Friday, September 29, 2006

House Cleaning and 11 Year Old Boys.

Last night I had to clean my house. I have some people coming in town and they plan on staying there. I say, “they plan” because I sure as heck-fire didn’t invite them. Sure, they are old friends from college, and sure I plan on drinking myself to death with them this weekend, but letting them sleep in my two spare bedrooms is just a little much. For one thing, the last time they stayed it took me a week to get the smell of stripper vagina out of the house. They don’t really advertise a cleaning product that will accomplish that goal. (“Try Formula 69 - for that nasty skanky smell your hooker left behind”) For another thing, I don’t really have much food in my house. I really only eat dinner there, and it mostly consists of odds and ends that I am able to gather up together. Like skittles and pop tarts or ranch dressing and stale crackers. If I do ever have a woman over, why in the F would I feed her? I operate under the theory I like to call “The Hungry Lady Syndrome.” It is a scientifically proven fact that when you are hungry you have an overwhelming desire to put things into your mouth. When it is just me and a lady-friend alone, why would want to take away that desire? I figure God put this desire there so that I would have a .001% greater chance at getting Mr. Wiggly The Wonder Worm a little tongue bath. (I just made that name up on the spot - wow, I am a super-creative creature devoid of any redeeming social value)

This theory has never actually worked yet, but I am staying the course. Most of the time the woman I have lured to my house ends up saying, “Okay I am here, so what is this dying wish you were talking about, and oh, by the way, if you don’t give me something to eat soon I am going to leave - then I am going to tell everyone I know how you “accidently” exposed yourself in the KFC parking lot.”

Where was I with this stupid story? I have so many non sequiturs it is hard for even me to keep up sometimes. I wish I was better at this for you my dear reader, but hey - you get what you pay for I guess. Okay, so I have friends coming over, I had to clean up. I’ll write more about the friends’ adventure another day. The point is, I clean up rarely. I haven’t done dishes in two weeks. The place is a pig’s anus. Seriously. Something has to be done about this. By “something” I mean, something has to be done about this other than me actually cleaning on a regular basis.

I’m thinking of adopting a Malaysian boy. Angelina did it, didn’t she? Surely she adopted for some good reason like cleaning her mansion and stuff. If I adopted a Malaysian he could clean the house up and have my socks ironed for me when I get up in the morning. Before you say anything (and really it is not okay to judge me - I don’t go to your blog and judge you do I - asshole), its not that different than having a real son to cook and clean for me. I remember from American History that farmer’s often had large families so as to have an abundant source of labor. Do you think anyone protested the American Farmer when he worked his 11 year old in the fields all day picking cotton or doing whatever it is you do to tobacco plants? Hell no. It’s the picture of America. So I am thinking about an 11 year old Malaysian Boy. I immediately nixed the idea of a girl. That would just be too weird and people might start to talk.

His life would probably be better than my childhood. Do you know how many times I had to stand next to the TV, switching stations, while my dad sat with his beer can balanced on his belly, saying, “not that. . . next. . . next. . . goddamn it boy why can’t you find M.A.S.H. on TV?” I have a remote control for my TV. So, I promise never to do that to my little Malaysian. Unless, I lose the remote. Or my thumb gets tired from changing channels. Or if I can’t find M.A.S.H. on the TV.

Remember, don’t judge me. Just love me. By “love me”, I mean “send me pictures of your naked private parts.”

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Tears for T.O.

To my dear friend T.O.:

"When the day is long and the night, the night is yours alone,
When you're sure you've had enough of this life, well hang on
Don't let yourself go, 'cause everybody cries and everybody hurts sometimes

Everybody hurts. Don't throw your hand. Oh, no. Don't throw your hand
If you feel like you're alone, no, no, no, you are not alone

Well, everybody hurts sometimes,
Everybody cries. And everybody hurts sometimes
And everybody hurts sometimes. So, hold on, hold on
Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on"

Listen to Stipe, man. Listen to Stipe.
Come over some time - I'll cry with you. We can hold hands and sing together.
And by the way - can you lend me some of that pain medication - I mean, if you aren't using it anymore.

Dear Lord I am going to hell.

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Toothpaste and Socks

I noticed something last night. I had to go out to my local Wal-Mart to pick up a tube of toothpaste and a pair of black socks. That is, by the way, the beauty of the Wal-Mart. You can get just about any combination of “stuff.” I bet the cash register girls just have tons of fun telling their husbands (after they get home from their job holding those little orange “slow” signs on the side of construction projects) about the interesting combinations. For example,

Register Girl - “Hey Billy! You ain’t never gonna guess what I beeped in this afternoon!”
Orange Sign Guy - “Bitch! Tell me after I’m done with my fuckin’ quarter pounder!”

20 minutes later

Register Girl - “Okay Billy! Listen to this. This girl comes up to my register. She totally looks just like that Jessica Simpson. I just hate that fuckin’ Nick Lachey for what he did to that poor girl. Anyway, this Jessica girl bought herself some Preparation H and a pink lace bra! Can you believe it? I wanted to say to her ‘Girl, you ain’t gonna be needin’ no pink lace bra to show off to no man with those hemorrhoids comin’ outta your ass!’”

Orange Sign Guy - “Was she hot?”

And . . . scene.

So the point - I was there buying stuff. I wish I could write that I had to buy cooler stuff like a new drill bit and a 72 pack of Trojans, but I just needed the toothpaste and socks.

None of this is what I wanted to write about. I noticed there is no one in the store who has any money. Seriously. Where do rich people buy their toothpaste? Do they go at some special time? Is there an upscale version of Wal-Mart? Do they have happy hour for people with gross annual incomes of greater than $150,000? I am not talking about the super rich people that have maids and butlers and what not. I am talking about the average very-well-off-guy. Where are those people? I just don’t get it. I bet there were only 10 people in the whole store with all of their teeth.

Is Target where I should be going? K-Mart? Is there some trendy little place where you buy hair gel and a fishing pole at the same time? What if you need a gallon of milk and a tire iron? I don’t care where I go exactly. As long as I can buy my toothpaste without standing in line behind a 17-year-old girl and her boy-friend/husband/baby’s daddy, with their two screaming kids, while they buy a 30 pack of Miller High Life, a US Weekly magazine, a pack of “smokes,” and some formula. God help me.

Thursday, September 21, 2006

2d Haiku

Writing haiku can be fun. I have composed a second. An ode to what I love with The General’s Chicken:

my god, Mountain Dew
dancing naked in underwear
green cans get me hot

Chinese Chickens

I love The General’s Chicken.
I mean really love it.

You never really know what you are capable of until the time comes,
but I think I could murder someone for a plate of The General’s Chicken.

You know that scene from American Beauty where the naked girl is laying on a bed of rose petals?

I dream of naked girls in The General’s Chicken. (And there was once where I dreamt of a naked chicken on a bed of The General’s Chicken - but that was just plain weird).

I wrote a haiku:

The General’s Chicken
Oh, delectable delight
The tongue longs for you

Jesus God I need to eat before I write these posts.

Word to your mother.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Mexican Food

Okay folks - I don’t want to get crazy here, but there is something I need to talk to you about. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. For that, I am sorry. This is a touchy subject, and it may get a little messy. (So to speak). Don’t worry about it too much though. It won’t be as bad as the time that your daddy set you down to tell you that he likes other “daddies” and not just mommy, nor as bad as when mommy and daddy set you down to tell you that your new “uncle” Raul would be moving in to share mommy’s and daddy’s bed.

What I have to talk to you about is - Mexican food.

One day a long time ago (last Wednesday evening) I went out to dinner. I tried a new little Mexican restaurant. Usually when you go to a Mexican restaurant in a strip mall you can expect a little nervousness. I had heard good things about this place though. I have a motto that I try to live my life by. This motto has gotten me through some tough spots in this life: Judge Mexican Food by Both its Entrance and its Exit. Rosarita can bring you free queso all day long, but if those two things aren’t good then never look back.. At this place, I was swayed by the strength of the margarita and by the free, mouth-watering sophapias. For me, the entrance was good, the exit was bad. If you know what I mean.

So I get home about 9 o’clock at night. I head straight for the commode. 9:45 rolls around and I am able to start moving again. I felt so bad that when I turned on the TV, and left the remote across the room, I was too sick to get up and turn the channel from Golden Girls. Man, that Sophia is one feisty old gal. And Blanche, well don’t get me started on that whore.

So fast forward a few more hours. No sleep. Many trips to The White Throne of Truth. Stomach pain. At one point my ass waved a little white flag begging me to surrender to death. I decided that Pepto and sleep was the way to go. To get the sleep I doubled up a dose of the NyQuil. Then I headed for the Pepto. Unfortunately, I was out of the old “pink stuff.” To make a long, uncomfortable story short (too late). I hop it the ol’ convertible to drive to the nearest Walgreens. The only thing stopping me from ass relief was that stupid guard rail, which came out of nowhere as I was dozing off, dreaming of solid poo.

This is where things really hit rock bottom for me. I got a bit of a knee injury. When I say “bit of” I am playing it cool so that women will still think I am tough and want to have the sex with me. (Although I am not sure if that will ever happen again after any read this little post). My knee swelled to the size of a grapefruit, and turned purple and black.

Okay my little comrades, what do you get when you cross bad, bad Mexican food with an inability to walk. That’s right. A night spent sleeping on the floor of the bathroom. I made a little bed on the cold white tile, and called it a night.

Please forgive me for the lack of updates. I am back at 50% strength now, and will be back to writing about inappropriate subject matter in no time. Keep it real.

At Least It Is Something

My deepest apologies for the hiatus on posting. It seems there is a small amount of truth to that old wives tale, “don’t drink NyQuil before driving at one o’clock in the morning.”

Please don’t fret over me though. The guard rail got the worst of it. I am back at work now, and will resume regular activities after I check my e-mail, drink four more cups of coffee, read sports news, read the 30 blogs I read daily, and get a little (and I mean a little) work done.

Expect something around 1ish. I love you all (more than you will ever know).

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

The Post About My Job

I haven’t written much about my job on here. This is because my job could be written about in two sentences or less. I have one of those jobs most people dream about. Not in the super-star actor or professional golfer kind of dream. Rather, I make a lot of money and do very, very little. I once took a two week vacation, and when I came back I had no voice mails, an inbox with only spam, and no work on my desk. I decided then and there I could never do that again. If people noticed that this place could function the same without me here, then I would be out of a job. I go to meetings every day about important things, and I spend the meeting scribbling three dimensional boxes on my notepad. My standard answer when asked a question about something in the meeting is to say, “I agree. I agree totally. I think we should put together a committee to look at this item in much more detail.” This is what my graduate degree has done for me.

Okay, I realize that was longer than a two sentence description of my job. Give me break people, and quit harassing me. Assholes.

So today, my standard comment backfired on me. My boss put me in charge of the committee. Can you believe it? When we left the meeting I asked if I get extra pay for having to be in charge of something. He laughed like I was joking. The thing about this job is that everyone loves me. I mean really, really loves me. I don’t know why. I have done nothing to deserve it. Mostly, I smile a lot, tell the secretaries they are doing a good job, and tell jokes at appropriate and opportune moments. I counter this good stuff with things like leaving every day for an hour and a half sometime between 2-4. Usually, I take a poop break for about 20 minutes. Then I go downstairs to the newspaper/book store and rummage through magazines like Stuff and Maxim for about 30 minutes. Then I walk around the block slowly as if I am out for a Sunday stroll. It is the highlight of my day. Well, that and when the assistant from the Fourteenth floor brings me something to my office. (One day I’ll think I’ll respond to her statement of, “here is the package from accounting” with a lovely, “close the door behind you, and I’ll show you a package of my own.” - However, getting fired for sexual harassment doesn’t seem like a good “career” move.)

I am now in charge of a committee looking into a $750,000 project. There will be 15 other “team” members, and we were asked to meet weekly for the next 3 months. I need a Xanax (and some liquor to wash it down with). God help me.

Friday, September 08, 2006

Sins of the Flesh, etc.

So I stumbled across this site today:

It is seriously, but unintentionally, cool. By cool, I mean cool in the - you should stroll on over and take little look-see - sense, and not the cool like the time my two female former roommates made out for one full minute to avoid having to go on the next beer run. Of course, both things are cool, but only one of them haunts you nightly in your dreams as you wonder why you ever moved out of that house, and if you ever missed a crazy impromptu lesbian kissing session after going to bed for the night.

Anyway, the premise of this website is to confess “sins”. It has been set up by a church group or something, and people write in with their anonymous confessions. When I went to the site, I went straight to the “addicted to pornography” section. What I found stopped me in my tracks and may have changed my life slightly for the better for the rest of my days. This revelation is so great that I cannot stop giggling like a school girl before the season premier of Gilmore Girls. Women look at porn. Wow. Just wow. Some claim to be “addicted” to porn. There was one post where a woman said that she sneaks on to the computer after her husband has gone to bed to look at porn and masturbate. Oh my God.

As I was strolling through these confessions, a thought came to me. I know how to make this church (and the Lord in turn) some money. They should market this as a confession site/dating service. I would pay at least $298.54 (because that is everything in my checking account at the moment - I looked it up) to get the e-mail address of the woman that can’t stop herself from looking at porn day and night. Yes, yes I know I am going to hell. There is no need to remind me.

I know you are saying, “this Garrett guy is one low-life MF.” Well, it is no worse than the time I joined the local sexaholics anonymous group. Not because I had a problem, but because the women there make me so happy that I want to skip joyously along singing that Yankee Doodle Dandy song. I only fell off the wagon eight times before they kicked me out of the group. Hypocrites.

Okay people, peace out.

P.S. I swear this is my last post about porn for a few days. I am starting to look like a psycho.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Double Penetration and the Super Mario Brothers

Okay people (and by people I mean the three people who seem to have stumbled upon this thing), I was just sitting here in my office looking out upon the sea of cubicles when a thought crossed my mind: How do those people look at porn when they work in a freaking cubicle? I mean, its not like you can be sitting there scrolling through double penetration sites when Judy from Accounting walks in to talk to about the new Purchasing Invoice forms.

As this thought was passing from my head, a guy walked by my office door. He was wearing these overalls that were some sort of green color, and he was rocking a big, thick mustache. That is when another thought entered my mind, and this one I would like to talk to you about: What is the deal with those Super Mario Brothers? They weren’t really “super” in the classic sense were they? It has been a long, long time since I have picked up my old Nintendo controller to give the Red ‘A’ and ‘B’ buttons a little rap-a-tap-tap, but I don’t remember them being able to do anything really “super”. I’m talking about the original SMB - not those other weird versions. I know they could do all kinds of strange things in the other versions. Sure they could break big blocks that were floating in the sky, and they could shoot fire if they ate that flower (or rubbed it all over their naked Mario Brother bodies - I don’t know what they did with it). The point is, that was really the flower with the power, not the Brother. As far as breaking blocks, that’s not much of a super power. They basically went through all of these various worlds, with some dumb song playing the entire time such that it was probably stuck in their heads for the rest of their lives, and killed the bad guys by jumping on their heads. I’m not certain about this, but I am pretty sure that you could name any other video game character in the history of video games, and they could kick one those Brother asses.

Okay, I have that off of my chest. Now its time to finish the MacGregor file (Of course I mean - after I review the Double Penetration file).