(Update: Now with less errors!)

The first thought to shoot out of my brain upon seeing a hearse on the roadways is not, "Oh man, that's sad. There's somebody's loved one."

Nor is it, "Creepy, there's a dead body in there."

No, it's actually more along the lines of, "Shit! I'm about to get stuck waiting on this procession!"

Don't even try to pretend you aren't thinking the same basic thing.

And it's always Captain Social Butterfly and his six thousand friends and relatives in a two thousand car procession. It's never the car parade of the quiet dude from accounting with the body odor problem and child molestor eyes. Nope. It's never a short wait. Always a long one.

I sometimes, albeit very rarely and very briefly, wish I were the asshole who cuts through the thing because his time is more important. I mean, yes, his time is technically more important. It's not like the guy in the casket has ten minutes to get to the cemetary to punch in, but c'mon, you can't wait a few minutes?

Mostly my anger at getting caught comes from my substantial number of hours behind the wheel. I'm all about speed and efficiency. Anything that gets in the way of that tends to immediately irk me. I can't stop it from happening initially, but at least in the case of a funeral procession I can reason with myself into the proper attitude without turning into the asshole procession cutter.

The proper attitude, if you're wondering, is one of hope.

Hope that karma finds a special place in traffic to wrap the procession cutter firmly and aggressively around a semi. I don't usually wish ill will upon anyone but if you decide to be a dick I truly believe you deserve equivalent treatment from karmic forces.

With that in mind, I'm going to go find some foreign retarded women in wheelchairs to hold a door for.

You know, just in case.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

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Near my hometown we have a lot of blueberry fields. Maybe because I spent most of my second year on earth as a Mexican, or maybe because they wanted a couple buckets of blueberries, but I distinctly remember being forced into the local blueberry fields to pick until my hands were raw.

It was there I fell in love for the first time.

His name was Raul.

HA!

lol, rofl, lmao, lololololroflmao!

Oh, I've done it again! I don't know how I do it, but I've been cranking out the funny ever since I flew in this morning. (And boy are my arms tired!)

No worries, I wasn't gay. I was just mainly having sex with dudes.

LOLOLOLOL!!!!!111

(Quick side note: There has got to be a good "Who's on First" type routine for fags in England looking for other fags but getting cigarettes instead. or vice versa. I can't make it funny right now, but I'm telling you it's in there somewhere.)

My fourth was the year that my dad was going to get a fancy new satellite dish for the house until he got in a bad car accident and had to spend the money on repairs. And to think, I could have been looking at scrambled porn almost 7 years sooner!

This lack of scrambled porn forced me to keep JC Penney catalogs stashed in between my mattress and box spring so I could easily access photos of granny panties whenever I deemed it necessary.

It's amazing to think back to the days of no computer or cell phone, watching scrambled satellite dish signals for flashes of titties, and desperately watering my pet rock.

Who never grew, by the way.

Minutes to spare before I turn 5 tomorrow. Big day.

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(This is the third entry in a series about my life. I am chronicling my existence year by year. I made it through five years before stopping back in July so I'm reposting the first ones before I pick it back up. Enjoy!)

~

This was the year I was finally allowed to be around other kids on a regular basis. I was a spitter.

Or maybe it was the hitting.

I recall one incident where I decided a girl my age would no longer be able to point at me, which she had been doing until I reached up and broke her finger. It's how I roll. Respect me or I will break your finger. So there.

In hindsight, I probably did her a favor. Much like the new-fangled toothbrushes with an angled head of bristles that gets to the teeth in the back of your mouth better, her crooked finger undoubtedly gives her better g-spot stimulation.

I'm nothing if not a gentleman.

I probably broke ten or eleven fingers of young girls who were too young to understand why they were so drawn to me. (rugged good looks, large penis, shag haircut) But I'm happy to report that they were going to get crooked fingers later in life from arthritis anyways. So fuck em.

During this year Bozo the Clown was booked by my parents for a summer party in our backyard, probably my brother's birthday. Possibly for no reason at all. Maybe they just needed us kids to leave them the fuck alone for a couple hours.

Anyways, I don't remember any of it. Only what I see in pictures nowadays. Makes me wonder if I'm blacking out that memory, a common occurrence for people who are the victims of childhood molestation.

Which makes me wonder...

If I don't remember anything about Bozo the Clown hanging out at my house for an afternoon is it because he touched me inappropriately?

Probably not. He was just some local Bozo impersonator, not your average local priest.

Speaking of which...

Why is it OK to call the priest at my church "father" but not "daddy?" Seriously, people look at me funny when I do it.

At any rate, I made it with 13 minutes to spare again. Maybe tomorrow, when I turn 4, I'll do it earlier in the day.

Or I won't.

It's my totally gay online diary and I'll do whatever I want.

p.s. Dear Diary, Cheryl is cute and I want to touch her boobies.

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~

YEAR 2

I spent much of 1977 as a Mexican.

Not your quiet, hard working field-hand Mexican, but your angry, tricked-out tricycle, prison-shiv Mexican. Bought a sedan for the family. My first. It only seated 14, but we got by.

Moved from breast milk to chorizo.

Pooped a lot!

Jimmy Carter became president, the Toronto Blue Jays played their first game, and I threw a shit-ton of temper tantrums. I'd always stop crying when I could hear my dad pull in the driveway.

I was a real dick to my mom in 1977.

My parents started dressing me in handsome little outfits with name-brand sweaters and jackets, but never pants. Those had to be homemade due to the continued impressive nature of my beast. They couldn't buy me pants unless there was ample room for the crotch to be let out. By the way, the phrase "nature of the beast" was developed to give a nickname to the phenomenon of my two year old junk powering through any standard sized diaper.

Pele stopped playing professional soccer right around the time I stopped being Mexican. Coincidence?

Yeah, probably.

Overall I had a pretty solid Year 2, and even managed to squeeze in the write-up with thirteen minutes to spare.

It's coming back to me now. Slowly, for sure. But it's coming back.

Oh how the 9 of you readers (4 who are related, 1 who lives with me, and 4 whole strangers!) are going to really enjoy this stuff if I ever get the old magic back.

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And also because maybe I'll pick up where I left off after stopping at 5 years old last time.

Here's the first in the series from last July, I think.

~

I've decided to undertake an ambitious project to light a fire under my ass to start writing in my Totally Gay Online Diary again. It shall involve, in stunning detail, a post each day about every year of my life. Ending in 33 days (Because I'm 33, you see) I will have successfully navigated the stories of my life for all 9 of you that continue to read this. The important stuff, at any rate. I'll be rusty. I'm sure I'll pick up steam along the way, though.

Let's begin, shall we?

I was born at exactly noon. I came out with one arm pointing out ahead of me like Superman flying. Or maybe I was side-stroking out on a wave of amniotic fluid. I was always good at that. Anyways, one minute later, the first nurse would comment on the unusually large size of my junk. They had to sew two diapers together to accommodate it.

I was born a pitching wedge's distance from where a friend of mine would be shot and killed approximately 17 years, 5 months, and 9 days later. And a driver-wedge away from the church parking lot I would have sex in shortly thereafter.

Jesus would have been so proud of me. If he were in any way real, that is.

I spent much of that year batting my long eyelashes at the ladies, getting uncontrollable boners, and peeing on whoever had to change me. Once an angry urinator always an angry urinator, I've always said to girls on our first date. You know, just to get it out of the way before there are any issues.

Everyone was astounded by how long my fingers were and how my feet were so big. This, along with the size of my junk, was the earliest indication that I was meant to be an NBA basketball player, fathering eight or nine kids by eight or nine different baby mama's along the way. Alas, my parents neglected to feed me the proper nutrients required to grow to my predetermined (by the Big Bang Theory) height of 6'3". But that's technically a story for another year of my life. The one where I didn't grow that tall and didn't get into the NBA and only ended up fathering some 4 or 5 kids on my meager salary. Honestly, I don't know how white trash losers do it. Having 8 or 9 kids without the benefit of fame and money is tough. Still though, 4 or 5 kids running around out there somewhere is a solid testament to how much stank I was getting on my hang low despite missing out on my lucrative NBA contract by 4 inches. Respect.

I was the best baby, by the way. Smartest, funniest, cutest, and most agile. In fact, I never lost a fight in my age group. One time I stepped up to fight with the two year olds and some fat fucking kid cheated and used his tremendous girth to pin me. I had to tap out. Underground fighting circuits are no joke. To this day I don't trust fat people or underground fighting circuits not run by Asians.

That was pretty much it.

(They can't all be gold)

Gotta go, I turn two years old tomorrow.

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Today's Facebook interaction comes courtesy of Stb.

He states:

"it's like a date rape drug" That is how the barkeep described the Dogfish Head Red & White. Maybe I should not have worn shorts tonight. On the other hand, i learned why a certain bar never appears to be open.

I replied:

There's something I've found to be important when using something considered to be "like" a date rape drug.

And that's, don't start raping until you're sure it's working.

You're welcome.

I feel like I probably could have worked in "That's Raping 101 right there" or something similar but I've gotta get out the door this morning. It's a big day. My Michigan State Spartans are fighting for their tourney lives tonight against Butler, a team that realistically should never be good enough to make it to where they have, but somehow they did.

And before we go watch the game with friends we are going to Eastern Market for some supplies. It's our first trip of the year because up till now it's been way too cold to leave the house early on a Saturday for cheap lettuce.

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I have just enough Italian (and maybe some other random bloodlines as I am quite mutt-like in my heritage) that I tan quite well. It's with that in mind on the first day of real sun each year that I tend to go golfing and immediately start the process I like to call:

Operation Farmer's Tan.

It starts the very first time out because I'm too lazy to go all the way to the bag and grab the sunblock. You'd think it wouldn't be a problem since I'm back there grabbing more whiskey to mix into my drink every hole. But alas, I always forget the sunblock.

I started out hot. In fact, I should have shut it down after my first swing. For the year. I took a couple lame practice swings to see how my body was going to like swinging a club for the first time in almost 6 months. Not bad. Felt good, actually. Must have been the almost record highs we had. It's easy to get limber when it's so hot out. Or when you're drunk. In this case it was the weather. On the front nine, that is.

So I teed up and used my patented early season mantra, swing it like a girl.

It worked. Well.

I striped it beautifully down the middle and deep. I hit a somewhat thin 9-iron approach and had to putt from the fringe. Rolled it up to a gimme par. This game is easy.

Beautiful 7-iron on the next hole, par 3, and I easily two putted for another par. I was pretty sure I was going to par every hole the rest of the year at that point.

Thus I rolled into my drive and topped it a hundy up the middle on the next. Triple on the third and just like that I'm at bogey golf. So much for perfection. I ended up playing half scratch golf and half triple bogey golf on the day for sad 91. It's fairly rare that I score in the 90's, reserving those scores for the rounds when I completely lose everything and nothing goes right. But whatever, it was my first round and chances are pretty solid I'll have 5 or 6 similar rounds this year. Who cares when they come, right?

Best shot of the day? Well, besides the drive?

Probably either the shot of Canadian Club Classic (12yr old) on the first hole or maybe the putt I announced I would nail from ten feet to halve a hole, then of course promptly nailed.

Best facebook response of the day?

Probably (Ok, almost certainly since it's the only response I made to anyone) the one I made on a post from BG.

He put up a picture of the Amazon.com fast pay suggestion for him. In other words, he can use the phrase to pay without filling out forms and such. His phrase?

Anthony's costly taste.

He adds, "Oh, Amazon, you know me too well..."

I add, "Phrases Amazon might suggest for me:

Wow, you've finally taken a break from porn, eh?

Who are you kidding, you ain't pulling the trigger on this.

Select "See Others" for cheaper options.

And you think you have money on that card?

Damn, you're sexy."

That's all I have. Better than a kick in the nuts, right?

Also, maybe you should kick someone in the nuts today and then ask them to read this. Find out which one was better. Hell, maybe it's the kick in the nuts?

~

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