Sorry. My Email Got Hacked.

For those of you that got an email from me today that was obviously a spam email, I am totally sorry. Some bastard hacked my Yahoo account and sent Raspberry Drops spam to all of my contacts. Hackers are such jerks. I feel so violated, kinda like a guy that dropped the soap in a prison movie. OK, not that bad, but it still sucked. It put me in a bad mood all day. But rest assured, I have not joined some freaky cult that thinks Raspberry Drops are the answer to all of mankind's ills. As a matter of fact I've never even tried the stu… ARGgggggggghhh

Please disregard that of which I myself was telling you moments before. It was untruth. I LOVE to consume Raspberry Drops with my mouth on my face. They are making my human mind and body relaxed and in a place of content. You should put them in your human face. It will fill your carbon based self with feelings of happy down in your abdomen. You will never more be worried of wars and driving your non-flying vehicles along with millions of other humanoids in a non winnable struggle of making Earth currency. Give Raspberry Drops to all the sentient beings you know. Place them in your genetic progeny's mid meal. Slip them into the drink of people who are trying to engage in primitive mating with you. You will be glad you listened to me, a satisfied authentic human Raspberry Drop user, and clearly not an alien occupying a meat bag trying to enslave Earth planet.

You Look Like That Guy, From That Thing.

Hey, you look familiar. Aren't you that guy from that thing?
Uh, I don't think so.
No. No. I know you. You're that guy!
I'm A guy.
I swear dude. You're on that show.
I swear dude. I'm not on whatever show you're talking about.
You know… that one.
I don't.
The one on TV.
The only time I've ever been on TV is when I was on the news when I was in middle school.
Why were you on the news?
I sold a steer at the county fair.
Really? That's weird.
No weirder than this conversation. I grew up on a farm, it's what you did.
I don't think that's it.
Told you.
No. You're on that show on cable.
That's really narrowing it down.
That violent one.
Game of Thrones?
No.
Are you thinking of Breaking Bad?
Which one is that?
The one that is filmed here in Albuquerque. The one about the meth.
Haven't heard of it.
It was filmed here. It was a huge deal. People talked about it all the time.
Nope.
I can't believe you haven't heard of that. But if it isn't that, I don't know what you are thinking of. But whatever it was, it wasn't me.
It is. I know you. You're that guy.
Oh holy crap. I'm not anybody.
Don't be so hard on yourself. You're somebody. Everybody is somebody.
I didn't mean that. My self esteem is fine. I'm just not that guy you are thinking of.
How do you know? Did you figure out what guy you are?
I'm just me.
…that guy from that show.
NO! UGH. YOU'RE that guy that is giving me a headache.
Give me a minute. I'll think of it.
You know, I don't need a cup of coffee that bad. I'm leaving.
Wait. I thought of it. That zombie thing.
The Walking Dead?
That's it.
I'm not on that show.
Yeah, you're that guy.
I'm not.
Yeah, that lead guy.
The sheriff? Rick?
No.
Daryl?
Who's that?
The cool guy, with the crossbow.
Nope.
I don't know who else you could be talking about. I don't look like an Asian guy.
No. THAT guy.
I'M NOT ON THAT SHOW!
Yeah. That guy who's the star of the show.
There isn't anybody else.
Yeah, that guy who is on the opening credits. The one that's always standing by the fence, growling.
A zombie?! You think I'm a zombie?!
Yeah. You're not?
There is no such thing as zombies.
Then why do you look like that?
Like what? This is just my face.
Ouch.
You are NOT getting a tip.

Skull Highlighting.

There is a new rage sweeping the ranks of the rich and famous. For too long the Hollywood elite, the ultrarich, and supermodels have been forced to look just like everyone else when in an MRI or an X-Ray machine. But no more. Now, with my patented skull highlighting you can appear fabulous, even without your expensive clothes and plastic surgeoned skin. For the low, low price of only $10,000,000 dollars I will simply drill several minor, unimposing 1" holes in various parts of your head and inject the (probably) non-toxic paint directly unto the surface of your skull turning it a vibrant yellow, pink, or trendy color of your choice, thereby setting you apart from all the huddled masses with their plain, boring, bargain basement, brain cases.

I know what Rob is talking about. I love my new Wacom tablet. 

Stop! You're Tearing Me Apart!

It was one of the worst days of my life. I remember it like it was yesterday.
   I was at the kitchen sink when the two people I love the most, grumble into the room like a toxic cloud. The silence is thick and the mutual hate radiates indiscriminately as they pour coffee. They effortlessly avoid each other with barely constrained fury, aggression and not a little bit of effort. They vacantly acknowledge my presence, and take turns filling the awful quiet with small meaningless words.
   They have been fighting again, and their marriage can't take much more of this. They know it, I know it, I suspect even the toaster knows it, and it's an entirely inanimate object. I try and be brave. I carry on the charade, partake in the idle chatter, and politely pretend not to notice that my whole world might  soon crumble around my ears. I fill up on pleasantries while they gorge themselves on sidelong spiteful glares and unsaid poisons.
  Unbidden, my words erupt. Stop it! Stop it! You're tearing me apart! I can't deal with this anymore. You're killing me. My every waking moment is full of torment, and the nights are even worse. I lay in in bed most nights and cry, eventually falling into dark dreams full of rejection and death. I'm not even sure if you guys love me anymore, or if you ever even did. I'm sorry I'm a failure in your eyes. I'm sorry I let you down. If only I had been perfect, things would have been different… better. Still, you just have to stop, you have to fix it, because you have to. Because if you can't make it, then nothing makes sense. Your love has to matter, it has to be enough. Because if you can't… because… 
    I can't finish. Tears overwhelm me and I rush out of the house. I collapse on the front porch and let the tears come.
   After several seconds the door creaks open. Tentative steps approach. Uhm, we're sorry we've hurt you, we never intended to. We'll work on our relationship, try and make it work. And we're not disappointed in you. You haven't let us down, not at all. 
You sure?
Absolutely. Because, we don't know who you are. Who the hell are you again? 
Who am I? I'm Flip. I change your drinking water filters every year. Who am I? Wow. I thought we had something. 
Uhh. I'm sure we did. Yeah. Flip, we kinda sorta remember you. So, first off, you seem like a really nice guy, but do you think that you could just finish changing the filters… and then maybe just go away?
Yes. I can do that. I'll pull it together. I'm sorry I broke down, but I really am glad we had this talk. Next year will be better. 
Next year? We don't think that will be a good idea.
You're absolutely right. That's a long time. You guys should have me come over every six months or so. And maybe we could even have dinner. Hey, I know! We could go to therapy and work on our issues.
WE don't have issues.
Then why am I on the front porch crying?
Fair point. The two of us, have issues, things we need to work on. And you, yourself, you have some serious issues. But there are not issues between the two of us and you. As a matter of fact, never mind, forget the filters. I'll figure it out myself. Why don't you just go away. Now.
Are you sure?
Very.
OK then. So… dinner?
Uhh. We'll call you.
   They go back in side and close the door. And lock it. And then oddly it sounds like they are struck by the sudden urge to rearrange their furniture, most of it now resting against the front door.
Hey, you guys I didn't give you my number. Guys! Hey guys! My number! I'll just go ahead and carve it into the tree out front, shall I? 

Form Non-Profit Organizations, For Fun And Profit.

My cousin is volunteering at a local drug prevention non-profit organization. We got to talking the other day about his desire to possibly form his own nonprofit group. His idea is to educate people that live a certain destructive lifestyle that they are being manipulated. It could help them get out of dead end lives, and also look really good on his resume. He wants to illustrate to them that their self destructiveness is keeping them in their current socio-economic strata, and gently, in a nonjudgmental way, let them know they are being tricked and that the gold grill and the ICP neck tattoos they have, are a contrived image concocted by multi-millionaires that assures that they will never rise above night manager at the local gas station.
   While I think his plan is well intended, I am not sure how well his message will be received by his target audience. I'm pretty sure they will just tell him to have intercourse with himself in the nicest way possible, and relieve him of his wallet.  But it did get me thinking about nonprofits, and what I can do for the poor and disenfranchised.

Nothing says future CEO like "Stay Gold" tattooed across your forehead.

Spa Treatments for Underprivileged People In Distress. Instead of just pandering to the poor, with medical care and housing and food and whatnot, it's time that somebody took the time and gave them what they really need. A pedicure. Or a hot rock massage. Sure, they'll still probably starve to death or overdose on heroin, but they'll feel fabulous as they do, with a fresh exfoliating chemical peel.

Briefcases for the Suffering. I have a hard time giving money to the local panhandlers in my area. They just seem so disreputable, I'm sure they are going to use the money for something nefarious, like drugs, booze, or fast food. But if those same transients were carrying that international symbol of respectability, the briefcase, I believe they would be much more likely to receive generous gifts. Without briefcase, "Ooh, look at that disgusting bum. Don't make eye contact! Drive away as fast as possible." With briefcase, "Oh that poor man, somebody must've mugged him, forced him to drink grain alcohol, put him in those pee stained clothes and gave his hair a good mussing up; we must help him. Here good fellow, take my BMW and my Rolex."

School for Clowns And Mimes. Instead of trying to send hardened gangsters and thugs to laser tattoo removal, which is time consuming, painful, and expensive, and then to job retraining, in order to reintegrate them into society, simply direct them into a career where face paint is part of the uniform. This nonprofit gets these clowns where they need to be, away from you. First they attend clown/mime school, an exhaustive four hour online course, a quick pancake white face, and off to the job market they go. Roaming the intercontinental freeway system with others of their ilk, carnies, freak show performers, and the diabolically evil geniuses that came up with bacon wrapped deep fried butter. As a bonus,  thugs with face tattoo's are already used to the fear and disdain associated with clowns and mimes.

Pitbulls Used for Service/Security. How often do you hear of a home where dozens of rabid pitbulls are removed and then euthanized, and later in the same news broadcast hear about the lack of service animals in the local handicapped community? Or even worse, that somebody has broken into the home of some disabled person and stolen their belongings? With this revolutionary program, the unwanted pitbulls are given an extensive eight hour training course and turned over to their new owners, to love, serve and protect. The dogs instantly take to their new owners, and never maul them to death. Rarely. Occasionally.

He'll help you cross the street, protect your house, give you unconditional love, and probably won't eat your face.

Vets Livelihood Assimilating Disorders. The problem that many vets have coming back home, is that they have a hard time acclimating back into the monotony of daily life. Their lives have been in constant danger for months, even years, and now they don't know how to react. Instead of trying to reprogram the vets to be calm, like most programs do, we find super stressful jobs for them. They're wound up tight, they might as well use that to their advantage. Air traffic controller is one of our most popular jobs, along with graffiti removal in gang controlled inner cities, explosives courier, and Ex-Disney Star morality coach. Our success rate is 100%. Oops, read that wrong. Our mortality rate is 100%.

Second Language, Universal Tongue. Why do all these short sighted idiots teach the poor and illiterate people that find their way across our borders, how to speak English? It's so boring; everybody speaks English. Instead, give them a truly useful tool that will help them navigate the complexities of modern America. Fourteenth Century Romantic Poetry French. What says, I would like to have a landscaping job to support my family back in Guatemala, more than the epic poem "Mon amour est un poisson" by Guillaume de Machaut. And they'll really set themselves apart from the huddled masses, when they show up for their first day of dishwashing at Denny's, quoting that most popular of all French Renaissance sonnets, "Vos nichons me font plus heureux que le bacon enveloppé beurre cuit à la friteuse."

Facebook Birthday Drinking Game.

There is a new drinking game that is sweeping the land. And by sweeping the land I mostly mean one time in my living room. On your birthday you have a shot for every Facebook friend who offers you birthday wishes. For those of us with tons of friends this is an invitation to overindulge. I had literally ones of people who offered me birthday wishes, so I got totally wasted.

   Well, actually I couldn't find any booze so I made a concoction out of paint thinner, cooking sherry, expired buttermilk and nyquil. I took several shots, because I have more that one friend, (Moms do so count,) and then the color fell off the universe and my face melted away.

Actually this is just an excuse to practice with my new Wacom tablet.