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. 

Shmedium T-Shirts And A Misunderstanding.

There is a bottlecap digging into my cheek. I can't tell if it belonged to a Bud Light or a Colt 45. I saw it clearly out of the corner of my eye for just a millisecond, but my brain couldn't quite process it, as I whiplashed to the ground, propelled by what I can only assume is a security guard with NFL aspirations. At the moment my entire field of view is several inches of fuzzy black fading to blacktop gray.

Uhm, pardon me. Would you mind terribly getting off of my head?

SHUT-UP PSYCHO!

It's just that you are currently kneeling on my head and there is a jagged little piece of metal digging into my face.

Serves you right, sicko!
I'm just letting you know that this might look bad, when it's caught on camera. Especially if I'm bleeding.
His weight shifts as he looks around.
What camera? Who has a camera?
It's 2014. The better question is, who doesn't have a camera? Yours is in your pocket, currently digging into my back.
Ah, iPhones. Good point.
Also, my loving progeny should be directly to your starboard witnessing this whole fiasco.
Your who is on my what?
My family. On your right. Watching.
He shifts his weight a little so I can get off of the botttlecap, and turns to someone over his shoulder,
Are you sure we got the right guy? This doesn't seem like an murderous rage-monster.
A second, equally meat-headish voice answers.
This is the guy she pointed out.
OK mister, you just lay there until the cops show up. And then they're going to arrest you for assaulting our clerk.
The police? That seems a tad extreme.
Extreme?! You can't threaten to kill somebody and get away with it. 
What? Sounds like somebody is stretching the truth a smidgen.
Confused silence. Whichever neanderthal is currently assisting gravity, lumbers off of me.
Sir. I'm going to help you stand up. Why don't you tell me your version of the story.
Two wanna-be jocks in their shmedium SECURITY t-shirts help me to my feet and then position themselves on either side of me, arms crossed high on their chests, clearly signaling both are acolytes of Patrick Swayze from Road House. It's hard to say which one is more vacant and henchmen-muscle-bad-guy-movie-tough. Their belts scream with, they-won't-let-me-carry-a-gun-overcompensation. Flashlights, zip ties and walkie talkies, fight for belt space with tazers, pepper spray, and other tazers. Half gloves and metrosexual, too-tight jeans complete the outfit.
Thank you for helping me up. Here is what happened. I was in your store with my family. After  careful deliberation, I had selected the items that I desired to acquire. I proceeded to the checkout line with my family and my intended purchases, and the young lady who was ringing up my groceries commented on how cute my four year old was. I agreed with her assessment. Then she asked me if I was his Dad or his Grandpa. Taken aback, I bristled at her faux pas, paid my bill, bid her a curt farewell, egressed your store and was about to enter my mode of conveyance, when you forcefully and ever so rudely, accosted me.
I'm not sure everything you just said is real words, but that isn't the story that we heard.
Oh? Please regale me with her account. 
What? 
Tell me what she said.
She said you threatened to eat her head. And kill her family. A lot.
Does that really sound like something I would say?
We don't really know you.
You know her. Is she trustworthy?
Yes. Absolutely. Except for when the Methadone clinic loses it's funding. Or when she calles in with the Mexican flu, every Monday. Or that time she forgot to pay for that television in her purse.
Do tell.
One simian looks at the other.
Dude this seems kinda sketchy. I think maybe she set us up.
Totally. Let him go, and let's go tell the boss that Angela is trippin' again.
Besides, this old graybeard grandpa dude doesn't look threatening at all.

I'M NOT THAT OLD, YOU RIDICULOUS APES! I AM GOING TO AXE MURDER YOU! I AM GOING TO KILL YOUR RELATIVES! IMMEDIATE AND EXTENDED! I'LL DISMEMBER YOU AND ALL YOUR FACEBOOK FRIENDS. I'M GOING TO DIG UP YOUR FOREFATHERS AND CREATE A POTION THAT IMBUES THEM WITH NEW LIFE, JUST SO I CAN RE-KILL THEM ! I WILL EAT YOUR STUPID FACES, YOU DROOLING REALITY TV REJECTS! I WILL RIP YOUR HEARTS FROM YOUR BODIES BEFORE YOUR NEVER-USED BRAINS ENCASED IN THEIR POINTY SKULLS AND DOUCHEY FAUX-HAWKS HITS THE GROUND! OLD?! DOES THIS FEEL OLD TO YOU?! HOW ABOUT THAT?! OLD THIS, BIATCH!

Surprise is on my side and I administer a good beating, but I ultimately get overpowered by 550 pounds of angry and pride-damaged, steroid-enhanced-my-best-years-are-behind-me-but-I-have-six-credit-hours-at-the-local-community-college-in-criminal-justice-jock, and one thing repeats in my head over and over;
I really need to shave off this f*cking beard!

Resolutions Are SO Last Year.

I was going to write about my resolutions for the coming year and then I realized it's already the middle of January. Which means my 2012 Is Really Gonna Be My Year post is just a little non-topical right at the moment. I guess I never actually followed through on the no more procrastination thing, which was number forty-two on my 2011 list. And then I realized, it is so ridiculous to keep pumping out these lists year after year, because they always disappoint when failure inevitably comes.
    And then I remembered that saying about history not needing glasses... looking back is better if you don't have an astigmatism. You know what I mean, the hindsight got lasik, one. Whatever. So this years list will look back over last years events and retroactively adjust my resolutions to accurately match up with last years accomplishments.

I hereby resolve to:

1. Bring the passing out in public with no pants on, numbers down, from an all time high of thirty-three, in 2012, to a much more respectable thirty-two and a half. A reduction of almost an entire number.
   
2. Learn my children's names. Except for that new one. His name is all tricky, like Bob or something. I don't care what my wife says, the next one's name is gonna be simple, just like his brothers and his sister, wwwdotbabynamesdotcom. 
3. Stop smoking. Even more to the point, stop being on fire entirely. It's not as peaceful and relaxing as one would think. 
4. Continue to pursue gender equality, and not rest until the day that it is perfectly acceptable for me to tell female celebrities that I love them and I want to bear their children, and it won't seem weird. 
5. Stop spending every spare hour in front of the TV. I need to unplug and get out into the great big wonderful world and watch some internet videos on my tablet while driving down the freeway. 
6. Join one of those wannabe Bootcamp fitness places that forces you to get in the best shape of your life, which rather inconveniently happens to be in Sudan, and undertake a rigorous regimen of activity, which honestly has a lot more to do with defeating superior forces with homemade explosives and improvised weapons of mass destruction, than getting your physical body in shape, although in fairness there is some excellent at gun-point-exteme-cardio conditioning runs and some really top notch one-on-one-kill-or-be-killed-death-match classes.
   
7. Finish that great American novel that I started and put to the side because of school and jobs and then started again and stopped again because of family commitments and then Mexican prison and kept starting and stopping and never was able to finish, and it's been years and it's time, just finish it! Once there was a tree, and she loved a little boy-oh screw it, I'll wait 'til they make it into a movie. 
8. Stop being a drug mule. Or at the very least rethink my all the drugs-you-can-fit-in-my-various-orifices-for-one-low-low-price promotion.
   
9. Instead of buying an actual iPhone with Siri, save the money by screaming questions at my not-smart phone at the top of my lungs until people upset with my annoying, repetitive questions look up my queries on their smartphone and tell me who starred in Streets Of Fire, or where the nearest Thai/Swiss Fusion Restaurant is, just to shut me up.
10. Work with a certain modern poet and singer and convince him that he needs to be more gregarious and in your face. Even if he has to be down right self aggrandizing and outrageous he has got to tell people about himself and how great he is, because dammit he's better than Shakespeare and sh*t, and now he's got a baby mama to feed. 
    
11. Finish this particular blog post. 

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.