An Enlightening Conversation with My Boss Regarding Hispanics

Something Ace Cowboy wrote yesterday reminded me of a story. My story is in no way funny, and you should probably stop reading here. You will be disappointed. What Ace said:

. . and for the first time the Mexican assistant and I locked eyes and telepathically agreed: what the fuck? [ed. note, I'm not racist on that last point, the dude actually is from Mexico, the World Cup brought us together.].

About four years ago, I was in my boss'’s office sitting across from his gigantic, dark, rich wood desk. Interestingly, his chairs are kind-of extra high-back chairs. The back of the chair looms what seems to be about two feet above your head as you sit there. The effect of this is that the chair feels huge, and in turn, you feel small. It's all about the mind-fuck with the executives. So I am sitting there feeling very small as this 65 year-old man is leaned back in his chair asking me about my weekend.

He asks, "“Reid, How was the weekend? Anything exciting?"

"“No sir, just attended a wedding."

"“Well, son, that'’s something exciting, isn't it?"

It actually was kind of fun. It was the wedding of my brother'’s wife'’s sister. The groom was an Hispanic gentleman, and the wedding was full of traditions I have not since seen. The groom is also from Mexico. Mexico City to be exact. Soon after the wedding the bride and groom moved to Mexico City. During the conversation with the boss, I referred to the Groom as a Mexican. This, apparently, makes me a racist. The conversation continued:

"“Well I guess it was a little exciting. It was my brother's wife'’s sister getting married to a Mexican man, and . ."

"“Whoa, Reid. I am certain you meant to say '‘Hispanic'’."

"“Well, actually sir, he is from Mexico."

"“I don'’t care where he is from Reid, we do not use that term here."

"“We don'’t use the term 'Mexican'’?"”

"“Exactly, the proper way to refer to them is '‘Hispanic'’."

I sort of sat there staring at him with a dumbfounded look on my face. My first thought is that the entirety of my education in political correctness had somehow gone awry. I looked across the desk at the Boss'’s furled brown and disappointed expression. I thought about it for about 10 seconds. He clearly wanted me to apologize and admit my faux pas.

I slowly stood up. Walked over to his big fucking desk, put both hands down, looked him in the eye, and said, "“Listen you old fuck. The man is from Mexico. That makes him a Mexican. He is a fucking citizen of Mexico. He lives in fucking Mexico City for God'’s sake. He is Mexican. It is not derogatory to refer to him by the county of his citizenship. I mean, what the fuck?"”

Actually, what really happened is that I nodded my head in agreement as I said, "“I a’m very sorry sir, I certainly meant no offense. It won'’t happen again."” If there is one thing I have learned in my 6 years of working in the corporate world is that you don'’t get very far pointing out other people's stupidity, questioning the boss, or asking any type of question at all for that matter. You kiss ass. That is why they pay me the big bucks now.

The next week a booklet was circulated regarding "“diversity in the workplace."

So my little friends, what have we learned? 1) The boss is always right. 2) Sell your soul if you can get a little extra in Christmas bonus. 3) The more money you make entitles you to bigger chairs. 4) If you can't leave the bar with the one you want, just drink more until you don't know the difference.

A Few Moments Ago, I Almost Died

A few moments ago, I almost died. 15 minutes ago, to be exact. I don’t really want to write about this because of the subject of my last post. Some might begin to think I am morbid. However, I feel the need to write about this because, well uh, I don’t have anything else to write about right now. I was going to write about something, but I can’t remember it as I sit here. I have a small amount of memory loss. I think I do anyway. It is hard to be certain about the memory loss because I can’t remember if there was something I have forgotten. Maybe I didn’t have anything to write about, and I didn’t really forget - I just think I forgot. Great! I am now a fucking rambling and babbling idiot. The pain is killing me. It is intense. It is hard to type because I keep having to hold a rag to my forehead to curtail the bleeding. Fuck - why am I typing this? Why do I have a blog again? It is not funny, no one reads it, the people who do read it don’t really like it, it is not getting me laid, I haven’t received one e-mailed photo with a naked woman in it, and no woman has said she will blow me because of this blog. (Note: notice I said “no woman” - To the guy from Waynesboro, Georgia and the guy from Elkhart, Kansas I sincerely appreciate the offers, but 1) I don’t even own a sex swing, 2) I don’t see how that is anatomically possible, and 3) I am not really all that gay.

What was I saying? Oh, I hurt myself. I nearly killed myself. I may have a small concussion. I was in a supply closet. I dropped a box of staples. I bent down to pick them up and hit my head on a filing cabinet. Blinding fucking pain. Seriously! I hit it hard enough that I saw stars and split my head open. Blood running down my forehead right in the middle of my office. All of the “motherly” women in the office immediately began to care for me in my weakened state. The bad part is that none of the non-motherly types wanted to care for me. They looked disgusted at the blood and slunk away making comments like “Sorry Garrett, that sucks” and “that must have hurt” and “fucking asshole, serves you right”

Now I am sitting at my desk in pain. I am starting to feel nauseated, and I can’t stop the bleeding. I am actually starting to feel a little light headed talking about it. I am going to stop this post for now. If you don’t ever hear from me again, I love you all. I think of you as my family (except for my female readers - I think about you in naughty ways).

Dogs and Cats Living Together - Mass Hysteria!

I just got back from my little local Starbucks. Do they have those everywhere or is that just a HERE thing? Anyway. While there I observed several disturbing things that made me believe the world is coming to an end TONIGHT. First, Fat White Man and Skinny Black Girl couple. This is a combination I cannot figure out. Let me just say that there is no one more racially sensitive than I (not true), but I don’t get it. Very rarely do you even see the Fat Guy/Skinny Girl couple in real life. It only happens in TV sitcoms, and with rich guys. I bet you can't name one couple that you actually know that has the Fat Guy/Skinny Girl combo. I am not talking about the guy that has a few extra pounds to lose - in his late 40s. I am talking about the morbidly obese guy with the half hot dog stuck between two of his chins and the pack of ding dongs rolled up in his sleeve in case he gets weak while taking a shit. It just doesn’t happen. Also true of the White Man/Black Girl combo. I base this on years of scientific anthropological research and studies. Black girls just don’t dig the white guy. I don’t know why, I can’t explain it, its not logical - but it is reality folks. So, when you see Fat White Man and Skinny Black Girl its like finding a five leaf clover. Either you are one lucky son of a bitch or there is some nuclear mutation shit going down.

So I’m standing there waiting for my Chai Tea, observing the human aberration, when I observed the Second Sign: Preppy Girl with Goth Guy. When I saw this I looked to the sky fully expecting the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. What is this about? I would try and describe what the girl was wearing, but I am terrible at such things. I would guess she was 17, and if she were at my high school she would have been the hottest, most popular girl. She was a little edgy. She was wearing a little yellow T-shirt with a girl skateboarding while smoking a cigarette, but she was definitely not Goth. I would say she was a burgeoning Hipster Chick. However, the guy with which she was holding hands - Dyed black hair, black lip liner, eyebrow piercing and lower lip spike. I was astounded. I’ve never seen anything like it before in my life. I can only assume that she was desperately rebelling against a rich, lawyer father and Goth guy had a big penis. I wanted to grab Goth guy by his unusually long bangs and tell him to live in the moment because she will soon see that her Daddy’s money is way more valuable than her sense of rebellious youth.

To end this stupid and sordid story - the Final Sign of the End Times: Starbucks Girl took my order, smiled at me, told me to have a good evening, and generally seemed pleasant and kind. I at once began confessing my sins (there were many) and preparing to be swept away to the sweet by and by (I don’t know what that means - but it sounds like a nice folksy way of saying we’re fucked).

Its possible that the End is coming a little later tonight. That is the reason for this post. I just wanted to warn you people. You have been coming to this site rather irregularly and haphazardly for several days now, and I feel that I owe you this. It has been fun. Go do whatever it is that you want to do in the last few minutes of your life. I am going to masturbate to the Girls Gone Wild Commercial. Good night and good luck.

My Drunken Weekend

I swear to God you folks are killing me with the incessant e-mails about when am I going to tell the story, how long until I post, and on and on and on. I do have a small life outside of this thing and reading other people’s things. I seriously have received at least 2 e-mails about the post. Anyway. Sorry for the delay, but I found a website with every original Nintendo game online for free playing. Awesome.

As you surmised I drank some this weekend. Well, “some” is not really the right way to describe it. You know that one Nicholas Cage movie where he plays the guy that drinks himself to death. Well that was me. Only I wasn’t hanging around a hooker the whole movie, it wasn’t in Vegas and I didn’t die in the end. It all began on Wednesday when some friends said they were getting together and going to our college town for some drinking, debauchery, decadence and some other cool word that I can’t think of which starts with ‘D’ that means roughly the same thing as those others. Hotel rooms were booked. Alcohol was purchased. Driving plans were made. Road trip was on. Let me just say that I am not proud of the things that I have done. But what is done is done. I can’t take them back now. All I can do is tell you all about it so you can laugh at me as my best friends in the world have done.

As I lay in my little bed on Wednesday night dreaming of good times, I devised two goals for the weekend. 1) Drink - a lot. 2) Do my best to have the sexual relations. If number 2 failed, I at least wanted to either make out with a hot girl that was a little out of my league (most are) or achieve orgasm in a way that didn’t involve my hand and a circa 1992 photo of Kristi Yamaguchi.

Let me just get right to the good stuff because this post is already too long and I have lost most of you I am sure. So, we got there we looked around the campus. I don’t think I have been there in 7 years. Some things changed, some stayed the same. You get the F-ing point. Then we hit the bar. The same bar that I hit for four of the best years of my life. If there is one piece of wisdom that I would like to pass on to the next generation below me it is this: Don’t ever, ever leave college. College involves very little real responsibility, much sex, much drinking and sleeping until noon on days when you don’t have class. Could there be any better life than that?

Much like every small college town, this bar had a drink special. They had these 24 ounce cups that they were selling full of nasty cheap beer for $2. That’s pretty unheard of I think. I, at once, slunk into predator/neanderthal mode. Must get as much beer as possible before it runs out. I bought three immediately. This damaged the lady prospects some since I was carrying around three gigantic plastic cups with both hands, and looked like a complete idiot. We couldn’t find a place to land so I was stuck holding those three beers for about half an hour. When I tried to drink from one, the other two would slightly spill, getting my hands and sleeves wet. Classy, I know. So I drank. And I drank. And I drank. Goal Number 1 in the bag. Unfortunately the harder I hit Goal Number 1 the harder it was to hit Goal number 2. This was fully realized by me when I was standing around my group of friends (consisting of three other guys and two girls - one girl was the wife of one guy and one girl was the girlfriend of the other guy - got all that?) and I was trying to convince them of my attractiveness to the opposite sex. Finally I decided to demonstrate said attractiveness by baring my ass, giving it a little slap and proclaiming, “what lady wouldn’t want some of this?!” This was after my 6th beer, at approximately 1:00. They turned on the lights 45 minutes later, after I had attempted to drink the beer in the bar dry.

As my friends led me out, I think I was saying to women, “I am Leo DiCaprio. I am fucking movie star!” At the time it seemed kind of funny since I, in no way, resemble Mr. DiCaprio. So as we got to my car, and I proclaimed how much I love my car - I vomited on my car. Yes, it’s a lovely site to see a man completely humiliate himself in front of his closest friends. Normally, I am not one for huge hangovers. This day was the exception. I began heaving and did not stop until the heretofore mentioned McDonald’s incident.

I did not achieve goal two, nor either of the fallback goals. Sad really. However, the highlight of the evening came when we all got back to the hotel. As we (the group minus one couple who had left earlier) ate some Taco Bell on the way to our rooms we paused before we went to our separate rooms. It was then that we heard something. We stopped. We listened. We strained our hears. There it was, coming from room 417. “Mmmmmm. [Pause] Mmmmmm [Pause] Mmmmm, Oh My God. Mmmmmm.” You get the point. We heard the sounds of sex. 417 belonged to the missing couple. What we heard was my friend Justin and his girlfriend having the sex. More importantly, we heard Justin’s girlfriend enjoying the sex. My first thought was “good for him, he is making a woman moan. Fucking lucky bastard.” Then a second thought crossed my mind, Justin had given me his second key earlier so that I could run back up to his room to get beer we forgot. It was then that I devised my evil genius plan. I was going to accidently walk in on them. Brilliant. Hilarious. Brilliant.

I communicated the plan, and got the go ahead from the others. The plan was for me to pretend that I thought it was my room, and they were following me in for some reason (we really didn’t get that far). What I saw was one of the funniest sights I have ever witnessed. Justin wearing nothing but a pair of socks. His girlfriend on top of him. Justin’s hands tied behind his head with some kind of scarf and both of them with a look of horror on their faces, looking at four drunk people in their doorway. The joy I felt in that moment will likely never be surpassed.

So that was Saturday night into Sunday morning. I sill hurt. I am exhausted. But it was all worth it because I got to drink heavily and see two people having sex. Maybe my life is complete now.

Teaser

Tune in tonight for a rare prime-time post. I am too tired to think this afternoon. Still hungover from Saturday night where I attended a college reunion of sorts. Highlights of the evening include: 1) Me showing off how good my naked ass looks since I began a) working out and b) shaving it; 2) me puking on a) the hood of my car; b) a trash can in the lobby of my hotel; and c) the bathroom of the McDonald's while waiting on a sausage McGriddle; and 3) me accidentally-on-purpose walking in on a friend having sex in his hotel room. Awesome times.

By the way, those things above aren't multiple choice, they all happened, but not necessarily in that order. You'll just have to come back tonight to find out the order. I bet the suspense is fucking killing you.

Blog Whoring

You may have noticed that I updated the Links on the sidebar here. These are several of the blogs and such that I check daily. There are others, but I am embarrassed to tell you about them. Some that I didn’t link to are Girl Blogs. They write about their boyfriends, wine, menstruation, and Grey’s Anatomy. For some reason I keep going back to them. I keep telling myself it is because I want to understand the opposite sex so I can get women. However, (and I have never shared this with anyone) I am worried these blogs are turning me gay. If you leave a comment on a blog about how you wish George would find his soul mate or about how Meredith should totally pick McDreamy, does that automatically make you gay, or is it just a factor in turning you gay. I haven’t decided yet, but I am trying to wean myself from those blogs before I suddenly find myself in Williams-Sonoma buying monogrammed linens.

So, anyway, go to these blogs. While there, tell each person that Garrett Reid reads their blog. Tell them that he is your hero, and that they should link their blog to his. Tell them how he won you over, and made you fall in love with him. Tell them to write and entire post about how pathetically sad he is, yet devastatingly charming. Tell them the story about how there is a small African community that worships him as a deity. (Is that a racist thing to say - I hope not) Tell them about how mesmerizing it is to read a blog from a guy that has nothing to say, no good way in which to say it, and spends most of his posts insulting entire classes of people. Tell them that he is, in reality, a 12 year old boy with cancer who wishes only for a lot of traffic to his website before he dies.

There it is. I am a whore. I am throwing myself at other blogs with my shirt unbuttoned and my hairy chest exposed. I am flexing my ass as I bend over to pick up a paper clip that I “accidently” dropped.

Garrett Reid - Accused Plagiarist

It was pointed out by Ace Cowboy in the comments to my last post that the last post may resemble a Seinfeld episode. Well, to be honest he didn't really say "resemble" he said "lifted straight" from Seinfeld. He even linked me to the transcript of the episode. I did watch Seinfeld back in the day, and I can't say for sure that I have seen that episode, but I bet I did because that was high school/college and what else did I have to do besides drink heavily, try and have sex with freshmen and watch TV.

In my defense - I didn't mean to steal shit straight from some old TV episode. Secondly, that was a long ass time ago. That episode was on 11 years ago for Christ's sake. 11 years ago! Do you know what I have done in the last 11 years? I can’t remember every TV episode I have seen, especially ones that I watched while (allegedly) doing X. On the other hand, my post was pretty similar. Even the percentages were close. They said 4-6% undatable. I said less than 5% good looking. Although I did say that people drink out of depressions from hooking up with ugly people, and they said people drink so that they can hook up. In reality, these differences are so far apart that no one can compare my post to the episode. I also talked about nipples in my post. You don't see Seinfeld talking about nipples do you?

Here are the exact lines from Seinfeld:

JERRY: Elaine, what percentage of people would you say are good looking?

ELAINE: Twenty-five percent.

JERRY: Twenty-five percent, you say? No way! It's like 4 to 6 percent. It's a twenty to one shot.

ELAINE: You're way off.

JERRY: Way off? Have you been to the motor vehicle bureau? It's like a leper colony down there.

ELAINE: So what you are saying is that 90 to 95 percent of the population is undatable?

JERRY: UNDATABLE!

ELAINE: Then how are all these people getting together?

JERRY: Alcohol.

I don't want my adoring fans (and by that I mean the 4 people that seem to keep coming back here from time to time) to think I am plagiarizing Seinfeld. Keep it real I like to say. Also, sometimes I say “power to the people.” From time to time I say “Black Power” (although I am not black so I don't know if that is allowed - so I just say it in the privacy of my own bedroom). Thanks to Ace Cowboy and his astuteness. Sorry to Tom Gammill & Max Pross who seem to have written the episode. Sorry to Jerry. If you are reading this I am sorry for the pain I have caused you and your family. I hope you and Jessica are doing well, and those three little ones are staying out of trouble. Most of all, I say I am sorry to my family. Mom, you raised me better than this. Dad, well you didn't raise me at all, but what the hell, sorry anyway.

To the readers: Let me just assure you that someone from my writing team will be immediately fired. His/Her house will be burned down, and several unsavory comments will be made about his/her spouse in internet chat rooms.

If you would like a refund. Please print out the front page of this blog and scan it in. Circle the 4th, 17th, and 19th words, underline every other "T", diagram every forth sentence and then e-mail it to me.

Please tune in for tomorrow’s post when I write about how my best friend’s wife left him for a lesbian, and I’ll update you on the two girls who live across the hall from me named “Ronica” and “Machel”.

Nipples, Ugly People and Ugly Drunks

A couple of hours ago I took a little walk around the building. I haven’t done that for a few days. One, I have been a little busy with some work stuff. Two, taking a walk around the building isn’t as much fun since the onset of Fall clothing. Can’t someone design a sweater that will provide comfortable warmth and still show copious amounts of cleavage? I’m not into clothing design too much, but I do know one thing about the world: Men like women’s breasts. It took me a long to figure that one out. I mean, I always knew that I liked breasts, but I thought I was alone in my desire to get a quick peaky peak at some nipple. It turns out that many, many men in the United States, as well as, in some cases, around the world like the mammaries of a woman. Go figure. Anyway, men like breasts. Where was I going with this. I started thinking about nipples and lost my train of thought. . .

. . .

Oh yeah. I discovered something. There are not very many attractive people out there. My guess is that less than 5% of the population (maybe less than that) is above a 6 on the 10 point scale. When you count out anyone ten years older or ten years younger than you, that leaves very few people. That leads me to my next point: How are these people that are 3s or 4s getting the sex? I understand that society puts on us certain standards of what beautiful is. So if I am a guy that is a 3 wouldn’t I still be attracted to 8s, 9s and 10s? If that is the case, then I would be greatly settling for the 4'11, 250 pound girl with the stubble on her chin. This led me to my third thought: I know why so many people are alcoholics. They settled for a woman with stubble on her chin. If there was a woman that would have sex with me, I think that I would have no problem imagining that she was Jessica Alba. However, 250 Pound Chin Hair Girl can never be transformed into Jessica Alba, even in the mind of greatest of fantasizers. It just can’t happen.

I would drink too If I had to worry about scruff burn from kissing my girlfriend.

I think I will spend the rest of the afternoon looking online for a sweater design that shows some boobies. Fucking turtlenecks. Listen ladies - it doesn’t matter how tight it is, if it don’t show me some skin, it don’t do me no good.

So to summarize:

1) Men like to see breasts, and in turn, nipples.
2) People are generally ugly.
3) People drink because they are ugly and they hooked up with another ugly person.

Aren't you glad you come here for these important life lessons?

Go Tell it on the Mountain

I know many of you have been sitting at your office desk saying to yourself, “This Garrett Reid guy is the funniest mother f-er I have ever read in my entire life! How can I tell my family, friends, and neighbors about him?” I understand. We here at This Blog is Not Funny, LLC, a subsidiary of Not Funny Blogs, International, wholly owned and operated by Global Chemical Industries, Inc. Worldwide get hundreds of e-mails a day from readers with questions like:

“Dude, you are funny. Are you gay?”

“My wife had a heart attack from reading your site. My lawyer needs your address.”

“You are deeply disturbed and need professional help.”

“This is the most stupidest site I have ever visited. Kill yourself now, please.”

Okay, some of those weren’t questions, but you get the point - People love the blog and want more of it. I have composed an e-mail which you can forward to your friends, family, neighbors, etc. so that you can tell them all about the newest blog sensation, Garrett Reid. Just circle where appropriate:

Dear *Mom/Dad/Mustache Guy at the Liquor Store/Gynecologist/Hooker from Last Night:*

I know that you *raised me/stare at my ass/stick your finger in my vagina/let me have butt sex with you* but I also know that you are a fan of quality humor at an affordable price. I would like to take this opportunity to share with you what has been a large part of my life the last couple of months: This Blog is Not Funny.

Remember last *Thanksgiving/week when I called the cops because you were staking me/month when you checked me for herpes/night when I spanked your ass and told you to call me “Captain Charlie of the Cock Police”* I knew then that I needed to tell you about this exciting new sensational website: This Blog is Not Funny! I can’t even believe I am about to write this, but when I read this guy’s stuff I *get hot down below (if you know what I mean)/pop a little woody wood*. Its just that funny.

Sure the guy can’t spell. He has terrible grammar. He is offensive to the point of embarrassing himself, and I heard from someone that he pees himself a little when he laughs really hard. But he is still a little funny. I mean, he is slightly funnier than The Three Stooges reruns. He is not nearly as funny as Alf Reruns. If he were a character on a TV show he would be Antonio Scarpacci from the hit show Wings. If he were a fruit he would be a cantaloupe.

Please take the time to go to his website. It will change your life forever. By that I mean it will completely waste your time and probably cause gastrointestinal difficulties.

I love you very, very, very much. I hope to see you *at Grandma’s funeral/at the police lineup/next week (I have a little burning when I pee)/never again (I have a little burning when I pee).

Peace be with you.


So there you have it - your dream come true. An easy way tell everyone you care about what you have been doing for 2 minutes and 32 seconds during your lunch break every third day.

Keep it real - and remember, Power to the People.

My Informative Take on the Rep. Mark Foley Scandal

Let me begin this post by saying that I would never make light of the terrible, scandalous, inappropriate, lewd things Rep. Mark Foley has done. I mean, have you seen the IMs?

What I don’t get is the discrepancy between what the Teen is writing and what they say he did after having the IM conversation. Later he calls Foley “sick, sick, sick?” What is the deal? I probably would not have long conversations about male orgasms with an old guy, and then say, "wow - that guy is sick." I mean, he obviously is sick - but I would try and recognize that up front and say it then. Just a thought.

I have some experience with old men hitting on me. Well, lots of experience (lets be honest). Mostly is has been with Uncle Ralph wanting me to come and “sit on his lap and chug a brewski” or with that old, homeless guy at the park who keeps offering me a half eaten Quarter Pounder if I will “show him my ding-a-ling” behind the bushes. But I also have experiences from when I was a teen too. Like the one time that my best friend’s dad wanted my friend and I to “help rake leaves.” Yeah, I knew what he meant. Sick Bastard. He even offered to pay me $5. Can you believe that? I screamed, “my body is not for sale. Its not for sale!” As tears streamed from my face I ran and ran. I just ran. Whew, this is really an emotional post for me. I can get through this.

There was also the time when I was 10 that my Mother’s friend from across the street offered me some “milk and cookies.” What a sicko! I was 10! Even at that young age I knew what was going on. After I suppressed my growing erection, I told her, “I’m sorry Mrs. Morris I am just not into that kind of scene.” Interestingly, her daughter (who was 3 years younger than I) turned out to be a crack whore. So I guess we know where “milk and cookies” parenting gets you - sucking the dick of methed out drug dealer behind the 7 Eleven. Let that be a warning to you parents out there.

Here is how the situation would have gone with me and Foley:

Maf54: Did you spank it yourself this weekend

GR: Dude, I’m not talking about that with you.

Maf54: What are you wearing right now?

DR: I’m not gay. If I were, I would not be interested in you. You are old.

Maf54: You get me so hot.

DR: Seriously - Not gay! Why am I even IM-ing you? This is not cool.

Maf54: I think about you all the time

DR: You are obviously a child molester. Do you think I would ever hook up with a child molester. Leave me alone you sick old son-of-a-bitch.

Two general rules (with three sub-rules) I follow in my everyday life: 1) Only talk about masturbation habits with hot women, and 2) Only talk about masturbation habits with a hot woman a) that you have had sex with many, many times, b) that is about to demonstrate her masturbation habits for you, or c) is in prison and has fifteen minutes on the phone with you every other week.

Sorry for the lack of timely updates. I have, for some unknown reason, been having to work at work this week. More on this later.

Stay cool.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

Sins of the Flesh, etc.

So I stumbled across this site today:

www.mysecret.tv

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.

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).