You Never Get Over Being Abandoned By Your Parents.

Today I come before you not with one of my funny little stories... or hilarious as some people may have called them, a compendium of borderline genius wit, is how this one guy almost referred to them, a veritable treasure trove of brilliant satire are some words that I just put together, a modern day Mark Twain, channeling Shakespeare with a generous dollop of Steve Martin thrown in, Monty Python blended up and splattered on your computer screen, the unholy love child of Dave Barry and Douglas Adams, even though boys can't have babies with each other, and neither one is gay, that we know of, and one of them is positively un-alive, but if they had a child, I would be… uhm, the point is, I have written lots of LOL inducing pieces of prose, but this, I hesitate to tell you, is not one of them, this is a heart breaking tale of woe. A sad, sad plague, that is, well… plaguing our world.

   Back in the Depression era, it was common for destitute parents to leave their babies on the doorsteps of churches and orphanages. Parents, unable or unwilling to care for them any longer, would give their children up to local charitable organizations. It falls to me, to alert the populace that this tragic practice is once again rearing it's ugly head. Perhaps because of the recent financial crisis, or maybe due to the continual weakening of our moral fabric, parents are once again leaving their offspring on welcome mats, with nary but a note and the clothes on their backs. I know firsthand of this cataclysmic betrayal, because it happened to me.

   If I try really hard, I can almost remember my parents. In my mind they were good people, although I have this impression that they yelled a lot. I'm not sure why they decided to give me up, but it has been a thorn in my soul ever since. It is horrible going through life not knowing who you are or what your life could have been. But the internet is an amazing detective, and I was able to track down my birth-parents with just a little Googling. I showed up to their house on a Sunday afternoon, and walked up to the door, to hopefully get some answers. I rang the door and a an elderly man came to the door.

Hello?
Yes. May I help you?
I hope so. I am your son.
Uhm, OK.
That's all you have to say?
Listen. What do you want? Football is on, I'm busy.
I want answers. Why did you abandon me? Didn't you love me?
Well, we loved you at first. But then it just all became too much.
It just became too much?
Yes, we were forever feeding you, and giving you bottles, and feeding you some more. And you kept waking us up in the middle of the night, and you were such always such a mess. Oh, and you smelled just awful.
You're a monster.
Don't judge me, you aren't in my shoes, you don't get to judge me.
Do you have any idea how painful it is getting through the day?
I know you're a pain in my ass.  Now go away, and don't come back.
Wait. Wait. Don't close the door. 
What?! The game is on.
You may not be able to give me answers I want, but at least I can have closure.
I'm going to closure the door in your face. 
I may not understand why you did what you did, but I want you to know, I forgive you. 
Oh great! That really means… uh, something.
One last thing before I go. You've caused me tremendous pain.  The place you left me at? They never wanted me. They tried to crush my spirit, to change me, and it's been really tough getting through it. In many ways the pain is just as fresh as it ever was. In my mind's eye, it feels like it was just yesterday that you dropped me off on that cold concrete stoop.
It was yesterday, you idiot! I got tired of my forty year old dork still living at home. Playing video games, drinking my beer, sleeping til the crack of afternoon. I am embarrassed to admit you came from my loins. That's why I dropped you off at the employment office. Get a job you LOSER!

   And that's my story. Of how I was abandoned by the people who were supposed to love me. And I just want to tell all of you prospective parents out there; if you choose to be a parent, you are a parent for life. You can't just quit because it gets hard, or your child is annoying, or he is middle aged and still living at your house and drinking your booze. On a completely unrelated note, is anybody looking to adopt a cute cuddly, slightly myopic, folically challenged, seen-his-better-days, adorable… Oh heck, it's me. Does anybody want to adopt me? If so, please leave your address in the comments section. Vegetarians and non-drinkers need not apply. 

Phrases For The Next Edition Of The Oxford Dictionary.

Every year the Oxford dictionary adds several words or phrases into the official lexicon. This year it added Selfie. Turns out the actual definition is WAY different than what I thought it was. It doesn't involve your naughty bits at all. Speaking of, here are some other phrases/words that need to be added.

Self Abuse: This is what happens when a person with compulsion issues drives by a Volkswagen dealership and there is no one else in the car.

Friends With Benefits: A friend that gives you his tickets when he can't attend sporting events, hosts epic tailgate parties, always picks up the check at lunch, volunteers to be the designated driver, and always has your favorite beer in his fridge.

Sweater Puppies: Used to describe really awesome things. Because, ahhhhhh.

Note to self: The saying is Raked Over The Coals, and not Raped Over The Coals. Although my mistaken phrase is much more colorful, it is probably only applicable during prison riots and Viking pillages.

Baby. Sitter.

There is nothing so annoying as being out in public when some jerk-offs phone starts ringing. 

Hey buddy, I'm trying to drink a beer and watch the game here. What? Are you so important you can't answer that outside, you're such a… oops, that's mine. SHUT UP EVERYBODY, I gotta take this. Hey, what's up?

Hey, honey? What are you guys doing?

Drinking a beer, watching the game. 

The kids aren't drinking are they?

No. I'd never let them do that… again.

It sounds pretty loud there, are they destroying the house?

Probably not. They're playing or something.

Or something? 

Probably. I'm not EXACTLY sure.

You don't know?

Well yeah, I'm at the bar. The kids are at home. It's not like I'm a bad dad or something, you can't bring kids to a bar. I assume they're doing something constructive. Maybe homework.

Hon. We don't have money for a babysitter. Or for you to be out at a bar. Plus, where did you even find a babysitter, anyway?

Family.

Who? Your Mom's not in town anymore. Is she?

No, not her.

Did your Dad come down?

No.

Who? Your aunt? One of your cousins?

No. I barely even talk to my cousins.

Please God, tell me you didn't get your Uncle Harry.

Homeless Hobo Harry? Just how irresponsible do think I am?

Very. Who? Who did you ge… You left Sean in charge? We talked about this, he isn't even thirteen. He isn't ready yet.

I had babysitter's that were only thirteen.

Sean isn't ready, he lacks focus. When the TV or computer is on, he wouldn't notice if his brothers burned down the house.

I think that's an exaggeration.

That exact thing happened last month. The fire department showed up and everything. Put out the tree in the front yard.

Oh yeah, I forgot.

I can't believe you left Sean in cha...

Settle down. It's not Sean.

Oh sweet Lord. Not Evan. Please tell me not Evan. Oh God. Call the fire department. Call the police. Call the national guard. He won't be unaware while his brothers get into mischief, he'll be inciting it. Creating it. It will be Lord of the Flies. Or Clockwork Orange. Both at the same time. Oh holy crap, Paul. Our house won't be standing when we get home. It'll be Armageddon. It'll…

Easy there, worry wart. I would never leave Evan in charge of anything.

Who then, Paul? Who? It's not like you left Jack in charge.

Well, it's kinda like that.

Kinda? You kinda left a four year old in charge of his ten and twelve year old brothers? Kinda?!

OK. It's exactly like that.

Paul! How could you?

It's OK. Jack is extremely responsible for a four year old.

Just because he can get dressed by himself doesn't mean he's responsible.

Well, he is very bossy.

That's not actually a basis for being a baby sitter.

Jack told me it was.

And you listened to a four year old?

He's pretty convincing. He used his Jedi mind tricks on me.

No. You're just an idiot. Go home.

I can honestly say I've learned a valuable lesson about being a father from this experience. Never answer the phone when you are out drinking.

Sometimes Playoff Beards Work.

Being a fan of a team is largely disappointing and frequently soul crushing. Your team rarely rewards your fanatical devotion with championships. And then sometimes, inexplicably, your team wins. And you feel good. So very, very, good. Congratulations to the 2013 Red Sox. WooHoo!

I'm sure it was my beard that pushed them over the top. 

How To NOT Commit Adultery

I have been married for eighteen years, which is a long time, even by the impossibly high standards set by today's reality TV stars. My wife and I have been successful because we love each other and are committed to making it work every day. Well, most days. More days than not, we really work on it. And communication, that's really important, we totally do that. Talking about stuff is important-ish. But at least a part of my success as a husband has to do with my non-adultery contingency plan.
   My plan was first created early in our marriage, when a friend who had been married for a long time pulled me aside and told me that I needed to come up with a plan on how to NOT stray from my marriage vows. Now to me a plan seemed a little unnecessary, by staying faithful, I was by default, not committing adultery. But he told me that you needed to have a plan, because unless you were careful, at some point in the marriage you were going to be in a situation that would be so tempting, that if didn't already know what you would do when some wanton hussy threw herself at you, you would falter.
   He told me parts of his plan to help me formulate mine. His first thing was, if a woman wanted to make the sexy with him, he would get up and run away if necessary. In addition, he said that he made it a habit to never be alone with a woman that wasn't his wife. Or his mother probably. He didn't mention that, but I imagine he was safe with her as well. He stayed away from places that might incite him to passion with another woman, porn shops, strip clubs, the internet, Las Vegas as a whole, pools, beaches, summertime, concerts, movies, HBO, especially-especially Skin-e-max, the mall, and basically anyplace that isn't under Sharia Law. He absolutely never flirts with women; he once used pepper-spray on a Denny's waitress that called him Sugar. He actually had quite a long list, apparently women routinely threw themselves at my friend. (I guess I understand, he was voted as the accountant with the most visible chest hair poking out of the top of his undershirt, three years running down in the corporate tax department. Rowr.)
   After much consideration to what my friend had suggested I sat down and formulated my own plan. I'm sure all you married fellows, will come up with your own plans later this evening. Yours might include not befriending and then cyber-stalking old girlfriends on social media, or not having sex with people you aren't married to. Excellent plans all. But for me, my list is really short. A one, two punch of a good solid plan that is sure to keep me monogamous for life.

My plan is this:
1) I decided I would be socially awkward to the point that people of the opposite sex felt so uncomfortable around me they couldn't even carry on a conversation.
2) I decided that I would be (and this is the most important one, I think) fantastically, utterly, completely, amazingly unattractive. Really, really not good looking.

Well, not decided so much as, that's just how things are. Which shouldn't detract from the fact that my plan has been a smashing success.
 

You're lucky. I usually do my selfies with a duck-face.

I Don't Always Drink Beer...

Which is why we're on a break, beer and I. 

Don't Drive Drunk. Or Stupid. Especially Stupid.

SIR! SIR! Roll down your window please. NO! Not the passenger window, the driver's side. Oh holy crap! SIR! Not the rear driver's window. SIR! Roll down YOUR window, sir.

Uh, sorry.

Thank you, sir. I see you had a little problem with the window, sir. Do you know why I pulled you over, sir?

Alien mind control?

Excuse me, sir?
Aliens from Beetle Juice came down and sucked out your brain, and commanded you to pull over innocent law abiding citizens and harass them until they bowed down to the evil alien overlord, which is why I wear a tinfoil thong, because Beatle Juice-ian's brains are in their crotches, which explains the human phrase, he is thinking with his LITTLE brain...
NO, SIR! That is the stupidest thing I ever heard sir. Aliens don't exist, sir. You were driving erratically, sir. You were drifting all over the road, your speed was inconsistent, you used your blinker after you turned, the gas nozzle is hanging from your gas tank, and you are currently parked in someones koi pond. I'm suspicious that you've been drinking sir.

I'm pretty sure it was aliens.
No, sir. You were driving dangerously, sir. And aliens, notwithstanding the illegal kind, don't exist. Sir, have you in fact been drinking? 
Du'h, you would totally die if you never drank anything.
Have you been drinking alcohol, sir? Or are you just stupid? 
Uh... Sorry officer. You caught me. I'm a degenerate alcoholism. I've had a five-pack of beers, at that boob club, where the women show their chestal region. Yup, I'm totally drunk. 
The what? Show what? Sir. How much have you had to drink?
I said a fiver. No, wait, a seven pack. Ninety beers.
Sir. Beers, come in six packs. Or twelves, or eighteens, or cases. Have you in fact been drinking? 
Oh yes, I was having a debauchery at the bar with the females and I ordered five... ten... forty-two or the black and whites...
Sir? Do you mean Black and Tans?
That's so PC.
Sir. You haven't been drinking have you, sir? You're just stupid.
I resonate that remark. Resemble. Regret.
Resent?
I never even sent it the first time. 
Resent, it means to be angry or upset.
Oh. Sorry, I've drunk so much I forgot the dictionary. And I forgot I was drinking Moonglow and not beers.
Moonglow? Do you mean Moonshine?!
And, I had some Irish Car-Jackings.
Irish Car-Bombs?
A fourth of Jeff Daniels.
A fifth of the star of Something Wild? And Dumb And Dumber? You meant Jack. Sir, it is apparent you haven't been drinking. I'm going to have to write you up for being an idiot.
No! My work will fire me if they find out I'm stupid.
I'm sure they already suspect, sir. You are rather amazingly stupid.
I'm not stupid, I tell you. I'm drunk, I've been drinking vodka sauce. 
Vodka sauce goes on pasta, it's not for drinking. Let's do some field tests and see how stupid you really are.
Like saying the alphabet backwards?
I suspect you would just face the other way and say the alphabet.
Are you psychic?
Sir, what is the area of a square which has sides that are 4" long?
Let's see... A squared, plus B squared, equals ABBA, who was a really famous Swedish band. I'm going with ABBA.

That might be the stupidest thing ever said aloud, sir. The area of a square with 4" sides is not ABBA, it is 16 square inches. You are stupid, sir.
I'm not. Give me another chance.
OK, when did man first land on the moon?
Never. You can't land on the moon. They staged it.
I kinda knew you were gonna say that. That's a stupid person benchmark. Without a doubt you haven't been drinking, you just have the IQ of a zucchini.
That's not so bad, I hear wild zucchinis are pretty clever. 
No sir, they're not. Let's go, get out of the car. You're under arrest for being spectacularly dumb.
I'm not a idiot! Give me one more chance.
OK. One last chance to prove you're drunk and not stupid. A man has a cat. He puts the cat in a box. The box has poison in it that may or may not have have opened and killed the cat. You can't lift the lid of the box to check; is the cat alive or not? 
That's just wrong. You can't just go around killing or not killing cats. Why isn't PETA all over this guy?
It's hypothetical sir. Sir, answer the question; is the cat alive or dead?
Uhhm. Yes?
Yes?
He is alive and dead.
Correct, sir. I guess you aren't a complete moron.
That's great! What do I win?
A DWI. You have the right to remain silent...

I Will Sigh No More Forever, or I Have Met the Enemy And He Is Me... And Totally Pathetic.

You go through life and you think, "I'm a pretty nice guy, I generally care about the people around me. I try my best to be good. I know I have a few shortcomings, but they're not that bad. It's not like I'm felonious, I just have a few foibles." And then you meet someone who exhibits your foibles, and you realize what an annoying demon from the very pits of hell you are.

   If you are a topper, nothing will get your blood boiling like some guy that knows somebody that did some thing way cooler than what you just talked about. Or people that have to be brutally honest and point out the faults of every person they've ever met, REALLY don't appreciate having their own faults highlighted. My lone fault, (I'm practically a saint) is that instead of complaining, when life is hectic and I am overwhelmed, I bravely, stoically... sigh. In the manliest way possible of course. My own semi-silent protest against the crushing minutia of life. Practically nothing, really.
   And then yesterday I had a customer who started sighing the moment I walked into her house. She was upset about a multitude of small offenses. The electrician was late, sigh, she had to get to her office, sigh, she didn't bring her air scrubber, sigh, underneath the fridge was filthy, sigh, walking to the front door, sigh,  standing up, sigh, sitting down, sigh, sighing, sigh, sigh, sigh, sigh. ARGH!

   Each sigh was a pin prick. And then a paper cut. And then she was stabbing me in the throat. Holy crap! It wasn't a victimless crime, it was akin to genocide. My minor foible transformed into a slathering vicious monster right in front of me. I totally would have punched her in the throat to get her to stop, but I couldn't bear the resulting sigh.
   So beware. If you meet anybody that shares your faults, you should just run. Or kill them. Unless there are witnesses.

The Irish Are Truly To Be Admired.

I really admire the Irish. I am mostly a mutt, ethnically, but if I identify with any group of people it would be the Irish. I love the Irish. I mean, I don't like their actual country, it's all rainy and cold and I hate that, but still.
   The only other thing is, what the hell is up with all that red hair? It's seriously spooky; red is not a natural hair color. And they dance like they are reverse paraplegics. That's more than a little weird. Why aren't you moving your arms, Michael Flatley? That dude is freaky, and not in a good way! Speaking of freaky... Bagpipes?! You consider that music? Really?! Oh my goodness, that is just aural torture. But other than all that, I  totally love the Irish.

   Oh, and the Catholicism. The new Pope seems cool and all, but no thank you. I'm totally on Luther's side on this one. All and all, the Irish are lovely, lovely people. Except for the scores of children. G'ah! I can barely stand the ones I have. The last thing I need is ten more. But, aside from that, the Irish rule.
   Oh, and the stereotypical constant fist fighting. Why would somebody enjoy that? I have been hit in the face before, and I have to tell you, I am not a fan. But at least it's better than the suicide, or the potato based cuisine, or the depressingly morbid authors. I can't reiterate enough, I love the Irish.

   But I do love to drink. And the Irish love to drink. That's got to be more than a coincidence. And I plan on converting to Irishdom... Irishnanism... Irishitianity, just as soon as I find out what I need to complete the ritual. I'm pretty sure it involves a Guinness, Sinead O'Connor and a U2 song.

Why I'd Be A Terrible Parent.

I would be a terrible parent. The list of reasons is extensive and includes, I drink too much, like I need somebody else to spend my money on, I don't like the fact that kids are smelly and messy, I don't want to share the TV, I hated homework as a kid - not really interested in reliving that agony, I desperately want to appear cool and that is impossible when driving around with screaming kids in a beat up mom-mobile, and I hate the fact that all people that blog are obligated to post about their stupid kids.

      
   Check that. Apparently, I already am a terrible parent. To a boy and a girl. No, sorry. They're both boys. And there's three of them. I think the above reasons still apply. I mostly take my parenting tips from the book "The Greatest Christmas Pageant Ever" wherein the parents are almost completely absent and the kids run amuck.
   And it's working! Two recent events have encouraged me to the fact that despite my terrible parenting skills, my kids are probably going to live, or something. My middle child, who is younger than the oldest child and more or less older than his younger brother, if my math is correct, is somewhat of a precocious child. And I mean precocious, not in the Little Billy got mud on his church clothes sense, but more in the Atilla the Hun destroying entire continents sense. Tonight he pounded down the stairs, (how does a stick thin, seventy pound kid sound exactly like pigmy hippos performing traditional irish step dancing?) and declared that when he grew up he was going to get a tattoo. Of himself. Contemplating a tattoo on himself of himself on himself. I'm pretty sure there were several more decreasingly small tattoos on decreasingly small hims; and it was pretty trippy. All I really could think was, "Wow, Inception and narcissism all in one fell swoop, you are going to rule the world. (and possibly be kind of a jerk.)" And they say kids these days don't have any self confidence.
   The second involves my youngest, who's like ten or six or four or something. (It's probably four, he totally can't hold his liquor.) Anyways, we were at a restaurant and the waitress was trying to score some brownie points by drawing pictures for the young ruffian. He requested that she draw a picture of him, to which she complied. "There's my face!" He exclaimed. "Can you draw my body?" She began to draw him, but he interrupted with, "is that my butt?" I gave him a stern look, and a tsk, but as the response didn't involve f-bombs, I left it at that. And then he told her, "Draw my penis." I yelled at him, "JACK!" (Which happens, oddly enough, to be his name.) To which he rightly responded, "Draw my penis, please." What a gentleman.

   Ah CRAP! I just wrote a mommy blog. Except I'm a daddy. I wrote a daddy-pretending-to-be-a-mommy blog, but not in a weird way. Maybe a little weird, it's just that I have fantastic legs and it's a shame to hide them under pants when what really shows them off is a fishne... Umm, what I meant to say was, after this, can I even call myself a terrible parent anymore? All this time spent being disreputable, and to throw it away in one careless moment. Damnit! Tomorrow I'll demean them and publicly crush their dreams, maybe then I'll truly earn that "Worst Dad Ever" mug that I occasionally launch at them in a drunken rage.

I'm Pretty Sure I Crushed That Interview!

Come in, come in. Please have a seat.
Thanks, man.
You're most welcome. So let's get right to it, shall we?
M'eh. I guess.
I see that you're going with a casual look for your interview.
Yeah, I woke up late. So I just wore what I slept in.
Do you always sleep in shredded jeans and a dirty budweiser shirt?
I don't know. Maybe. These are my church clothes.
Church clothes?
Yeah, 'cause they're holey! Hahahaha. Get it? Holey. You probably don't get it.
No, I get it. It's very clever. A sense of humor can be a valuable asset here.
That's what she said.
Excuse me, what?
Duh. You said ASSet. Huhuuhhuuhuhhu.
Oh yes. The sense of humor thing again. Very nice.
Most people don't get my jokes. Because they're stupid.
The jokes?
No. The people. My jokes are the bomb.
Oh, I'm sure they are. Let's get back to the interview.
Whatevs.
I'll take that as an affirmative. First; why do you want to work here?
I don't know. I guess because it's something. The pay sucks and I hate the people, but, ya know.
Interesting, interesting. And where do you see yourself in five years?
I don't know. Running a prison gang drug business. Or in the morgue. Under an overpass in Portland? Someplace really bitchin'.
Oh, that's just great. So what do you consider your biggest weakness?
D'jou just call me weak, you pansy? I'll kick your bleepin' ass!
Are you insinuating temper is your achilles heel? Or is vulgarity your problem?
I'm not sure what all those words mean, but I'm pretty sure I'm gonna have to punch you in the throat.
Those are great answers. But keep in mind that this is part of the interview process. Is there are any other foibles we should be aware of?
Foibles?! I guess I like the one with the three pigs and the wolf.
Not fables, foibles. Minor character flaws.
Oh. Like my heroin habit? Or my felony goat rustling rap?
Yes.
Oh, well those things I already said. Also, I like to get drunk on Listerine. I force hamsters and pigeons to fight to the death by strapping tiny medieval weapons to their little arms. I relieve myself in newspaper boxes. I used to run a protection racket on my church choir group. I rarely shower... in the woman's locker room at the Y. I get my clothes of of recently deceased people at the hospital. I stole and then sold my grandma's dog and hot water bottle. Uhhmm. That's all I can remember at this moments, I'm a little messed up right now, I just ate some magic mushrooms I found under the trashcan at the dog park.
Oh, that's plenty. I don't normally say this in the middle of an interview, but you are really something special.
I know, right?!
Just extraordinary. Now let's do some word association.
With letters? Like a spelling bee?
No. I say words and you tell me the first thing that you think of.
Boobs.
I didn't start yet.
Doesn't matter. Everything makes me think of boobs.
OK, we'll see. Bird.
Boobies.
Television.
Boob.
Drums.
Boobs.
Puppy.
Boobs.
Eyes.
Boobs.
Cantelope.
Boob.
Mammal.
Boobs.
OK, last one. Boobs.
Did the aliens tell you to say that?! Damnit! Wear a tinfoil hat everyday for the last three years, and the aliens can't get in my stupid head, and then the first day I don't, the fricking aliens try and take over. Fricking great! Now I suppose your going to probe me!
Well technically, that's more than one word. Also; please pull your pants up.
Are we almost done? I'm supposed to meet my parole agent... or was it my dealer? in a few minutes. What else you got?
Almost done. Last thing. You just to need to take a piss test.
Just did.
In your pants?
Oh yeah.
Excellent! I have to say, I have never met anybody more qualified to be a belligerent homeless crazy guy. You have the position. When can you start?
Boobs! ALIENS! Alien boobs. Get out of my brain! Get out, get out, get out. Did you pee on me? Hey can you spare some change for a veteran? Boobs. Buddy. Buddy. Buddy. Give me some Listerine. I know you got some, your breath is fresh. AHHHHHHHHgggghghhh. Get out. Get out. Get out. Boobs.

Pajama Day.

Recently my pre-school age son had a super fun event at his day care center. It was called Pajama Day. It went like this; everybody was encouraged to show up in their pajamas,  and then they just did all the regular stuff they normally do on a typical day. But it was way more fun because they were wearing their pajamas. My son totally loved it.
   I was pretty jealous. How come something so joyful and fun is the sole property of the young? It's not fair. I need a Pajama Day much more than my kid does. My life is a never-ending series of mind numbingly boring events; I need pajama day. My shiftless-do-nothing-lazy-play-the-day-away-cartoons-and-sugared-cereal-happy-happy-baby-hobo child doesn't need Pajama Day to make his life better. It already IS better.
   So today I decided to wage an important, yet symbolic, battle for adults everywhere. I hijacked Pajama Day. I wore my pajamas all day. I went Bible study. I went to breakfast. I went to work, where I performed my plumberly duties, I had lunch, I went to the bank, I picked up my child from day care, I went to the grocery store, and then I went home. And it was great! It made everything better. It was intoxicating and pure.
   And then the cops showed up. I learned, it is frowned upon to wear your pajamas out in public if you are an adult. Especially at Bible study. And at restaurants. And at customer's homes. And at one's workplace. And at the bank. And at a day care center. And at the grocery store. Especially if your pajamas are your birthday suit.

Sexual Harassment Is No Laughing Matter... Unless You Do It Right.

This is the offices of Smith, Smith, Smith, Gonzalez-Slebårnueski-Okohabu, and Smith. How may I help you?
I'm being harassed at work.
Sir, I just want to let you know up front, that being told by your supervisor to get off of Facebook and do some actual work, does not constitute harassment. At least, according to a recent Supreme Court ruling.
No. That's not it... Wait. Does that come up a lot?
Oh yes. It's the number one new lawsuit filed by today's industrious worker.
I'll keep that in mind. But no, my complaint is much more serious and salacious than that. I'm being sexually harassed at work.
YIPPEE! Porsche Cayenne, here I come... I mean, how terrible for you. Tell me some more about what's been happening.
My boss has just been making me very uncomfortable at work, and it has to stop.

Oh, I agree. Sex has no place at the workplace, unless you are a sex therapist, or a licensed prostitute who resides in Nevada... Are you?
A sex therapist?
Yes.
No.
Oh good. Uhm. Are you a...
A gigolo?
Yup, or a gentleman of the night if you prefer. A he-hooker? A paid man whore? A tawdry boy? A fellow with round heels and a fat wallet? Mr. Floozie-Pants? Señor sex-on-demand? One of the male persuasion who is paid to have sex with other people?
Oh come on. You made half of those up. And I know what a prostitute is. AND, no, I am not one.
That's great. Not that I have a problem with he-hookers, per se. It's just that...
DUDE! What about me?!
I guess. I mean, I don't really know you, but I suppose we could at least have a drink.
NO. I meant the thing we were talking about.
Which was? Oh! Yes. My Porsche. I mean, your sexual assault case. So, tell me, what is going on at your place of employment?
Well, my boss just makes me uncomfortable. Everything is all about sex.
Can you be more specific?
Well, sometimes he looks at stuff on his computer, when he knows I'll be watching, and sometimes it's risqué, and I'm pretty sure he does it just to get a rise out of me.
Oh, that's terrible.
It is. I have nightmares.
Is there more?
Does a clown poop in the woods?
I don't know what that means.
Yes. It means yes.  I thought everybody knew that one. Clowns poop in the woods.
Bears.
WHERE?! Argh. Oh my god, save me. AHHHHHHhhhhhhhhh.
SETTLE DOWN! Settle down. There isn't any bears.
Then why did you say bears?
It's do bears poop in the woods. Bears, not clowns.

That's ridiculous. Why would bears be in the woods? I mean, there aren't even toilets in the woods. Where would they go to the bathroom?
IN THE WOODS!
With the clowns?
There aren't any clowns.
Oh right. And I suppose the bears are the ones mauling unsuspecting hikers.
OH MY GO... you know? Let's skip this conversation. Why don't you just tell me what else has happened at your work.
OK, this is hard. But sometimes when I go to the bathroom, my boss will... look.
At your private parts?
No. At my twigs and berries.
Isn't that your private part?
What fun would it be, if that was private? My pancreas is my private part.
How would somebody look at your pancreas?
If you had an X-Ray. Or a big knife.
Does your boss watch you in the bathroom while holding a large knife?
No, but that would be freaky.
Yes, but we can't file a suit against your boss for some freaky thing that he hasn't done.
Good point.
But, we can get him for staring at your P-E-N-I-S.
My pens?
Your penis.
Oh, that's a relief. That would be REALLY strange if he was sexually harassing writing implements. That would be a whole other level of weird.
You're a whole other level of weird.
What was that?
I said... I should shave my beard.
You have a beard?
No. So he looks at your "not so private parts" when you are in the bathroom?
Yes. He's always in there when I am. And he's always googling me.
Googling you?
Looking at me brazenly with sexual intentions.
Ogling.
Bless you.
What?
Didn't you sneeze?
No. Staring at someone with unclean thoughts is called ogling.
I thought that was the evil beasts that live under bridges.
Those are ogres. Listen, can we just get on with this? What else?
Well sometimes he touches me... Where my swimsuit covers.
Thank goodness.
What?
Oh sorry. But that's finally something I can use.
You could use being touched by your boss? Maybe I should talk to another lawyer.
No, I mean that's finally something that we can use in your against your boss.
Oh. I get it.
I doubt it.
What?
I said you're stupid and I already hate you.
What?
I said, I bet even cupid would want to date you.
Oh. Well I am pretty irresistible.
Except to women. Or gay men. Or anyone really.
What?
Especially to women; I'm sure. So this touching? Where and when does this happen?
Well sometimes at random points during the day, he will just reach down and scratch me. Under my clothes.
At work? Just reach down and scratch your, what? Your bottom?
Yes. And my aforementioned, not private parts.
Just reach right out and fondle you? At work?
That is exactly what I'm telling you.
When else does he touch you indecently?
When I get out of the shower.
He showers with you? This dude is getting weirder and weirder. Have you told him not to?
He doesn't really listen to me. He acts like I belong to him.
That is very disturbing. Who would want you?
What?
I said, my eyes are blue.
Are they?
No. So when else does this touching occur?
Sometimes late at night after everybody else has gone to bed, he will... he'll... he... h... I can't go on. It's too awful to remember.
Why is he in your bed? Are you being serious?
Yes. Fatal serious.
Fatal?
Yeah it's like dead serious, but worser. And seriouser.
Fatal isn't worse than dead, it's the same thing.
Whatever. Do you want the case or not?
I'm not sure even a Porsche is worth this. Do you have any witnesses?
I witnessed it.
You are not a witness. Is there anyone else in your office that can corroborate your story.
Gather my story into one area?
That's consolidate. No. Corroborate means to confirm your story.
You want my story to become catholic?
Not that kind of confirm. Is there anybody else I can talk to that saw what happened to you? One of your co-workers perhaps?
No, I'm afraid not. I don't have any co-workers.
That's too bad. So, it's just you and your boss?
Yup. Just a one man operation.
Wouldn't that be a TWO man operation?
Nope, it's just me.
...and your boss?
I am the sole employee of the company. And also the owner.
So, who is harassing you?
Geez, I thought you had to be smart to be a lawyer. My boss is harassing me.
YOU ARE YOUR BOSS! You can't harass yourself!
You wouldn't say that if you see what happens in the shower!
Holy crap, that's a terrifying image. Sir, you're a kook. You can't file a suit against yourself.
Why not?! All this sexual attention is totally unwanted.
It can't be unwanted if you are subjecting yourself to it.
Oh yeah?! I suppose, I just asked for it right? You're so typical. Just because I like to wear sexy things, that means I should be subjected unwanted sexual attention?
But you ARE your boss! Who am I supposed to sue? You or you?
That's crazy. What kind of idiot sues himself?
Exactly. Good-bye.

Weird Beard.

I miss writing. Even if it's just for me. I'm back. 

Zombie Preparedness.

*flip is currently chronicling his attempts to get rich. Oddly enough, flip's exploits are being recounted alphabetically. (That's A-Z, for the uninitiated.) flip is also referring to himself in the third person. ' Cause flip's just cool like that.

Pretty much everybody agrees the Zombie Apocalypse is coming. And tons of people are preparing, but most everybody is doing it wrong. If you really want to survive the coming Zombie uprising, come see me. 

   Because let's face it, you're gonna end up as a zombie. With our help, you'll be the best zombie you can be. 

   First we'll work you out. You want to be nice and strong when it's time. We'll work on the cardio too, you want to be able to run for a good long time. I'm not exactly sure how being in top shape translates, seeing as how there aren't any zombies yet, but I'm sure there are residual effects of being strong and fast, muscle memory and all that.

   Then we'll do some customizations. Sharpened teeth for one. Now that you only eat human flesh, you don't need the grinding teeth of the omnivore. All teeth are filed down, razor sharp. Speaking of sharp, we'll also attach prosthetic claws on the ends of your fingers. Since you won't be intelligent enough to wield a weapon you'll need something to rend human flesh with.

   Next we'll work on the achilles heel, as it were, of the zombie. The whole head thing. It is now possible to coat the skull with new lightweight bullet resistant material. What I wouldn't pay to see the smug look on a zombie hunter, turn to horror as he realizes, too late, that his head shot didn't work. I'll also imbed some kevlar in your neck, providing some resistance to edged weapons separating your head from your shoulders.

   Lastly, give some thought to were you will most likely reside after you become a zombie. If you will be in the country, we will give you a full body traditional camo paint job. If you will be hunting in the city, we will paint you up in the new modern urban camouflage. They'll never see you coming. 

   After you see us at Flip's Zombie Modifications, you won't just survive the Zombie uprising; as the top predator, you'll thrive. 

This ad sponsored and endorsed by the Zombie Majority.

YOLO Inspired Merchandise.

*flip is currently chronicling his attempts to get rich. Oddly enough, flip's exploits are being recounted alphabetically. (That's A-Z, for the uninitiated.) flip is also referring to himself in the third person. ' Cause flip's just cool like that.

You can't swing a dead a cat at crackhead these days without running into that insipid phrase, YOLO. It supposedly means You Only Live Once, but the way that todays whiny, emasculated, twit applies it, it might as well mean I'm a pansy and I think that dancing on the hood of my car at sunset at the beach, is REALLY living, but only if some takes a pictogram of it and uses a nice blocky sans serif to insert some weak cliche. Oh, that's YOLO for sure, brah. Screw that, and your ridiculous pink YOLO T-shirt.

   If you're really going to use and market that phrase, we have got to stop being all sissified. You want to market something that really goes with YOLO? How about my YOLO self immolation kit? Only $35.99. Or my YOLO cyanide capsule, for a limited time only $99.95. Or the YOLO anvil in a parachute pack, $500. If you purchase any of the preceding items I present the YOLO funeral, for the low, low price of $4,500. Now that's how you YOLO, you little hipster spaz.

Xanadu Revival.

*flip is currently chronicling his attempts to get rich. Oddly enough, flip's exploits are being recounted alphabetically. (That's A-Z, for the uninitiated.) flip is also referring to himself in the third person. ' Cause flip's just cool like that.

The only thing that matters anymore is content. People go out of their minds coming up with the new meme, or app, or... whatever, that can get a million eyeballs on it. 'Cause where the eyeballs are, the cash will follow. Or that's what we are to believe, anyway.

   But why are people practically killing themselves coming up with original, inventive ideas, when there are inarguable classics like 1980's Xanadu, starring a radiant Olivia Newton-John and the sublime Michael Beck, waiting to be mined? 

   So without further ado, I now announce that HILL BLOCKS VIEW, will immediately suspend operations so I can throw the full weight of my passion and creativity, into my new true love; a reimagining of Xanadu, presented as a weekly webisode. Starring: my cat Maxx, as Sonny, Me as Kira, Olivia Newton-John, as Sparky the plucky little black shoeshine boy that I created just so the "Neutron-Bomb" would stop calling me, like, seventeen times a day begging, to be part of this production and crying and whining and geez with that Australian accent it's just so grating and fine here's a part now leave me alone, and Gene Kelly, reprising his award winning role as Danny, the stereotypical downtrodden Jazz guy... the role obviously had to be rewritten, seeing as Gene Kelly has been dead, 'lo these many years. Danny now, inexplicably, lies in a graveyard under the headstone of Gene Kelly. Really experimental stuff. Although, he has been getting some rave reviews on some of the early footage. In fact the Village Voice recently opined; "Gene Kelly has taken method acting to a whole other level, he hasn't been this compelling in decades. Do I smell Oscar? Oops, no. That was just death actually."

   S0, stay tuned for updates about the groundbreaking premiere, presented in several-D, stereophonic audio on a Computer screen near you. If you live close to me. Otherwise it won't probably be near you. It will only be playing in my mom's basement on an old Amiga, hooked up to a Betamax.

   But it'll probably be really great. And would somebody please do a Grease reunion so Olivia Newton-John will move off my couch? If I have to hear "You're the one that I want," one more time...

Wasting My Life On TV And Movies.

*flip is currently chronicling his attempts to get rich. Oddly enough, flip's exploits are being recounted alphabetically. (That's A-Z, for the uninitiated.) flip is also referring to himself in the third person. ' Cause flip's just cool like that.

There is a saying that says, "if you do a thing you love, you will never work a day in your life." I have decided to take that advice to heart. There is nothing in the world that gives me more pleasure, just a pure sense of doing exactly what I'm meant to be doing, than being drunk. It's just so awesome! If I could only be wasted for a living, that would truly be my dream job.
   In almost every movie ever made there is the drunk guy who slurs something funny and stupid, or mumbles some sage advice. In the credits, he is always listed as Drunk Guy Number 2; I want to be that guy! I already do that for free. I have started interviewing for upcoming projects, and just to make sure the producers know I am dedicated, I always show up in character.

*Update: Nobody would hire me. Apparently, Drunk Guy Number 2 isn't really drunk! He's just an actor, pretending to be wasted. G'ah. What a travesty!

Validate You!

*flip is currently chronicling his attempts to get rich. Oddly enough, flip's exploits are being recounted alphabetically. (That's A-Z, for the uninitiated.) flip is also referring to himself in the third person. ' Cause flip's just cool like that.

I used to want to help people sort through their problems, give them some sound counsel and tools they could use to change their attitude. And then I realized there isn't any money in that. People don't want to actually change, or to work on their own shortcomings. They just want validation, someone to tell them that they are awesome and that everybody else is a giant douche.

   You are special person, unique and wonderful! Chuck Norris wants to be in your fan club. All those people you are in conflict with are complete clueless jerk-holes. None of your problems are your fault.
   Make checks payable to: Mr. Fantastic Wonderpants at PO Box 42 Albuquerque, NM

Uvula Enhancer.

*flip is currently chronicling his attempts to get rich. Oddly enough, flip's exploits are being recounted alphabetically. (That's A-Z, for the uninitiated.) flip is also referring to himself in the third person. ' Cause flip's just cool like that.

If you're like most people, the first thing you notice on a prospective mate is the size of their uvula. Don't feel guilty, it's natural, everybody is checkin' out everybody else's uvula. But what if you are one of those unfortunate few, born with a tiny uvula? Are you just destined to die alone? Unloved; in this uvula obsessed culture?
   Not if I have anything to say about it! I've invented a prosthetic uvula that you simply staple unto your existing uvula to give your uvula that full and sexy look that hot wanton people you would like to sleep with, find so appealing.
   Order yours today. Just send a check for $34.99, a money order for $15.73, three special edition Lincoln pennies, and a travelers check in the amount of $.42, to: Flip's Hot Sexy Uvula, PO Box 4242, Albuquerque, NM USA and in 13-57 weeks, your anemic, flabby uvula will be a distant memory. Hello ladies!

Transient-O-Gram

*flip is currently chronicling his attempts to get rich. Oddly enough, flip's exploits are being recounted alphabetically. (That's A-Z, for the uninitiated.) flip is also referring to himself in the third person. ' Cause flip's just cool like that.

I was pulling off of the freeway recently, lost in thought, contemplating the best way to tell my wife that I was sorry that I forgot our anniversary, but I would still like some sweet, sweet loving, when I was startled by a thump on my window. I looked up and saw a bedraggled man holding a "Will Work For Food" sign. 

   EUREKA! I gave him a five spot and Transient-O-Gram® was born. I drove him to my house, he rang the door bell, and when my wife answered he told her, more incoherently and profanity laced than I ever could, that her husband was sorry about the anniversary thing but would still like to have some sexy, fun times.

   It didn't work. My wife hates me now and I live in the kids playhouse in the backyard. But that doesn't detract from the genius of Transient-O-Gram®. On practically every corner of the city is a host of eager, untapped workers. And for around $10, they can deliver your message. 

Would you like to wish your Aunt Robert a Happy Birthday? Send a Transient-O-Gram®.

Want to tell that girl at the store that you'd like to bag her groceries? Send a Transient-O-Gram®.

Need to let Vito the Blade know that you'll be a little short this month? Send a Transient-O-Gram®.

Order your Transient-O-Gram® today!

Sleep Deprivation Really Means...

*flip is currently chronicling his attempts to get rich. Oddly enough, flip's exploits are being recounted alphabetically. (That's A-Z, for the uninitiated.) flip is also referring to himself in the third person. ' Cause flip's just cool like that.


I have often wondered, if offered the chance to have more money or more hours in each day, which would I choose? Definitely money. Because it's impossible to get more than twenty-four hours into a standard day; right?! Not so fast, friend. What if I told you I've discovered a way create up to eight, yes EIGHT, extra hours every day? Would you like to hear about that? Would you like it enough that you would pay me, in three easy payments, the low, low amount of $19.99? No? Hmm. How about I tell you my plan and then you pay me what you think it's worth, in three easy payments. Great! Here's my plan; stop sleeping! It's so wasteful. While you are sleeping, you aren't painting the kitchen, or getting exercise, or watching your shows, or (my personal hobby) writing the Great American Novelette. So stop it. Just follow me through the steps of the program, and I'll show you how easy it really is.

16HSLS: (Hours Since Last Sleep): I had a full day of work and then spent a wonderful evening with the family. Now it's time for my extra hours to begin. Looking forward to a night of fruitful writing.

23HSLS: Browsed StumbleUpon for three hours, followed by opening and shutting the fridge door trying to solve the light conundrum for an hour or two, and then discovering that pop tarts are freakin hilarious, somewhere around four in the A.M. But at least I have a good solid hour to write before getting ready for work. 

40HSLS: Work sucked. Family was unusually loud and annoying. But now, it's the magic hours. 

41HSLS: Work sucked. Family was unusually loud and anno... Wait. I already wrote that. Need to focus...                Where's those funny cats? 

44HSLS: Did you hear that? What the hell was that, it sounded like an eyeball breathing. SH*T! Quick, I'll hide in... snxxxxt. WHA...?! I'm hungry. Where's the kitchen go to?

45HSLS: HAHAHAHAHahahahah. POP TARTS. hahhahahahaha. They pop and they're tarts. But they're aren't tart or poppy. HAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAA. snxzzt. hhaahaaAHAAAHA!

48HSLS: The devil-woman is trying to kill me. She keeps shooting these little evil alien bastards out of her tummy, and they intend to suck up all my life essence, leaving me a lifeless husk. Probably make a piñata out of the husk. Fill it with Pop Tarts. Dad must be an acronym for dead essence dummy-head. They won't take me alive, dammit! This tinfoil will keep me safe. 

64HSLS: No job. Said I looked terrible and I wasn't allowed to wear my safety tinfoil hat. Good riddance, they must be in league with the devil-wife. Hid in the cupboard until everybody went to bed, Pop Tarts are my only friend left in the world. 

67HSLS: Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop...                Pop. 

68HSLS: Pop Tarts are inside of foil. I'm inside of foil. The Pop Tarts want to get inside of me! Damn you Beelzubeatrice, is there no safe place from your accursed machina... u. uh     uh

70HSLS: uh.                       tions?   Who said that?                    Huh?

72HSLS: AAAaaaaaAAAAAARGH! AAAaaaaaAAAAAARGH! AAAaaaaaAAAAAARGH! AAAaaaaaAAAAAARGH! AAAaaaaaAAAAAARGH! 

Racy Clothing

*flip is currently chronicling his attempts to get rich. Oddly enough, flip's exploits are being recounted alphabetically. (That's A-Z, for the uninitiated.) flip is also referring to himself in the third person. ' Cause flip's just cool like that.

It is funny to me, that in this enlightened day and age we live in, people (especially men) find it necessary to have to buy their racy clothing in secret, under the cover of darkness, like it is some disgraceful thing, in back alleys, and disgusting corners of the internet, full of shame, like a junkie looking for a fix, or knowing that nobody would understand, like a black guy from Detroit that votes Republican.
   But it doesn't have to be that way. I say NO MORE. I wear racy things and I'm proud. And now I sell racy things. My official site isn't up yet, but here are a few of the items that flip's Racy Wear, will sell.

Speedos. Oh yeah.

Speedos you can run in, too.

Race suits also make for excellent lounge wear.

Like he's wearing nothing at all.

Very aerodynamic.

Faster than lightning.