I am.

My priorities are the same as they’ve always been.  I’m still working but I’ve started writing again.  I’ve toned down the complaints.  The next step is to get back on stage.  I’ve done it before and I can do it again and again and again.  After all, it’s what I want to do.  As long as I remind myself that it’s easier to just do the work rather than resist, I’ll be fine.

 

It’s that time of the week again.  It’s Funny Friday.  Do you want to play along?  Of course you do.  Here are the rules: 1. A minimum of roughly 80 percent of everything that you do today must a.) be hilarious, b.) incite hilarity or c.) pay the pickle man.  2. You may or may not do whatever it takes to uphold rule #1.  Also, third, don’t be annoying.  That has the opposite effect (save it for Over-the-top Tuesday).

If you’re having trouble deciding what to do on Funny Friday, then you’re over thinking the task.  Here are some things you can do, though, if you’re really having trouble:

Imitate a retarded person imitating a normal person

Sneak up on friend with one of your farts in a jar

Piss in something that’s not a toilet

Have a coffee drinking contest

Sleep with your fat neighbor but no kissing

Punch a bunny in the face

Push over a one-legged duck (quack!)

See how many grapes you can fit in your mouth

Spin your office chair until you fall out of it/puke

Hula hoop on a chair

Spend some allowance from your spank bank

Tape your hands together with masking tape and poke stuff

Pull your cat’s tail

Take a dump in a fitting room

Chew old gum out of the carpet

Fill a can with spit and drink it

Eat a cigarette

Tape your cube mate’s office supplies to a wall just out of his reach

Play dress up

Cut your own

Make a paper airplane and set it on fire before you throw it

Take your shirt off,  sit down and watch your stomach fat get fatter/paint your nipples white with white-out

Look at kittens/puppies/babies

Have a push-up contest with your friend Donny

When Donny wins, murder him (for fun)

Whatever it is you end up doing, have fun with it.  After all, it is Funny Friday.

 

What’s the best part about shrimp?  They’re American, dammit!  Those tiny sh*ts are plentiful and, as far as I’m concerned when you’ve got some of that delicious cocktail sauce, they’re tasty, too.  But something happened recently  that really puckers my barn hole.

Seven weeks ago (and counting), the oil and gas mogul, British Petroleum or BP,  “accidentally” collapsed an oil well in the Gulf of Mexico and is uncontrollably pumping its bubbly crude all over American shrimping waters.  Why we haven’t waged war against these f*ck sticks is beyond me.

What’s worse is that we (America collectively, except Lonny) have swallowed this grimy glob and will to continue to do so.  In a gesture to keep fishing and tourism industries afloat during this crisis, BP has done what any company does in a crisis situation; they threw money at it.  Big money, too.  It’s the kind of money that allows sick f*cks the opportunity to do sick f*ck things.

This is the kind of money that says, “Not only am I not going to fix this environmental catastrophe, I’m going to buy you, cut off your balls and make you my eunuch, remove your testicles from the hairy ball skin, staple, then duct tape the skin over your mouth and nose while I tickle you and watch you die to death you p*ssy.”

Thanks to cash reimbursements to support lost business caused by the oil spill, some fishing companies are generating more business than before the spill.

Instead of using this money to protect themselves from future oopsies, companies spend to reinvent themselves.  This unadvised spending creates illusions of market stability in uncertain times and opens the flood gates for struggling companies to venture into risky endeavors.

I can imagine the CEO from one of the aforementioned struggling fishing companies thinking, “This is the time we make a big move.”  And because he has new money to burn, he goes against all logic and fishes oil soaked waters.  After which, some greased wheel at a hackneyed advisory operation like the Louisiana Shrimp and Fisherman Council to okay some new product line.   All of a sudden, your kid is hooked on Red Lobster’s/Fishy Joe’s/Long John Silver’s/Generic non-seafood eatery’s Crude Dude’s Boily and Oily Super Duper Shrimp Poppers (try ‘em with tar ball dippin’ sauce!) which by some stroke has been pushed to market by a rejuvenated BP (British Prawns).

I’m really gonna hate that.

 

Smoke 'em if you got 'emThe old saying used to say that “you should smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.”  There’s no worse advice in the history of all of the things that have ever been advised.  Smoking is gross.

If  you got ‘em, you should just shoot yourself.  This is to say that even a dead and rotting corpse is more attractive than a smoker.  If you smoke, you’re dead to me.  If you don’t smoke, then we should hang out.  If you don’t hang out, then you should.  I’m a lot of fun.

By the way, don’t think that you can hide your nicotine addiction by chewing your smokeless tobacco around me either.  That’s gross, too.  It’s all spittooning your chaw into the empty water bottles in my car.  You don’t deserve bottles.  You deserve cancer.  If you chew, then you should put fire ants in your eyes and cayenne pepper in your pee hole.  That’s right.  Pee hole.

Oh, and another thing; pull my finger.  Smell that?  Old wet newspapers and canned, creamed corn.  You are that smell to me…completely disgusting.  If you’re going to insist on riding your premium, menthol-flavored cancer pony to your grave, please, count me out.  I don’t want anything to do with you.  Now will you have sex with me?

 

This was me at one hot point in my life

I was a fireman at one hot point in my life.  It wasn’t the worst gig I’ve ever had, but it was no day at the beach.  During my rookie year, I got hosed for always sleeping in.  The other guys used to haze me by lighting matches and putting them out in my ears.  I don’t care what you say, ear wax isn’t for candles.  My fire chief would get all steamed about my work ethic.  He always said that I shouldn’t try and be a hero because I’d probably accidentally kill someone.   Little did he know, I only accidentally killed an old lady’s cat and an old lady.  To my defense, the cat was already on fire.  After that incident, the chief (who I suspect knew nothing of it) put me on paperwork detail.  To get funding for our department, he made me write these back drafts.  The only thing I really liked about the job is that we went out to Buffalo Wild Wings a couple times after work and got their hottest wings: Blazin’.  Besides that, I wasn’t very good at putting out fires.  Fire fighting just wasn’t for me.  Luckily, a job at the meat packing plant opened after one of their oldest employees didn’t show up.  I was rescued.  Good riddens.

 

There comes a time in every relationship when the love is strained. Every couple has their way of managing these shaky times. One of my favorites and usually the subject of many daytime television talk shows is when a couple thinks it’s appropriate to add another person. I’m talking about threesomes or menage a trois. Mixing it up a little seems to be a good treatment for an ailing partnership. I’m here to tell you that it is not.

The game of ‘plus one’ is dangerous. Men think that a shaky relationship can only be saved in the bedroom. His mindset is that if he can get her to “Oh face” one more time, things’ll be saved. But that’s the tricky part. Women think outside the box spring. A woman would sacrifice somewhat on the lovemaking side if it meant a man would treat her right.

But, a man thinks the word threesome automatically assumes that the girl he’s been fantasizing about at work is going to magically accept his gracious offer to sleep with him and his girlfriend or wife. Wrong. A man’s best chance at attracting another woman to aid his failing relationship is probably going to begin and end with a hooker. Like picking a puppy from a pet store, this method will most certainly bankrupt your budget and leave many piss stains on your rugs. Once you bring your new friend, Cinnamon, home to meet the fam, I’m sure you’ll find that things have already gone awry.

I must say, that nothing makes a woman feel more special than a spin around the bed with some other chick driving. Psyche. Women hate that. A girl wants to feel like she’s the only one in the world. Sleeping with you and your wife doesn’t accomplish that goal. Sleeping with you and another girl doesn’t do it for your wife either. My advice: don’t do this, you can’t make the bonds of love stronger by adding another person; it will only strain things further.

For women, however, salvaging a union with a threesome takes on another meaning entirely. Similar to men, the conquest begins in the bedroom. When women think threesome, they think baby. As wonderful as a bundle of joy can be, this is disastrous. For women, a baby signifies a milestone in life and shows the world that they’re fertile and responsible. This is a strong message to send to the bitches from high school. For men, however, a baby means extra expense. The man must work harder and more often to provide for his partner and his newly fashioned love child. As a result, he fills all of his time working and seldom sees the family he fights so hard to preserve. My advice: don’t do this either. Once again, adding another person to a strained relationship will only hurt your chances of sanctity.

A threesome in a strained relationship, no matter how you describe it, is tricky. If you’re serious about an open relationship or having a baby, make sure that the lines of communication as well as the bonds that tie are solid. It’s not a tool for fixing or enhancing. Threesomes are meant for ruining lives. That’s why the only threesomes you know of are from the porno you watch. If you’re having difficulties with your relationship, talk it out. Touch and feel and listen. If that doesn’t work, cut your losses. Chances are there’s a couple of baby makers out there looking to mingle.

 
soapy hand wash

That soap just cleaned itself

There’s a little secret that God hasn’t told you about.  That’s right, you’re just s’posed to figure it out for yourself.  Soap, my friend, is a self cleaning miracle device.

You wash your hands; the soap stays clean.  You wash your face; the soap stays clean.  I washed my butt; your face and hands are clean.  It’s anti-bacterial by nature, the way your good lord intended.  Haven’t you heard “reeks to high Heaven”?  God smelled you and reevaluated the situation.  Boom!  Soap, hallelujah.

He didn’t stop there, however.  Ladies, have you ever had one of those not so fresh days?  I’m talking about ladies’ troubles right in and around the fourth week.  That’s right!  God smelled you, too.  He took a sniff and decided to build in the self cleansing feature you’re familiar with today.  Ta da!

The new and improved vagina is self cleaning and roomy enough to store an assortment of latex-covered, battery-operated machines.  Much better than the old model all covered in hair.  You know how many pieces of chewed gum I’ve lost in the tangles?  Several.  I should have my mouth washed with soap for talking like that.

 

Every once in a long while, the animosity you bare for your fellow earthlings falls by the wayside.  You learn to live and let live and even love and get head.  I am convinced the formula for such change heavily relies on one’s ability to share.

I recently acquired an animal pet.  Her name is Tippi Nunu but I call her Nu for short.  She is black and white and pees in the sink.  I really like her and the story of how we found her is amazing.  As much as I like this cat, my old cat, Tookie or Grandpa for short, hates her.  Or at least that’s how it’s seemed since I brought her home.

For the first two months, they have been fighting and mangling each other in only the way cats can; loudly and with the removal of fur.  The points of contention are usually related to food or territory or fiscal responsibility.  Tippi says, “My space” and Tookie says, “I’ll claw your eyeballs out!  Facebook, bitch!”  And a kitty quarrel ensues.

The other day I awoke to the frisky felines contending over the warm spot between my legs (the place where my sleep-farts live).  At first it seemed like they were actually sharing the spot until I realized a thousand small incisions covering my shins.  Apparently, I was a victim of circumstance in their battle royal.

Today I saw Tookie and Tippi in one of the special cat beds I bought for them.  This is a scene I’ve seen before and, like those times before, I feared there may be blood.  Something unusual happened, though.  Instead of fighting for the small island nation of Catbedonia, the cats were sharing.  In fact, Tookie, my old, large, white sour-puss was licking Tippi, the smaller, blacker cat.

I was astonished so I took a video on my phone.  It was short lived, however, when Tippi made a sudden move that spooked ol’ Tookus.  He went from licking to biting in a matter of milliseconds.  I assume Tookie has marinating agent in his saliva that enables his fangs to sink more easily into skin.  I took video of that as well.  Completely amazing.  Regardless of the circumstances, they are making huge strides in sharing and love.  See for yourself…

The calamity that ensued…

 
Fat dog

You can give the dog tacos if he does his trick

Part of the new diet that I started last week is to get my flabby, smelly self to the gym at least every once and a while.  While seemingly good, this strategy faces a mogul.  Herein lies the problem; at the heart of every diet there is a monster lurking waiting to rear its ugly head.  Since I have limited my work-outs to binge eating and seldom vomiting (great for your abs but not your self-esteem), it has been much more difficult to move around efficiently.

I liken it to one of those gym commercials on TV.  In the commercial, every body’s fit and looking good.  The price in the ad suggests you could afford a membership to the gym, and maybe that’s true.   However, since you lack any sort of physique (let alone a healthy one) and risk judgment from other members, you permanently fix yourself to the sofa.  You essentially decide that in order to fit in at the commercial’s gym, you’d first have to join a less reputable gym filled with ugly people that you feel comfortable around until you developed into a worthy specimen.  In other words, there’s a lot of work involved just to start the work that’s involved.  Clearly, not worth it.

And that’s me.  I decided that getting old, fat me up and off the couch is a work-out in itself.  It’s such a heavy burden to bear, in fact, that such work usually deserves a salty/sugary/fat laden snack or two, or three, or just gimme the whole box, dammit!

The cycle will continue until one day, I look out from the body of an enormous gastropod only to see that TLC is filming in my living room.  Yes, the TV that I ignored for so long will find me out once again, thus, showing me what a waste I’ve become.  I imagine that the producers of “House Whale” will try convincing me of some exotic and new gastric bypass surgery that, in the event it doesn’t kill me, will take me down a size or two, or three, or just gimme…

Unfortunately, after some initial excitement, I imagine the brochures that the producers show me to sell their fancy surgery are riddled with svelte recovering fat freaks.  I will again hold that I could only accept the exotic bypass procedure if first I incurred a smaller surgery at a less reputable clinic.  The producers will discuss the issue and ultimately reject my claim.  I will wither away into a fifteen hundred pound puddle of tears and nothing more.

No matter how hard I work-out, there is no way I will ever lose the ugly head.

 
Don't judge me

This is no joke...he needs a smoke. It's part of his identity.

Life is a test of finding your niche.  Your self-worth is determined by the relationships that you create.  Phrases like “match made in Heaven” or “balance is best” come to mind.  After all, acceptance is human nature.  It’s as important to discover yourself  as it is to find people who value you for the person you claim to be.

These discoveries may include finding a mate that loves you exactly the same as you love it; eating the right diet that tastes good but doesn’t make you fat; smoking the right brand of cigarettes; landing the right job; watching just a little less TV than the American average and other things.   But these life long quests can lead to some not-so-good outcomes.  Mixing the desire to be accepted with self-satisfying behavior is absurdly difficult.

There is a major conflict that stands between these two endeavors.  If in the attempt to discover yourself you fail, then your record will be tarnished.  To find out what things you like, you may venture into territory that’s not suited to your interests.  In doing so, you discover that the activity which you are participating, is, in fact, deviant behavior.

Maybe you try tea in place of coffee or do a different type of work out at the gym or, perhaps you journeyed into the bi-sexual section of your Netflix account.  Now you’re being solicited movie titles like Harry, Dick and Sue and Boys on the Side.  Your wife logs into the account and boom; now you’re in therapy.

You didn’t find what you were looking for and, as a result of your curiosity, you get singled-out and mocked.

Unfortunately, because of the fear of judgment and exclusion you face by discovering yourself, you hesitate to ever step “outside the box”.  And so it happens.  You ultimately wave your God given right to be your own person and stick to the mainstream.  The perfect pair…you and everybody else.

 

I’ve been applying to jobs here and now just to appease some of my friends at the corporate office.  My attitude has been that I’ve got so much on my plate there’s no real reason to be looking for a job in any serious regard.  That all changed yesterday when I had an epiphany of sorts.  I don’t need to work, I want to work!  Although dickin’ around on the Interwebs is phenomenally entertaining and fun and keeps me busy most of the day, it just doesn’t pay a whole lot.  Yeah, blogging and jerking off at the computer is work for me, but it’s not enough.

Sheen, tucker

Money Talks and also sucks

Money talks and walks and I was at a baseball game once and I saw the pitcher, a crisp five-dollar bill right up from the minors  miff a pitch; apparently money also balks.  Money isn’t the only reason I want to work but it doesn’t hurt.  Recently, I attended a Jefferson County workforce-center seminar that introduced me to the idea that working for a living isn’t all that bad.  ”It’s not?” I distastefully murmured.  It’s what the Communists call Utopia.  It’s what I call sweet salad dressing.  The delicious aftertaste to an otherwise bland heap of roughage.

Life is work.  It’s just that and if the work doesn’t pay, you need to move on.  So that’s what I’m proposing here.  I am moving on.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still be blogging my face off and pursuing my dreams of successful dreaming.  I will just be adding a paycheck to it…somehow.  I hear Craigslist is popular.

If you’ve got any ideas or know a guy who is looking for my type of talent (you know?  The 6’2″, handsome and well-groomed type of talent), then drop me a line.  I’ll see you on the other side.

 

Ever since high school, I’ve been hip to the health scene.  I’m familiar with the rules that insure a healthy life:  eating the right foods, exercising regularly and burning more calories than I ingest are crucial to successful living.

Since high school, however, I have avoided these rules like the plague.   Nothing turns my buttons like a fifteen thousand calorie day packed full of stuffing my fat face at a buffet or drinking my way through a suitcase of beer.  It pains me to think that these days of extravagant indulgence are over.  I have neglected my body too long.  As a result of my willie-nilly relationship with exercising and dieting, my heart hurts.

So, starting today, I have decided to adhere to a lifestyle change: a specific diet of no more than 2500 calories a day combined with regular exercise, lots of water and a daily vitamin.  I am tracking my calorie intake at www.my-calorie-counter.com.  Right now, I’m a flabby 221 pounds…I’d like to weigh less (somewhere around 185).  My BMI is somewhere between “ech” and “fatty”.  I’d like to maintain this plan for six months or until it becomes habitual.  I made a chart with my wife to help track progress and plan out meals.Chart Progress

I have a gym membership that has been collecting dust for months.  I will work out at least three times a week for at least 45 minutes per time.  I’m ready, I’m able and I’m willing.  Here we go!  It’s time to kick start this bitch!

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